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To: Felicity Knight: <flissK@mymail.com>

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

Subject: I’ll be there to dance at your wedding.

Hi Mother

This is a quick note to let you know that I’m definitely flying over for the Big Day.

This morning I jumped straight onto the internet and made the bookings, so everything’s all sorted and I’m really looking forward to seeing you both. I can’t believe that I almost allowed this blasted writing project to get in the way of something so significant.

Nothing’s as important as seeing you and Jonathan tie the knot.

I’ll be there with bells on (or in this case in white tie and penguin suit).

Much love

Patrick

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

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

Subject: Re: Surrender

Dear Molly

It appears that you’re pleased with the latest turn of events in Chelsea (i.e. your New South Wales sheep farmer), so I suppose your change of heart must be a good thing. But I can’t help thinking it’s a damn shame that none of my fellow countrymen have stepped up to the mark.

However, I do understand the appeal of someone from home when you’re so far away, and I suppose there’s no harm in breaking your own rules. If the rules have become outmoded they’re not much use to you, are they?

From your e-mail, it sounds as if your new Australian escort is more than acceptable to you, and it sounds as if he’s also very keen on you, so of course you must be flattered.

Just the same, I feel compelled to repeat the same advice I gave you once before—take care.

Regards

Patrick

Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, May 13th

Take care?

Did I really say that? Again?

If only there was a way to retract e-mails. How could I have told Molly to take care with her new Australian boyfriend? What an idiot.

It’s not as if she’s a helpless child. She’s a grown woman—only four years younger than I. And she’s on familiar ground now. She’s dating the kind of fellow she’s no doubt dated many, many times.

Who on earth do I think I am? Her big brother? Her priest?

OK, maybe she’s all alone in the world, and in a completely new environment, but that doesn’t mean I should try to stand in for her family. I have no inclination to be her father figure.

What’s my excuse? Why am I so over-protective? And why did I try to warn her off this Brad character? It’s crazy, but I find myself wishing he’d jump on another yacht and take off around Cape Horn, or go climb the North Pole—anything that would take him far away from Molly.

Anyone would think I was jealous of him, but that’s impossible. I don’t even know Molly. I’ve never met her and I have no plans to meet her.

Unless e-mails count.

I suppose e-mails are a form of meeting. They’re certainly a very clear form of communication, and all over the globe friendships and relationships are forged via the World Wide Web. But it’s not as if Molly and I are cyber-dating.

And yet, when I think about it, we are in rather unusual circumstances. We’re exchanging very regular e-mails, and we’re living in each other’s houses. And if I’m honest I must admit that I do feel as if I know Molly incredibly well, even though we’ve never really met. In many ways I actually know more about her than I’ve known about the women I’ve dated.

I know her hopes and dreams and her fears, and to my surprise I find myself caring about them. I’ve even had my mother and colleagues from work involved in helping her. I can’t ever recall doing anything like that for a girlfriend.

Each day I look out of the windows of Molly’s cottage, at the view that has been her view for her whole life, and I think of her. I think of her when I switch on her kettle and use her coffee cups, when I boil an egg in her saucepan and use one of her crazy purple and pink striped egg cups. I even think of her when I drag out her damn vacuum cleaner and give the floors a once over.

Worse, I find myself leaping out of bed in the mornings (out of Molly’s bed, as she likes to remind me) and racing to switch on the laptop, hoping that a message might have come from her during the night.

During the day, when I’m supposed to be writing, I find myself waiting to see the little envelope pop up in the bottom right-hand corner of my screen, telling me that I’ve got a message (as if she’d be writing to me in the middle of the UK night).

I’ve let myself become incredibly involved with her, and it’s like she’s become part of my life. I even find myself wishing she was here, wandering about this cottage in her bikini and a sarong.

Actually … there are a couple of beautiful isolated bays where locals tell me you can skinny-dip without being hassled. Now, that’s an arresting thought … Molly, slipping starkers into the crystal-clear waters of Rocky Bay.

I’ve gone barking mad, haven’t I? It must be this solitary lifestyle that’s messing with my head.

Clearly I need to get out of this house.

Well, I’ll achieve that when I go back to the UK for the wedding. A weekend of mixing with my family and some of my old crowd will soon clear my head.

Already, just the thought of seeing them makes me feel saner. And now I’m asking myself why I was so worried about writing two words in an e-mail. It’s not as if Molly will take any notice of my ‘take care’ warning. She’ll have the good sense to laugh at it.

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

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

Subject: Having a good time

Hi Patrick

Unfortunately I can only fit in sightseeing jaunts around my work schedule, but Brad and I have still been getting around. Yesterday we investigated Cleopatra’s Needle, which was rather impressive. It’s hard to believe it’s over three and a half thousand years old and was lying in the desert sands of Egypt until some English fellow dragged it back to London behind a steamer.

While I was at work Brad went off on his own to check out the Cabinet War Rooms Museum. They’re leftovers from WW2, and still hidden away in tunnels and offices beneath Whitehall. Brad’s interested because his grandad served over here as a fighter pilot, but I was quite pleased to miss that trip. I’m still a bit iffy about spending too much time underground.

