It Had To Be You

I wouldn’t normally notice colours, but for fear of sounding like a total dweeb I like all Molly’s bits of blue—like echoes of the sea and the sky outside. Very restful.

When I leave the house, the island is hot and sultry, but inside it’s cool and quiet and … soothing.

After these past years of financial crisis and endless overtime, this place has exactly the kind of vibe I need. I’m glad I told everyone I was going to be out of contact for the next three months. Apart from the odd e-mail from Molly or my mother, there’ll be no phone calls. No text messages, no tweets, no business e-mails …

I think I might try the hammock in the mango tree.

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Update

Hi Patrick

How are you? I do hope the island is working its magic on you and that the book is flowing brilliantly.

I’ve begun to explore London (on foot, or riding in the gorgeous red double-decker buses—takes more time, but I still can’t face the Tube), and I’m trying to do as much sightseeing as I can. Turns out most museums in the city of London don’t charge any entrance fee, which is awesome.

To make the most of my time here, I’ve made a few rules for myself.

Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies. I don’t want to spend my whole time talking about home. Just shoot me now.

Rule 2: Educate myself about the ‘real’ London—not just the tourist must-sees, like Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square.

Just as an example: yesterday I was walking the streets around here, and I stumbled upon the house where Oscar Wilde lived more than a hundred years ago. Can you imagine how amazing that is for a girl whose neighbours are wallabies and parrots?

I stood staring at Oscar’s front window, all choked up, just thinking about the brilliant plays he wrote, and about him living here all through his trial, and having to go to prison simply for being gay.

You’re not gay, are you, Patrick? I shouldn’t think so, judging by the reading matter on your bookshelves—mostly sporting biographies and finance tomes or spy novels.

Sorry, your reading tastes and sexual preferences are none of my business, but it’s hard not to be curious about you. You haven’t even left a photo lying around, but I suppose blokes don’t bother with photos.

Speaking of photos, I may go to see the Changing of the Guard, but I do not plan to have my picture taken with a man on horseback and an inverted mop on his head.

Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman. Actually, it would be helpful if you were gay, Patrick, because then I could have girly chats with you about my lack of a love-life. Now you’ve seen the island, you’ll understand it’s not exactly brimming with datable single men. Most of the bachelors are young backpackers passing through, or unambitious drifters.

My secret fantasy (here I go, telling you anyway) is to go out with a proper English gentleman. Let’s get real, here—not Prince William or Colin Firth. I can lower my sights—but not too low. Colin Firth’s little brother would be acceptable.

After a lifetime on an island where most of the young men spend their days barefoot and wearing holey T-shirts and board shorts, I hanker for a man in a smooth, sophisticated suit.

I’d love to date a nicely spoken Englishman who treats me like a lady and takes me somewhere cultured—to a concert or a play or an art gallery.

A girl can dream. By the way, I’ve done an internet search and did you know there are six hundred and seventy-three different shows on in London right now? I can’t believe it. I’m gobsmacked. Our island has one amateur musical each year.

Patrick, I warned you I might rattle on. I’ve always tended to put the jigsaw puzzle of my thoughts on paper. For now, I’ll leave you in peace.

M

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Cleaning

Cidalia came today. She’s sweet, isn’t she? And she speaks very good English. I’ve never met anyone from Brazil, so we sat at the kitchen table—I wasn’t sure how Upstairs/Downstairs you were about entertaining employees in the sitting room—and over a cosy cuppa she told me all about her family and her childhood in San Paolo. So interesting!

But, gosh, Patrick, I didn’t realise she was going to continue cleaning your house while I’m here. Apparently you’ve already paid her in advance. That’s kind and thoughtful, and I realise Cidalia wouldn’t want to lose her job here, but I haven’t arranged for anyone to come and clean my house for you. It didn’t even occur to me.

Magnetic Island must feel like a third world country to you.

If you would like a cleaner, I could contact Jodie Grimshaw in Horseshoe Bay. She’s a single mum who does casual cleaning jobs, but I’m afraid you’d have to watch her, Patrick. I do feel rather protective of you, and Jodie’s on the lookout for a rich husband. Added to that, her child is scarily prone to tantrums.

