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