This evening I travelled to the airport in a square black London taxi through the rain. The roads were shiny and wet, reflecting all the streetlights and the neon signs. It was quite magical, really, to see all that shiny black bitumen streaked with shimmering splashes of yellow, red, green and blue. I think there’s something extraordinarily beautiful but sad about a city on a rainy night—especially when you’re dry in the back of a comfortable taxi cab and you’re leaving, and you know you will almost certainly never be coming back.
In a few hours’ time I’ll be flying home.
But right now I don’t want to think about that. I’m in the Arrivals lounge, and I can see on the huge screen above the doorway that Patrick’s plane has just—at this very moment—landed.
Squee! Just writing that he’s here makes my heart leap like a nervous kitten. His plane is somewhere out there on the Heathrow tarmac, taxiing into its gate, and I’m practically exploding with excitement.
I know I’m taking a big risk by surprising him like this, but I’ve practised what I have to say a thousand times and I really feel it needs to be said. Face to face.
Oh, help. Now I just have to get it right.
Of course it’s going to be ages yet before I see Patrick. First he has to get through Customs and Immigration, and then he has to collect his baggage, and he’s going to be tired and jet-lagged, and he won’t be expecting me, so the whole situation is fraught. I’m trying to stay calm, but it’s very hard.
I thought writing in my diary might help.
It’s not helping.
I’ve been to the Ladies’ twice already to check my clothes and to touch-up my make-up, and—yes, I should be honest—to admire my new hairstyle. Edgar’s in Soho has given me an amazing new look. Now, instead of tight brown corkscrews, I have soft, silky curls that bounce.
‘It’s all about using the right products,’ Edgar explained.
So I’m going home to Australia armed with vitamin-enriched lotions, deep conditioners and a daily spritz. Although once I’m back on Magnetic Island the tropical humidity will have its wicked way, and before long I’ll probably give up trying to look glamorous….
OK, it’s now half an hour since Patrick’s plane landed, so he should be moving through the tedious lines of travellers, gradually making his way towards this lounge. The place is teeming with people of every race and every age and in every kind of dress. There are people in Middle Eastern robes and Indian saris, and in pinstriped business suits and ripped jeans and T-shirts.
I have no idea what Patrick will be wearing. I’m suddenly terrified I might miss him.
I didn’t think it would be possible to miss seeing Patrick. Apart from the fact that he’s so tall and dark and stand-out handsome, I was sure I’d have some kind of inbuilt sensor that would zero in on him and pick him out of millions. But now that I’m here in this vast sea of humanity I’m having doubts. I’m thinking that I should have warned him and arranged a proper meeting.
I have no choice but to stand as close as possible to the door that he has to come through. Surely I can’t miss him there.
Still at Heathrow…
Another hour has passed and there’s still no sign of Patrick. I know he hasn’t walked through this door, and I think it’s the only way he could have entered. I heard Aussie accents some time back, and so I asked a man what flight he was on and it was Patrick’s flight. I did my best to remain calm after that. I stood by the door in eager anticipation, but Patrick hasn’t appeared.
I can’t have missed him. Not when I’m standing here, more or less on guard by the door. Unless there are other doors.
Oh, God, I have no idea where he is, and very soon I have to leave or I’ll miss my plane. I’ve already paid an extra fee because I’ve changed my flight once. I can’t afford to change it again.
I’m worried. What can have happened? I refuse to consider the possibility that Jodie Grimshaw got her claws into Patrick at the farewell party and convinced him to stay with her and her hyperactive child. I can rise above such thoughts. I can. I can.
Just the same, I’ve forgotten every word of my rehearsed speech. I’m so sick with nerves that if I saw Patrick now I’d be a stammering mess. But I guess it doesn’t really matter because I have to go.
My plan has failed. I have to pack up this diary and trudge over to Departures. I’m fighting tears.
My heart is a stone in my chest.
I know it’s silly, but I can’t help thinking about that scene in A Westminster Affair, when Vanessa was riding off on a red double-decker bus, about to zoom out of Christian’s life, but then she realised she was making a terrible mistake and that she would never see him again if she didn’t act immediately.
That’s how I feel. I can’t get on that plane until I’ve seen Patrick. But—
Where is he?
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ferry bumped against the wharf at Nelly Bay, and the movement woke Molly.
Disorientated, she sat up, and when she peered through the window of the lower deck she saw barnacle-encrusted pylons and aqua-green water. Her nose wrinkled as she smelled the sharp salt of the sea mingled with the dank mustiness of seasoned timbers.
Lifting her gaze, she saw the familiar glass-fronted ferry terminal and a row of palm trees in giant pots. Beyond the terminal hills towered, studded with gumtrees and huge, smooth boulders, and arching above everything the bright blue sky was turning soft mauve as the afternoon slipped towards dusk.