Do let me know if I can help. I could also try the Sapphire Bay resort. They could probably spare one of their cleaners for one morning a week.

Best

Molly

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: Cleaning

Dear Molly

Thanks for your warning about Jodie G. It came in handy when I met her at the supermarket this morning. She was rather … shall I say, proactive? Your tip-off was helpful.

Actually, I don’t need a cleaner, thank you. I’ve worked out the intricacies of the dustpan and broom, and your house is so compact I can clean it in a jiffy. No doubt you’re surprised to hear that I can sweep, even though I’m not gay. ☺ I might even figure out how to plug in the vacuum cleaner soon.

To be honest, the lack of a cleaning woman doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the fact that I can’t go swimming. Who would have thought you can’t swim on a tropical island? Apparently there are deadly jellyfish in the water, and a rogue saltwater crocodile cruising up and down the coastline. All the beaches are closed. And it’s stinking hot!

That’s my grumble.

For your part, I’m concerned that you’re nervous about using the Tube. I can understand it might be intimidating when your main mode of transport has been the island’s ferry service, but the Tube is fast and punctual, and Sloane Square station is very close by. Do give it a try.

Regards

Patrick

PS Someone called Boof rang and invited me down to the pub to watch a cane toad race. I looked on the internet and discovered that cane toads are poisonous South American frogs that can grow as big as dinner plates and breed like rabbits. So I guess the races aren’t Ascot. Would appreciate any advice/warnings.

Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 16th

This journal isn’t helping at all. I’m still staring at a blank page.

Any words I’ve put down are total rubbish. It’s so distressing. The ideas for my novel are perfect in my head. I can see the characters, the setting and the action, but when I try to put them on the page everything turns to garbage.

I’m beginning to think that Molly Cooper’s a far better writer than I am and she isn’t even trying. The words just flow from her. I’m feeling the first flutters of panic. I hate failure. How did I ever think I could write an entire novel? It’s all in my head, but that’s no use unless I can get it into a manuscript.

I’m going for a long hike. Walking is supposed to be very good for writer’s block.

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Stingers, etc!

Hi Patrick

I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the marine stingers, and it’s a shame about the crocodile. The good news is the National Park people will probably catch the croc and move it up the coast to somewhere safe and remote, and the stinger season finishes at the end of April, so it won’t be long now before you’re able to swim. You could try the stinger-proof enclosure over in Horseshoe Bay, but swimming inside a big net isn’t the same, I suppose.

Just you wait—the island is paradise in late autumn and early winter. You’ll be able to swim and skin dive to your heart’s content.

I’ll draw a map of the island and post it to you, showing you where all the best diving reefs are. And do check out the cane toad races. They sound grotesque, but they’re actually fun. Listen to Boof. He catches the toads for the races, and maybe he can put you onto a sure thing to win a few dollars.

How’s the writing going?

Molly x

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Thank you!

Patrick, you darling! Sorry if that sounds too intimate, when we’ve never actually met, but it’s so, so sweet of you to send Discovering London’s Secrets. It arrived this morning. You must have organised it over the internet. How thoughtful!

Believe me—I’m deeply, deeply grateful. I’ve looked at other travel books in the shops, but they only seem to cover all the popular sights, which are fabulous, of course—there’s a reason they’re popular—but once you’ve done Piccadilly Circus and Buck Palace, the Tower and Hyde Park you’re hungry for more, aren’t you?

Now I’m so well informed I can really explore properly, just the way I’d hoped to.

This afternoon I went back to Hyde Park and found the hidden pet cemetery mentioned in this book. It was fascinating, with all those dear little mildewed headstones marking the final resting places of dogs, cats and birds, and even a monkey.

But to use the book you sent properly, I’m going to have to brave the Underground, and that still terrifies me. I hate to think that the whole of London is sitting on top of a network of tunnels and at any given moment there are thousands of people under there, whizzing back and forth in trains.

