Authors: Katie Fforde
Love Letters (35 page)
‘I really liked it at university,’ said Laura, frightened that she’d shown her feelings for Dermot far too clearly. She quickly steered the conversation away from him. ‘But I really love your books. How do you find writing a book a year?’
‘Well,’ said Anne. ‘I’d like it a lot better if every year had fourteen months in it, but lots of writers write far more than I do.’
‘And lots write far less.’ Her phone went and Laura smiled. ‘Far less . . . Excuse me a moment,’ she said before connecting.
‘How the feck do you get into this place?’
He was downstairs. Barely excusing herself, Laura ran down the stairs and started wrestling with the huge key. ‘I can’t open it!’ she called to Dermot.
‘Try pulling it towards you,’ he called back.
Laura did, and eventually got the key to turn. Dermot was standing there, looking completely disreputable in an old leather jacket and blue jeans. Her heart clenched at the sight of him. He strode in, dropped a bag at her feet and looked at her. ‘Did you dress up as a leprechaun just for me?’
‘Don’t be silly!’ she said crossly, desperate to avoid sounding coy.
She saw him look at her mouth and she felt breathless.
‘Are you all right? That key can be quite tricky,’ said Rupert coming up behind Laura. Laura wasn’t sure if she was pleased to see him at that moment or not. Rupert smiled and held out his hand. ‘You must be the famous Dermot Flynn. Welcome!’
‘I think you must mean infamous,’ said Dermot.
‘Either way, it’s good to see you. We started dinner, I’m afraid.’
Dermot, who had picked up his bag halted. ‘Dinner. Ah. What I need is a shower and a shave.’ Then he looked wickedly at Laura and mouthed, ‘And a shag.’
She blushed and looked away. Just for a moment she wanted to go with him to where they could be alone for a very long time. Then she mentally shook herself. She wouldn’t let him weave his spell on her again. She mustn’t.
‘I don’t want to meet everyone in all my dirt,’ went on Dermot, possibly completely unaware of the effect he was having on Laura.
‘You don’t have to—’ Rupert began.
‘Trust me,’ said Dermot. ‘I do have to. For various reasons, I haven’t had a shower for a few days.’
‘Right. I’ll show you to your room then. It has an en suite.’
‘And how will I find my way to the party afterwards? This is a huge pile you have here.’
‘I’ll come and fetch you,’ said Rupert. ‘In about fifteen minutes?’
‘Fifteen minutes is fine. But would you not send the leprechaun?’ He nodded his head towards Laura, in case Rupert was in any doubt who he was referring to.
Rupert laughed. ‘She’ll get more lost than you will.’
‘Mm,’ said Dermot, looking at Laura in a way that made her just want to smile and smile, ‘that might not be so dreadful.’
Chapter Eighteen
Laura went back upstairs trying very hard to wipe the smile of sheer joy at seeing Dermot again off her face. As she got to the door she remembered she could be pleased for the festival’s sake, and stopped bothering. There was time enough for her to be sensible and remember he was the enemy and she needed to protect herself – and more importantly her heart – from him.
‘He’s here!’ she announced. ‘Dermot Flynn has actually deigned to turn up!’
A buzz of exclamations filled the room. ‘What’s he like?’ said Anne Marsh, when Laura had got back to her place.
‘Well, I had met him before—’
‘You’ve met him before? But I thought he was practically a recluse!’
‘Not at all,’ broke in Eleanora. ‘He’s just damn difficult to get out of Ireland. Laura did a grand job getting him to come.’
Some man said, ‘Did you have to sleep with him to get him to agree?’
Laura looked and saw it was one of the young literary writers. She gave him a withering look. ‘As if that would really work.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would for me.’
‘Oh,’ said Laura, having worked out eventually that he didn’t mean that he wanted to sleep with Dermot. She blushed deeply.
‘It would be no hardship sleeping with him,’ said Veronica. ‘I saw him on television, years ago and thought: Mr Darcy, eat your heart out.’
