It Had To Be You. Barbara Hannay

mean it’s hard to get myself asked out—that’s happened quite a few times already—but the chaps haven’t been my cup of tea. My question is—would you believe how hard it is to find the right style of man?

      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 <[email protected]>

      From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      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 <[email protected]>

      From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      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 <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      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