As you know, I’ve been very impressed by the interesting young woman who’s occupying your house. And I’m inordinately proud of you, darling, so I was hoping to hear positive comments about you from Molly.
Perhaps I’m being over-sensitive, but her reluctance to talk about you bothered me. I sensed unhappiness—which might have been caused by any number of things. I sincerely trust it’s in no way connected to you.
Anyway, on a brighter note, Molly’s planning a trip to Cornwall, which I think is a very good idea. Perhaps all she needs is to get out of London for a bit.
I look forward to hearing your news.
Love
Mother
To: Felicity Langley
From: Patrick Knight:
Subject: Re: Home again
Dear Mother
Thanks for your e-mail. It was good to hear from you, and to know that you and Jonathan are both so happy. I wish you luck with the buying and selling of your houses. Do keep me posted.
As for Molly…you’re as astute as ever, and you’re quite right. She’s a wonderful woman, and unfortunately I did make a hash of meeting her.
I promise my intentions were honourable—dare I say chivalrous?—but I’m afraid my delivery backfired.
I’ll spare you the details. Knowing your tender heart, you’ll want to go round there and try to smooth things over, but I don’t think that’s wise.
I know you’re concerned, but please don’t worry. Molly and I are still in contact. We’re not bitter enemies or anything like that.
Concentrate on Jonathan. At least you two have got it right.
Loads of love
Patrick
Private Writing Journal, June 15th
I can’t bear to think that Molly’s pale and losing weight because of me. Ever since my mother’s e-mail I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I need to make amends with Molly, but how?
I think a phone call’s necessary. The worst she can do is hang up on me.
Molly’s Diary, June 15th
Cornwall is so quaint!
I’m having two days away (midweek—can’t afford to give up any more of my weekend shifts), and I can’t believe how beautiful it is down here.
I mean, I’ve seen pictures of the English countryside before, so I don’t suppose I should be surprised, but I thought there might just be the occasional little patch of quaintness. I’ve found old-world, picturesque charm everywhere.
I never imagined that so many cute and pretty little cottages actually existed. On the train journey down from London (leaving from Paddington), I saw whole villages of cottages—cottages with window boxes filled with flowers, or with roses climbing over the door, and cottages with proper, steep thatched roofs and little white-framed windows peeping out like eyes from beneath a fringe of thick hair.
I’ve seen the greenest of green, green fields, divided by low drystone walls, and sheep that are actually white—not dusty brown like ours in Australia. And there are wildflowers blossoming everywhere—beside the roads, filling little woodsy valleys, and poking out from piles of rocks or from crannies in the walls.
I’m so glad I’ve come down to Cornwall, even though I didn’t come here in a British racing-green sports car with a gorgeous man at the wheel. The country side is divine, and I realise now that after the excitement and busyness of London I’ve missed fresh air and wide open spaces and the straightforward simplicity of the outdoors. Here there are mountains in the distance, and moors, and villages huddled on cliffs—and the sea! Even palm trees.
Gosh, it almost made me homesick to smell the briny, sharp scent of the sea and to see the straggly fronds of palm trees.
I also got a bit weepy thinking about the romantic weekend that never happened. As a matter of fact I’m thinking about it far too much as I nibble on a Cornish pasty while making my way up and down steep cobbled streets that cling to the edge of cliffs, or when I’m lying on the soft green grass of a cliff-top, looking down into the most astonishingly beautiful cove.
Yes, it’s sad, but true—I’m wishing that Patrick was here beside me. Pathetic, isn’t it? To be thinking so much about that wonderful weekend that I/we threw away?
I hope I don’t sound as if I’ve changed my mind about Patrick. I haven’t. I’m still super, super mad with him for pretending to be Peter. But in spite of all that I just know I would have loved our romantic weekend in Cornwall. It would have been something to remember for the rest of my life.
Even if I’m married at some time in the future, and have my own family, I’d still be able to look back on that memory of a happy, reckless, utterly romantic weekend in my youth.
Instead, I sit here on the bed in my B&B and look out through the window at a small sailing boat zipping briskly out across the bay, and I try so hard just to enjoy this moment—the beautiful view, the soft afternoon light, the scents of the sea, the familiar call of seagulls—but I feel dreadfully, horribly lonely.
I admit it. I’m deadbeat hopeless. Because now I’m actually imagining Patrick lying here on this bed beside me. I can see him…
He’s lying on top of the white cotton bedspread and his shirt is undone, revealing his gorgeous, broad, manly chest and his tight, flat abs. (These last details are not just figments of my imagination. Thanks to Karli, who’s seen him at the beach, I know they’re true.) My wicked imagination adds a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his jeans.
