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

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

From: Molly Cooper

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 said it was her grandmother’s cure-all—which is interesting, because it’s almost the same as the soup my gran used to make for me. Seems that chicken soup is an international cure-all.

But that’s not all, Patrick. Your mother telephoned while my cold was at its thickest and croakiest, and when she heard how terrible I sounded she sent me a gift box from …

Harrods!

Can you believe it? I was so stunned. It’s a collection of gorgeous teas—Silver Moon, English Breakfast, Earl Grey—all in individual cotton (note that: cotton, not paper) teabags. Such a luxury for me, and so kind of her. But how can I ever repay her?

As you can see, I’ve been very well looked after, and I’m on the mend again now, and cheered by your account of your adventures at the toad races. I’m trying to picture you cheering madly and delivering your tongue-in-cheek speech. Fantastic.

I’m more than happy that you hosted a party at my place. The candles do make the little cottage look quite romantic, don’t they? And with all that beer, and with you as host, I’m not surprised people wanted to stay. I bet I can guess who crashed and was still there next morning.

And I’m also betting that you heard Jodie Grimshaw’s entire life story at around 2.00 a.m. Looks like you’re really settling in, Patrick. That’s great.

Oh, thanks for your advice re: English gentlemen, but don’t worry. Your warnings didn’t upset me—although they weren’t really necessary either. I might sound totally naive, but I did see the way Hugh Grant’s character behaved in Bridget Jones, and I have good antennae. I can sense a jerk at fifty paces.

Best wishes

Molly

To: Felicity Knight

From: Patrick Knight

Subject: Many thanks

Dear Mother

I’m sure Molly’s already thanked you for sending a gift box when she was ill, but I want to thank you, too. As you know, Molly’s totally on her own in the world. She puts on a brave face, but she was very touched by your thoughtfulness, and so was I.

Love

P

To: Molly Cooper

From: Karli Henderson

Subject: Your house swapper

Hi Molly

It’s Jodie here, using Karli’s e-mail. I’m helping her to pack because she and Jimbo are heading off to Cairns. I just thought you might be interested to know that your house swapper Patrick is totally hot and throws the best parties evah. Oh, man. That party last Saturday night was totally off the chain.

Bet you wish you were here.

Jodie G

To: Karli Henderson

From: Molly Cooper

Subject: Hands off, Jodie

Sorry, Jodie, I’m going to be blunt. Patrick Knight is not for you. He’s—

The message Subject: Hands off, Jodie has not been sent. It has been saved in your drafts folder.

To: Molly Cooper

From: Karli Henderson

Subject: So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, etc.

Hi Molly

I’m afraid this is going to be my last e-mail. What with the move and everything, Jimbo and I are a bit strapped for cash, so I’ve sold this computer, along with half our CDs, in a garage sale. This is my last e-mail to anyone, and I won’t be back online for some time, but I’m sure things will improve once we’re settled in our new jobs in Cairns. Will be thinking of you, girlfriend. Have a blast in London.

Love

Karli xxxxxxxxx

To: Molly Cooper

Form: Patrick Knight

Subject: An address in Clapham

Molly, my (secret) contacts at the bank have found a Charles Torrington Cooper, born in 1956, who used to live at 16 Rosewater Terrace, Clapham.

I can’t guarantee that this is your father, but Torrington is an unusual middle name, and everything else matches, so chances are we’re onto something.

If you decide to go to Clapham by tube, don’t get out at Clapham Junction. That’s actually Battersea, not Clapham, and it confuses lots of visitors. You should use the Northern Line and get out at Clapham Common.

Warmest

Patrick

To: Patrick Knight

From: Molly Cooper

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

Bless you, Patrick, and bless your (secret) contacts at the bank. Please pass on my massive thanks. I’ll head out to Clapham just as soon as I can.

I hope 16 Rosewater Terrace is still there.

Molly xx

To: Patrick Knight

From: Molly Cooper

Subject: Re: An address in Clapham—another long e-mail

I’ve had the most unbelievably momentous day. A true Red Letter Day that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

Until today all I’ve ever known about my father was what my grandmother told me—that he was charming and handsome and he swept my mother off her feet, and that he didn’t have a lot of money, but managed to make my mum very happy.

Oh, and she would also tell me how excited he was when I was born. How he walked the floor with me when I had colic and was so patient, etc.

I was quite content with these pictures, and because I never knew my parents I didn’t really grieve for them. I had Gran, and she was warm and loving and doted on me, so I was fine.