Читать книгу It Had To Be You - Barbara Hannay - Страница 12

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

From: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

Subject: Mission accomplished

Dear Patrick

It’s a pity you’re on the other side of the world and unable to carry out your own rescue mission.

I only say this because Molly Cooper is charming, and I thoroughly enjoyed a highly entertaining afternoon with her. It seems to me that your taste in women improves considerably when you change your selection criteria. Perhaps you should try choosing your girlfriends by their houses.

Molly may not be a pint-size blonde, as most of your girlfriends are, but she can hold up her end of a conversation. She’s very smart, Patrick, and you should see the way her blue eyes sparkle. They’re breathtaking.

Darling, thank you for sending me on a very pleasant errand. I must say I was very curious about the girl you’d swapped houses with. Now that curiosity is happily satisfied.

I hope you’re having as much fun with writing your novel as Molly seems to be having here in London.

Love

Mother xx

Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 30th

Note about character development: it might work quite well if I give my heroine a private fear that she must overcome.

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

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

Subject: Re: Thank you!

Hi Molly

Your map of the island’s reefs arrived today. Thanks so much. The information will be very helpful, and your request that I don’t show the location of these reefs to too many tourists was duly noted. I’m honoured that you’re sharing some of your island’s secrets with me, a mere visitor.

I also enjoyed very much your drawings of the coral fish and the other weird and wonderful creatures that I’m likely to encounter when I finally enter the Pacific Ocean.

Your artistic efforts made me smile. Have you ever thought of a new career as a cartoonist?

I’m very keen to see a Chelmon rostratus (thank you for the helpful labels). Those fish are gorgeous, with their bright black, yellow and white stripes and their long snouts. And I’m fascinated by the anemone fish.

You were right about the crocodile. He was caught in Florence Bay—six brave fellows from the National Park manhandled him, trussed him up like a giant Christmas turkey and relocated him further north. Apparently he won’t come back this way now that we’re approaching the winter. Thank God.

So I can’t wait to start diving. You’ve certainly whetted my appetite for discovering what lies beneath. …

Molly, I’m very pleased to hear that you’ve got the Tube business sorted. I know my mother enjoyed meeting you. Well done.

It’s getting a little cooler here at last. Today it’s hard to believe it’s autumn. The temperatures are almost down to those of an English summer’s day.

If you’d like any help with looking for your father’s birthplace, do sing out.

Best

Patrick

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

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

Subject: PS

Molly, another thought. You might be surprised to know that you could quite possibly help me with this novel by sharing your reactions to London.

You were worried about sending me extra-long messages but I’ve enjoyed the descriptions in your e-mails … and I’ve found them helpful.

I’m still learning the ropes, so to speak, and it would be extremely useful to see my home town described through a fresh pair of eyes. In fact your reactions to life in general could be helpful, as it’s hard for a fellow to get inside the female mind. In other words, feel free to continue sharing your discoveries and insights. Positive or negative—you won’t hurt my feelings.

Just if the whim takes you.

Warmest wishes

Patrick

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

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

Subject: My London eye

Dear Patrick

I’m more than happy to rattle on to you about my London adventures, and please feel free to use anything I say in your novel. Wow! What an honour.

I’ve been thinking that writing must be a lonely occupation, so I can imagine you’d enjoy getting e-mails at the end of a long day at the keyboard.

But if I get too carried away, flooding you with too much information, please tell me.

I had to laugh at a sign I saw today in a Tube station: A penalty fare will be charged to any passenger who fails to hide true emotions fully or makes any attempt to engage with other passengers.

That is so what it’s like. I do love the way the British poke fun at themselves.

Yesterday I spent the loveliest morning checking out the Kensington Roof Gardens. They’re gorgeous. Have you been there? It’s amazing—one and a half acres of trees and plants growing thirty metres above Kensington High Street and divided into three lovely themed gardens.

There’s an English woodland (which I think might be my favourite), with curving lawns and surprisingly large trees, a stream and little bridges, even a lake with ducks and pink flamingos. I’m so glad it’s spring, because there were also lovely flowers everywhere, but unfortunately I don’t know their names.

