‘The thing is,’ she said eventually, ‘I don’t understand how this happened. I set up an automatic transfer. The money should have been going through.’
Patrick assured her that this kind of hiccup wasn’t unusual. Human error or computer glitches could cause unexpected problems. A form had been misplaced. Someone had left a digit off an account number.
‘The ALC company’s dodgy, though,’ he said. ‘They were far too quick to jump on you to foreclose. They didn’t give you nearly enough warning.’
‘I continued using my gran’s mortgage company,’ Molly said. ‘But it looks as if they’ve been taken over by this new crowd.’
He suggested she should use a reputable bank, and she promised to look into it just as soon as she got home.
She thanked him. Effusively. And he realised with a thud of alarm that their conversation might end at any moment.
He was grappling to think of a suitable question when Molly asked, ‘How’s your book progressing?’
Surprised, Patrick answered honestly. ‘Really well. I’m writing twelve, fourteen, sometimes seventeen hours a day.’
‘Wow. You’re really burning the midnight oil.’
Patrick grinned ruefully. ‘I guess I’m crazy to be working so hard when I’m on holiday on this beautiful island, but I want to have a rough draft finished before I leave.’
‘Well, good for you.’ Her voice was warm and genuine. Almost the old Molly. ‘So what’s the new story about now that you’ve dropped Beth Harper and the MI5?’
‘You’ll never believe this.’
‘Why? You’re not writing a novel about two people who swap houses, are you?’
‘No, no—nothing like that. It’s perfectly safe non-fiction. A step-by-step guide for Generation Y on how to manage their finances.’
‘Oh, dear.’
Patrick’s mind whirred as he searched for a fresh conversation topic. The last thing he wanted was to waste precious time talking about himself.
‘How was your trip to Cornwall?’ he asked quickly, but as soon as the question was out he was drenched with ridiculous memories of his dream. Of Molly’s bright smile and her open arms, the deep ruffles on her white blouse, the soft fabric clinging to her perfect shape.
To make matters worse, his question was met by silence.
‘Molly?’ He wondered if he’d been so distracted by his fantasy that he’d missed her reply. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’ Her answer was scarcely more than a tiny bleat.
‘Did you like Cornwall?’
‘Y-yes. It—it was l-lovely.’
Hell. He’d upset her. He’d raised a touchy subject and no doubt made her angry again.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
‘Um—while we’re on the phone,’ she said quickly, as if she couldn’t wait to change the subject, ‘I suppose we should talk about our return dates. Are your plans still firm? Will you be leaving Australia on the thirtieth?’
‘Oh.’ He struggled to drag his mind away from totally inappropriate images of himself and Molly in a cosy B&B in Cornwall. ‘I—I haven’t checked with the airlines, but I don’t imagine anything’s changed.’
‘Good. I don’t plan to make any changes either. So I guess we’ll pass each other somewhere over the Indian Ocean?’
He felt a sinking feeling of cold despair. ‘I dare say we shall.’
‘But right now I’m keeping you up in the middle of the night,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘so I’d better let you get back to bed.’
‘Well, OK,’ Patrick agreed, reluctantly accepting that Molly was anxious to get off the line. ‘It’s been great to talk to you, Molly.’ He added this with heartfelt sincerity.
The phone call ended and Patrick sat in the dark, on the edge of Molly’s bed, wide awake, listening to the silence of the house and the distant soft slap of waves on the beach.
Once again Molly was giving out loud and clear signals. She wasn’t giving him any chance to resume or restore their relationship.
For the first time since he’d arrived on the island he felt desperately lonely.
Molly’s Diary, June 17th
I’m feeling quite a bit calmer now. I’ve spoken to Patrick in person, and I’m still shaken and stirred, but definitely calmer.
I must say that I couldn’t have chosen a better person to swap houses with than a banking expert and financial diplomat.
My phone call woke him up, of course, and he sounded understandably sleepy. I think he was yawning when he picked up the phone, but as soon as he realised I was the caller he woke up properly. And then I couldn’t believe how kind and calm and take-charge he was.
He spoke with such quiet authority I began to breathe more easily straight away, and I felt safer. In truth I was awestruck by this very in-control banker side of Patrick.
Perhaps it’s just as well he’s in Australia, because if he’d been within arm’s length of me I would have hugged him and kissed him—which is hardly wise after the way we parted.
The one bad thing was the way he wouldn’t let me clear my debt immediately. He kept insisting there was no hurry. But I owe him five thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars and sixty-nine cents!
Perhaps he wasn’t keen to give his banking details over the phone. In the end I gave up. For now. It was either that or have another argument with him, and I didn’t want to fight when he’d been so kind and helpful.