His dark brown eyes are watching me, and they’re smoky and serious with desire. He reaches out and touches my arm, lightly, and I know exactly what’s going to happen next. My skin flushes wherever he touches.
Then his fingertips touch my lips, and next minute I’m kissing his fingers, taking them into my mouth and grazing his nails with my teeth. I feel so turned on.
‘Come here,’ he whispers, and his voice is deep and husky and I’m wilting with longing.
I lean into him, and I smell him, and I can’t hold back a soft, needy sigh. I’m so ready. I know we’re about to make love. Beautiful, emotional, sensuous, love. Out-of-this world, amazing, mind-blowing love.
In the afternoon.
OK. OK. OK. OK. OK. OK.
Enough!
I can’t believe I just wrote that fantasy into my diary. It proves I am now officially an idiot.
A certified idiot, filled with regrets. And anger.
Yes, I’m still red-hot angry. I’m mad with both Patrick and with myself. Why did he have to pretend to be someone he wasn’t? And why did I have to overreact?
Why did we both have to throw everything away when it seemed pretty clear we had masses of potential for happiness?
Molly’s Diary, June 17th
Oh, my God. Another disaster!
I am not exaggerating. This is The Very Worst Tragedy of My Entire Life!
I’m back in London and I’m curled in the foetal position in abject horror. The most terrible letter arrived in the mail while I was away. The postman must have slipped it through the front door slot on Saturday morning, and I found it lying on the mat in the hall—a letter addressed to me and forwarded by Patrick from Australia.
At first I thought it was no big deal, but now I’ve read the contents and I’m so sick.
Oh, help! I feel so stressed about this I think I might actually throw up.
ALC Assured Loans
Fieldstone House
George Street
Brisbane
Miss M.E. Cooper
32 Sapphire Bay Road
Magnetic Island
QLD 4819
Dear Miss Cooper
Following the purchase of the former Northern Home and Building Co-operative by our company, ALC Assured Loans, we are now holders of the mortgage on a property at 32 Sapphire Bay Road, Magnetic Island—Lot 216, Parish of Cook—which is listed in your name.
We regret to inform you that the loan repayments on this property are in arrears to the sum of $5,450.69.
; As holders of the mortgage, our company, ALC Assured Loans, has the right to foreclose on this loan and recover the outstanding amount of $46,300 in full.
To avoid this foreclosure you are required to make full payment of the arrears by June 10th.
J P Swan
Client services and recovery manager
Molly’s Diary, June 17th
It’s June seventeenth.
And they were demanding payment by June tenth!
Oh, help! I have no idea how this has happened, but the letter must have arrived on the island while Patrick was in England. When he got back he forwarded it to me, but it’s taken another week to reach this address, and I’ve been in Cornwall.
I still can’t believe it! I’ve always been so careful with my money, and paying off the mortgage has always been my top priority. I’ve already made one horrible trip to the bathroom, but I’m still sick with terror. That’s why my handwriting is so shaky.
I don’t understand this.
I can’t cope with it. Pandanus Cottage isn’t just my ticket to a secure future; I love that house. My grandparents bought it soon after they were married and it’s the only home I’ve ever known. It may be humble, but it has million dollar views. I couldn’t bear to lose it.
Accck! I’ve just checked my bank account on the internet and now I can see that the money for the repayments hasn’t been taken out. No wonder I’ve been managing so well in London.
But how did this happen? I arranged the monthly transfers before I left Australia. What’s gone wrong?
And why hasn’t Patrick contacted me about this? I need to know what’s happened. Has a debt collector landed on his doorstep? Has he been thrown out of my home? Oh, help, could anything worse happen during a house swap? I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on. I’m going to have to ring him.
It’s two in the afternoon, so it’s midnight in Queensland. I should probably wait till this evening to ring Patrick, but I think there’s every danger that I will have perished from fright by then. And I can’t ring the finance company. There won’t be anyone in their offices now. I have to ring Patrick. I hope he’ll understand.
Oh, no. As soon as I went to the telephone I realised there were messages. From Patrick:
‘Hi Molly. It’s Patrick here. Could you ring me back when you get in?’
‘Hi Molly. It’s Patrick again. Obviously you’re still not home. I’ll try again later.’
I’m ashamed to admit that in spite of my overwhelming fear and terror I had the tiniest swoon when I heard Patrick’s voice. He really does have the loveliest, most refined accent. And I know this sounds crazy, but just hearing his voice made me feel a little bit calmer.
And he was ringing from my home phone, so that’s one good thing. At least when he left those messages yesterday he hadn’t been kicked out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RING, ring…
Patrick fought to block out the telephone. It was dragging him from deep sleep and threatening his blissful dream.