There’s also a Tudor garden, with a courtyard and creeper-covered walls and brick paths laid in a herringbone pattern. It’s filled with fragrant flowers—lilies, roses and lavender. And the Spanish garden is very dramatic, with its stunning white walls. Apparently it’s inspired by the Alhambra in Spain.

By the way, thanks so much for offering to help with my family history research. My grandmother kept a box of papers that belonged to my parents, including their marriage certificate. When I was younger I used to take it out often and read every word. I haven’t done that for ages, but I’m almost certain I remember that my father was born in Clapham. I used to want to call it Clapham. I know the year he was born was definitely 1956.

Molly

PS Would you like to send me a list of questions that might help you with getting inside your female character’s head?

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

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

Subject: Questions

It’s very generous of you to offer to help with my female character. I hesitate to make these kinds of demands on your time, but authors do need to know an awful lot about what’s going on inside their characters, and I’d truly appreciate your input.

My heroine is Beth Harper and she’s a bank teller, about your age, and I’m supposed to know about her likes and dislikes—her favourite kinds of clothes and jewellery, favourite colour, music, animal, etc; her least favourite of these; her spending habits; her most prized possession; her talents (piano player, juggler, poet?); nervous habits. Any thoughts along those lines would be welcomed.

I’m hoping to create a girl who feels real and unique.

So … whenever you have time …

Gratefully

Patrick

PS If you could tell me your father’s full name, I just might have the right contacts to do a little research for you.

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

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

Subject: Re: Questions

Patrick, I feel like I’m always thanking you, but the very thought of finding out more about my father makes me feel quite wobbly with excitement and emotion, so thank you so much for offering to help. His name was Charles Torrington Cooper, which I think sounds rather dignified, but I’m told that in Australia he was only ever known as Charlie Cooper.

You will no doubt already know what he looked like as there’s a photo of him and my mother on my bedside table. You can see that he’s to blame for my brown curly hair, but don’t you think he has the nicest smile?

Now, about your book. I have to warn you, Patrick, that if you want your character to be unique, I may not be your woman. Truth is, I’m careful and conservative—as ordinary as oatmeal. And, whatever you do, don’t give Beth Harper my hair.

Also, my favourite clothes—a bikini and a sarong—might not ring true for a teller in a bank in London.

So last night I sat down and tried to pretend I was Beth and to answer your questions as if I was her—and I suddenly understood your dilemma. It’s really, really hard to just make someone up, isn’t it? But it’s fun, too.

So let’s see. If I was Beth, working in a bank, I think I’d be super-prim like a librarian during the day, but I’d wear sexy lingerie underneath my work clothes (to remind the reader of my wild side and because it feels so lovely against my skin). And I’d wear wild colours on my weekends—rainbow-coloured leggings or knee-high red boots with micro-mini-skirts. And I’d be the queen of scarves—silk, crocheted, long, short. For when it’s cold I’d have a coat with a big faux fur collar.

I’m getting carried away, aren’t I? But it’s so much fun to pretend to be English. I don’t get to wear any of that sort of gear on the island.

Beth’s favourite colour would change every week, and her spending habits would be a perfect balance between thriftiness and recklessness—because she wants to enjoy life, but she’s also a sensible bank teller. Unlike me. I’m always the same about money—as penny-pinching as they come. I have to be.

Beth’s most prized possession is the ridonkulously expensive little red (not black) dress that she bought for the one time she went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden with the man of her dreams. (My most prized possession is my house. As I’m sure yours must be for you, Patrick.)

In case you were wondering, my grandmother left Pandanus Cottage to me, but she left me a mortgage, too, because she had to refinance to keep me through the high school years. She sent me to a good private school she couldn’t really afford, the darling.

I consider myself very lucky. My house is my ticket to a safe and steady future, so I pay my mortgage rather than splashing out on trendy fashions. That’s where living on the island comes in handy. You must have noticed that it’s a budget-friendly, fashion-free zone. Anything goes.

Not so for Beth.

