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To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: We’re off—like a rotten egg

Hi Patrick

I can’t believe I’ll actually be in England in just over twenty-four hours. At last I’m packed (suitcases groaning), and my little house is shining clean and ready for you. Brand-new sheets on the bed—I hope you like navy blue.

I also hope you’ll feel welcome here and, more importantly, comfortable. I considered leaving flowers in a vase, but I was worried they might droop and die and start to smell before you got here. I’ll leave the key under the flowerpot beside the back door.

Now, I know that probably sounds incredibly reckless to you, but don’t worry—the residents of Magnetic Island are very honest and extremely laid-back. No one locks their doors.

I don’t want you to fret, though, so I’ve also left a spare key at Reception at the Sapphire Bay resort, where I used to work until yesterday.

Used to work.

That has such a nice ring, doesn’t it? I’ve trained Jill, the owner’s niece, to take my place while I’m away, and for now, at least, I’m giddily carefree and unemployed.

Yippee!!

You have no idea how much I’ve always wanted to live in London, even if it’s only for three months. Thanks to you, Patrick, this really is my dream come true, and I’m beyond excited. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Have you finished up at your work? Are you having a farewell party? Mine was last night. It was pretty rowdy, and I have no idea what to do with all the gifts people gave me. I can’t fit as much as another peanut in my suitcases, so I’ll probably have to stash these things in a box under my bed (your bed now). Sorry.

By the way, please feel free to use my car. It’s not much more than a sardine can on wheels, but it gets you about. Don’t worry that it’s unregistered. Cars on the island don’t need registration unless they’re taken over to the mainland.

It was kind of you to mention that your car is garaged just around the corner from your place, but don’t worry, I won’t risk my shaky driving skills in London traffic.

Oh, and don’t be upset if the ferry is running late. The boats here run on ‘island time’.

Anyway, happy travels.

London, here I come!

Molly

PS I agree that we shouldn’t phone each other except in the direst emergency. You’re right—phone calls can be intrusive (especially with a ten-hour time difference). And they’re costly. E-mails are so handy—and I’ll try to be diplomatic. No guarantees. I can rattle on when I’m excited.

M

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: We’re off—like a rotten egg

Dear Molly

Thanks for your message. No time for a farewell party, I’m afraid. Had to work late to get my desk cleared. Rushing now to pack and get away. Cidalia (cleaning lady) will come in some time this week to explain everything about the house—how the oven works, etc.

The keys to the house are in a safety deposit box at the Chelsea branch of the bank I work for on the King’s Road. It’s a square brick building. My colleagues have instructions to hand the keys over to you—and I’ve left a map. You’ll just need to show your passport. You shouldn’t have any problems.

Have a good flight.

Best wishes

Patrick

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: I’m in London!!!!!!!

Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow!

If I wasn’t so tired I’d pinch myself, but I’m horribly jet-lagged and can hardly keep my eyes open. Insanely happy, though.

Your very gentlemanly colleague at the bank handed over the keys and wished me a pleasant stay at number thirty-four Alice Grove, and then I trundled my luggage around the corner and—

Patrick, your house is—

Indescribably

Lovely.

Divine will have to suffice for now, but the truth is that your home is more than divine.

Too tired to do it justice tonight. Will have my first English cup of tea and fall into bed. Your bed. Gosh, that sounds rather intimate, doesn’t it? Will write tomorrow.

Blissfully

Molly

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Thank you

Hi Patrick

I’ve slept for ten hours in your lovely king-size bed and am feeling much better today, but my head is still buzzing with excitement! I’ve never left Australia before, so my first sight of England yesterday was the most amazing thrill. We flew in over the English Channel, and when I saw the green and misty fields, just the way I’ve always imagined them, I confess I became a tad weepy.

And then Heathrow. Oh, my God, what an experience. Now I know how cattle feel when they’re being herded into the yards. For a moment there I wanted to turn tail and run back to my sleepy little island.

I soon got over that, thank heavens, and caught a taxi to Chelsea. Terribly extravagant, I know, but I wasn’t quite ready to face the tube with all my luggage. I’m just a teensy bit scared of the London Underground.

