Instead of my life turning in a good direction, my whole world has come crashing down. Right now I’m wishing I’d never heard of London, that I’d never left my lovely, safe little island.
I’m heartbroken. Inconsolable. I feel foolish and miserable and conned, and my dreams are dust at my feet.
The Girl Who Thought She Could Fly…has fallen. Big-time.
If Shakespeare was still alive he would probably write a play about me. Molly Cooper: a comic tragedy in three acts.
Oh, help. I have to make myself write this down, even though my heart is bleeding and every word is killing me. I need to get every painful detail down accurately, because there just may be a time in the very dim and very distant future when I’ll try to read it again, with a clearer head and in a calmer spirit than I’m experiencing right now.
First, let me say that I am not in Cornwall, nor on the way to Cornwall in a sports car, with or without the top down. I’m still in Chelsea.
And I’m alone.
My overnight bag is sitting on the floor beside me, still packed. I may just leave it that way as an eternal monument to my foolishness.
So what has happened?
Ouch. Gulp. Squirm. Here goes…
This morning, after my last diary entry, I packed in a flurry of enormous excitement—a change of clothes, nightdress, toothbrush, etc. I dressed carefully in my new, authentic slim jeans and a white T-shirt, and I added an elegant sage-green scarf (carefully looped and draped) in case it was cool in an open car. I imagined the trailing ends flapping glamorously in the breeze.
For once I was happy about my curly hair. The wind could do its worst and my curls would look much the same as they always did. Tangled.
The doorbell rang just before nine o’clock, and I flew downstairs.
Peter stood on the doorstep, looking mega-hunky in blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He mustn’t have shaved this morning, and a hint of dark stubble outlined his jaw, and his hair was a little mussed, but the whole casual effect only made him look sexier than ever.
Behind him, parked at the kerb, was a very sleek and low and shiny and very British dark green sports car. The man and the car created a picture beyond my wildest dreams, and I knew I was going to be putty in Peter’s hands.
I greeted him with a goofy, it’s-so-fantastic-to-see-you grin. We hugged and exchanged an excited kiss.
At least I was excited. But it was about then that I noticed Peter wasn’t grinning. He looked—to my complete surprise—nervous.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked, already suspecting that it couldn’t be.
When he tried to smile, he didn’t quite pull it off.
He said, ‘Molly, before we head off today there’s something I need to explain.’
I didn’t like the sound of that at all. My stomach took a very unpleasant dive.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
My legs were shaking as I took him through to the lounge room. We sat in separate chairs—at least I sat, but Peter remained standing. At first I thought he was just being a gentleman, waiting for me to sit down, but then I realised he didn’t plan to sit.
What was his problem?
My mind was galloping ahead, trying to guess what he could possibly need to tell me. Now. This morning. When we were planning to go away together for a lovely romantic weekend. Why did he look so nervous?
I prayed. Please, please don’t let him tell me he has a wife back in Argentina. Or a fiancée. Or even a girlfriend.
I know my expectations of this English gentleman were way over the top, but I couldn’t bear to have my lovely man sully his perfect image now.
I wished Patrick hadn’t taken off, gallivanting around on the Great Barrier Reef or wherever. If he’d been answering his e-mails he might have warned me…I might have been ready for this.
‘Before we head off—’ Peter began.
I told myself I was agonising over nothing. Everything was OK. He was still planning to take me to Cornwall.
‘I need to explain exactly who I am,’ he said, giving me a slightly awkward but utterly gorgeous lopsided smile.
Who I am…?
What on earth could that mean?
In that moment something in his eyes…something about the tilt of his smile…reminded me of someone I’d met recently—since I’d moved to London…
And then in a flash of insight I knew.
It was Felicity Knight.
But how could Peter…?
My skin chilled, and fine hairs rose on the back of my neck a split-second before the truth dawned.
My throat closed over, but I managed to whisper, ‘You’re not Peter. You’re Patrick, aren’t you?’ Trembling with shock, I fought back tears. ‘You’re Patrick, pretending to be Peter. Peter doesn’t exist. None of this is real.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘WHAT happened?’ SIMON Knight frowned when he opened his front door and found his cousin on the doorstep. ‘Don’t tell me—’
His eyes flashed to the kerb.
‘It’s OK,’ Patrick assured him. ‘I haven’t pranged your car. Not even a scratch.’ He forced a weak smile as he held out the keys. ‘The trip’s off, that’s all.’