Now for her talents. Could she be secretly brilliant at doing arithmetic in her head? (Again, that’s the very opposite of me. The calculator on my mobile phone is my best friend.) Could Beth’s cleverness be of huge save-the-day importance at some time in your plot?

As for nervous habits … Well, I tend to mess with my hair … as if it wasn’t already messy enough. I don’t think Beth should do that. I’m positive she has very sleek, flowing hair—the kind of shiny waterfall hair you see in shampoo advertisements. The kind of hair I used to pray for when I was twelve.

Could Beth be a stutterer instead? Could she have worked hard to overcome her stutter, and now it only breaks out when she’s really, really nervous—like when your bad guy holds a gun to her head, or, to her huge embarrassment, when really, really gorgeous men speak to her?

Hmm. That’s about all I can think of for now. Not sure how helpful any of this might be, but it was fun playing at being an author. There must be times when you feel like a god.

Molly x

PS Patrick, you do know Beth must have a tattoo, don’t you? Where it is on her body and what it looks like I’ll leave to your fertile authorly imagination.

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

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

Subject: Gainfully employed

You’ve been very quiet, Patrick. Is everything OK?

I have sad news. I landed a job yesterday and I have to start soon. I’ll be serving drinks behind the bar in the Empty Bottle—which, as you know, is a newly renovated pub just around the corner. Four evenings a week. But that still leaves me with mornings free, and three full days each week for sightseeing.

I admit I’m not looking forward to working, but the coffers need bolstering, and at least this job should provide great opportunities to meet loads of new people (maybe even that dream man). I can’t complain about a few shifts behind a bar when you’re spending the whole time you’re away slaving over a hot laptop.

I hope the novel is going really well for you.

Best wishes

Molly

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

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

Subject: Re: Gainfully employed

Thanks for the description of your vision of Beth. I really like it. I think my hero’s going to like her, too.

I’m very sorry you have to start work. Seems a pity when there’s so much of London you want to see. I guess the extra cash will be helpful, though. Perhaps it will allow you to take a few trips out into the countryside as well? Rural England is very pretty at this time of year.

I’ve only been in the Empty Bottle on a couple of occasions (my usual is closer to work), but it seemed like a nice pub.

Please keep me informed. It could be a place frequented by the likes of Beth Harper, so keep a lookout for high-heeled red boots and micro-mini-skirts.

I’ve taken your advice and kitted my heroine out in sexy underwear and your recommended wardrobe.

I’m still giving deep thought to her (discreet) tattoo.

P.

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

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

Subject: A bedtime story

Goldilocks Revisited

So I trudged home late last night, after a gruelling shift at the Empty Bottle. My head was aching from the pub’s loud music and all the laughter and shouting of noisy drinkers. In fact my head hurt so much I thought the top might lift right off. As you might imagine, I wasn’t in a very good mood.

My mood wasn’t improved when I dragged my weary bones into my/your bedroom and switched on the light.

Someone was sleeping in my/your bed!

Someone blonde, naked and busty. And tipsy. Quite tipsy.

You remember Angela, don’t you, Patrick?

She’d been at a party a few blocks away and she’d had too much to drink and needed somewhere to crash. She had a key to your house, and I don’t think she had to go to a bank to get it from a safety deposit box.

I slept in the spare room, but the bed wasn’t made up and I had to go hunting for sheets and blankets. I was so tired I might have slept on top of the satin quilt with only my denim jacket for warmth if satin wasn’t so slippery.

Next day, a shade before midday, Angela came downstairs, wrapped in your port wine silk dressing gown and looking somewhat the worse for wear, and she asked about breakfast as if I was a servant.

Patrick, you asked for my reactions to your world, but I suppose I may be coming across as somewhat manipulative in this situation—as if I’m trying to make you feel awkward and maybe even sorry for me. Or you might even think it’s the green-eyed monster raising its ugly head. But I’m not the type to get jealous of your former girlfriend when I haven’t even met you.

I just don’t do headaches well. That’s all.

Anyway, I was determined to be generous, so I cooked up an enormous hangover breakfast for Angela and she wolfed it down. Bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with toast and expensive marmalade, plus several cups of strong coffee. It all disappeared with the speed of light. The colour came back into her face. She even managed to smile.