The driver asked me what district I wanted to go to, and when I told him Chelsea, SW3, he didn’t say anything but I could see by the way he blinked that he was impressed. When I got here I was pretty darned impressed, too.

But I’m worried, Patrick.

This isn’t exactly an even house swap.

Your place is so gorgeous! Like a four-storey dolls’ house. Sorry, I hope that’s not offensive to a man. I love it all—the carpeted staircases and beautiful arched windows and marble fireplaces and the bedrooms with their own en suite bathrooms. There’s even a bidet! Blush. It took me a while to work out what it was. I’d never seen one before.

Meanwhile, you’ll be discovering the green tree frogs in my toilet. Gosh, Patrick, can you bear it?

I love the sitting room, with all your books—you’re quite a reader, aren’t you?—but I think my favourite room is the kitchen, right at the bottom of your house. I love the black and white tiles on the floor and the glass French doors opening onto a little courtyard at the back.

I had my morning cuppa out in the courtyard this morning, sitting in a little pool of pale English sunshine. And there was a tiny patch of daffodils at my feet! I’ve never seen daffodils growing before.

So many firsts!

After breakfast I went for a walk along the King’s Road, and everyone looked so pink-cheeked and glamorous, with their long, double knotted scarves and boots. I bought myself a scarf (won’t be able to afford boots). I so wanted to look like all the other girls, but I can’t manage the pink cheeks.

I swear I saw a television actor. An older man, don’t know his name, but my grandmother used to love him.

But crikey, Patrick. I look around here and I have all this—I feel like I’m living in Buckingham Palace—and then I think about you on the other side of the world in my tiny Pandanus Cottage, which is—well, you’ll have seen it for yourself by now. It’s very basic, isn’t it? Perhaps I should have warned you that I don’t even have a flatscreen TV.

Do write and tell me how you are—hopefully not struck dumb with horror.

Cheers, as you Brits say

Molly

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Are you there yet?

Sorry to sound like your mother, Patrick, but could you just drop a quick line to let me know you’ve arrived and you’re OK and the house is OK?

M

PS I’m still happy and excited, but I can’t believe how cold it is here. Isn’t it supposed to be spring?

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

Subject: Touching base

Hello darling

I imagine you must be in Australia by now. I do hope you had a good flight. I promise I’m not going to bother you the whole time you’re away, but I just needed to hear that you’ve arrived safely and all is well and to wish you good luck again with writing your novel.

Love from the proud mother of a future world-famous, bestselling author.

xx

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: Just checking

Dear Molly

Yes, I’m here, safe and sound, thank you, and everything’s fine. It was well worth the twenty-hour flight and crossing the world’s hemispheres just to get here. Don’t worry. Your house suits my needs perfectly and the setting is beautiful. Everything’s spotless, just as you promised, and the new sheets are splendid. Thank you for ironing them.

As I told you, I’m planning to write a book, so I don’t need loads of luxury and I don’t plan to watch much TV. What I need is a complete change of scenery and inspiration, and the view from your front window provides both.

I’ve already rearranged the furniture so that I can have a table at the window and take in the fabulous view across the bay to Cape Cleveland. All day long the sea keeps changing colour with the shifting patterns of the sun and the clouds. It’s utterly gorgeous.

I’m pleased you’ve settled in and that you like what you’ve found, but don’t worry about me. I’m enjoying the sunshine and I’m very happy.

Oh, and thanks also for your helpful notes about the fish in the freezer and the pot plants and the washing machine’s spin cycle and the geckos. All points duly noted.

Best wishes

Patrick

To: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: Touching base

Hi Mother

Everything’s fine, thanks. I’m settled in here and all’s well. Will keep in touch. It’s paradise down here, so don’t worry about me.

Love to you and to Jonathan

Patrick x

Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 10th

This feels very uncomfortable.

I’ve never kept any kind of diary, but apparently it’s helpful for serious writers to keep a journal of ‘free writing’. Any thoughts or ideas are grist for the mill, and the aim is to keep the ‘writing muscle’ exercised while waiting for divine inspiration.

I wasn’t going to bother. I’m used to figures and spreadsheets, to getting results and getting them quickly, and it feels such a waste of effort to dredge up words that might never be used. But after spending an entire day at my laptop staring at ‘Chapter One’ at the top of a blank page, I feel moved to try something.