‘That’s bad luck.’ Simon’s sympathy sounded genuine as he pocketed the keys, but his intelligent grey eyes blazed with curiosity. ‘So is Cornwall actually off the agenda altogether, or simply postponed?’
‘It’s definitely off.’ Patrick shrugged, hoping the gesture looked casual. ‘It’s no big deal. I think I’ll try to change my flight. Might as well head back to Australia tomorrow.’
Simon gave a sympathetic shake of his head. ‘I suppose I’d better fetch your car key. It’s in the kitchen.’ As he turned to go, he hesitated and looked back at Patrick again with a frown. ‘You look like you could use a drink.’
The offer held distinct appeal. Although it was only mid-morning, Patrick had never felt more in need of a stiff drink, and he always enjoyed his cousin’s company. They were almost as close as brothers, and without the strain of sibling rivalry. At the wedding Simon had been eager to hear every bit of news about Patrick’s stay on the island.
Even so, Patrick was reluctant to offload his disappointment. Simon would never press him for insensitive details about his planned romantic getaway, but it was only reasonable that he would expect their chat to include at least some information about the girl Patrick had planned to take to Cornwall.
Talking about Molly wasn’t an option. Patrick was feeling too raw, too devastated, too frustrated and mad with himself. Simon had been telling him for years that he needed to give more time to his women-friends, and to lavish them with his attention. He wasn’t about to confess that he’d been willing and ready to do just that with Molly, but instead he’d single-handedly conducted the biggest stuff-up in dating history.
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ he told Simon quietly. ‘I’ll say cheerio for now. I guess I’ll see you again at the end of June.’
The men shook hands.
‘Well, have a safe trip back. And I hope you have better luck with the rest of the Australian girls,’ Simon said with an encouraging wink.
‘Sure.’
There was only one Australian girl Patrick wanted to enjoy, and he’d stupidly wrecked his chances with her. It seemed crazy that he was flying back to her house.
Of course he’d phone Molly later, and he’d try again to explain what now seemed totally, ludicrously unexplainable.
The crazy thing was that he’d stuffed up relationships in the past, mainly through selfish neglect, and he’d taken the ensuing rejection on the chin. Female company had only ever been a form of pleasant entertainment. Since when had it become a vital mission?
What was different this time? How had he let one bright-eyed, mouthy Aussie get so deeply under his skin?
Of course he’d never stopped to ask himself why meaningful romance wasn’t on his agenda. No doubt a shrink would try to tell him it was all tied u
p with his parents’ messy divorce. He couldn’t deny that memories of his mother’s distress had upset him deeply, and he’d shied away from marriage and the whole happy-ever-after myth. He couldn’t bear to hurt a woman the way his father had.
Was it possible that he’d chosen to meet Molly in disguise so he could avoid facing the uncomfortable truth that he really, really liked her?
As Patrick depressed the central locking system for his car he felt hollow and utterly miserable and confused. And completely empty of hope.
Molly’s Diary, May 29th
I was too upset to keep writing yesterday. I’ve spent most of the past twenty-four hours crying, and now my eyes and nose and throat are so sore I feel as if I’ve been terribly ill.
I’ve taken the phone off the hook so Patrick can’t ring me, and I haven’t gone anywhere near my laptop.
I don’t want to know if he’s sent me an e-mail. I’m not ready to talk to him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
But I owe it to myself to write down the rest of what happened yesterday. Maybe (vain hope) the act of writing will help somehow.
So…
At first when I guessed the terrible truth and blurted out that Peter was actually Patrick he looked relieved.
He smiled and the tension left his shoulders.
Not for long.
Something had snapped inside me. I suppose it was my sense of trust. I’d been lied to. Here I was, on the brink of sleeping with this man in a romantic Cornish B&B, and I’d learned he was a fraud. It was all an act.
As I leapt to my feet, Patrick’s smile died.
‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded. (OK, I might have yelled.) ‘You’re supposed to be in Australia. Somewhere on the Great Barrier Reef.’
His face seemed to pale, as if my anger really bothered him.
Too bad. He couldn’t have been nearly as bothered as I was.
‘My mother was married last weekend,’ he said. ‘It was all rather unexpected and a bit rushed, and I came over for the wedding.’
His mother’s wedding? It took me a moment to digest this news. Then I remembered the way Felicity’s eyes had shone when she’d talked about her ‘friend’ Jonathan.