She was home.
Safe on the island—her island.
She knew she should be happy, but this was the first time she’d come home to the island when neither her gran nor Karli was there to welcome her. And this homecoming was so much worse, because she’d left England without sighting Patrick. Her worry over where he might be had eaten at her like a nasty disease throughout the long flight back.
She still had no idea. At Brisbane airport she’d rung his home in Chelsea, but she’d only heard his answering machine, so she still didn’t know if he’d missed his plane, if he’d been detained in transit, or if he was ill.
On top of those concerns her head ached and her neck had developed a crick from sleeping sitting up. Her limbs were leaden as she tried to stand.
After twenty-four hours of travelling, all she wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. No, a month.
She disembarked via a ramp which was steeper than usual because it was very low tide. Phil, one the ferry’s attendants, had dumped her luggage on the wharf.
‘How was London?’ he asked.
‘Fabulous.’ She managed a weak smile, then wheeled her suitcases to the car park, where her old rust-bucket was waiting in the sun like a faithful puppy—exactly where Patrick had said he would leave it, with its key tucked inside the exhaust pipe.
Molly hefted her luggage into the boot and slammed the lid. Yawning deeply, she sagged behind the steering wheel and turned on the ignition, surprised that the motor didn’t cough or splutter.
Winding down the window, she steered the car gently forward. The sea breeze played havoc with her hair as the ancient rattletrap chugged over the hill to Geoffrey Bay, then on through Arcadia and over the next hill to the bay after that.
From the crests of the hills Molly saw the tropical sea stretching out to the curving horizon. As always, the water at this time of day was silver-grey and tinged with lavender and pink—serene and cool and endless.
Looking at it, Molly felt her spirits lift. Momentarily. They quickly drooped again.
Perhaps in time…in a very long time…she would begin to feel like her old self. Or perhaps not.
Right now she was too tired and too emotionally flattened to feel anything close to happiness. She felt as limp as a balloon, forgotten in a corner after everyone had left the party.
At last she saw her little white cottage through the trees. She turned down the short dirt track that wound through the scrub and pulled into her carport. Then she struggled with her lu
ggage, dragging it to the front door.
The key was under the flower pot, and as she retrieved it she couldn’t help thinking that not so long ago Patrick’s hand had placed it there.
Fool. I’ve got to stop thinking about him.
The front door opened on unexpectedly silent hinges. Molly stepped inside, drew a deep breath, and looked about her. Her house was tidy, and it smelled clean. For a moment she fancied she could almost catch of whiff of Patrick’s special scent.
How silly.
She drank in details. Amazingly, Patrick had put everything back in its right place, so that her house was exactly as she’d left it three months ago. He’d even left little handwritten notes dotted about the furniture.
Abandoning her bags on the doorstep, she hurried forward, eager to snatch up the nearest note propped against a pot plant in the middle of the dining table. She stared at Patrick’s distinctive, spiky handwriting.
I’ve watered this plant and it’s still alive. Note new growth—three new leaves and a bud. No water in saucer and no mossies.
Molly’s mouth curved into a smile. She couldn’t help it. She clutched the note against her suddenly thumping heart.
She turned to another note, stuck on the wall near the light switch.
Gecko lizard has had babies and they live behind the painting on this wall. Their names are Leonard, Zac and Elizabeth.
Molly’s smile broadened, then wobbled as she felt a painful lump filling her throat. She went on to the next note in the kitchen.
This tap no longer leaks.
‘Amazing,’ she announced to the empty room. ‘Patrick not only takes care of pot plants and geckos, he’s also a plumber. The man’s a legend.’
She was trying to sound sarcastic, to prove she wasn’t moved, but she found herself stifling a sob. Dismayed, she whirled around, only to find yet another note stuck on the fridge.
Champagne and chocolates in here.
‘Oh, Patrick, no.’
He was being kind. Again. Still. And she wasn’t sure she could bear it. Not when she hadn’t been able to see him, or speak to him, or say any of the things she’d wanted to tell him.
She opened the fridge and saw proper French Champagne and Belgian chocolate truffles. How on earth had Patrick found such exotic luxuries on this island? Molly’s emotions threatened to overwhelm her.
It’s just jet-lag, she decided as her mouth pulled out of shape. She pressed a fist against her lips. I mustn’t cry. Not tonight.
If she started she might never stop.
Blinking hard, she retrieved her luggage from the doorstep and carried it purposefully through to her bedroom. Golden sunlight slanted into the darkened room through the bamboo blinds, tiger-striping the straw matting and her neatly made double bed—the bed Patrick had slept in until very recently.
There were two small squares of paper—two more notes—one on each pillow.
The first note said: We need to talk, Molly.
The other: I have so much to tell you.
