It Had To Be You

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

CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

Subject: Re: Impossible dreams

Molly, I hesitate to offer advice on how to engineer a date with the kind of man you’re looking for, because in truth I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I hate to be a wet blanket, but I’m more inclined to offer warnings. The sad fact is that a public school accent and your idea of ‘gentlemanly’ manners may not coincide.

Of course there are always exceptions. And you might be lucky. But don’t expect that any man who speaks with Received Pronunciation and wears an expensive three-piece suit will behave like a perfect gentleman. When you’re alone with him, that is.

Sorry. I know that’s a grim thing to say about my fellow countrymen, but I do feel responsible, and I’d hate you to be upset. All I can honestly say is take care!

Sincerely

Patrick

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

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

Subject: Cane toad races

You’ve been unusually quiet lately, Molly, and I find myself worrying (like an anxious relative) that something’s happened. I’d hate to think I’ve crushed your spirit. I suspect I knocked a ruddy great hole in your dating dreams, but I hope I haven’t completely quelled your enthusiasm for adventure and romance.

I trust you’re simply quiet because you’re having a cracking good time and you’re too busy to write e-mails.

However, in an effort to cheer you up (if indeed you are feeling low), I thought I’d tell you about my experiences at the toad races the night before last. Yes, I’ve been, and you were right—I enjoyed the evening. In fact, I had a hilarious time.

As you’ve no doubt guessed, I wasn’t really looking forward to going, but I desperately needed a break from my own company and decided to give the cane toads a try.

I’d been curious about how these races were set up, and why they’ve become such a tourist draw. I’d read that the toads are considered a pest here. They were brought out to eat beetles in the sugar cane, but they completely ignored the beetles and killed all sorts of other wildlife instead. They ate anything smaller than themselves, and they poisoned the bigger creatures that tried to eat them.

I was a bit worried that if cane toads are considered a pest the races might be cruel, so I was relieved to discover that, apart from having a number stuck on their backs and being kept in a bucket until the race starts, the toads don’t suffer at all.

The mighty steeds racing last night were:

1 Irish Rover

2 Prince Charles

3 Herman the German

4 Yankee Doodle

5 Italian Stallion

6 Little Aussie Battler

By the time all the toads were safely under a bucket in the centre of the dance floor, and the race was ready to start, there was quite a noisy and very international crowd gathered. Naturally I had to put my money on Prince Charles.

A huge cheer went up when the bucket was lifted and the toads took off.

At least the Italian Stallion took off. The other toads all seemed a bit stunned, and just sat there blinking in the light. I yelled and cheered along with the noisiest punters, but I’d completely given up hope for my Prince Charlie when he suddenly started taking giant leaps.

What a roar there was then (especially from me)! You have no idea. Well, actually, you probably do have a very good idea. As you know, the first toad off the dance floor wins the race, and good old Prince Charles beat the Italian Stallion by a whisker. No, make that a wart.

There’d been heavy betting on the Australian and American toads, so I won quite a haul—a hundred dollars—and the prize money was handed over with a surprising degree of ceremony. I was expected to make a speech.

I explained that I was a banker from London and, as a gesture, I wanted to compensate for the unsatisfactory exchange rate as quickly as possible by converting my winnings into cold beer.

That announcement brought a huge cheer.

The cheering was even louder when I added that if everyone would like to come up to my place (that is, Molly Cooper’s place) there’d be a celebratory party starting very shortly.

Everyone came, Molly. I hope you don’t mind. We all squeezed in to your place and had a fabulous night. I lit every single one of your candles and Pandanus Cottage looked sensational. It did you proud.

The party went on late.

Very.

I do hope you’re having a good time, too.

Warmest wishes

Patrick x

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

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

Subject: Re: Cane toad races

Dear Patrick

That’s great news about the cane toad races and the party. I was worried that, working so much by yourself, you might have given the islanders the impression you were a bit aloof. Clearly that’s not so.

