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 <[email protected]>
From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
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
