Molly Cooper's Dream Date

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.