Praise for Barbara Hannay

‘Barbara Hannay’s name on the cover is a sure-fire guarantee of a good read.’

—www.cataromance.com

‘Stories … rich with emotion and chemistry. Very layered and lifelike characters …’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Barbara Hannay will take you on an unforgettable journey …’

—www.cataromance.com

About Barbara Hannay

BARBARA was born in Sydney, educated in Brisbane, and has spent most of her adult life living in tropical North Queensland, where she and her husband have raised four children. While she has enjoyed many happy times camping and canoeing in the bush, she also delights in an urban lifestyle—chamber music, contemporary dance, movies and dining out. An English teacher, she has always loved writing, and now, by having her stories published, she is living her most cherished fantasy.

Visit www.barbarahannay.com

Also by Barbara Hannay

A Miracle for His Secret Son

Executive: Expecting Tiny Twins

The Cattleman’s Adopted Family

Expecting Miracle Twins

The Bridesmaid’s Baby

Her Cattleman Boss

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Molly Cooper’s Dream Date

Barbara Hannay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Special thanks to Jenny Haddon,

whose wonderful London hospitality inspired this story.

CHAPTER ONE

‘THIS is my favourite part,’ Molly whispered as the glamorous couple on her TV screen walked sadly but stoically to opposite ends of London’s Westminster Bridge. ‘He’s going to turn back to her any minute now.’

Molly was curled on her couch in a tense ball. Karli, at the other end of the couch, helped herself to more popcorn.

‘Don’t miss this, Karli. I cry every time. Look. He hears Big Ben, and he stops, and—’ Molly’s voice broke on a sob. ‘He turns.’ She hugged her knees. ‘See the look on his face?’

‘Ohhh …’ Karli let out a hushed breath. ‘You can see he really, really loves her.’

‘I know. It’s so beautiful.’ Molly reached for tissues as the gorgeous hero stood alone on the bridge, stricken-faced, shoulders squared, waiting for the woman in the long fur coat to turn back to him.

Karli grabbed a cushion and clutched it to her chest. ‘He’ll chase after her.’

‘No. It’s up to her now. If she doesn’t turn back, he knows she doesn’t love him.’

On the screen, a red double-decker London bus slowed to a stop and the movie’s heroine, in her ankle-length, glamorous coat, hurried to catch it.

‘No,’ Karli moaned as the bus took off with the woman on board, and the camera switched to another close-up of the hero’s grimly devastated face. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a sad ending.’

Molly pressed her lips together to stop herself from speaking. The camera tracked upwards to a bird’s eye view of London, showing the silvery River Thames curving below, and the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben … the solitary figure of the hero standing on Westminster Bridge … and the red bus driving away.

Karli was scowling. Molly hugged her knees tighter, gratified that her friend was hooked into the tension.

The camera climbed higher still, and the London bus was matchbox-size. The sounds of the city traffic were replaced by music—violins swelling with lush and aching beauty.

Molly had seen this movie more than a dozen times, but tears still rolled down her cheeks.

And then … at last …

At last …

The bus stopped.

The tiny figure of the heroine emerged …

The camera swooped down once more, zooming closer and closer as the lovers ran towards each other, arms outstretched, embracing at last.

The credits began to roll. Karli wrinkled her nose. ‘OK. I admit that wasn’t bad.’

‘Not bad?’ Molly sniffed. ‘I suppose that’s why you practically bit a piece out of my sofa cushion? Come on—admit it’s amazing. The look on Christian’s face when he thinks he’s lost Vanessa is the most emotional moment in cinematic history.’ She gave a dramatic sigh. ‘And London has to be the most romantic city in the world.’

Shrugging, Karli reached for more popcorn. ‘Isn’t Paris supposed to be the most romantic city?’

‘No way. Not for me. Paris is—Paris is … Oh, I don’t know.’ Molly gave a helpless flap of her hands. ‘Paris just … isn’t London.’

‘Admit it, Mozza. You have a thing for English guys. You’re convinced that London is full of perfect gentlemen.’