I do admit that Angela is exceptionally pretty when she smiles—a beautiful, delicate, silky blonde. I tried to dislike her, but once she understood my reasons for taking up residence in your house—that it was a fair swap and very temporary—she thawed a trillion degrees.

So then we poured ourselves another mug of coffee each and settled down to a lovely gossipy chat. About you.

I promise I didn’t ask Angela to talk about you, Patrick, but your lovely kitchen is very chat-friendly, and she was the first English girl of my age that I’d had a chance to gossip with. I’d like to think of it more as a cross-cultural, deep and meaningful exchange.

Angela even flipped through the photos on her mobile phone to see if she still had one of you, but you’ve been deleted, I’m afraid. She told me that she’s just one in a string of your neglected girlfriends, and that your work has always, always come first.

Case in point—the time you missed her birthday because you had to fly to Zurich (on a weekend). And there were apparently a lot of broken dates and times when you sent last-minute apologies via text messages because you had to work late, when she’d already spent a fortune on having her hair and nails done, and having her legs, and possibly other bits, waxed.

It’s not for me to judge, of course.

Maybe Angela (and those other girls who preceded her) should have been more understanding and patient. Maybe you have a very ambitious and driven personality and you can’t help working hard. After all, you’re using your holidays to write a novel when most people lie on the beach and read novels that other people have written.

Or maybe, just maybe, you could be a teensy bit more thoughtful and considerate and take more care to nurture your personal relationships.

OK, that’s more than enough from me. I’m ducking for cover now.

Cheerio!

Molly x

PS Angela was thoughtful enough to return your key.

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

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

Subject: Re: A bedtime story

Dear Molly

I confess I’d completely overlooked the possibility that Angela Carstairs might still have a door key. I’m sorry you were inconvenienced by her unexpected visit, and thanks so much for going above and beyond. You’re a good sport, Molly, and I’m very grateful. I’m sure Angela is too.

I suppose I should also thank you for your feedback and your advice regarding my previous and possible future relationships. As I said before, it’s always helpful to receive a fresh perspective.

On the subject of unexpected visitors and questionable relationships, however, you’ve had a visitor, too. A young man called in here yesterday. A Hell’s Angel look-alike with a long red beard and big beefy arms covered in tattoos. He asked ever so politely about some ladies’ lingerie which you, apparently, are holding here for him.

I would have been happy to oblige your boyfriend. I might have asked a few pertinent questions. But he seemed very secretive, almost furtive, and I got the distinct impression that he would not welcome my curiosity. As you might imagine I was somewhat at a loss. I had no idea where I could lay my hands on lingerie in his size. I suggested he call back in a few days. Do you have any suggestions or instructions, Molly?

Kindest regards

Patrick

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

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

Subject: Re: A bedtime story

Wipe that smirk off your face right now, Patrick Knight. I know what you’re thinking, and stop it. That visitor was not my boyfriend, and he’s certainly not a crossdresser.

His name is David Howard and he’s a butcher in Horseshoe Bay, married to a doting wife with three kids and as straight as a Roman road. But he also has a fabulous singing voice, and he’s landed a major role in the local production of The Rocky Horror Show. It’s all very top secret (and believe me, keeping a secret on Magnetic Island is a big call.) I organised his costume before I left, but I was so busy getting the house ready for you that I forgot to drop it off with the Amateur Players.

I’m sorry David had to disturb you. It’s entirely my fault. I left the costume in a black plastic bag on the table next to my sewing machine in the back bedroom, so I’d be very grateful if you could pass it on to him, with my apologies.

Can you imagine the impact and the surprise when big David, covered in tattoos, steps onto the stage?

Thanks!

Molly

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

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

Subject: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered.

Curiosity drove me to take a peek at the lingerie before I handed it over to David, and I must say you sew a very fine seam. The lace on the suspender belts is very fetching.

But while you wriggled off that hook quite neatly, Molly, I can’t let you get away completely. You’ve had another visitor (dare I say admirer?) who turned up here late yesterday afternoon, expecting a massage. Probably the fittest looking character I’ve seen in a long while. He seemed very upset when I told him your services would not be available till the end of June.

