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
To: Felicity Knight: <[email protected]>
From: Patrick Knight: <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
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