I’m afraid I haven’t been up to partying in recent days. I’m laid low with a heavy cold, so I’ve been curled up at home, sipping hot lemon drinks and watching daytime television. Cidalia’s been a darling. She’s come in every day to check on me and make these lemon drinks, and a divine chicken soup which she calls canja.

She said it was her grandmother’s cure-all—which is interesting, because it’s almost the same as the soup my gran used to make for me. Seems that chicken soup is an international cure-all.

But that’s not all, Patrick. Your mother telephoned while my cold was at its thickest and croakiest, and when she heard how terrible I sounded she sent me a gift box from …

Harrods!

Can you believe it? I was so stunned. It’s a collection of gorgeous teas—Silver Moon, English Breakfast, Earl Grey—all in individual cotton (note that: cotton, not paper) teabags. Such a luxury for me, and so kind of her. But how can I ever repay her?

As you can see, I’ve been very well looked after, and I’m on the mend again now, and cheered by your account of your adventures at the toad races. I’m trying to picture you cheering madly and delivering your tongue-in-cheek speech. Fantastic.

I’m more than happy that you hosted a party at my place. The candles do make the little cottage look quite romantic, don’t they? And with all that beer, and with you as host, I’m not surprised people wanted to stay. I bet I can guess who crashed and was still there next morning.

And I’m also betting that you heard Jodie Grimshaw’s entire life story at around 2.00 a.m. Looks like you’re really settling in, Patrick. That’s great.

Oh, thanks for your advice re: English gentlemen, but don’t worry. Your warnings didn’t upset me—although they weren’t really necessary either. I might sound totally naive, but I did see the way Hugh Grant’s character behaved in Bridget Jones, and I have good antennae. I can sense a jerk at fifty paces.

Best wishes

Molly

To: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

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

Subject: Many thanks

Dear Mother

I’m sure Molly’s already thanked you for sending a gift box when she was ill, but I want to thank you, too. As you know, Molly’s totally on her own in the world. She puts on a brave face, but she was very touched by your thoughtfulness, and so was I.

Love

P

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

From: Karli Henderson <hendo86@flowermail.com>

Subject: Your house swapper

Hi Molly

It’s Jodie here, using Karli’s e-mail. I’m helping her to pack because she and Jimbo are heading off to Cairns. I just thought you might be interested to know that your house swapper Patrick is totally hot and throws the best parties evah. Oh, man. That party last Saturday night was totally off the chain.

Bet you wish you were here.

Jodie G

To: Karli Henderson <hendo86@flowermail.com>

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

Subject: Hands off, Jodie

Sorry, Jodie, I’m going to be blunt. Patrick Knight is not for you. He’s—

The message Subject: Hands off, Jodie has not been sent. It has been saved in your drafts folder.

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

From: Karli Henderson <hendo86@flowermail.com>

Subject: So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, etc.

Hi Molly

I’m afraid this is going to be my last e-mail. What with the move and everything, Jimbo and I are a bit strapped for cash, so I’ve sold this computer, along with half our CDs, in a garage sale. This is my last e-mail to anyone, and I won’t be back online for some time, but I’m sure things will improve once we’re settled in our new jobs in Cairns. Will be thinking of you, girlfriend. Have a blast in London.

Love

Karli xxxxxxxxx

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

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

Subject: An address in Clapham

Molly, my (secret) contacts at the bank have found a Charles Torrington Cooper, born in 1956, who used to live at 16 Rosewater Terrace, Clapham.

I can’t guarantee that this is your father, but Torrington is an unusual middle name, and everything else matches, so chances are we’re onto something.

If you decide to go to Clapham by tube, don’t get out at Clapham Junction. That’s actually Battersea, not Clapham, and it confuses lots of visitors. You should use the Northern Line and get out at Clapham Common.

Warmest

Patrick

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

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

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

Bless you, Patrick, and bless your (secret) contacts at the bank. Please pass on my massive thanks. I’ll head out to Clapham just as soon as I can.

I hope 16 Rosewater Terrace is still there.