Explain away that one, Miss Molly.

And while I’m on the subject of the men in your life, the strapping young ranger who supervised the crocodile capture last week was very keen to know when you’d be back.

Rest assured, I don’t plan to sit down with these fellows for a ‘cosy chat’, so I won’t be passing on any advice to you re: your previous or future relationships.

Patrick

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

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

Subject: Re: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered

Patrick, I’m sorry. My friends do seem to be interrupting you lately. The guy who turned up for a massage was Josh. But honestly, it’s not that kind of massage. He’s a footballer—he plays for the local rugby league team and he has a problem with his shoulders. Like a lot of islanders he bucks the system and has no medical insurance, so he balks at handing over money for a professional massage from a physio.

That’s why he comes to me.

I massage his shoulders. Only. He keeps me supplied with fish. Hence my well-stocked freezer. As for Max, the crocodile wrangler, I have no idea why he was asking about me. I should think that’s nothing more than idle curiosity.

Anyway, as you know, it’s not Australian men I’m interested in. I’m still on the lookout for my lovely Englishman. Any advice on where I should hang out to have the best chance of meeting my dream man would be deeply appreciated.

By the way, I’ve bought a Travelcard and I’ve done heaps of travelling on the Tube now. On my last day off I went to Piccadilly Circus, to explore the hidden courts and passages of St James’s. I found the most amazing, ancient, hidden pub in Ely Street. It’s so tiny and dark and dingy and old, and it has the stump of a cherry tree that Elizabeth I danced around!

I was rather overcome just trying to wrap my head around all the history contained in those tiny rooms.

Molly x

PS I’m such a traveller now. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I kept hearing a voice saying, ‘Mind the gap.’

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

From: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

Subject: Surprise news

Dearest Patrick

I have the most amazing news. Jonathan has asked me (again) to marry him, and this time I’ve said yes.

Can you believe it? Your mother is getting married and she couldn’t be happier.

As you know, it’s taken me a very long time to get over the divorce. Actually, it’s taken us both a long time, hasn’t it? I know that’s so, Patrick, even though you won’t give in and talk about it.

I honestly thought I couldn’t face another marriage after the way the last one ended, but Jonathan has been such a darling—so patient and understanding.

This time when he proposed I knew it was a case of saying yes or losing him. A man’s pride can only take so many knockbacks.

Suddenly (thank heavens) the scales fell from my eyes and I understood without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn’t bear to lose him. I simply couldn’t let him go.

Now that decision’s made such a weight has lifted from my heart. I’m giddy with happiness.

It’s all happening in a frightful hurry, though. I think poor Jonathan is terrified that I might change my mind. I won’t, of course. I know that as certainly as I know my own name.

So it’s to be a May wedding, and then a honeymoon in Tuscany. Have you ever heard of anything more romantic?

Now, darling, I’m including your invitation as an attachment, but Jonathan and I know this writing time is precious to you. You’ve worked far too hard these past couple of years, and I’m so pleased you’ve taken this break, so we’ll understand perfectly if you can’t tear yourself away from your novel. The wedding will be a very small affair. We were lucky enough to book the church after a cancellation.

Even if you can’t make it, I know you’ll be happy for me.

Oceans of love

Your proud and very happy mother xxx

Patrick Knight The pleasure of your company is requested at the marriage of Felicity Knight and Jonathan Langley on Saturday 21st May at St Paul’s Church, Ealing at 2.00 p.m. and afterwards at 3 Laburnum Lane, West Ealing

To: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

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

Subject: Re: Surprise news

Wow! What fabulous and very welcome news! I’m thrilled, and I know you and Jonathan will be blissfully happy.

You deserve so much happiness, Mother. That’s been my main concern ever since Dad left us.

I can just imagine Jonathan’s relief. I know he’s mad about you, and tying the knot will put him out of his agony.

Your plans sound wonderfully spontaneous and romantic. I’m glad you’re just getting on with it and not worrying too much about my presence. That said, I’d love to come back for a quick weekend to join the nuptial celebrations, so I’ll give it serious thought and let you know very soon.