It was best to ignore her friend’s sarcasm. Molly wasn’t going to admit that it held a grain—OK, maybe even more than a grain—of truth. Her love affair with London was deeply personal.

Pressing the remote to turn the set off, she went to the window and looked out into the night. The moon was almost full and it silvered the tall pines on the headland and the smooth, sparkling surface of the Coral Sea.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ she said. ‘Nothing romantic like that is ever going to happen to me. Not on this island.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Our island might not have Big Ben or Westminster Bridge, but the moonlight on Picnic Bay’s not bad. I wasn’t complaining when Jimbo proposed.’

Molly smiled as she turned from the window. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t counting you and Jimbo. You guys are as romantic as it gets—best friends since kindergarten. Everyone here knew you’d end up together.’

‘Well, to be honest, it’s not exactly romantic when your husband spends half his life away on a fishing trawler.’

‘I guess.’ Molly moved to the kitchen and reached for a saucepan to make hot chocolate. ‘I shouldn’t keep watching that movie. It always makes me restless—makes me want to take off and live in London.’

‘Does it have to be London? If you want to get off the island, why don’t you try Sydney or Brisbane? Even Cairns?’

Molly rolled her eyes. As if any Australian city could live up to her vision of England’s famous capital. For as long as she could remember, she’d been entranced by London—by its history, its buildings, its pageantry, its culture.

She loved all the names—like Portobello Road, the Serpentine, Piccadilly Circus and Battersea. For her they had a thrilling, magical ring. Like poetry.

Karli shrugged. ‘If I went overseas, I’d rather go to America. Jimbo’s going to take me to Las Vegas.’

‘Wow. When?’

‘One day. Ha-ha. If either of us ever gets a job with better pay.’

‘Money’s my problem, too. The mortgage on this place uses up most of my savings. And the rent in London’s horrendous. I’ve checked on the internet.’

‘But you might be able to manage it if you rented out this place.’

Molly shuddered. Renting this cottage would mean a series of strangers living here, and it wouldn’t seem right when it had been her gran’s home for more than fifty years.

‘Or,’ said Karli, ‘what about a house swap? That way you’d get to pick who lives here, and it would only be for a short time. My cousin in Cairns swapped with a couple from Denmark, and it worked out fine.’

‘A house swap?’ A tingling sensation danced down Molly’s spine. ‘How does that work?’

Patrick Knight glared at the towering pile of paperwork on his desk, and then he glared at his watch. Past eight already, and he would be here for hours yet.

Grimacing, he picked up his mobile phone and thumbed a hasty text message. Angela was not going to like this, but it couldn’t be helped.

Ange, so sorry. Snowed under at work. Will have to bow out of tonight. Can we make a date for Friday instead? P

Snapping the phone closed, Patrick reached for the next folder in the pile. His stomach growled, and along with his hunger pangs he felt a surge of frustration.

The past years of global financial crisis had seen his job in London’s banking world morph from an interesting and challenging career into a source of constant stress.

It was like working in a war zone. Too many of his colleagues had been fired, or had resigned. Some had even suffered nervous breakdowns. At times he’d felt like the last man standing.

Yes, it was true that he had saved a couple of major accounts, but he was doing the work of three people in his department, and the shower of commendations from his boss had rather lost their shine. He’d reached the point where he had to ask why he was slogging away, working ridiculous hours and giving everything he had to his job, when his life outside the office was—

Non-existent.

Truth was, he no longer had a life away from the bank. No time to enjoy the lovely house he’d bought in Chelsea, no time to go out with his latest girlfriend. How he’d managed to meet Angela in the first place was a miracle, but almost certainly she would give up on him soon—just as her predecessors had.

As for the crazy, crazy promise he’d once made to himself that he would balance his working life with writing a novel. In his spare time. Ha-ha.

Except for Patrick it was no longer a laughing matter. This was his life, or rather his non-life, and he was wasting it. One day he’d wake up and discover he was fifty—like his boss—pale, anxious, boring and only able to talk about one thing. Work.

His mobile phone pinged. It was Angela, as expected. Tight-jawed, he clicked on her reply.