All’s well here. Hope you’re fine, too.

Molly

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

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

Subject: Re: Having a good time

Molly, I’m glad you’re having such a fine time, and I’m pleased to report that I’ve made some exciting discoveries of my own. You’re not the only one who can break rules, you know. I’ve taken entire days away from the laptop to go skin-diving. Now that the stinger season is well and truly over I feel as if I need to make up for lost time, so I bought myself a snorkel, goggles and flippers and headed down to Florence Bay.

Every day this week I’ve spent hours and hours in the sea. I’m surprised I haven’t grown gills.

I’m hooked. It’s amazing. Mere metres below the surface, I enter a different and fascinating world. The water is a perfect temperature, the visibility is excellent, and as you know it’s like swimming in a huge aquarium, surrounded by millions of colourful fish.

Thanks to your fabulously helpful illustrations, I’ve been able to identify lionfish, trigger fish, blue spotted stingrays, clownfish—and of course our cheeky friend Chelmon rostratus.

I was so excited when I saw him poking his long stripy snout out from a piece of pink coral! I almost rang you just to tell you. I suppose I felt a bit the way you did the first time you spotted a film star on the King’s Road.

Honestly, I’ve dived in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, and I thought those reefs were beautiful, but I hadn’t dreamed the reefs on this island would have so much diversity.

Using your map as my guide, I’ve now dived in all the main bays—Radical, Alma, Nelly, Geoffrey—and I’ve loved them all. Especially the range of corals in Geoffrey Bay.

The locals tell me that these are only fringing reefs. If I really want to see something spectacular I should head out to the main Great Barrier Reef. So, as you can imagine, that’s on the agenda now as well.

I think I’ll catch one of the big catamarans when they’re passing through on their way to the reef. I can’t wait. I might even head north to stay on one of the other Barrier Reef islands for a while.

Sorry, if I’m sounding carried away, Molly. I think I am.

Regards

Patrick

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

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

Subject: Re: Having a good time

It seems we’re both reaping the rewards of our daring decisions to break our own rules. I’m so pleased you’re enjoying the island’s reefs, Patrick. I got quite homesick reading your descriptions, and I found myself wishing I was there with you, sharing the excitement of your discoveries. Shows how greedy I am, because I wouldn’t want to miss all the fun I’m having here.

Yes, I know I can’t have my cake and eat it, too.

But, still … skin-diving with you would be so cool.

I hope you enjoy your trip to the Great Barrier Reef, or to other islands further north. Don’t go if the weather’s rough, though. I’d hate you to be horribly seasick.

Cheers!

Molly

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

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

Subject: Quiet

You’ve been very quiet, Patrick, so I’m assuming you must have gone out to the Great Barrier Reef, or perhaps you’re exploring further afield. Please don’t tell me you’ve found another island you like more than Magnetic.

Molly

Private Writing Journal, Lodon, May 23rd

I almost didn’t bring this journal back to London, but I threw it in my bag at the last minute because writing in it has become something of a habit. My thoughts (sometimes) become clearer when I put them on paper. So here I am, two days after my mother’s wedding, pleased and relieved that it was the beautiful, emotional and happy event that both she and Jonathan wanted and deserved.

My duty phone call to my father in Scotland is behind me, so now I’m considering my options.

To see or not to see Molly.

To fly straight back to the island, or stay on here in London for a bit.

The thing is, I’m desperate to call on Molly while I’m here. I’ll admit I’m utterly fascinated by her (and my mother could hardly stop talking about her), but I’m hesitating for a number of reasons.

1. The Australian boyfriend. It probably sounds churlish, but I don’t think I could enjoy Molly’s company if Brad the sheep farmer was hanging around in the wings.

2. Our house swapping agreement. I’ve handed over my house for three months in good faith, and if I suddenly turn up on Molly’s doorstep in the middle of that time she’ll be placed in a confusing situation—not sure if she’s my hostess or my house guest. I guess this hurdle is one we could work our way around, but then there’s—

3. The fantasy date with a gentleman. Here’s the thing: I have the right accent and the right clothes to meet Molly’s criteria, and if I was on my best behaviour I could probably pull off the role of an English gentleman. I could even take Molly on her dream date to the theatre. In fact, I’d love to.

But—

Maddeningly, I have a string of doubts …

• Does she still want that ‘dream’ date now that she has her Australian?

• Just how perfect does this Englishman have to be? A movie star I am not.

• What if I try to do the right thing by her, but she misinterprets my motives? Might she think I’m amusing myself at her expense? After all, she’s spilled out her heart to me. She might feel horribly embarrassed if I turned up and tried to act out her fantasy.

So where does that leave me? I suppose I could arrange to meet her on neutral ground—in a little café somewhere. Or perhaps I should just phone her for a chat. But then I wouldn’t see her, would I?

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

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

Subject: You’re never going to believe this, Patrick!

I don’t know whether you’re home from the reef yet, but I’m writing this at midnight because I just have to tell you. The most astonishing, amazing, incredible, miraculous thing.

He … Him … The man of my dreams has turned up on my doorstep.

