It Had To Be You: Man of the Year 2016. Nikki Logan

uncomfortable.

       I’ve never kept any kind of diary, but apparently it’s helpful for serious writers to keep a journal of ‘free writing’. Any thoughts or ideas are grist for the mill, and the aim is to keep the ‘writing muscle’ exercised while waiting for divine inspiration.

       I wasn’t going to bother. I’m used to figures and spreadsheets, to getting results and getting them quickly, and it feels such a waste of effort to dredge up words that might never be used. But after spending an entire day at my laptop staring at ‘Chapter One’ at the top of a blank page, I feel moved to try something.

       I can blame jet-lag for the lack of productivity. I’m sure my muse will kick in after a day or two, but rather than waste the next couple of days waiting for the words to flow, I’m trying this alternative.

      So … what to say?

       This isn’t a test—no one else will be reading it—so I might as well start with the obvious.

       It’s an interesting experience to move into someone else’s house on the other side of the world, and to be surrounded by a completely different landscape and soundtrack, even different smells.

       As soon as I found notes from Molly scattered all over the house, I knew I’d arrived in an alien world. A few examples:

      Note on a pot plant: Patrick, would you mind watering this twice a week? But don’t leave water lying in the saucer, or mosquitoes will breed.

      On the fridge door: Help yourself to the fish in the freezer. There’s coral trout, queen fish, wahoo and nannygai. Don’t be put off by the strange names, they’re delicious. Try them on the barbecue. There’s a great barbecue recipe book on the shelf beside the stove.

      On the lounge wall, beside the light switch: Don’t freak if you see small, cute lizards running on the walls. They’re geckos—harmless, and great for keeping the insects down.

       Beyond the cottage, the plants and trees are nothing like trees at home. Some are much wilder and stragglier, others lusher and thicker, and all seem to grow in the barest cracks of soil between the huge boulders on this headland.

       The birds not only look different but they sound totally alien. There’s a bright green parrot with a blue head and yellow throat that chatters and screeches. The kookaburra’s laugh is hilarious. Another bird lets out a blood-curdling, mournful cry in the night.

       Even the light here is a surprise. So bright it takes a bit of getting used to.

       God, this is pathetic. I need red wine. I’m not a writer’s toenail.

       But I can’t give up on the first day. Getting this leave was a miracle. I couldn’t believe how generous old George Sims was. Such a surprise that he was worried about me ‘burning out’.

      But now … my writing. I’d always imagined that writing would be relaxing. I’m sure it is once the words really start to come. I’ll plug on.

       In spite of all the differences here, or perhaps because of them, Molly Cooper’s little cottage feels good to me. It’s simple, but it has loads of personality and it’s almost as if she hasn’t really left. It’s bizarre, but I feel as if I’ve actually met her simply by being here and seeing all her things, touching them, using the soap she left (sandalwood, I believe), eating from her dishes, sleeping in her bed under a white mosquito net.

       There’s a photo of her stuck on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a slice of watermelon. She’s with an elderly woman and it says on the back ‘Molly and Gran’. It was taken about a year ago, and Gran looks very frail, but Molly has long, light brown curly hair, a pretty smile, friendly eyes, dimples and terrific legs.

       Not that Molly’s appearance or personality is in any way relevant. I’m never going to meet her in the flesh. Our houses are our only points of connection.

      So … a bit more about her house.

       I must admit that I was worried that it might be too girlie, a bit too cute with pastel shades, ribbons and bows. The sort of warm and fuzzy place that could lower a man’s testosterone overnight. But it’s fine. I especially like its rugged and spectacular setting.

       The house itself is small—two bedrooms, one bathroom and one big open room for the kitchen, dining and lounge. It’s all on one level and it feels strange not going upstairs to bed at night.

       Lots of windows and shutters catch the breezes and the views. Loads of candles. You’d think there was no electricity, the way the candles are scattered everywhere, along with pieces of driftwood and shells, and decorative touches of blue.

       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 <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      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