I can blame jet-lag for the lack of productivity. I’m sure my muse will kick in after a day or two, but rather than waste the next couple of days waiting for the words to flow, I’m trying this alternative.

So … what to say?

This isn’t a test—no one else will be reading it—so I might as well start with the obvious.

It’s an interesting experience to move into someone else’s house on the other side of the world, and to be surrounded by a completely different landscape and soundtrack, even different smells.

As soon as I found notes from Molly scattered all over the house, I knew I’d arrived in an alien world. A few examples:

Note on a pot plant: Patrick, would you mind watering this twice a week? But don’t leave water lying in the saucer, or mosquitoes will breed.

On the fridge door: Help yourself to the fish in the freezer. There’s coral trout, queen fish, wahoo and nannygai. Don’t be put off by the strange names, they’re delicious. Try them on the barbecue. There’s a great barbecue recipe book on the shelf beside the stove.

On the lounge wall, beside the light switch: Don’t freak if you see small, cute lizards running on the walls. They’re geckos—harmless, and great for keeping the insects down.

Beyond the cottage, the plants and trees are nothing like trees at home. Some are much wilder and stragglier, others lusher and thicker, and all seem to grow in the barest cracks of soil between the huge boulders on this headland.

The birds not only look different but they sound totally alien. There’s a bright green parrot with a blue head and yellow throat that chatters and screeches. The kookaburra’s laugh is hilarious. Another bird lets out a blood-curdling, mournful cry in the night.

Even the light here is a surprise. So bright it takes a bit of getting used to.

God, this is pathetic. I need red wine. I’m not a writer’s toenail.

But I can’t give up on the first day. Getting this leave was a miracle. I couldn’t believe how generous old George Sims was. Such a surprise that he was worried about me ‘burning out’.

But now … my writing. I’d always imagined that writing would be relaxing. I’m sure it is once the words really start to come. I’ll plug on.

In spite of all the differences here, or perhaps because of them, Molly Cooper’s little cottage feels good to me. It’s simple, but it has loads of personality and it’s almost as if she hasn’t really left. It’s bizarre, but I feel as if I’ve actually met her simply by being here and seeing all her things, touching them, using the soap she left (sandalwood, I believe), eating from her dishes, sleeping in her bed under a white mosquito net.

There’s a photo of her stuck on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a slice of watermelon. She’s with an elderly woman and it says on the back ‘Molly and Gran’. It was taken about a year ago, and Gran looks very frail, but Molly has long, light brown curly hair, a pretty smile, friendly eyes, dimples and terrific legs.

Not that Molly’s appearance or personality is in any way relevant. I’m never going to meet her in the flesh. Our houses are our only points of connection.

So … a bit more about her house.

I must admit that I was worried that it might be too girlie, a bit too cute with pastel shades, ribbons and bows. The sort of warm and fuzzy place that could lower a man’s testosterone overnight. But it’s fine. I especially like its rugged and spectacular setting.

The house itself is small—two bedrooms, one bathroom and one big open room for the kitchen, dining and lounge. It’s all on one level and it feels strange not going upstairs to bed at night.

Lots of windows and shutters catch the breezes and the views. Loads of candles. You’d think there was no electricity, the way the candles are scattered everywhere, along with pieces of driftwood and shells, and decorative touches of blue.

I wouldn’t normally notice colours, but for fear of sounding like a total dweeb I like all Molly’s bits of blue—like echoes of the sea and the sky outside. Very restful.

When I leave the house, the island is hot and sultry, but inside it’s cool and quiet and … soothing.

After these past years of financial crisis and endless overtime, this place has exactly the kind of vibe I need. I’m glad I told everyone I was going to be out of contact for the next three months. Apart from the odd e-mail from Molly or my mother, there’ll be no phone calls. No text messages, no tweets, no business e-mails …

I think I might try the hammock in the mango tree.

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Update

Hi Patrick

How are you? I do hope the island is working its magic on you and that the book is flowing brilliantly.

I’ve begun to explore London (on foot, or riding in the gorgeous red double-decker buses—takes more time, but I still can’t face the Tube), and I’m trying to do as much sightseeing as I can. Turns out most museums in the city of London don’t charge any entrance fee, which is awesome.

