It Had To Be You: Man of the Year 2016

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

From: Molly Cooper

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

From: Patrick Knight

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

From: Molly Cooper

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

From: Patrick Knight

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

From: Molly Cooper

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

From: Patrick Knight

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

From: Molly Cooper

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

From: Felicity Knight

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

From: Patrick Knight

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

From: Molly Cooper

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

CHAPTER FIVE

To: Molly Cooper

From: Patrick Knight

Subject: Re: Impossible dreams

Molly, I hesitate to offer advice on how to engineer a date with the kind of man you’re looking for, because in truth I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I hate to be a wet blanket, but I’m more inclined to offer warnings. The sad fact is that a public school accent and your idea of ‘gentlemanly’ manners may not coincide.

Of course there are always exceptions. And you might be lucky. But don’t expect that any man who speaks with Received Pronunciation and wears an expensive three-piece suit will behave like a perfect gentleman. When you’re alone with him, that is.

Sorry. I know that’s a grim thing to say about my fellow countrymen, but I do feel responsible, and I’d hate you to be upset. All I can honestly say is take care!

Sincerely

Patrick

To: Molly Cooper

From: Patrick Knight

Subject: Cane toad races

You’ve been unusually quiet lately, Molly, and I find myself worrying (like an anxious relative) that something’s happened. I’d hate to think I’ve crushed your spirit. I suspect I knocked a ruddy great hole in your dating dreams, but I hope I haven’t completely quelled your enthusiasm for adventure and romance.

I trust you’re simply quiet because you’re having a cracking good time and you’re too busy to write e-mails.

However, in an effort to cheer you up (if indeed you are feeling low), I thought I’d tell you about my experiences at the toad races the night before last. Yes, I’ve been, and you were right—I enjoyed the evening. In fact, I had a hilarious time.

As you’ve no doubt guessed, I wasn’t really looking forward to going, but I desperately needed a break from my own company and decided to give the cane toads a try.