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

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      • What if I try to do the right thing by her, but she misinterprets my motives? Might she think I’m amusing myself at her expense? After all, she’s spilled out her heart to me. She might feel horribly embarrassed if I turned up and tried to act out her fantasy.

       So where does that leave me? I suppose I could arrange to meet her on neutral ground—in a little café somewhere. Or perhaps I should just phone her for a chat. But then I wouldn’t see her, would I?

      To: Patrick Knight <[email protected]>

      From: Molly Cooper <[email protected]>

      Subject: You’re never going to believe this, Patrick!

      I don’t know whether you’re home from the reef yet, but I’m writing this at midnight because I just have to tell you. The most astonishing, amazing, incredible, miraculous thing.

      He … Him … The man of my dreams has turned up on my doorstep.

      The most gorgeous Englishman. In. The. World.

      I hyperventilate just thinking about him, but I’ve got to calm down so I can tell you my news.

      Patrick, I’ve met your colleague—Peter Kingston, who, as you know, has been working in South America for the same banking company you work for. Now he’s back in London for a short break.

      OK, I know you must be asking how I can gush about a new man when I’m supposed to be going out with Brad. No doubt you’re thinking I’m the shallowest and ficklest woman in the entire universe.

      First, let me explain that Brad left last Friday, heading off on another adventure, with no definite plans to come back this way. He’s now somewhere at the top of Norway in the Arctic Circle, looking for the Midnight Sun.

      He wanted me to go with him, but, while I’m sure the sun at midnight is well worth seeing, I didn’t want to spend my hard-earned cash chasing off to another country when there’s still so much of England that I haven’t seen.

      As you mentioned once in an e-mail, the rural parts of England are beautiful. I can’t leave without seeing at least some parts beyond London, so other countries will have to come later.

      Besides, Brad was fun to go out with here in London, but he was never the kind of guy I’d follow to the ends of the earth.

      So, Brad had gone, and it was a Monday night—one of my nights off—and I was having a quiet night in. Oh, you have no idea, Patrick. I was at my dreckest, with no make-up and in old jeans, an ancient sweater and slippers (slippers—can you imagine anything more octogenarian?).

      Worse, I was eating my dinner on my lap in front of the telly, and when the front doorbell rang I got such a surprise I spilled spaghetti Bolognese all down my front.

      I was mopping bright red sauce from my pale grey sweater as I headed for the door, and then I was stuffing tissues into my back pocket as I opened the door. And then, as they say all the time on American TV—Oh. My. God.

      Patrick, let me give you a female perspective on your work colleague.

      He’s tall. He’s dark. He’s handsome. The nice, unselfconscious kind of handsome that goes with chocolate-brown eyes and a heart-stoppingly attractive smile.

      And when he spoke—you know where this is going, don’t you? Yes, he has a rich baritone voice, and a beautifully refined English accent, and I swear I almost swooned at his feet.

      The only thing that stopped me from fainting dead away was my need to make sure he hadn’t rung the wrong doorbell by mistake.

      There was no mistake, thank heavens. Number 34 was Peter’s destination. But, to be honest, our initial meeting was a teensy bit awkward. I was flustered. Of course I was. Can you blame me? And I guess my blushing confusion flustered Peter, too.

      He seemed rather nervous and uncertain, and I couldn’t help wondering if you’d given him orders to call on me. If you did, were you setting yourself up as a matchmaker?

      Anyway … We both tried to talk at once, and then we stopped, and then he smiled again and said, ever so politely, ‘You go first, Molly. You were saying …?’

      Oh, he was the perfect gentleman. He kept his eyes averted from the sauce stains on my chest while I stumbled through my story of why you weren’t here and why I was living in your house. Then he explained who he was.

      Once that was sorted, and it was clear after a few more prudent questions that we were both at a bit of a loose end, Peter asked ever so casually if I’d like to go out for a drink. I’m afraid I had to wait for my heart to slide back to its normal place in my chest before I was able to accept his invitation.

      In no time Peter was comfortably settled on your sofa and watching TV, while I scurried upstairs to change.

      If there was ever a wardrobe crisis moment when a girl might wish for a fairy godmother, that was it. The jeans and T-shirts I’d worn on dates with Brad were totally unsuitable to wear out for a drink with Peter. He was in a suit! (No tie, admittedly, but still, a suit’s a suit.)

      I might have found it easier to think about clothes if my brain hadn’t been swirling like a Category 5 cyclone. Here I was, with a chance to go out with my dream Englishman, and I was freaking out. I was very afraid I wasn’t up to the challenge.

      Panic attack!!

      Thank heavens the possibility of failure snapped me out of it. How could I not go out with this man? Till the end of my days I would never forgive myself. And in a strange way I also felt I owed it to you, Patrick. You sounded rather disappointed that I’d given up on my Englishman.

      So I fell on my camel suede skirt like an old friend—the same skirt I wore to afternoon tea with your mother—and the gods must have been smiling on me, for I found a clean silk shirt and tights with no ladders.

      I can’t do fancy make-up, so applying lipgloss and mascara didn’t take long, and there’s not a lot a girl can do with my kind of curly hair, so Peter was pleasantly surprised when I was back downstairs inside ten minutes.

      He gave me the warmest smile, as if he quite liked how I looked, and off we went. Not to the Empty Bottle, thank heavens. Peter quite understood about avoiding my workplace.

      We went to a bar that I hadn’t even noticed before. It’s so discreet it just looks like someone’s house from the outside. (Another of London’s secrets?) Inside, there were people gathered in couples or small groups, and everyone was comfortably seated on barstools or in armchairs, which made a pleasant change from the noisy Empty Bottle, which is usually standing room only.

      After our awkward start, I was surprised to feel quite quickly at ease. Sitting there with Peter in comfortable chairs, sipping my Sloe gin fizz and gazing into his lovely dark coffee eyes, I should have been dumbstruck with awe, but he has the same easy way that your mother has.

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