and extremely laid-back. No one locks their doors.
I don’t want you to fret, though, so I’ve also left a spare key at Reception at the Sapphire Bay resort, where I used to work until yesterday.
Used to work.
That has such a nice ring, doesn’t it? I’ve trained Jill, the owner’s niece, to take my place while I’m away, and for now, at least, I’m giddily carefree and unemployed.
Yippee!!
You have no idea how much I’ve always wanted to live in London, even if it’s only for three months. Thanks to you, Patrick, this really is my dream come true, and I’m beyond excited. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
Have you finished up at your work? Are you having a farewell party? Mine was last night. It was pretty rowdy, and I have no idea what to do with all the gifts people gave me. I can’t fit as much as another peanut in my suitcases, so I’ll probably have to stash these things in a box under my bed (your bed now). Sorry.
By the way, please feel free to use my car. It’s not much more than a sardine can on wheels, but it gets you about. Don’t worry that it’s unregistered. Cars on the island don’t need registration unless they’re taken over to the mainland.
It was kind of you to mention that your car is garaged just around the corner from your place, but don’t worry, I won’t risk my shaky driving skills in London traffic.
Oh, and don’t be upset if the ferry is running late. The boats here run on ‘island time’.
Anyway, happy travels.
London, here I come!
Molly
PS I agree that we shouldn’t phone each other except in the direst emergency. You’re right—phone calls can be intrusive (especially with a ten-hour time difference). And they’re costly. E-mails are so handy—and I’ll try to be diplomatic. No guarantees. I can rattle on when I’m excited.
M
To: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: We’re off—like a rotten egg
Dear Molly
Thanks for your message. No time for a farewell party, I’m afraid. Had to work late to get my desk cleared. Rushing now to pack and get away. Cidalia (cleaning lady) will come in some time this week to explain everything about the house—how the oven works, etc.
The keys to the house are in a safety deposit box at the Chelsea branch of the bank I work for on the King’s Road. It’s a square brick building. My colleagues have instructions to hand the keys over to you—and I’ve left a map. You’ll just need to show your passport. You shouldn’t have any problems.
Have a good flight.
Best wishes
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
Subject: I’m in London!!!!!!!
Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow!
If I wasn’t so tired I’d pinch myself, but I’m horribly jet-lagged and can hardly keep my eyes open. Insanely happy, though.
Your very gentlemanly colleague at the bank handed over the keys and wished me a pleasant stay at number thirty-four Alice Grove, and then I trundled my luggage around the corner and—
Patrick, your house is—
Indescribably
Lovely.
Divine will have to suffice for now, but the truth is that your home is more than divine.
Too tired to do it justice tonight. Will have my first English cup of tea and fall into bed. Your bed. Gosh, that sounds rather intimate, doesn’t it? Will write tomorrow.
Blissfully
Molly
To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
Subject: Thank you
Hi Patrick
I’ve slept for ten hours in your lovely king-size bed and am feeling much better today, but my head is still buzzing with excitement! I’ve never left Australia before, so my first sight of England yesterday was the most amazing thrill. We flew in over the English Channel, and when I saw the green and misty fields, just the way I’ve always imagined them, I confess I became a tad weepy.
And then Heathrow. Oh, my God, what an experience. Now I know how cattle feel when they’re being herded into the yards. For a moment there I wanted to turn tail and run back to my sleepy little island.
I soon got over that, thank heavens, and caught a taxi to Chelsea. Terribly extravagant, I know, but I wasn’t quite ready to face the tube with all my luggage. I’m just a teensy bit scared of the London Underground.
The driver asked me what district I wanted to go to, and when I told him Chelsea, SW3, he didn’t say anything but I could see by the way he blinked that he was impressed. When I got here I was pretty darned impressed, too.
But I’m worried, Patrick.
This isn’t exactly an even house swap.
Your place is so gorgeous! Like a four-storey dolls’ house. Sorry, I hope that’s not offensive to a man. I love it all—the carpeted staircases and beautiful arched windows and marble fireplaces and the bedrooms with their own en suite bathrooms. There’s even a bidet! Blush. It took me a while to work out what it was. I’d never seen one before.
Meanwhile, you’ll be discovering the green tree frogs in my toilet. Gosh, Patrick, can you bear it?
I love the sitting room, with all your books—you’re quite a reader, aren’t you?—but I think my favourite room is the kitchen, right at the bottom of your house. I love the black and white tiles on the floor and the glass French doors opening onto a little courtyard at the back.
I had my morning cuppa out in the courtyard this morning, sitting in a little pool of pale English sunshine. And there was a tiny patch of daffodils at my feet! I’ve never seen daffodils growing before.
So many firsts!
After breakfast I went for a walk along the King’s Road, and everyone looked so pink-cheeked and glamorous, with their long, double knotted scarves and boots. I bought myself a scarf (won’t be able to afford boots). I so wanted to look like all the other girls, but I can’t manage the pink cheeks.
I swear I saw a television actor. An older man, don’t