Sorry. Not Friday. Not ever. One cancellation too many. Goodbye, sweet P. Ange

Patrick cursed, but he couldn’t really blame Ange. Tomorrow he’d send her two—no, three dozen roses. But he suspected they wouldn’t do the trick. Not this time. If he was honest, he couldn’t pretend that her rejection would break his heart—but it was symptomatic of the depths to which his life had sunk.

In a burst of anger, he pushed his chair back from his desk and began to prowl.

The office felt like a prison. It was a damn prison, and he felt a mad urge to break out of it.

Actually, it wasn’t a mad urge. It was a highly reasonable and justified need. A must.

In mid-prowl, his eyes fell on the globe of the world that he’d salvaged from the old boardroom when it had been refurbished—in those giddy days before the financial world had gone belly up. Now it sat in the corner of his office, and lately he’d stared at it often, seized by a longing to be anywhere on that tiny sphere.

Anywhere except London.

Walking towards it now, Patrick spun the globe and watched the coloured shapes of the continents swirl. He touched it with his finger, feeling the friction as its pace slowed.

If I were free, I’d go anywhere. When this globe stops spinning, I’ll go wherever my finger is pointing.

The globe stopped. Patrick laughed. He’d been thinking of somewhere exotic, like Tahiti or Rio de Janeiro, but his finger was resting on the east coast of Australia. A tiny dot. An island.

He leaned closer to read the fine print. Magnetic Island.

Never heard of it.

About to dismiss it, he paused. I said I’d go anywhere—anywhere in the world. Why don’t I at least look this place up?

But why bother? It wasn’t as if it could happen. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. He was locked in here.

But what if I made it happen? Surely it’s time?

Back at his desk, Patrick tried a quick internet search for Magnetic Island, and his eyebrows lifted as the first page of links scrolled down. The island was clearly a tourist destination, with palm trees and white sand and blue tropical seas. Not so different from Tahiti, perhaps?

The usual variety of accommodations was offered. Then two words leapt out at him from the bottom of the screen: House Swap.

Intrigued, Patrick hit the link.

House Swap: Magnetic Island, Queensland, Australia

2 bedroom cottage

Location Details: Nestled among trees on a headland, this home has ocean views and is only a three-minute walk through the national park to a string of beautiful bays. Close to the Great Barrier Reef, the island provides a water wonderland for sailing, canoeing, parasailing, fishing and diving.

Preferred Swap Dates: From 1st April—flexible

Preferred Swap Length: Three to four months

Preferred Destination: London, UK

Patrick grinned. For a heady moment he could picture himself there—in a different hemisphere, in a different world.

Free, free …

Swimming with coral fishes. Lying in a hammock beneath palm trees. Checking out bikini-clad Australian girls. Writing the fabulous thriller that resided only in his head. Typing it on his laptop while looking out at the sparkling blue sea.

OK, amusement over. Nose back to the grindstone.

With great reluctance, he lifted a folder of computer printouts from the pile and flipped it open.

But his concentration was shot to pieces. His mind couldn’t settle on spreadsheets and figures. He was composing a description of his house for a similar swapping advertisement.

Home Exchange: Desirable Chelsea, London, UK

3 bedroom house with garden

Close to public transport and amenities—two-minute walk.

 * Television

 * Fireplaces

 * Balcony/patio

 * Dining/shopping nearby

 * Galleries/museums

Available for three-month exchange: April/May to June/July

Destination—Coastal Queensland, Australia

Two and a half hours later Patrick had closed the last folder, and he’d also reached a decision.

He would do it. He had to. He would get away. He would make an appointment with his boss. First thing in the morning.

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

Subject: We’re off—like a rotten egg

Hi Patrick

I can’t believe I’ll actually be in England in just over twenty-four hours. At last I’m packed (suitcases groaning), and my little house is shining clean and ready for you. Brand-new sheets on the bed—I hope you like navy blue.

I also hope you’ll feel welcome here and, more importantly, comfortable. I considered leaving flowers in a vase, but I was worried they might droop and die and start to smell before you got here. I’ll leave the key under the flowerpot beside the back door.