Molly xx

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

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

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham—another long e-mail

I’ve had the most unbelievably momentous day. A true Red Letter Day that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Until today all I’ve ever known about my father was what my grandmother told me—that he was charming and handsome and he swept my mother off her feet, and that he didn’t have a lot of money, but managed to make my mum very happy.

Oh, and she would also tell me how excited he was when I was born. How he walked the floor with me when I had colic and was so patient, etc.

I was quite content with these pictures, and because I never knew my parents I didn’t really grieve for them. I had Gran, and she was warm and loving and doted on me, so I was fine.

But ever since I’ve been in London I’ve been thinking rather a lot about Charlie Cooper. I’d look at things like Nelson’s Column or Marble Arch, or even just an ordinary shop window, and I’d wonder if my dad had ever stood there, looking at the exact same thing. I’d feel as if he was there with me, as if he was glad that I was seeing his home town.

The feeling was even stronger today when I arrived in Clapham. Every lamppost and shopfront felt significant. I found myself asking if the schoolboy Charlie had passed here on his way to school. Did he stop here to buy marbles or there to buy cream buns?

And then I found Rosewater Terrace and my heart started to pound madly.

It’s a long narrow street, and it feels rather crowded in between rows of tall brick houses with tiled roofs and chimney pots, and there are cars parked along both sides of the street, adding to the crowded-in feeling. There are no front yards or gardens. Everyone’s front door opens straight onto the footpath.

When I reached number 16 I felt very strange, as if tiny spiders were crawling inside me. I stood there on the footpath, staring at the house, at windows with sparkling glass and neat white frames, and at the panels on the front door, painted very tastefully in white and two shades of grey.

The doorknob was bright and shiny and very new, and there were fresh white lace curtains in the window and a lovely blue jug filled with pink and white lilies.

It was very inviting, and I longed to take a peek inside. I wondered what would happen if knocked on the door. If someone answered, could I tell them that my father and his family used to live there? How would they react?

I was still standing there dithering, trying to decide what to do, when the door of the next house opened and a little old lady, wearing an apron and carrying a watering can, came shuffling out in her slippers.

‘I was just watering my pot plants and I saw you standing there,’ she said. ‘Are you lost, dearie?’

She looked about a hundred years old, but she was so sweet and concerned I found myself telling her exactly why I was there. As soon as I said the words ‘Charles Cooper’, her eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth dropped like a trap door. I thought I’d given her a heart attack.

It seemed to take ages before she got her breath back. ‘So you’re Charlie’s little Australian daughter,’ she said. ‘Well, I never. Oh, my dear, of course. You look just like him.’

Daisy—that’s her name, Daisy Groves—hugged me then, and invited me inside her house, and we had the loveliest nostalgic morning. She told me that she’d lived in Rosewater Terrace ever since she was married, almost sixty years ago, and she’d known my dad from the day he was born. Apparently he was born three days before her daughter Valerie and in the same hospital.

‘Charlie and Valerie were always such great friends,’ Daisy told me. ‘All through their school years. Actually, I always thought—’

She didn’t finish that sentence, just looked away with a wistful smile, but I’m guessing from the way she spoke that she’d had matchmaking dreams for my dad and Valerie. Except Charlie was one for adventure, and as soon as he’d saved enough he set off travelling around the world. Then he met my mum in Australia. End of story. Valerie married an electrician and now lives in Peterborough.

Daisy also told me that number 16 has exactly the same layout as her house, so she let me have a good look around her place, and I saw a little bedroom at the top with a sloping ceiling. My dad’s bedroom was exactly the same.

But there are no Coopers left in Rosewater Terrace. At least three families have lived in number 16 since my grandparents died and the house has been ‘done up’ inside several times.

The best thing was that Daisy showed me photos of Charlie when he was a boy. Admittedly they were mainly photos of Valerie, with Charlie in the background, sometimes pulling silly faces, or sticking up his fingers behind Valerie’s head to give her rabbit’s ears.