So they were married, and that was nice. Really nice. But what did that have to do with Patrick (or Peter) and me? So what if he’d come home for a family wedding? Why did he have to keep it a secret from me? And how did it give him an excuse to ruin my life?
So many questions were rushing through my head.
‘Where have you been staying?’
He shrugged. ‘The Lime Tree Hotel.’
Un. Believable.
It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Why would Patrick Knight stay in a hotel when there were two spare bedrooms here in his house? I wanted to cry, but I knew I mustn’t give in to such weakness. I needed all my strength to deal with this shattering of my dreams. I couldn’t bear to think that I’d been part of a game—a source of amusement.
‘How could you?’ I shouted, and my voice was as shrill as the proverbial fishwife’s. ‘How could you go to so much trouble to trick me? How could you be so cruel?’
‘I’m sorry, Molly.’ Patrick spoke quietly but earnestly. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you. It seemed like a good plan at the time, but I had no idea—’ He raised a hand, as if groping for words, then plunged both hands into his jeans pockets.
‘What seemed like a good plan? To totally deceive me?’
‘You were so keen to meet your Englishman.’
‘Oh, right. I foolishly poured out my heart, and you thought it would be fun to play games with me after your mother’s wedding.’
‘No. I—’ Again, he floundered.
‘You felt sorry for me.’
‘Well…you sounded so disappointed.’
‘You thought I was desperate and you’d lend a hand.’
‘I wanted you to be happy.’
‘I was happy, thank you. Very happy, as a matter of fact.’
Patrick sighed heavily. His right hand rose again, and this time he ploughed frustrated fingers through his lovely dark hair.
I was frustrated, too. He wasn’t making sense. How on earth did he think his deception could have made me happy? It was tearing me apart.
I’d believed in Peter. I’d fallen in love with Peter.
‘Why did you have to pretend, Patrick? Why couldn’t you have just turned up and said, “Hi, I’m Patrick and I’d like to stay for a few days. And while I’m here why don’t we go out?”’
It could have been so perfect, so much fun…
He was so lovely…
Now he’d spoiled everything.
Patrick shook his head. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t be excited if you knew it was me. It wouldn’t feel like a proper romantic date to you. After all those e-mails when you told me so much about your dreams, I was sure that if I simply asked you out you’d think I was just going through the motions because… Well…yes—because I felt sorry for you.’
‘But you did feel sorry for me!’
I was so furious I stamped my foot. My eyes filled with tears. Patrick, the man I’d spilled my heart out to…the anchor at the other end of my e-mails…the thoughtful guy who’d warned me to ‘take care’…had been pretending, having fun at my expense.
How could he? You idiot, Patrick, I wasn’t that desperate.
How could he kill off my lovely, romantic Peter and leave me with…?
Nothing?
He was right about one thing. I didn’t want a man who felt sorry for me. But now—
I was forced to accept that the dream man who’d turned up on my doorstep hadn’t been surprised to see me at all. And he hadn’t suddenly liked what he’d found when I opened the door. Our relationship wasn’t spontaneous—not even romantic. He’d been planning it, and he’d arrived determined to ask me out regardless of what I was like.
Our lovely times together were nothing more than a goodwill gesture from a London banker to a poor, hopeless Aussie chick with delusions of grandeur.
I’m pleased to say I was queenly and dignified as I pointed to the door, but I knew that I couldn’t hold it together for long. At any minute I was going to break down completely. ‘I think you’d better go,’ I said.
Patrick looked dismayed, and I think he was about to protest when he realised how serious I was.
He glanced briefly at my overnight bag, packed and ready by the door. ‘So you won’t—?
‘I couldn’t possibly go to Cornwall with you,’ I said, interrupting him. But I choked back a sob, because although I was very grateful that I hadn’t gone away to Cornwall before I found out the truth, I was still bitterly disappointed that I was missing out on so much.
I hadn’t just lost my dream man, I’d lost the promise of a lovely weekend.
Which just goes to show how contrary a female can be and still be right!
‘Molly, I—’
‘Don’t say any more, Patrick. Just go, please.’
My old, romantic-movie-watching self might have imagined that Patrick looked stricken—rather like the way Christian looked when he watched Vanessa walk away from him on Westminster Bridge. But then, my old, romantic-movie-watching self had believed in her good radar for detecting jerks.
Huh.
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