But then he asked me about Cornwall, and I couldn’t believe how stupidly tongue-tied I suddenly became. It should have been so easy to talk about two days in southwest England—like reciting a travelogue—but I was swamped with all kinds of emotions.
I couldn’t help thinking about what might have been.
And, heaven help me, I started blushing, as if Patrick could read my mind and knew I’d been thinking about the silly fantasy I recorded in my diary—of him stretched out on the white bed in the Cornish B&B.
What would he have thought if he’d known that I was picturing his shirt falling temptingly open to reveal the dark breadth of his chest? Or that I was feeling his hand touching me, his fingers tracing the shape of my lips? And more.
Thank heavens fantasies are private affairs.
We got over that awkward moment, and I thanked him again profusely. But, honestly, I must be a terrible ingrate.
There I was, incredibly indebted to Patrick—he’d saved my home and lifted an enormous worry from my shoulders—and yet I still felt unsettled and vaguely unhappy as I hung up the phone.
Molly’s Diary, June 18th
Today I’ve stopped angsting about the money I owe Patrick, because I’m beginning to see that he might be right. It’s certainly nice to have plenty of funds for my last week and a bit in London. I’ve made a list of all the things I’d like to do before I go home, and unfortunately many of them involve spending money.
Things to do before I leave London:
1. Buy two replacement fine bone china teacups and matching saucers (NB not flowery ones).
2. Buy souvenir gifts for my friends on the island—especially for Karli and Jimbo. And for Jill, who’s been filling in for me at the Sapphire Bay resort. OK, something small for Jodie G and her progeny.
3. Buy a thank-you/house-warming present for Patrick’s mother, who’s been so very kind.
4. Buy a round or two of farewell drinks for my work-mates at the Empty Bottle.
5. Visit the National Portrait Gallery one more time. I’ve already been there twice, but I need another chance to take in the faces of all those famous people—everyone from Richard III to the Beatles.
6. Splash out on a haircut and styling at a really good London salon. After living in trendy London for so long, I want to go home looking fabulous!
I think that’s all. Thing is, I’m out and about so much now, using every moment of my spare time, that I hardly have a moment to write in my diary. Which is a very good thing, of course. If I stop to think too much my thoughts head down a dead-end street str
aight towards a certain Englishman…
I remember how close he is to my ideal Englishman…and how hard it is to accept that the only way I’ve ever known the real Patrick is through e-mails. The man I met was acting a part, but he knew me so well through my e-mails that he knew what buttons to press.
Put on a suit, play the gentleman, take her to Covent Garden.
I think about the fun we might have had if Patrick had been up-front and open—the fun we never could have now.
But here’s the thing that’s been worrying me most…keeping me awake at night and stealing my appetite. Now that Patrick’s saved my house, I can’t help seeing it as one deliberately kind act in a series of acts of deliberate kindness.
Right from the very start Patrick Knight has been kind and thoughtful. He sent me the book about London’s secrets. He sent his mother round to help me get over my fear of the Underground. He sent lovely gifts to Cidalia and Julieta. And—most importantly, perhaps—he effectively rescued my cottage.
It seems that whenever I’ve needed something Patrick’s been there for me. And when I think about that I can’t help seeing that the whole Peter debacle was almost certainly Patrick again, trying to be kind.
Now that I have a little distance and perspective, and when I consider all the other ways he’s helped me, I can see that it makes perfect sense that he would try to help me with the one thing I claimed to want more than anything else—my dream date with an English gentleman.
If that’s true, the angry way I behaved must have come across as terribly rude and ungrateful to Patrick.
Then I remember his kiss, which could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as an act of kindness. That kiss was all about hot-blooded lust. No doubt about it. I was introduced to Patrick’s inner cave man—and it was incredibly exciting, thrilling, intoxicating…
Until he remembered he was playing the role of a gentleman. And he retreated. Only to ring the next morning with the Cornwall plan.
Thinking about all of this, I’m overcome with shame for my rash and angry response. I’m drowning in if-onlys…
Not just if only we’d gone to Cornwall. But if only I’d been just a little more sympathetic when Patrick was offering his explanation…. If only I hadn’t jumped in with guns blazing, slamming the door and sending back his flowers and refusing to phone him.
All that time I was smugly thinking I was in the right.
If only I could tell him I’ve shifted in my thinking and I’d like to apologise.
If only I could see him one more time.
But it’s not going to happen, and I can’t live my life weighed down by if-onlys and what-ifs.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: Your Patrick!
Hi Molly
I hope you’re making the most of your final days in London. Hasn’t the time flown? I wish I was going to be on the island to welcome you home.