But I felt so connected, Patrick, and I felt as if there’d been a reason I’d always wanted to come to London and now I no longer have such a big blank question mark inside me when I think about my father. In fact, I feel happy and content in a whole new way. That’s a totally unexpected bonus.

So thank you, Patrick. Thank you a thousand times.

Oh, and I have to tell you the last thing Daisy said to me when I was leaving.

‘Your father was a naughty little boy, but he grew up to be such a charming gentleman.’ And she pressed her closed fist over her heart and sighed the way my friends sigh over George Clooney.

I floated on happiness all the way back to the Tube station.

Molly xx

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

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

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

Patrick, it’s only just hit me—as I pressed ‘send’ on that last e-mail to you I had the most awfully revealing, jaw-dropping, lightbulb moment.

I’m in shock.

Because now when I think about my dreams of dating a perfect English gentleman, I have to ask if it’s really some kind of deeply subconscious Freudian search for my father.

I felt quite eeeeuuuwwww when I tried to answer that. But where does my interest in gentlemen come from? I mean, it’s pretty weird. Most girls are interested in dangerous bad boys.

And this leads to another question. Has becoming acquainted with so much about my father totally cured me of my desire for that impossible, unreachable dating dream? Can I strike the English gentleman off my wish list of ‘Things to Do in London’?

I’m not sure. Right now I’m confused. It’s something I’m going to have to think about. Or sleep on.

Molly, feeling muddled …

x

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

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

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

What fantastic news about your father!

I’m so pleased we found the right address and that you’ve had such a good result. Charles Torrington Cooper sounds as if he was a great guy (a gentleman, no less). Lucky you, Molly. Cherish that image.

I say that selfishly, perhaps, because my own father has caused me huge disappointment and I haven’t forgiven him. It’s not a nice place to be.

Don’t get too hung up on trying to psychoanalyse yourself or your dating goals, Molly. I doubt we can ever understand how our attraction to the opposite sex works. And why would we want to? Wouldn’t that take all the fun out of it?

Besides, you’ve only been in love with the idea of your perfect Englishman. Until you try the real thing you won’t be able to test your true feelings.

Molly, you seem to me to be a woman with high ideals and fine instincts. Forget my warnings. I was being overly protective.

Take London by storm and have fun.

Patrick

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

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

Subject: Surrender

Thanks for your kind and very supportive words, but I’m afraid they came almost too late. I’ve caved, Patrick. In one fell swoop I’ve wiped two of my goals from the board.

Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies.

Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman.

I’ve been out with an Aussie guy.

I know what I said about not mixing with Australians, but I realise now that I was limiting myself needlessly. It makes sense that I’d get along better with a fellow countryman. And besides, Brad’s kinda cute—a really tall, sunburned Outback Aussie, a sheep farmer from New South Wales.

Brad may not take me to Ascot or to Covent Garden, but who did I think I was anyway—Eliza Doolittle?

When he came into the Empty Bottle the other night it was like something out of a movie. Heads turned to watch him, and he strode straight up to me at the bar with a big broad grin on his suntanned face.

‘G’day,’ he said, in a lazy Australian drawl and I have to say our accent had never sounded nicer. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were on my plane coming over from Sydney. We said hi. Don’t you remember?’

I hadn’t remembered him (don’t know why, because he’s very attractive), but I mumbled something positive and I smiled.

‘I sat on the other side of the aisle,’ he said. ‘I wanted to catch up with you when we landed, but I lost you in the crowds at Heathrow.’

Can you see why a girl might find that flattering, Patrick? We were on a plane together more than a month ago, and yet Brad recognised me as soon as he walked into a crowded London bar.

He doesn’t want to sit around talking about home, and that’s another reason to like him. He worked as crew on a yacht from Port Hamble to Cascais in Portugal, and then he crewed on a fishing boat back to England. You have to admire his sense of adventure.

I told him about the book of London’s secrets that you sent me, and tomorrow we’re going to go to Highgate Hill to find Dick Whittington’s stone. I used to love the story about Dick and his cat, and the bells that made him turn around. Did you know that Dick really was Lord Mayor of London (four times), 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