I do feel ashamed of myself for freaking out like this. I know avoidance only makes these things worse. I’m going to work at getting braver.

M x

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: Thank you!

Hi Molly

Thanks for offering to send a map of the diving spots on the island. It’ll be very handy. I’ll keep an eye out for the mail van.

So glad you like the book. My pleasure. But, Molly, it does sound as if you’re getting yourself very worked up about using the Tube. Of course there are other ways to get around London, but if it’s bothering you, and you feel slightly phobic, maybe you need a helping hand?

If you like, I could ask my mother to pop around to No. 34. I know she’d be only too happy to show you the ropes. That’s not quite as alarming as it sounds. With me she’s extremely bossy, but everyone else claims that she can be very calming.

Best wishes

Chin up!

Patrick

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Re: Thank you!

Dear Patrick

Yet again, thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer of a visit from your mother. I know it was kindly meant, but I couldn’t impose on her like that.

From the way I rabbit on, you probably think I’m very young—but I’m actually twenty-four, and quite old enough to tackle the challenge of catching a train.

I’ve never liked to play damsel in distress, and, while this fear may be unreasonable, it’s something I must conquer on my own.

Sincerely

Molly

PS You haven’t mentioned your book. You must be very modest, Patrick. Or does your English reserve prevent you from confiding such personal information to a nosy Aussie?

CHAPTER THREE

Text message from Karli, April 19, 10.40 a.m.: U never told us yr house swapper is seriously hot.

To: Karli Henderson <hendo86@flowermail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: House swap

Hi, Karli. Sorry—I can’t afford to reply to an international text message, so I’m resorting to e-mail. I must say your text came as a surprise. After all, the whole house swap idea came from you, and you knew I was swapping with a guy called Patrick Knight. As you also know, I only ever saw pictures of his house. I still have no idea what he looks like, so I couldn’t tell you anything about his appearance.

Actually, the lack of photos lying about here (not even an album that I can take a sneaky peek at) made me think that Patrick was shy about his appearance.

Is he seriously good-looking?

Honestly?

I’m having a ball here—not on the guy front (sigh), just exploring London. But I’m eventually going to have to get some work. The mortgage must be paid. As you know, Pandanus Cottage is my one and only asset, my key to getting ahead.

Have you spoken to Patrick? Does he have a sexy English accent? I’ve discovered that not many Londoners actually speak like Jeremy Irons or Colin Firth, which is a bit of a disappointment for me, but I suppose others wouldn’t agree. Beauty is in the ear of the receiver, after all.

How’s Jimbo?

Molly x

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Karli Henderson <hendo86@flowermail.com>

Subject: Re: House swap

Glad you’re having a great time, Mozza, but I’m not sure that I should give you too many details about your swapper’s looks. You might come racing home.

Be fair, girl. You’re over there in London with millions of Englishmen and we have just one here. Not that your Patrick has shown any signs of wanting to mix with the locals. He’s a bit aloof. Dare I say snooty? He brushed off Jodie Grimshaw. He was ever so polite, apparently, but even she got the message—and you know what that takes.

Our news is that Jimbo’s applying for a job with a boat builder in Cairns, so it could turn out that we won’t be on the island for much longer.

Have I told you lately that I’m very proud of you, Molly? I think you’re so brave to be living in a huge city on the far side of the world. All alone.

You’re my hero. Believe it.

Karli x

To: Karli Henderson <hendo86@flowermail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: House swap

Karli, I’m sending positive thoughts to Jimbo for the job interview in Cairns, although I’m sure you know I’m going to really miss you guys if you leave the island. You’ve been my best friends my whole life!

But I can’t be selfish. I know how much you’d like Jimbo to have a steady job that pays well, and you’ll be able to start planning your future (including that trip to Vegas), so good luck!!

Re: Patrick Knight. I hope he’s not being too standoffish and stuck up, or the islanders will give him a hard time.