Don’t fret about my attitude towards my father. I still can’t forgive him for what he did to you, but Jonathan’s made up for his behaviour in spades.

Love and best wishes to you both

Patrick

Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, May 3rd

This isn’t about writing … but my mind’s churning and it might help to get my thoughts down.

I hate myself for hesitating to jump on a plane and hurry back for my mother’s wedding, especially as I wouldn’t have stalled if the book had been falling into place.

I’ve tried to breathe life into the damn thing. I’ve even tried Molly’s suggestion of leaping in and simply letting the writing flow. It worked for two days, then I made the mistake of re-reading what I’d written.

Utter drivel.

And now, of course, I can’t stop thinking about my father and what a fool he was to leave my mother and take off with his secretary. His actions were a comical cliché to outsiders looking on, and a truly hurtful shock for us.

I was eighteen at the time, and I’ll never forget how shattered my mother was. I wanted to help her, but I knew there was absolutely nothing I could say or do to heal her pain. I bought a plane ticket to Edinburgh, planning to go after my father and—

I never was quite sure what I’d do when I found him. Break his stupid, arrogant nose, I suppose. But Mother guessed what I’d planned and she begged me not to go. Begged me with tears streaming down her face.

So I gave up that scheme, but I was left with so many questions.

Along with everyone else who knew my parents, I could never understand why he did it—apart from the obvious mid-life crisis which had clearly fried his brains. Actually, I do know that my father worried about ageing more than most. He could never stand to waste time, and he hated the idea of his life rushing him towards its inevitable end. Perhaps it’s not so very surprising that he started chasing after much younger women.

Fool. I still don’t see how he could turn his back on Mother. Everyone loves her. Molly’s response to meeting her was the typical reaction of anyone who meets her.

Of course the one thing in this that I’ve totally understood was my mother’s reluctance to enter a second marriage. She didn’t want to be hurt again, and my father is to be entirely blamed for that.

But her heart is safe in Jonathan Langley’s hands. He’s exactly like Molly Cooper’s dream man—a charming Englishman, a gentleman to the core—and he and my mother share a deep affection that makes the rest of us envious. …

I wonder if Mother wants me to write to tell Dad. She would never ask outright.

To be honest, I don’t think I want him to know until Jonathan’s ring is safely on her finger and she’s away in Italy with him. Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but I’m not going to risk any chance that Dad might turn up and somehow spoil this for her.

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

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

Subject: Impossible dreams

I assume from your silence that you’re not going to pass on any wise advice about how I might find my dream Englishman.

Patrick, have you any idea how hard it is?

I don’t mean it’s hard to get myself asked out—that’s happened quite a few times already—but the chaps haven’t been my cup of tea. My question is—would you believe how hard it is to find the right style of man?

I’ve taken some comfort from reading that a clever academic has worked out that finding the perfect partner is only one hundred times more likely than finding an alien. I read it in the Daily Mail on the Tube. See how much progress I’ve made?

The thing is, I’m not looking for the perfect life partner—just the perfect date. One night is all I ask. But even that goal is depressingly difficult to achieve.

Some people—most people—would say I’m too picky, and of course they’d be right. My dream of dating an English gentleman is completely unrealistic. Mind you, my definition of ‘gentleman’ is elastic. He doesn’t have to be from an upper class family.

I’m mainly talking about his manners and his clothes and—well, yes, his voice. I do adore a plummy English accent.

I know it’s a lot to ask. I mean, if such a man existed why would he be interested in a very ordinary Australian girl?

I know my expectations are naive. I know I should lower my sights. This maths geek from the newspaper has worked out that of the thirty million women in the UK, only twenty-six would be suitable girlfriends for him. The odds would be even worse for me, a rank outsider.

Apparently, on any given night out in London, there is a 0.0000034 per cent chance of meeting the right person.

That’s a 1 in 285,000 chance.

You’d have better odds if you went to the cane toad races, Patrick. Of winning some money, I mean, not finding the perfect date.

But then you’re not looking for an island romance. Are you?

Molly