To make the most of my time here, I’ve made a few rules for myself.

Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies. I don’t want to spend my whole time talking about home. Just shoot me now.

Rule 2: Educate myself about the ‘real’ London—not just the tourist must-sees, like Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square.

Just as an example: yesterday I was walking the streets around here, and I stumbled upon the house where Oscar Wilde lived more than a hundred years ago. Can you imagine how amazing that is for a girl whose neighbours are wallabies and parrots?

I stood staring at Oscar’s front window, all choked up, just thinking about the brilliant plays he wrote, and about him living here all through his trial, and having to go to prison simply for being gay.

You’re not gay, are you, Patrick? I shouldn’t think so, judging by the reading matter on your bookshelves—mostly sporting biographies and finance tomes or spy novels.

Sorry, your reading tastes and sexual preferences are none of my business, but it’s hard not to be curious about you. You haven’t even left a photo lying around, but I suppose blokes don’t bother with photos.

Speaking of photos, I may go to see the Changing of the Guard, but I do not plan to have my picture taken with a man on horseback and an inverted mop on his head.

Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman. Actually, it would be helpful if you were gay, Patrick, because then I could have girly chats with you about my lack of a love-life. Now you’ve seen the island, you’ll understand it’s not exactly brimming with datable single men. Most of the bachelors are young backpackers passing through, or unambitious drifters.

My secret fantasy (here I go, telling you anyway) is to go out with a proper English gentleman. Let’s get real, here—not Prince William or Colin Firth. I can lower my sights—but not too low. Colin Firth’s little brother would be acceptable.

After a lifetime on an island where most of the young men spend their days barefoot and wearing holey T-shirts and board shorts, I hanker for a man in a smooth, sophisticated suit.

I’d love to date a nicely spoken Englishman who treats me like a lady and takes me somewhere cultured—to a concert or a play or an art gallery.

A girl can dream. By the way, I’ve done an internet search and did you know there are six hundred and seventy-three different shows on in London right now? I can’t believe it. I’m gobsmacked. Our island has one amateur musical each year.

Patrick, I warned you I might rattle on. I’ve always tended to put the jigsaw puzzle of my thoughts on paper. For now, I’ll leave you in peace.

M

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Cleaning

Cidalia came today. She’s sweet, isn’t she? And she speaks very good English. I’ve never met anyone from Brazil, so we sat at the kitchen table—I wasn’t sure how Upstairs/Downstairs you were about entertaining employees in the sitting room—and over a cosy cuppa she told me all about her family and her childhood in San Paolo. So interesting!

But, gosh, Patrick, I didn’t realise she was going to continue cleaning your house while I’m here. Apparently you’ve already paid her in advance. That’s kind and thoughtful, and I realise Cidalia wouldn’t want to lose her job here, but I haven’t arranged for anyone to come and clean my house for you. It didn’t even occur to me.

Magnetic Island must feel like a third world country to you.

If you would like a cleaner, I could contact Jodie Grimshaw in Horseshoe Bay. She’s a single mum who does casual cleaning jobs, but I’m afraid you’d have to watch her, Patrick. I do feel rather protective of you, and Jodie’s on the lookout for a rich husband. Added to that, her child is scarily prone to tantrums.

Do let me know if I can help. I could also try the Sapphire Bay resort. They could probably spare one of their cleaners for one morning a week.

Best

Molly

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: Cleaning

Dear Molly

Thanks for your warning about Jodie G. It came in handy when I met her at the supermarket this morning. She was rather … shall I say, proactive? Your tip-off was helpful.

Actually, I don’t need a cleaner, thank you. I’ve worked out the intricacies of the dustpan and broom, and your house is so compact I can clean it in a jiffy. No doubt you’re surprised to hear that I can sweep, even though I’m not gay. ☺ I might even figure out how to plug in the vacuum cleaner soon.

To be honest, the lack of a cleaning woman doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the fact that I can’t go swimming. Who would have thought you can’t swim on a tropical island? Apparently there are deadly jellyfish in the water, and a rogue saltwater crocodile cruising up and down the coastline. All the beaches are closed. And it’s stinking hot!

That’s my grumble.