He was in Cornwall with Molly, and there was no way he wanted to wake up.
Molly was standing at the edge of a cliff, drawing in deep breaths of sea air. Her hair was windblown and wonderfully tangled, and she was wearing a dark green skirt that hugged her neat hips, and a white blouse with long sleeves made from something soft, with ruffles at her throat and her wrists. A pirate’s shirt.
The wind pressed the soft fabric against her body, outlining the slimness of her waist and the sweet, tempting roundness of her breasts.
She turned to him and smiled. Her cheeks were pink from the sea air and her eyes sparkled with warmth, like sudden sunshine. Her arms opened to him and he hurried forward, his heart light and floating with the most amazing happiness.
Ring, ring…
No, please no. Not now. Molly was almost in his arms.
Ring, ring.
The phone nagged at Patrick, but he refused to move. Hadn’t he read somewhere that dreams vanished when you moved? Besides, who would call at this time of night?
The answer came in a flash.
Molly. She would be calling from London, worried about her house.
He sat up, heart racing, and snatched up the phone from the bedside table. ‘Hello?’
‘Patrick? It’s Molly.’
‘Hi. How are you?’
‘I’m very relieved to hear your voice, actually.’
He smiled in the darkness, pleased she could say that in spite of everything that had gone wrong between them.
She said, ‘I assume you can’t have been kicked out of the cottage if you’re answering this phone?’
‘Of course I’m still here.’
‘I was worried because of the letter you forwarded. Did you know it was from the loan company who hold my mortgage?’
‘Yes. But don’t worry, Molly.’
‘I can’t help worrying. Have they contacted you at all?’
‘They sent someone round here yesterday. He tried to serve foreclosure papers.’
‘Oh, God.’ Her voice trembled with terror. ‘So they really are going to take my house away from me?’
‘No, they aren’t. They can’t. They haven’t a chance. Don’t panic. I’ve sorted it out.’ Patrick spoke soothingly, anxious to allay her fears. He knew how much she loved this house, and after the major emotional problems he’d created for her he hated that this had happened as well.
Under any other circumstances he might have seized this chance to apologise for the hash he’d made of things in London, but her fears for her home were more important.
‘Patrick, what do you mean you’ve sorted it out? How could you?’
‘Very easily. I’m a banker, remember?’
‘Well, yes, that’s true. But how did you manage it?’
‘As I said, the loan company sent someone round. An islander called Ross Fink. Apparently he knows you?’
‘Oh, yes. Everyone knows everyone on the island. Ross delivers parcels from the ferry. Gosh, he’s such a sweet guy. I had no idea he was a debt collector.’
‘Actually he was worried, because he knew you were away. So I sat him down, and got his end of the story, and then I asked him to wait while I rang the loan company in Brisbane to get to the bottom of the problem.’
‘Gosh, Patrick. That’s—that’s wonderful.’
‘It’s no big deal. It’s the kind of thing I do all the time.’ Just the same, he couldn’t help being warmed by the awe and respect in Molly’s voice. ‘They put me through to Jason Swan, the recovery manager, and I told him I was acting on your behalf. I explained my background in banking, and that I know how the system works, and I urged him not to proceed.’
‘Really?’ She sounded astonished, as if he’d accomplished a miracle.
‘I told him he’d find himself in a legal mess that would cost him more than it’s worth. Then I explained that you were overseas, and there’d been delays with forwarding the mail. I assured him that if he gave me his firm’s account details the money would be transferred immediately.’
‘Immediately?’ There was an audible gasp on the other end of the line. ‘But—but I couldn’t pay. I’ve been in Cornwall.’
‘It’s OK, Molly. As I said, it’s all settled.’
‘You don’t mean you’ve paid my debt?’
‘It was a simple matter.’ Patrick tried to make light of it. He knew how fiercely independent Molly was, and he didn’t want this to become a big issue.
‘It’s—it’s very kind of you, Patrick. Amazing. Thank you so much. But it’s hardly a simple matter. I owed over five thousand dollars.’ Molly had sounded stunned, but now she sounded worried again. ‘I’ll pay you back straight away. If you tell me where you’d like the money deposited—’
‘Don’t worry about that now. The problem’s over. We can sort out the details later.’
‘How much later? I hate being in debt.’
Patrick suppressed a sigh. ‘That’s very commendable, Molly, but you should
hang onto your money for the rest of your time in England. You never know when you might need it, and you only have a couple of weeks left to enjoy the sights. You should splash out and make sure you see all the things you really want to see.’
She tried several more times to protest, but he held her at bay. He even tried to make a joke of it. ‘I don’t mind having a short-term investment in a lovely place like Pandanus Cottage.’
Molly Cooper's Dream Date Page 13