Now, I know that probably sounds incredibly reckless to you, but don’t worry—the residents of Magnetic Island are very honest and extremely laid-back. No one locks their doors.

I don’t want you to fret, though, so I’ve also left a spare key at Reception at the Sapphire Bay resort, where I used to work until yesterday.

Used to work.

That has such a nice ring, doesn’t it? I’ve trained Jill, the owner’s niece, to take my place while I’m away, and for now, at least, I’m giddily carefree and unemployed.

Yippee!!

You have no idea how much I’ve always wanted to live in London, even if it’s only for three months. Thanks to you, Patrick, this really is my dream come true, and I’m beyond excited. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Have you finished up at your work? Are you having a farewell party? Mine was last night. It was pretty rowdy, and I have no idea what to do with all the gifts people gave me. I can’t fit as much as another peanut in my suitcases, so I’ll probably have to stash these things in a box under my bed (your bed now). Sorry.

By the way, please feel free to use my car. It’s not much more than a sardine can on wheels, but it gets you about. Don’t worry that it’s unregistered. Cars on the island don’t need registration unless they’re taken over to the mainland.

It was kind of you to mention that your car is garaged just around the corner from your place, but don’t worry, I won’t risk my shaky driving skills in London traffic.

Oh, and don’t be upset if the ferry is running late. The boats here run on ‘island time’.

Anyway, happy travels.

London, here I come!

Molly

PS I agree that we shouldn’t phone each other except in the direst emergency. You’re right—phone calls can be intrusive (especially with a ten-hour time difference). And they’re costly. E-mails are so handy—and I’ll try to be diplomatic. No guarantees. I can rattle on when I’m excited.

M

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

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

Subject: Re: We’re off—like a rotten egg

Dear Molly

Thanks for your message. No time for a farewell party, I’m afraid. Had to work late to get my desk cleared. Rushing now to pack and get away. Cidalia (cleaning lady) will come in some time this week to explain everything about the house—how the oven works, etc.

The keys to the house are in a safety deposit box at the Chelsea branch of the bank I work for on the King’s Road. It’s a square brick building. My colleagues have instructions to hand the keys over to you—and I’ve left a map. You’ll just need to show your passport. You shouldn’t have any problems.

Have a good flight.

Best wishes

Patrick

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

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

Subject: I’m in London!!!!!!!

Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow!

If I wasn’t so tired I’d pinch myself, but I’m horribly jet-lagged and can hardly keep my eyes open. Insanely happy, though.

Your very gentlemanly colleague at the bank handed over the keys and wished me a pleasant stay at number thirty-four Alice Grove, and then I trundled my luggage around the corner and—

Patrick, your house is—

Indescribably

Lovely.

Divine will have to suffice for now, but the truth is that your home is more than divine.

Too tired to do it justice tonight. Will have my first English cup of tea and fall into bed. Your bed. Gosh, that sounds rather intimate, doesn’t it? Will write tomorrow.

Blissfully

Molly

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

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

Subject: Thank you

Hi Patrick

I’ve slept for ten hours in your lovely king-size bed and am feeling much better today, but my head is still buzzing with excitement! I’ve never left Australia before, so my first sight of England yesterday was the most amazing thrill. We flew in over the English Channel, and when I saw the green and misty fields, just the way I’ve always imagined them, I confess I became a tad weepy.

And then Heathrow. Oh, my God, what an experience. Now I know how cattle feel when they’re being herded into the yards. For a moment there I wanted to turn tail and run back to my sleepy little island.

I soon got over that, thank heavens, and caught a taxi to Chelsea. Terribly extravagant, I know, but I wasn’t quite ready to face the tube with all my luggage. I’m just a teensy bit scared of the London Underground.

The driver asked me what district I wanted to go to, and when I told him Chelsea, SW3, he didn’t say anything but I could see by the way he blinked that he was impressed. When I got here I was pretty darned impressed, too.

But I’m worried, Patrick.

This isn’t exactly an even house swap.

