It Had To Be You: Man of the Year 2016. Nikki Logan
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 <[email protected]>
From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Karli Henderson <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Karli Henderson <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
Form: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>
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.
But ever since I’ve been in London I’ve been thinking rather a lot about Charlie Cooper. I’d look at things like Nelson’s Column or Marble Arch, or even just an ordinary shop window, and I’d wonder if my dad had ever stood there, looking at the exact same thing. I’d feel as if he was there with me, as if he was glad that I was seeing his home town.
The feeling was even stronger today when I arrived in Clapham. Every lamppost and shopfront felt significant. I found myself asking if the schoolboy Charlie had passed here on his way to school. Did he stop here to buy marbles or there to buy cream buns?
And then I found Rosewater Terrace and my heart started to pound madly.
It’s a long narrow street, and it feels rather crowded in between rows of tall brick houses with tiled roofs and chimney pots, and there are cars parked along both sides of the street, adding to the crowded-in feeling. There are no front yards or gardens. Everyone’s front door opens straight onto the footpath.
When I reached number 16 I felt very strange, as if tiny spiders were crawling inside me. I stood there on the footpath, staring at the house, at windows with sparkling glass and neat white frames, and at the panels on the front door, painted very tastefully in white and two shades of grey.
The doorknob was bright and shiny and very new, and there were fresh white lace curtains in the window and a lovely blue jug filled with pink and white lilies.
It was very inviting, and I longed to take a peek inside. I wondered what would happen if knocked on the door. If someone answered, could I tell them that my father and his family used to live there? How would they react?
I was still standing there dithering, trying to decide what to do, when the door of the next house opened and a little old lady, wearing an apron and carrying a watering can, came shuffling out in her slippers.
‘I was just watering my pot plants and I saw you standing there,’ she said. ‘Are you lost, dearie?’
She looked about a hundred years old, but she was so sweet and concerned I found myself telling her exactly why I was there. As soon as I said the words ‘Charles Cooper’, her eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth dropped like a trap door. I thought I’d given her a heart attack.
It seemed to take ages before she got her breath back. ‘So you’re Charlie’s little Australian daughter,’ she said. ‘Well, I never. Oh, my dear, of course. You look just like him.’
Daisy—that’s her name, Daisy Groves—hugged me then, and invited me inside her house, and we had the loveliest nostalgic morning. She told me that she’d lived in Rosewater Terrace ever since she was married, almost sixty years ago, and she’d known my dad from the day he was