I’m sure he’s not really snooty. He and I have been swapping e-mails and he seems a bit reserved, but quite nice and helpful. Actually, he’s probably keeping to himself because he simply hasn’t time to socialise. He’s very busy writing a book, and he only has three months off, so he’ll have his head down, scribbling (or typing) madly.

Just the same, I think you’re mean not telling me more about him. He’s in my house, sleeping in my bed. Really, that’s a terribly intimate relationship, and yet I have no idea what he looks like!

Why are you holding back? What are you hiding about him? Maybe you could find time to answer a few quick questions?

Is Patrick tall? Yes? No?

Dark? Yes? No?

Young? Like under 35? Yes? No?

Is he muscular? Yes? No?

Good teeth? Yes? No?

All of the above?

None of the above?

M x

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Karli Henderson <hendo86@flowermail.com>

Subject: Re: House swap

Chillax, girlfriend.

All of the above.

K

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: FYI

Progress report on the tube assault by Ms Molly Elizabeth Cooper:

A preliminary reconnaissance of Sloane Square Tube station was made this afternoon at 2.00 p.m.

• Thirty minutes were spent in the forecourt, perusing train timetables and observing Londoners purchasing tickets and passing through turnstiles

• Names of the main stations on the yellow Circle Line between Sloane Square and King’s Cross were memorised—South Kensington, Gloucester Road, Notting Hill Gate, Paddington, Baker Street. Ms Cooper didn’t cheat. She loved learning those names and letting them roll off her tongue!

• Ms Cooper acknowledged that people emerging from the Underground did not appear traumatised. Most looked bored, tired or in a dreadful hurry. A handful of passengers almost, but not quite, smiled. One was actually laughing into a mobile phone.

• Ms Cooper purchased a day pass, which she may use some time in the near future.

Ms Cooper’s next challenge:

• To actually enter the Underground.

To: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

From: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

Subject: Re: FYI

Dear Molly

Congratulations! I’m very proud of you for taking such positive steps. I feared you’d miss another great London experience. In no time you’ll be dashing about on the Underground and reading racy novels to conquer your boredom instead of your fear.

Speaking of novels—you’ve expressed concern about the progress of mine, but I can assure you it is well in hand. It’s a thriller, set in the banking world. It has an intricate plot, so I want to plan every twist and turn very carefully in advance. To this end, I’ve been taking long walks on the island. I walked from Alma Bay to The Forts and back yesterday. A group of Japanese tourists pointed out a lovely fat koala asleep in the fork of a gum tree.

While I’m walking, I think every aspect of my novel through in fine detail. The plotting is almost complete, and I plan to start the actual writing very soon.

Regards

P

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Re: FYI

That is such a brilliant idea—to set your novel in the banking world. Don’t they always say you should write about what you know? And a thriller! Wow! I’d love to hear more.

Go, you!

M x

Private Writing Journal, April 27th.

Working hard or hardly working? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

I’m attacking the novel from a different angle (away from the window—views can be too distracting). I’ve gone about as far as I can with planning the plot, so I’m creating character charts now. A good story is all about the people in it, so once I have a firm grip on the lead characters the story will spring to life on the page.

Here goes …

Hero: Harry Shooter—nearing forty, former intelligence officer with MI5, hired by the Bank of England specifically to hunt down spies who pose as bank employees then hack into the systems and siphon off funds. Harry’s a tough guy—lean and stoic, hard-headed but immaculately dressed, with smooth, debonair manners. A modern James Bond.

Female lead: Beth Harper—mid-twenties. Innocent bank teller. Shoulder-length curly hair, lively smile, great legs, sparkling eyes … Mouthy—and nosy—yet smarts …

That’s as far as I’ve got. For the past half-hour I’ve been staring out of the frigging window again.

This is hopeless. Writing down a few details hasn’t helped. I’m no closer to actually starting my novel. I can’t just dive into the fun bits, the action. What I need is to work out first what these characters would actually say to each other, how they’d think, how they’d feel! What I really need is a starting situation—something that will grab the reader.

It won’t come.

I’m still blocked.