Her heart leapt, beating hard and fast, like wings trying to hold her up in the air, but her knees were distinctly wobbly and she sank helplessly onto the edge of the bed.
What did the notes mean? Where could they talk? When? How?
Where was Patrick?
Her weariness had vanished, washed away by shock and by wonder and by the teensiest flicker of hope.
She couldn’t help wondering if Patrick was as keen as she was to set things straight between them.
But that didn’t mean…
That he…
Felt…
Oh, help. Molly’s heart thrashed as she scanned the room, searching for more notes…
There was nothing that looked out of place, but the light was dim. Jumping to her feet she flicked the light switch.
No more messages.
Perhaps he’ll send an e-mail, she thought. I mustn’t get too worked up about a few Post-it notes. I should unpack. Be sensible. Make a cup of tea.
Instead she went to the white louvred French doors that led to the bathroom and pushed them open.
There was a note stuck on the mirror. It was longer than the others. In fact it looked like a list.
Almost afraid to read it, Molly stepped closer and her eyes flew down the page.
10 REASONS WHY I MUST SEE MOLLY AGAIN
To tell her how sorry I am for stuffing things up in London.
To try to explain that I would never willingly hurt her.
To tell her that her e-mails have brightened my days.
And my nights.
To tell her that meeting her in person has changed me.
That she’s changed my life in vitally important ways.
To tell her I need to kiss her again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Now Molly was smiling and weeping at the same time.
The phone beside the bed began to ring, and she spun round, a hand pressed against the leaping pulse at her throat.
If the caller was one of the islanders she didn’t think she could talk. She couldn’t drum up cheery chatter about her holiday. Not tonight.
But if it was Patrick…
Could it be Patrick?
She picked up the phone carefully, as if it were a bomb about to explode. As she held it to her ear her insides danced as if she’d swallowed fireflies. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh, you’re home at last.’ His voice was deep and beautifully English. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Patrick?’
‘How are you, Molly?’
He sounded as if he was smiling, and it was ridiculous but Molly felt instantly happy. Just hearing his lovely voice soothed her and excited her.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She was grinning from ear to ear.
‘I thought you’d be home earlier.’
‘I changed to a later flight.’
‘Oh, I see. Have you settled in?’
‘Not yet. I’ve only just arrived.’ Feeling suddenly emboldened, she said, ‘I’ve been busy tidying up all the mess here.’
‘Mess?’
‘Yes. Someone was staying here, you see, and he’s left bits of paper all over the house.’
‘Oh. How thoughtless… Some chaps are dashed untidy.’
‘Aren’t they just?’
An awkward silence fell, and Molly wondered if her little attempt at humour had fallen flat. Her confidence faltered.
‘Patrick?’
‘Yes?’
‘I—I’ve seen the bathroom.’
‘Oh, right,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Was it tidy?’
‘It was particularly untidy.’
After a beat, he said, ‘Sounds like the fellow who’s been staying at your place might need to apologise.’
‘No apology necessary.’ Molly swallowed. ‘I—I loved the note.’
There was a shaky laugh and a huff of relief.
Molly’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘Where are you? I waited for you at Heathrow and you weren’t on your flight.’
‘You waited?’
‘Yes, I wanted to talk to you. There was so much I wanted to tell you.’
‘Oh, Molly.’
‘What happened, Patrick? I couldn’t find you.’
‘I didn’t catch the plane.’
‘Really?’ Shock riffled through her like a lightning strike. ‘Why not?’
‘I wanted to be here when you got back.’
‘Here?’
‘On the island. I’m on the beach right now, and I’m looking up through the trees to your house. I can see the light in your bedroom window.’
It was almost dusk, and the light was fading fast, but Molly fairly flew down the track to the beach. The path was steep, and at times rocky, and twice she almost tripped over tangled tree roots.
She reached the lower section quite quickly, and could see the smooth white sand ahead. And the darkening sea. And the tall, shadowy outline of a man.
Patrick
.
He was coming across the sand towards her.
She began to run.
Now they were both running. Running towards each other. Arms outstretched.
And at last—
At last Patrick swept her into his arms. He was looking earnest and worried and yet extraordinarily relieved. She wanted to tell him all the things she had planned to say, but before she could speak he kissed her.
And so she kissed him back.
And it took a very long time.
They sat on the warm sand, watching the full moon rise out of the sea, a great golden disc of molten brilliance. Molly’s head rested on Patrick’s shoulder, and he knew his heart had never been fuller.
‘I’ve made so many mistakes,’ he said. ‘But I think now that they were all preparation for this.’ He brushed a corner of her brow with his lips. ‘Have you any idea how long I’ve been in love with you?’
She appeared to give the question serious thought. ‘Could it have started when you saw me in my black dress at Covent Garden?’
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