It Had To Be You. Barbara Hannay

have slept on top of the satin quilt with only my denim jacket for warmth if satin wasn’t so slippery.

      Next day, a shade before midday, Angela came downstairs, wrapped in your port wine silk dressing gown and looking somewhat the worse for wear, and she asked about breakfast as if I was a servant.

      Patrick, you asked for my reactions to your world, but I suppose I may be coming across as somewhat manipulative in this situation—as if I’m trying to make you feel awkward and maybe even sorry for me. Or you might even think it’s the green-eyed monster raising its ugly head. But I’m not the type to get jealous of your former girlfriend when I haven’t even met you.

      I just don’t do headaches well. That’s all.

      Anyway, I was determined to be generous, so I cooked up an enormous hangover breakfast for Angela and she wolfed it down. Bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with toast and expensive marmalade, plus several cups of strong coffee. It all disappeared with the speed of light. The colour came back into her face. She even managed to smile.

      I do admit that Angela is exceptionally pretty when she smiles—a beautiful, delicate, silky blonde. I tried to dislike her, but once she understood my reasons for taking up residence in your house—that it was a fair swap and very temporary—she thawed a trillion degrees.

      So then we poured ourselves another mug of coffee each and settled down to a lovely gossipy chat. About you.

      I promise I didn’t ask Angela to talk about you, Patrick, but your lovely kitchen is very chat-friendly, and she was the first English girl of my age that I’d had a chance to gossip with. I’d like to think of it more as a cross-cultural, deep and meaningful exchange.

      Angela even flipped through the photos on her mobile phone to see if she still had one of you, but you’ve been deleted, I’m afraid. She told me that she’s just one in a string of your neglected girlfriends, and that your work has always, always come first.

      Case in point—the time you missed her birthday because you had to fly to Zurich (on a weekend). And there were apparently a lot of broken dates and times when you sent last-minute apologies via text messages because you had to work late, when she’d already spent a fortune on having her hair and nails done, and having her legs, and possibly other bits, waxed.

      It’s not for me to judge, of course.

      Maybe Angela (and those other girls who preceded her) should have been more understanding and patient. Maybe you have a very ambitious and driven personality and you can’t help working hard. After all, you’re using your holidays to write a novel when most people lie on the beach and read novels that other people have written.

      Or maybe, just maybe, you could be a teensy bit more thoughtful and considerate and take more care to nurture your personal relationships.

      OK, that’s more than enough from me. I’m ducking for cover now.

      Cheerio!

      Molly x

      PS Angela was thoughtful enough to return your key.

      To: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: A bedtime story

      Dear Molly

      I confess I’d completely overlooked the possibility that Angela Carstairs might still have a door key. I’m sorry you were inconvenienced by her unexpected visit, and thanks so much for going above and beyond. You’re a good sport, Molly, and I’m very grateful. I’m sure Angela is too.

      I suppose I should also thank you for your feedback and your advice regarding my previous and possible future relationships. As I said before, it’s always helpful to receive a fresh perspective.

      On the subject of unexpected visitors and questionable relationships, however, you’ve had a visitor, too. A young man called in here yesterday. A Hell’s Angel look-alike with a long red beard and big beefy arms covered in tattoos. He asked ever so politely about some ladies’ lingerie which you, apparently, are holding here for him.

      I would have been happy to oblige your boyfriend. I might have asked a few pertinent questions. But he seemed very secretive, almost furtive, and I got the distinct impression that he would not welcome my curiosity. As you might imagine I was somewhat at a loss. I had no idea where I could lay my hands on lingerie in his size. I suggested he call back in a few days. Do you have any suggestions or instructions, Molly?

      Kindest regards

      Patrick

      To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: A bedtime story

      Wipe that smirk off your face right now, Patrick Knight. I know what you’re thinking, and stop it. That visitor was not my boyfriend, and he’s certainly not a crossdresser.

      His name is David Howard and he’s a butcher in Horseshoe Bay, married to a doting wife with three kids and as straight as a Roman road. But he also has a fabulous singing voice, and he’s landed a major role in the local production of The Rocky Horror Show. It’s all very top secret (and believe me, keeping a secret on Magnetic Island is a big call.) I organised his costume before I left, but I was so busy getting the house ready for you that I forgot to drop it off with the Amateur Players.

      I’m sorry David had to disturb you. It’s entirely my fault. I left the costume in a black plastic bag on the table next to my sewing machine in the back bedroom, so I’d be very grateful if you could pass it on to him, with my apologies.

      Can you imagine the impact and the surprise when big David, covered in tattoos, steps onto the stage?

      Thanks!

      Molly

      To: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      Subject: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered.

      Curiosity drove me to take a peek at the lingerie before I handed it over to David, and I must say you sew a very fine seam. The lace on the suspender belts is very fetching.

      But while you wriggled off that hook quite neatly, Molly, I can’t let you get away completely. You’ve had another visitor (dare I say admirer?) who turned up here late yesterday afternoon, expecting a massage. Probably the fittest looking character I’ve seen in a long while. He seemed very upset when I told him your services would not be available till the end of June.

      Explain away that one, Miss Molly.

      And while I’m on the subject of the men in your life, the strapping young ranger who supervised the crocodile capture last week was very keen to know when you’d be back.

      Rest assured, I don’t plan to sit down with these fellows for a ‘cosy chat’, so I won’t be passing on any advice to you re: your previous or future relationships.

      Patrick

      To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered

      Patrick, I’m sorry. My friends do seem to be interrupting you lately. The guy who turned up for a massage was Josh. But honestly, it’s not that kind of massage. He’s a footballer—he plays for the local rugby league team and he has a problem with his shoulders. Like a lot of islanders he bucks the system and has no medical insurance, so he balks at handing over money for a professional massage from a physio.

      That’s why he comes to me.

      I massage his shoulders. Only. He keeps me supplied with fish. Hence my well-stocked freezer. As for Max, the crocodile wrangler, I have no idea why