LITMIR.BIZ

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my favourite clothes—a bikini and a sarong—might not ring true for a teller in a bank in London.

      So last night I sat down and tried to pretend I was Beth and to answer your questions as if I was her—and I suddenly understood your dilemma. It’s really, really hard to just make someone up, isn’t it? But it’s fun, too.

      So let’s see. If I was Beth, working in a bank, I think I’d be super-prim like a librarian during the day, but I’d wear sexy lingerie underneath my work clothes (to remind the reader of my wild side and because it feels so lovely against my skin). And I’d wear wild colours on my weekends—rainbow-coloured leggings or knee-high red boots with micro-mini-skirts. And I’d be the queen of scarves—silk, crocheted, long, short. For when it’s cold I’d have a coat with a big faux fur collar.

      I’m getting carried away, aren’t I? But it’s so much fun to pretend to be English. I don’t get to wear any of that sort of gear on the island.

      Beth’s favourite colour would change every week, and her spending habits would be a perfect balance between thriftiness and recklessness—because she wants to enjoy life, but she’s also a sensible bank teller. Unlike me. I’m always the same about money—as penny-pinching as they come. I have to be.

      Beth’s most prized possession is the ridonkulously expensive little red (not black) dress that she bought for the one time she went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden with the man of her dreams. (My most prized possession is my house. As I’m sure yours must be for you, Patrick.)

      In case you were wondering, my grandmother left Pandanus Cottage to me, but she left me a mortgage, too, because she had to refinance to keep me through the high school years. She sent me to a good private school she couldn’t really afford, the darling.

      I consider myself very lucky. My house is my ticket to a safe and steady future, so I pay my mortgage rather than splashing out on trendy fashions. That’s where living on the island comes in handy. You must have noticed that it’s a budget-friendly, fashion-free zone. Anything goes.

      Not so for Beth.

      Now for her talents. Could she be secretly brilliant at doing arithmetic in her head? (Again, that’s the very opposite of me. The calculator on my mobile phone is my best friend.) Could Beth’s cleverness be of huge save-the-day importance at some time in your plot?

      As for nervous habits … Well, I tend to mess with my hair … as if it wasn’t already messy enough. I don’t think Beth should do that. I’m positive she has very sleek, flowing hair—the kind of shiny waterfall hair you see in shampoo advertisements. The kind of hair I used to pray for when I was twelve.

      Could Beth be a stutterer instead? Could she have worked hard to overcome her stutter, and now it only breaks out when she’s really, really nervous—like when your bad guy holds a gun to her head, or, to her huge embarrassment, when really, really gorgeous men speak to her?

      Hmm. That’s about all I can think of for now. Not sure how helpful any of this might be, but it was fun playing at being an author. There must be times when you feel like a god.

      Molly x

      PS Patrick, you do know Beth must have a tattoo, don’t you? Where it is on her body and what it looks like I’ll leave to your fertile authorly imagination.

      To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      Subject: Gainfully employed

      You’ve been very quiet, Patrick. Is everything OK?

      I have sad news. I landed a job yesterday and I have to start soon. I’ll be serving drinks behind the bar in the Empty Bottle—which, as you know, is a newly renovated pub just around the corner. Four evenings a week. But that still leaves me with mornings free, and three full days each week for sightseeing.

      I admit I’m not looking forward to working, but the coffers need bolstering, and at least this job should provide great opportunities to meet loads of new people (maybe even that dream man). I can’t complain about a few shifts behind a bar when you’re spending the whole time you’re away slaving over a hot laptop.

      I hope the novel is going really well for you.

      Best wishes

      Molly

      To: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: Gainfully employed

      Thanks for the description of your vision of Beth. I really like it. I think my hero’s going to like her, too.

      I’m very sorry you have to start work. Seems a pity when there’s so much of London you want to see. I guess the extra cash will be helpful, though. Perhaps it will allow you to take a few trips out into the countryside as well? Rural England is very pretty at this time of year.

      I’ve only been in the Empty Bottle on a couple of occasions (my usual is closer to work), but it seemed like a nice pub.

      Please keep me informed. It could be a place frequented by the likes of Beth Harper, so keep a lookout for high-heeled red boots and micro-mini-skirts.

      I’ve taken your advice and kitted my heroine out in sexy underwear and your recommended wardrobe.

      I’m still giving deep thought to her (discreet) tattoo.

      P.

      To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      Subject: A bedtime story

       Goldilocks Revisited

      So I trudged home late last night, after a gruelling shift at the Empty Bottle. My head was aching from the pub’s loud music and all the laughter and shouting of noisy drinkers. In fact my head hurt so much I thought the top might lift right off. As you might imagine, I wasn’t in a very good mood.

      My mood wasn’t improved when I dragged my weary bones into my/your bedroom and switched on the light.

      Someone was sleeping in my/your bed!

      Someone blonde, naked and busty. And tipsy. Quite tipsy.

      You remember Angela, don’t you, Patrick?

      She’d been at a party a few blocks away and she’d had too much to drink and needed somewhere to crash. She had a key to your house, and I don’t think she had to go to a bank to get it from a safety deposit box.

      I slept in the spare room, but the bed wasn’t made up and I had to go hunting for sheets and blankets. I was so tired I might have slept on top of the satin quilt with only my denim jacket for warmth if satin wasn’t so slippery.

      Next day, a shade before midday, Angela came downstairs, wrapped in your port wine silk dressing gown and looking somewhat the worse for wear, and she asked about breakfast as if I was a servant.

      Patrick, you asked for my reactions to your world, but I suppose I may be coming across as somewhat manipulative in this situation—as if I’m trying to make you feel awkward and maybe even sorry for me. Or you might even think it’s the green-eyed monster raising its ugly head. But I’m not the type to get jealous of your former girlfriend when I haven’t even met you.

      I just don’t do headaches well. That’s all.

      Anyway, I was determined to be generous, so I cooked up an enormous hangover breakfast for Angela and she wolfed it down. Bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with toast and expensive marmalade, plus several cups of strong coffee. It all disappeared with the speed of light. The colour came back into her face. She even managed to smile.

      I do admit that Angela is exceptionally pretty when she smiles—a beautiful, delicate, silky blonde. I tried to dislike her, but

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