I have a sickening feeling that this whole house swapping venture has been a huge, hideous mistake. The strangeness and newness of everything here is distracting rather than helpful. I can’t concentrate and then I procrastinate and the cycle continues.

I guess this is what happens when you’re desperate and you choose a holiday destination by spinning the globe. Normally I would have given such a venture much more thought. Thing is, apart from enjoying the beautiful scenery on this island there’s not a lot else to do. That was supposed to be a plus.

If the writing was flowing everything would be fine.

But if it’s not, what have I got? There are a few cafés and resorts, a pub or two, a gallery here and there, but no cinema. Not even a proper library.

I spend far too much of my time thinking about Molly in London, imagining the fun of showing her around, helping her to explore the hidden secrets she’s so keen to discover.

Funny, how a stranger can make you take a second look at your home town.

I feel like a fraud.

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Rambling

Patrick, would you believe I actually woke up feeling homesick today? I can’t believe it. I haven’t been here long enough to be homesick, but I looked out the window at the grey skies and the sea of rooftops and streams of people and streets and traffic and fumes and I just longed for my tree-covered headland, where I can’t see another house, and to be able to breathe in fresh, unpolluted air.

I stopped myself from moping by going to Wimbledon Common. It involved a bit of jumping on and off buses, but I got there—and it was perfect. Just what I needed with its leafy glades and tangled thickets and stretches of heath. I love that it still has a wild feel and hasn’t been all tidied up—and yet it’s right in the middle of London.

The minor crisis is over. I’m back in love with your city, Patrick.

Molly x

To: Patrick Knight <patrick.knight@mymail.com>

From: Molly Cooper <molly.cooper@flowermail.com>

Subject: Your mother … long!

You win, Patrick.

Your mother came, she saw, she conquered. In the nicest possible way, of course. I have now ventured into the bowels of the Underground, I’ve travelled all the way to Paddington Station and back, and it didn’t hurt a bit.

Let me tell you how it happened.

WARNING: this will be a long read, but it’s all of your making!

It started with a phone call this morning at about ten o’clock.

‘Is that Molly?’ a woman asked in a beautiful voice.

I said, tentatively, ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t think who would know me.

‘Oh, lovely,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased to catch you at home, Molly. This is Felicity Knight. Patrick’s mother.’

I responded—can’t remember what I actually said. I was too busy hoping I didn’t sound as suddenly nervous as I felt. Your mother’s voice is so very refined and my accent is … well, very okker. (Australian!)

She said, ‘I have some errands to run this afternoon, and I’ll be just round the corner from Alice Grove, so I was hoping I could pop in to say hello.’

‘Of course,’ I said in my plummiest voice. ‘That would be lovely.’

But I could smell a rat, Patrick. Don’t think you can fool me. I knew you’d sent her to check up on me—maybe even to hold my hand on the Tube. However, I must admit that even though I told you not to speak to your mum about my little problem I am honestly very grateful that you ignored me.

‘We could have afternoon tea,’ your mother said.

I tried to picture myself presiding over a tea party. Thank heavens my grandmother taught me how to make proper loose-leaf tea in a teapot, but I’ve never been one for baking cakes. What else could we eat for afternoon tea?

I shouldn’t have worried. Your mum was ten jumps ahead of me.

‘There’s the loveliest little teashop near you,’ she said next. ‘They do scrumptious high teas.’

And you know, Patrick, I had the most gorgeous afternoon.

Your mother arrived, looking beautiful. Doesn’t she have the most enviable complexion and such elegant silver-grey hair? She was wearing a dove-grey suit, with a lavender fleck through it, and pearls. I was so pleased I’d brought a skirt with me. Somehow it would have been totally Philistine to go to high tea in Chelsea in jeans.

And, you know … normally, beautifully elegant women like your mother can make me feel self-conscious about my untidy curls. My hands and feet seem to grow to twice their usual size and I bump into and break things (like delicate, fine bone china), and I trip on steps, or the edges of carpet.

Somehow, magically, Felicity (she insisted that I mustn’t call her Mrs Knight) put me so at ease that I felt quite ladylike. At least I didn’t break or spill anything, and I didn’t trip once.