The most gorgeous Englishman. In. The. World.

I hyperventilate just thinking about him, but I’ve got to calm down so I can tell you my news.

Patrick, I’ve met your colleague—Peter Kingston, who, as you know, has been working in South America for the same banking company you work for. Now he’s back in London for a short break.

OK, I know you must be asking how I can gush about a new man when I’m supposed to be going out with Brad. No doubt you’re thinking I’m the shallowest and ficklest woman in the entire universe.

First, let me explain that Brad left last Friday, heading off on another adventure, with no definite plans to come back this way. He’s now somewhere at the top of Norway in the Arctic Circle, looking for the Midnight Sun.

He wanted me to go with him, but, while I’m sure the sun at midnight is well worth seeing, I didn’t want to spend my hard-earned cash chasing off to another country when there’s still so much of England that I haven’t seen.

As you mentioned once in an e-mail, the rural parts of England are beautiful. I can’t leave without seeing at least some parts beyond London, so other countries will have to come later.

Besides, Brad was fun to go out with here in London, but he was never the kind of guy I’d follow to the ends of the earth.

So, Brad had gone, and it was a Monday night—one of my nights off—and I was having a quiet night in. Oh, you have no idea, Patrick. I was at my dreckest, with no make-up and in old jeans, an ancient sweater and slippers (slippers—can you imagine anything more octogenarian?).

Worse, I was eating my dinner on my lap in front of the telly, and when the front doorbell rang I got such a surprise I spilled spaghetti Bolognese all down my front.

I was mopping bright red sauce from my pale grey sweater as I headed for the door, and then I was stuffing tissues into my back pocket as I opened the door. And then, as they say all the time on American TV—Oh. My. God.

Patrick, let me give you a female perspective on your work colleague.

He’s tall. He’s dark. He’s handsome. The nice, unselfconscious kind of handsome that goes with chocolate-brown eyes and a heart-stoppingly attractive smile.

And when he spoke—you know where this is going, don’t you? Yes, he has a rich baritone voice, and a beautifully refined English accent, and I swear I almost swooned at his feet.

The only thing that stopped me from fainting dead away was my need to make sure he hadn’t rung the wrong doorbell by mistake.

There was no mistake, thank heavens. Number 34 was Peter’s destination. But, to be honest, our initial meeting was a teensy bit awkward. I was flustered. Of course I was. Can you blame me? And I guess my blushing confusion flustered Peter, too.

He seemed rather nervous and uncertain, and I couldn’t help wondering if you’d given him orders to call on me. If you did, were you setting yourself up as a matchmaker?

Anyway … We both tried to talk at once, and then we stopped, and then he smiled again and said, ever so politely, ‘You go first, Molly. You were saying …?’

Oh, he was the perfect gentleman. He kept his eyes averted from the sauce stains on my chest while I stumbled through my story of why you weren’t here and why I was living in your house. Then he explained who he was.

Once that was sorted, and it was clear after a few more prudent questions that we were both at a bit of a loose end, Peter asked ever so casually if I’d like to go out for a drink. I’m afraid I had to wait for my heart to slide back to its normal place in my chest before I was able to accept his invitation.

In no time Peter was comfortably settled on your sofa and watching TV, while I scurried upstairs to change.

If there was ever a wardrobe crisis moment when a girl might wish for a fairy godmother, that was it. The jeans and T-shirts I’d worn on dates with Brad were totally unsuitable to wear out for a drink with Peter. He was in a suit! (No tie, admittedly, but still, a suit’s a suit.)

I might have found it easier to think about clothes if my brain hadn’t been swirling like a Category 5 cyclone. Here I was, with a chance to go out with my dream Englishman, and I was freaking out. I was very afraid I wasn’t up to the challenge.

Panic attack!!

Thank heavens the possibility of failure snapped me out of it. How could I not go out with this man? Till the end of my days I would never forgive myself. And in a strange way I also felt I owed it to you, Patrick. You sounded rather disappointed that I’d given up on my Englishman.

So I fell on my camel suede skirt like an old friend—the same skirt I wore to afternoon tea with your mother—and the gods must have been smiling on me, for I found a clean silk shirt and tights with no ladders.

I can’t do fancy make-up, so applying lipgloss and mascara didn’t take long, and there’s not a lot a girl can do with my kind of curly hair, so Peter was pleasantly surprised when I was back downstairs inside ten minutes.

He gave me the warmest smile, as if he quite liked how I looked, and off we went. Not to the Empty Bottle, thank heavens. Peter quite understood about avoiding my workplace.

We went to a bar that I hadn’t even noticed before. It’s so discreet it just looks like someone’s house from the outside. (Another of London’s secrets?) Inside, there were people gathered in couples or small groups, and everyone was comfortably seated on barstools or in armchairs, which made a pleasant change from the noisy Empty Bottle, which is usually standing room only.

After our awkward start, I was surprised to feel quite quickly at ease. Sitting there with Peter in comfortable chairs, sipping my Sloe gin fizz and gazing into his lovely dark coffee eyes, I should have been dumbstruck with awe, but he has the same easy way that your mother has.