Molly Cooper's Dream Date

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Molly Cooper's Dream Date Page 7

by Barbara Hannay


  Daisy also told me that number 16 has exactly the same layout as her house, so she let me have a good look around her place, and I saw a little bedroom at the top with a sloping ceiling. My dad’s bedroom was exactly the same.

  But there are no Coopers left in Rosewater Terrace. At least three families have lived in number 16 since my grandparents died and the house has been ‘done up’ inside several times.

  The best thing was that Daisy showed me photos of Charlie when he was a boy. Admittedly they were mainly photos of Valerie, with Charlie in the background, sometimes pulling silly faces, or sticking up his fingers behind Valerie’s head to give her rabbit’s ears.

  But I felt so connected, Patrick, and I felt as if there’d been a reason I’d always wanted to come to London and now I no longer have such a big blank question mark inside me when I think about my father. In fact, I feel happy and content in a whole new way. That’s a totally unexpected bonus.

  So thank you, Patrick. Thank you a thousand times.

  Oh, and I have to tell you the last thing Daisy said to me when I was leaving.

  ‘Your father was a naughty little boy, but he grew up to be such a charming gentleman.’ And she pressed her closed fist over her heart and sighed the way my friends sigh over George Clooney.

  I floated on happiness all the way back to the Tube station.

  Molly xx

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

  Patrick, it’s only just hit me—as I pressed ‘send’ on that last e-mail to you I had the most awfully revealing, jaw-dropping, lightbulb moment.

  I’m in shock.

  Because now when I think about my dreams of dating a perfect English gentleman, I have to ask if it’s really some kind of deeply subconscious Freudian search for my father.

  I felt quite eeeeuuuwwww when I tried to answer that. But where does my interest in gentlemen come from? I mean, it’s pretty weird. Most girls are interested in dangerous bad boys.

  And this leads to another question. Has becoming acquainted with so much about my father totally cured me of my desire for that impossible, unreachable dating dream? Can I strike the English gentleman off my wish list of ‘Things to Do in London’?

  I’m not sure. Right now I’m confused. It’s something I’m going to have to think about. Or sleep on.

  Molly, feeling muddled…

  x

  To: Molly Cooper

  From: Patrick Knight

  Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

  What fantastic news about your father!

  I’m so pleased we found the right address and that you’ve had such a good result. Charles Torrington Cooper sounds as if he was a great guy (a gentleman, no less). Lucky you, Molly. Cherish that image.

  I say that selfishly, perhaps, because my own father has caused me huge disappointment and I haven’t forgiven him. It’s not a nice place to be.

  Don’t get too hung up on trying to psychoanalyse yourself or your dating goals, Molly. I doubt we can ever understand how our attraction to the opposite sex works. And why would we want to? Wouldn’t that take all the fun out of it?

  Besides, you’ve only been in love with the idea of your perfect Englishman. Until you try the real thing you won’t be able to test your true feelings.

  Molly, you seem to me to be a woman with high ideals and fine instincts. Forget my warnings. I was being overly protective.

  Take London by storm and have fun.

  Patrick

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: Surrender

  Thanks for your kind and very supportive words, but I’m afraid they came almost too late. I’ve caved, Patrick. In one fell swoop I’ve wiped two of my goals from the board.

  Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies.

  Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman.

  I’ve been out with an Aussie guy.

  I know what I said about not mixing with Australians, but I realise now that I was limiting myself needlessly. It makes sense that I’d get along better with a fellow countryman. And besides, Brad’s kinda cute—a really tall, sunburned Outback Aussie, a sheep farmer from New South Wales.

  Brad may not take me to Ascot or to Covent Garden, but who did I think I was anyway—Eliza Doolittle?

  When he came into the Empty Bottle the other night it was like something out of a movie. Heads turned to watch him, and he strode straight up to me at the bar with a big broad grin on his suntanned face.

  ‘G’day,’ he said, in a lazy Australian drawl and I have to say our accent had never sounded nicer. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were on my plane coming over from Sydney. We said hi. Don’t you remember?’

  I hadn’t remembered him (don’t know why, because he’s very attractive), but I mumbled something positive and I smiled.

  ‘I sat on the other side of the aisle,’ he said. ‘I wanted to catch up with you when we landed, but I lost you in the crowds at Heathrow.’

  Can you see why a girl might find that flattering, Patrick? We were on a plane together more than a month ago, and yet Brad recognised me as soon as he walked into a crowded London bar.

  He doesn’t want to sit around talking about home, and that’s another reason to like him. He worked as crew on a yacht from Port Hamble to Cascais in Portugal, and then he crewed on a fishing boat back to England. You have to admire his sense of adventure.

  I told him about the book of London’s secrets that you sent me, and tomorrow we’re going to go to Highgate Hill to find Dick Whittington’s stone. I used to love the story about Dick and his cat, and the bells that made him turn around. Did you know that Dick really was Lord Mayor of London (four times), and that he gave money to St Thomas’s hospital as a refuge for unmarried mothers? That’s pretty amazing for way back in the 1300s.

  So at least Rule 2—educate myself about the ‘real’ London—remains intact.

  Don’t feel sorry for me, Patrick. I’m happy. Brad’s a nice bloke, and he seems pretty keen on me, so he’s helped me to get over the whole silly idea of a dream date with an English gentleman.

  I bet you’re highly relieved that you’ve heard the last about that!

  Best

  Molly

  CHAPTER SIX

  To: Felicity Knight:

  From: Patrick Knight:

  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

  From: Patrick Knight

  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

  From: Molly Cooper

  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 gran-dad 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

  From: Patrick Knight

  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

  From: Molly Cooper

  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!

  Mo
lly

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  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.

 

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