For your part, I’m concerned that you’re nervous about using the Tube. I can understand it might be intimidating when your main mode of transport has been the island’s ferry service, but the Tube is fast and punctual, and Sloane Square station is very close by. Do give it a try.

Regards

Patrick

PS Someone called Boof rang and invited me down to the pub to watch a cane toad race. I looked on the internet and discovered that cane toads are poisonous South American frogs that can grow as big as dinner plates and breed like rabbits. So I guess the races aren’t Ascot. Would appreciate any advice/warnings.

Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 16th

This journal isn’t helping at all. I’m still staring at a blank page.

Any words I’ve put down are total rubbish. It’s so distressing. The ideas for my novel are perfect in my head. I can see the characters, the setting and the action, but when I try to put them on the page everything turns to garbage.

I’m beginning to think that Molly Cooper’s a far better writer than I am and she isn’t even trying. The words just flow from her. I’m feeling the first flutters of panic. I hate failure. How did I ever think I could write an entire novel? It’s all in my head, but that’s no use unless I can get it into a manuscript.

I’m going for a long hike. Walking is supposed to be very good for writer’s block.

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Stingers, etc!

Hi Patrick

I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the marine stingers, and it’s a shame about the crocodile. The good news is the National Park people will probably catch the croc and move it up the coast to somewhere safe and remote, and the stinger season finishes at the end of April, so it won’t be long now before you’re able to swim. You could try the stinger-proof enclosure over in Horseshoe Bay, but swimming inside a big net isn’t the same, I suppose.

Just you wait—the island is paradise in late autumn and early winter. You’ll be able to swim and skin dive to your heart’s content.

I’ll draw a map of the island and post it to you, showing you where all the best diving reefs are. And do check out the cane toad races. They sound grotesque, but they’re actually fun. Listen to Boof. He catches the toads for the races, and maybe he can put you onto a sure thing to win a few dollars.

How’s the writing going?

Molly x

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Thank you!

Patrick, you darling! Sorry if that sounds too intimate, when we’ve never actually met, but it’s so, so sweet of you to send Discovering London’s Secrets. It arrived this morning. You must have organised it over the internet. How thoughtful!

Believe me—I’m deeply, deeply grateful. I’ve looked at other travel books in the shops, but they only seem to cover all the popular sights, which are fabulous, of course—there’s a reason they’re popular—but once you’ve done Piccadilly Circus and Buck Palace, the Tower and Hyde Park you’re hungry for more, aren’t you?

Now I’m so well informed I can really explore properly, just the way I’d hoped to.

This afternoon I went back to Hyde Park and found the hidden pet cemetery mentioned in this book. It was fascinating, with all those dear little mildewed headstones marking the final resting places of dogs, cats and birds, and even a monkey.

But to use the book you sent properly, I’m going to have to brave the Underground, and that still terrifies me. I hate to think that the whole of London is sitting on top of a network of tunnels and at any given moment there are thousands of people under there, whizzing back and forth in trains.

I do feel ashamed of myself for freaking out like this. I know avoidance only makes these things worse. I’m going to work at getting braver.

M x

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: Thank you!

Hi Molly

Thanks for offering to send a map of the diving spots on the island. It’ll be very handy. I’ll keep an eye out for the mail van.

So glad you like the book. My pleasure. But, Molly, it does sound as if you’re getting yourself very worked up about using the Tube. Of course there are other ways to get around London, but if it’s bothering you, and you feel slightly phobic, maybe you need a helping hand?

If you like, I could ask my mother to pop around to No. 34. I know she’d be only too happy to show you the ropes. That’s not quite as alarming as it sounds. With me she’s extremely bossy, but everyone else claims that she can be very calming.

Best wishes

Chin up!

Patrick

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Re: Thank you!

Dear Patrick

Yet again, thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer of a visit from your mother. I know it was kindly meant, but I couldn’t impose on her like that.

From the way I rabbit on, you probably think I’m very young—but I’m actually twenty-four, and quite old enough to tackle the challenge of catching a train.

I’ve never liked to play damsel in distress, and, while this fear may be unreasonable, it’s something I must conquer on my own.

Sincerely

Molly

PS You haven’t mentioned your book. You must be very modest, Patrick. Or does your English reserve prevent you from confiding such personal information to a nosy Aussie?