We dined in fine style. The tea was served in a silver teapot and we drank from the finest porcelain cups—duck-egg-blue with gold rims and pink roses on the insides—and the dainty food was served on a three-tiered stand.

And, no, I didn’t lift my pinkie finger when I drank my tea.

We stuffed ourselves (in the most delicate way) with cucumber sandwiches and scones with jam and clotted cream and the daintiest melt-in-your-mouth pastries.

And we talked. Oh, my, how we talked. Somehow your mother coaxed me to tell her all about myself—how my parents died when I was a baby and how I was raised on the island by my grandmother. I even confessed to my worry that living on an island has made me insular, not just geographically but in my outlook, which is why I’m so keen to travel. And that my first choice was London because my favourite childhood story was 101 Dalmatians, and I’ve watched so many movies and read so many books set in London.

And because my father was born here.

I was very surprised when that little bit of info slipped out. It’s honestly not something I dwell on. My parents died when I was eighteen months old, and I only have the teensiest memories of them … so wispy and fleeting I’m not sure they’re real. I think I can remember being at floor level, fascinated by my mother’s painted toenails. And lying in a white cot, watching a yellow curtain flutter against a blue sky. My father’s smiling face. My hand in his.

It’s not a lot to go on. My gran was the most important person in my life, but she died just under a year ago, and if I think about my missing family too much I start to feel sorry for myself.

But, talking to your mother, I learned that your father lives somewhere up in Scotland now, and you don’t see him very much. Why would any sane man divorce Felicity? I’m so glad Jonathan has arrived on the scene. Yes, her new man got a mention, too.

In the midst of our conversation it suddenly felt very important for me to find where my dad was born. I’d like to know something about him, even just one thing. So I’m adding his birthplace to my list of things I want to discover while I’m here, although I’m not quite sure where to start.

You’ll be relieved to hear that I stopped myself from telling Felicity about my dream of dating a British gent. A girl has to have some secrets.

It’s different talking to you, Patrick. I can tell you such things because we’re not face-to-face. You’re a safe twelve thousand miles away, so you get to hear everything. You’re very tolerant and non-judgemental and I love you for it.

Felicity, of course, told me loads about you, but you know that already, so I won’t repeat it. Anyway, you’d only get a swelled head. Your mother adores you—but you know that, too, don’t you? And she’s so proud that you’re writing a novel. You wrote very clever essays at school, so she knows you’ll be a huge success.

Anyway, as I was saying, we got on like the proverbial house on fire—so much so that I was shocked when I realised how late it was. Then, as we were leaving, Felicity told me she was catching the Tube home.

That was a shock, Patrick. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security and had totally forgotten the possibility that she might know about my Tube issues. Besides, your mother has such a sophisticated air I assumed she’d catch a taxi if she hadn’t brought her own car.

But she said the Tube was fast and convenient, and so I walked with her to Sloane Square Station and we chatted all the way until we were right inside. And then it seemed like the right thing to do to wait with her till her train arrived. Which meant stepping onto the escalator and heading down, down into the black hole of the Underground!

That was a seriously freaking-out moment.

Honestly, I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack, and I was sure I couldn’t breathe. But Felicity was so calm and smiling, telling me what a lovely afternoon she’d had, and suggesting that maybe we could have another afternoon together some time. She made me feel so OK I managed to start breathing again.

I must admit that once I was down there, standing on the platform, the station seemed so very big and solid and well-lit and I felt much better than I’d expected to. I actually told Felicity then that I’d been a tiny bit frightened, and she said she totally understood; she would be terrified if she was in the Australian Outback, and why didn’t I travel with her to Paddington?

She had to change trains there, but if I felt OK I could travel back on my own, and I’d soon be a Tube veteran. She even gave me her mobile phone number in case I got into trouble. She wouldn’t have reception until she was above ground again, but it didn’t matter—I was over the worst by then, and actually sitting on the train was fine.

Everything went so well I was able to text her: Thanks. This is a breeze!

So I think I’m cured.