I hear that the islanders are planning a huge farewell party for your house swapper, so it seems that for a quiet man Patrick’s become a big hit.
I understand Jodie G is going to make the most of this party, and will have one last stab at trying to win Patrick’s attention/heart/body. (Take your pick. She’s not fussy.) You have to hand it to that girl—she never gives up. I don’t suppose you’ll mind what happens between them now, so that’s one good thing.
I wonder if you’ve developed a taste for travel? Maybe you’ll decide to keep house swapping. I can see you in Tuscany, or on a Greek Island. Let me know if you decide to swap with someone from Las Vegas.
Seriously, Mozza, have a safe journey home. I’ll try to get back to the island as soon as I can—or you’re very welcome to visit us here, if you don’t mind sleeping on the sofa. You must know I’m dying to see you.
Love you heaps
Karli
Molly’s Diary, June 24th
OK, I’ve made a decision. A very big decision. Huge.
It all came from thinking constantly about my unfinished business with Patrick. Not just my financial debt, which is bad enough, but my feeling of being out on an emotional limb with no safe place to settle.
The last time I saw Patrick I was confused and disappointed, and I never gave him a chance to explain his behaviour. We didn’t talk, which is crazy, because I love to talk. Now, if I want to make amends, I think it’s up to me.
My plan, therefore, (quite brilliant, actually) will allow me to kill two birds with one stone.
Instead of going back to Australia without seeing Patrick again I’m going to change my flight, delaying it by four hours, so I’ll still be here in London when he arrives. Then I propose to talk to him about everything, and make peace with him, and hand over a cheque for the money I owe him. Thus all debts and issues will be settled.
NB This has nothing to do with Karli’s suggestion that Jodie Grimshaw might win Patrick’s attention at the farewell party on the island. If he was going to fall for Jodie it would have happened ages ago.
I’ll meet Patrick at Heathrow, and I’ll be calm and polite and ladylike and mature (and hopefully I’ll also look ravishing, with my new hairstyle from Edgar’s in Soho), and Patrick and I will be able to have the conversation we should have had weeks ago.
I know it’s too late to change the past, or to try to revisit it. We won’t take off for Cornwall or anything wonderfully crazy like that. But at least my conscience will be clear and…
I don’t know…
I guess I’ll be able to get on with the rest of my life.
Now the decision is made I feel so much better.
Private Writing Journal, June 29th
I can’t believe my time here is over.
There are so many, many things about this island that I’m going to miss—the views through the trees to the bright sparkling blue sea, the towering, scrub-covered mountains and the rocky bays, the palm trees and the sandy beaches, so white and gold. I’ll miss the little rock wallabies scampering about, even in the backyards and public places, and the bright, squabbling parrots that come to my balcony to be fed.
I’ve also grown so used to the silence here that I’m sure I’m going to miss it. I’ve become accustomed to the occasional sounds of nature—the bird-calls at sunrise and the buzzing of cicadas in the gum trees at sunset, the chattering of fruit bats in the mango tree… There are almost no man-made sounds.
Now, too late, I wish I’d explored more, taken more photographs, learned more about the trees, the plants and the original inhabitants…
I know I’ll miss the friendly locals, with their laconic good humour and their laidback manner and their smiling, shoulder-shrugging reaction to everything.
When I get back to work at the bank (shudder) and old George Sims throws the first of his fits, I plan to simply turn to him with a slow grin and tell him, ‘No worries, mate.’
The thing is, this is the worst time to leave a tropical island—in the middle of the glorious winter days. Molly was so right—this time of year is magical. Out of this world. The air is as clear and crisp as champagne, and although the temperature is cooler it’s so sunny I long to abandon my desk and go for long walks, or to swim from one end of the bay to the other.
Each evening at dusk the sky and the sea and the tops of the hills are tinged with a magenta blush.
It’s another world.
If Molly was here with me…
It would be Paradise.
Molly’s Diary, June 30th
I’ve been through such a seesaw of emotions during this past week. I’m so sad about leaving London and leaving the friends that I’ve made here—all the people at work, as well as Cidalia and her lovely family, and Patrick’s wonderful mum.
But now my suitcases are packed and groaning once again, and I’ve said my goodbyes to my favourite London people and to my favourite London places. I’ve given and received gifts. I’ve eaten farewell dinners and downed far
ewell drinks. I’ve returned Patrick’s key to the safety deposit box at the bank around the corner on the King’s Road. And I’ve wept.
OK, I’m not going to write about how often I’ve wept, because I might come across as a complete watering pot, or I might get teary again, and I need to be dry-eyed and smiling today. I’m already at Heathrow, you see.
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