you try Sydney or Brisbane? Even Cairns?’
Molly rolled her eyes. As if any Australian city could live up to her vision of England’s famous capital. For as long as she could remember, she’d been entranced by London—by its history, its buildings, its pageantry, its culture.
She loved all the names—like Portobello Road, the Serpentine, Piccadilly Circus and Battersea. For her they had a thrilling, magical ring. Like poetry.
Karli shrugged. ‘If I went overseas, I’d rather go to America. Jimbo’s going to take me to Las Vegas.’
‘Wow. When?’
‘One day. Ha-ha. If either of us ever gets a job with better pay.’
‘Money’s my problem, too. The mortgage on this place uses up most of my savings. And the rent in London’s horrendous. I’ve checked on the internet.’
‘But you might be able to manage it if you rented out this place.’
Molly shuddered. Renting this cottage would mean a series of strangers living here, and it wouldn’t seem right when it had been her gran’s home for more than fifty years.
‘Or,’ said Karli, ‘what about a house swap? That way you’d get to pick who lives here, and it would only be for a short time. My cousin in Cairns swapped with a couple from Denmark, and it worked out fine.’
‘A house swap?’ A tingling sensation danced down Molly’s spine. ‘How does that work?’
Patrick Knight glared at the towering pile of paperwork on his desk, and then he glared at his watch. Past eight already, and he would be here for hours yet.
Grimacing, he picked up his mobile phone and thumbed a hasty text message. Angela was not going to like this, but it couldn’t be helped.
Ange, so sorry. Snowed under at work. Will have to bow out of tonight. Can we make a date for Friday instead? P
Snapping the phone closed, Patrick reached for the next folder in the pile. His stomach growled, and along with his hunger pangs he felt a surge of frustration.
The past years of global financial crisis had seen his job in London’s banking world morph from an interesting and challenging career into a source of constant stress.
It was like working in a war zone. Too many of his colleagues had been fired, or had resigned. Some had even suffered nervous breakdowns. At times he’d felt like the last man standing.
Yes, it was true that he had saved a couple of major accounts, but he was doing the work of three people in his department, and the shower of commendations from his boss had rather lost their shine. He’d reached the point where he had to ask why he was slogging away, working ridiculous hours and giving everything he had to his job, when his life outside the office was—
Non-existent.
Truth was, he no longer had a life away from the bank. No time to enjoy the lovely house he’d bought in Chelsea, no time to go out with his latest girlfriend. How he’d managed to meet Angela in the first place was a miracle, but almost certainly she would give up on him soon—just as her predecessors had.
As for the crazy, crazy promise he’d once made to himself that he would balance his working life with writing a novel. In his spare time. Ha-ha.
Except for Patrick it was no longer a laughing matter. This was his life, or rather his non-life, and he was wasting it. One day he’d wake up and discover he was fifty—like his boss—pale, anxious, boring and only able to talk about one thing. Work.
His mobile phone pinged. It was Angela, as expected. Tight-jawed, he clicked on her reply.
Sorry. Not Friday. Not ever. One cancellation too many. Goodbye, sweet P. Ange
Patrick cursed, but he couldn’t really blame Ange. Tomorrow he’d send her two—no, three dozen roses. But he suspected they wouldn’t do the trick. Not this time. If he was honest, he couldn’t pretend that her rejection would break his heart—but it was symptomatic of the depths to which his life had sunk.
In a burst of anger, he pushed his chair back from his desk and began to prowl.
The office felt like a prison. It was a damn prison, and he felt a mad urge to break out of it.
Actually, it wasn’t a mad urge. It was a highly reasonable and justified need. A must.
In mid-prowl, his eyes fell on the globe of the world that he’d salvaged from the old boardroom when it had been refurbished—in those giddy days before the financial world had gone belly up. Now it sat in the corner of his office, and lately he’d stared at it often, seized by a longing to be anywhere on that tiny sphere.
Anywhere except London.
Walking towards it now, Patrick spun the globe and watched the coloured shapes of the continents swirl. He touched it with his finger, feeling the friction as its pace slowed.
If I were free, I’d go anywhere. When this globe stops spinning, I’ll go wherever my finger is pointing.
The globe stopped. Patrick laughed. He’d been thinking of somewhere exotic, like Tahiti or Rio de Janeiro, but his finger was resting on the east coast of Australia. A tiny dot. An island.
He leaned closer to read the fine print. Magnetic Island.
Never heard of it.
About to dismiss it, he paused. I said I’d go anywhere—anywhere in the world. Why don’t I at least look this place up?
But why bother? It wasn’t as if it could happen. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. He was locked in here.
But what if I made it happen? Surely it’s time?
Back at his desk, Patrick tried a quick internet search for Magnetic Island, and his eyebrows lifted as the first page of links scrolled down. The island was clearly a tourist destination, with palm trees and white sand and blue tropical seas. Not so different from Tahiti, perhaps?
The usual variety of accommodations was offered. Then two words leapt out at him from the bottom of the screen: House Swap.
Intrigued, Patrick hit the link.
House Swap: Magnetic Island, Queensland, Australia
2 bedroom cottage
Location Details: Nestled among trees on a headland, this home has ocean views and is only a three-minute walk through the national park to a string of beautiful bays. Close to the Great Barrier Reef, the island provides a water wonderland for sailing, canoeing, parasailing, fishing and diving.
Preferred Swap Dates: From 1st April—flexible
Preferred Swap Length: Three to four months
Preferred Destination: London, UK
Patrick grinned. For a heady moment he could picture himself there—in a different hemisphere, in a different world.
Free, free …
Swimming with coral fishes. Lying in a hammock beneath palm trees. Checking out bikini-clad Australian girls. Writing the fabulous thriller that resided only in his head. Typing it on his laptop while looking out at the sparkling blue sea.
OK, amusement over. Nose back to the grindstone.
With great reluctance, he lifted a folder of computer printouts from the pile and flipped it open.
But his concentration was shot to pieces. His mind couldn’t settle on spreadsheets and figures. He was composing a description of his house for a similar swapping advertisement.
Home Exchange: Desirable Chelsea, London, UK
3 bedroom house with garden
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