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were always such great friends,’ Daisy told me. ‘All through their school years. Actually, I always thought—’

      She didn’t finish that sentence, just looked away with a wistful smile, but I’m guessing from the way she spoke that she’d had matchmaking dreams for my dad and Valerie. Except Charlie was one for adventure, and as soon as he’d saved enough he set off travelling around the world. Then he met my mum in Australia. End of story. Valerie married an electrician and now lives in Peterborough.

      Daisy also told me that number 16 has exactly the same layout as her house, so she let me have a good look around her place, and I saw a little bedroom at the top with a sloping ceiling. My dad’s bedroom was exactly the same.

      But there are no Coopers left in Rosewater Terrace. At least three families have lived in number 16 since my grandparents died and the house has been ‘done up’ inside several times.

      The best thing was that Daisy showed me photos of Charlie when he was a boy. Admittedly they were mainly photos of Valerie, with Charlie in the background, sometimes pulling silly faces, or sticking up his fingers behind Valerie’s head to give her rabbit’s ears.

      But I felt so connected, Patrick, and I felt as if there’d been a reason I’d always wanted to come to London and now I no longer have such a big blank question mark inside me when I think about my father. In fact, I feel happy and content in a whole new way. That’s a totally unexpected bonus.

      So thank you, Patrick. Thank you a thousand times.

      Oh, and I have to tell you the last thing Daisy said to me when I was leaving.

      ‘Your father was a naughty little boy, but he grew up to be such a charming gentleman.’ And she pressed her closed fist over her heart and sighed the way my friends sigh over George Clooney.

      I floated on happiness all the way back to the Tube station.

      Molly xx

      To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

      Patrick, it’s only just hit me—as I pressed ‘send’ on that last e-mail to you I had the most awfully revealing, jaw-dropping, lightbulb moment.

      I’m in shock.

      Because now when I think about my dreams of dating a perfect English gentleman, I have to ask if it’s really some kind of deeply subconscious Freudian search for my father.

      I felt quite eeeeuuuwwww when I tried to answer that. But where does my interest in gentlemen come from? I mean, it’s pretty weird. Most girls are interested in dangerous bad boys.

      And this leads to another question. Has becoming acquainted with so much about my father totally cured me of my desire for that impossible, unreachable dating dream? Can I strike the English gentleman off my wish list of ‘Things to Do in London’?

      I’m not sure. Right now I’m confused. It’s something I’m going to have to think about. Or sleep on.

      Molly, feeling muddled …

      x

      To: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      From: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      Subject: Re: An address in Clapham

      What fantastic news about your father!

      I’m so pleased we found the right address and that you’ve had such a good result. Charles Torrington Cooper sounds as if he was a great guy (a gentleman, no less). Lucky you, Molly. Cherish that image.

      I say that selfishly, perhaps, because my own father has caused me huge disappointment and I haven’t forgiven him. It’s not a nice place to be.

      Don’t get too hung up on trying to psychoanalyse yourself or your dating goals, Molly. I doubt we can ever understand how our attraction to the opposite sex works. And why would we want to? Wouldn’t that take all the fun out of it?

      Besides, you’ve only been in love with the idea of your perfect Englishman. Until you try the real thing you won’t be able to test your true feelings.

      Molly, you seem to me to be a woman with high ideals and fine instincts. Forget my warnings. I was being overly protective.

      Take London by storm and have fun.

      Patrick

      To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      Subject: Surrender

      Thanks for your kind and very supportive words, but I’m afraid they came almost too late. I’ve caved, Patrick. In one fell swoop I’ve wiped two of my goals from the board.

       Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies.

       Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman.

      I’ve been out with an Aussie guy.

      I know what I said about not mixing with Australians, but I realise now that I was limiting myself needlessly. It makes sense that I’d get along better with a fellow countryman. And besides, Brad’s kinda cute—a really tall, sunburned Outback Aussie, a sheep farmer from New South Wales.

      Brad may not take me to Ascot or to Covent Garden, but who did I think I was anyway—Eliza Doolittle?

      When he came into the Empty Bottle the other night it was like something out of a movie. Heads turned to watch him, and he strode straight up to me at the bar with a big broad grin on his suntanned face.

      ‘G’day,’ he said, in a lazy Australian drawl and I have to say our accent had never sounded nicer. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were on my plane coming over from Sydney. We said hi. Don’t you remember?’

      I hadn’t remembered him (don’t know why, because he’s very attractive), but I mumbled something positive and I smiled.

      ‘I sat on the other side of the aisle,’ he said. ‘I wanted to catch up with you when we landed, but I lost you in the crowds at Heathrow.’

      Can you see why a girl might find that flattering, Patrick? We were on a plane together more than a month ago, and yet Brad recognised me as soon as he walked into a crowded London bar.

      He doesn’t want to sit around talking about home, and that’s another reason to like him. He worked as crew on a yacht from Port Hamble to Cascais in Portugal, and then he crewed on a fishing boat back to England. You have to admire his sense of adventure.

      I told him about the book of London’s secrets that you sent me, and tomorrow we’re going to go to Highgate Hill to find Dick Whittington’s stone. I used to love the story about Dick and his cat, and the bells that made him turn around. Did you know that Dick really was Lord Mayor of London (four times), and that he gave money to St Thomas’s hospital as a refuge for unmarried mothers? That’s pretty amazing for way back in the 1300s.

      So at least Rule 2—educate myself about the ‘real’ London—remains intact.

      Don’t feel sorry for me, Patrick. I’m happy. Brad’s a nice bloke, and he seems pretty keen on me, so he’s helped me to get over the whole silly idea of a dream date with an English gentleman.

      I bet you’re highly relieved that you’ve heard the last about that!

      Best

      Molly

       CHAPTER SIX

      To: Felicity Knight: <[email protected]>

      From:

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