Your place is so gorgeous! Like a four-storey dolls’ house. Sorry, I hope that’s not offensive to a man. I love it all—the carpeted staircases and beautiful arched windows and marble fireplaces and the bedrooms with their own en suite bathrooms. There’s even a bidet! Blush. It took me a while to work out what it was. I’d never seen one before.

Meanwhile, you’ll be discovering the green tree frogs in my toilet. Gosh, Patrick, can you bear it?

I love the sitting room, with all your books—you’re quite a reader, aren’t you?—but I think my favourite room is the kitchen, right at the bottom of your house. I love the black and white tiles on the floor and the glass French doors opening onto a little courtyard at the back.

I had my morning cuppa out in the courtyard this morning, sitting in a little pool of pale English sunshine. And there was a tiny patch of daffodils at my feet! I’ve never seen daffodils growing before.

So many firsts!

After breakfast I went for a walk along the King’s Road, and everyone looked so pink-cheeked and glamorous, with their long, double knotted scarves and boots. I bought myself a scarf (won’t be able to afford boots). I so wanted to look like all the other girls, but I can’t manage the pink cheeks.

I swear I saw a television actor. An older man, don’t know his name, but my grandmother used to love him.

But crikey, Patrick. I look around here and I have all this—I feel like I’m living in Buckingham Palace—and then I think about you on the other side of the world in my tiny Pandanus Cottage, which is—well, you’ll have seen it for yourself by now. It’s very basic, isn’t it? Perhaps I should have warned you that I don’t even have a flatscreen TV.

Do write and tell me how you are—hopefully not struck dumb with horror.

Cheers, as you Brits say

Molly

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

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

Subject: Are you there yet?

Sorry to sound like your mother, Patrick, but could you just drop a quick line to let me know you’ve arrived and you’re OK and the house is OK?

M

PS I’m still happy and excited, but I can’t believe how cold it is here. Isn’t it supposed to be spring?

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

From: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

Subject: Touching base

Hello darling

I imagine you must be in Australia by now. I do hope you had a good flight. I promise I’m not going to bother you the whole time you’re away, but I just needed to hear that you’ve arrived safely and all is well and to wish you good luck again with writing your novel.

Love from the proud mother of a future world-famous, bestselling author.

xx

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

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

Subject: Re: Just checking

Dear Molly

Yes, I’m here, safe and sound, thank you, and everything’s fine. It was well worth the twenty-hour flight and crossing the world’s hemispheres just to get here. Don’t worry. Your house suits my needs perfectly and the setting is beautiful. Everything’s spotless, just as you promised, and the new sheets are splendid. Thank you for ironing them.

As I told you, I’m planning to write a book, so I don’t need loads of luxury and I don’t plan to watch much TV. What I need is a complete change of scenery and inspiration, and the view from your front window provides both.

I’ve already rearranged the furniture so that I can have a table at the window and take in the fabulous view across the bay to Cape Cleveland. All day long the sea keeps changing colour with the shifting patterns of the sun and the clouds. It’s utterly gorgeous.

I’m pleased you’ve settled in and that you like what you’ve found, but don’t worry about me. I’m enjoying the sunshine and I’m very happy.

Oh, and thanks also for your helpful notes about the fish in the freezer and the pot plants and the washing machine’s spin cycle and the geckos. All points duly noted.

Best wishes

Patrick

To: Felicity Knight <flissK@mymail.com>

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

Subject: Re: Touching base

Hi Mother

Everything’s fine, thanks. I’m settled in here and all’s well. Will keep in touch. It’s paradise down here, so don’t worry about me.

Love to you and to Jonathan

Patrick x

Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 10th

This feels very 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 <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.

And I know that ultimately you’re the person I should thank, Mr Patrick Knight-in-shining-armour. Because you arranged it, didn’t you?

I wish there was some way I could help you, but I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel.

Molly XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PS Feel free to tell me to pull my head in, but I did wonder if it’s possible to over-think the planning of a book. The way I over-thought the whole business of entering the Tube. Do you ever get the urge to just leap right in and let the words flow?

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