Perfectly presented portions of Jubilee Chicken were being served over their shoulders. ‘I prefer that Sean Bean myself,’ said the Catering Lady who had just delivered the chicken.
The young writer ignored this interjection, it being from a motherly soul who was obviously only a waitress. ‘You romantic novelists, you’re just suckers for an Irish brogue and an easy smile,’ he said. Laura remembered he had been shortlisted for some prize or other and one reviewer had likened him to Dermot.
‘Oh, it’s general,’ said Veronica, smiling sweetly. ‘All women are suckers for an Irish brogue and an easy smile – don’t they come in pairs? You might have to work just that bit harder. Although,’ she added kindly, having watched him bluster a bit, ‘lots of women are attracted to writers per se.’
Anne glanced at her colleague. The young man, who was now blushing and blustering in equal measures, obviously didn’t quite know how to take this.
‘I don’t know why he’s considered such a draw,’ he said, sounding resentful. ‘He’s not J. D. Salinger, is he?’
‘Well, no,’ agreed Anne. ‘But he does have rarity value, doesn’t he? I mean, he may not have produced anything for ages, but he was – is so good.’
‘And tasty,’ added Veronica.
‘I’ll second that,’ threw in one of the literary critics, overhearing this conversation.
‘What? That he’s tasty?’ Veronica raised her eyebrows. ‘Something for the gossip columns?’
‘My dear girl, I didn’t mean that,’ he said, ‘as you very well know.’ He gave her a teasing look. They obviously knew each other. ‘What I meant was, we’re all here from curiosity. No one from the literary world has set eyes on him for years.’
‘And personally speaking, I’m quite happy for him to be the main attraction at the festival,’ said Anne. Then she took pity on the young writer who was looking a bit downcast. ‘So tell me, Adam,’ she said, putting her hand on his and capturing his attention, ‘what are you writing now?’
He was thrilled. ‘My third novel. I’ve been working on it for a couple of years now. Just about taking shape.’
‘Two years! If it’s not a rude question,’ said Veronica, sabotaging her friend’s attempts to be nice, ‘how do you support yourself between novels?’
‘I’m a English lecturer.’ He looked pained. ‘My novels are my work, my life! I don’t expect to make money out of them.’
Veronica and Anne exchanged glances and cleared their throats. ‘Sorry,’ Veronica went on. ‘I didn’t realise that making money from one’s novels was on a par with selling one’s daughters into prostitution. It’s how I earn my crust.’
Laura chuckled inwardly. Anne and Veronica had swept up the drive to Somerby in a Porsche. Some crust.
‘Well, I don’t just churn them out, like you do.’ Adam took an affronted gulp of his wine.
Anne and Veronica didn’t need to look at each other to pick up each other’s thoughts. Veronica patted Adam’s hand. ‘It’s all right, sweetie. There’ll always be a place in the publishing world for a well-received novel that no one actually reads, let alone buys. You keep on crafting those perfect sentences.’
‘I say! That’s a bit—’
‘Patronising? Sorry,’ said Veronica. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll be all sweetness and light from now on, as my reputation requires.’ She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Dermot managed to do both – write like an angel and sell in shed-loads.’
Laura, satisfied that no blows would be exchanged or glasses of wine thrown, leant across to Monica. ‘You’d better get in touch with Ironstone! And tell the people who aren’t here about Dermot.’
‘They’ll be so pleased! And Ironstone!’ She clapped her hands excitedly. ‘I must buy new knickers.’
Laura became aware of Fenella trying to say something to her but she was too far away. She leant in and concentrated on lip reading. After several attempts she picked up that Fenella thought it was a pity that Jacob Stone had decided not to come to this dinner.
‘He probably didn’t think Dermot would turn up!’ Laura mouthed back.
Fenella nodded agreement. ‘It means I’ve got to get Dermot to agree to meet him on his own.’ She frowned across at Laura. ‘Is he very difficult?’
Laura leant further forward, still struggling to hear. ‘Who, Jacob Stone? I thought he was your friend.’
‘No!’ Frustrated, Fenella raised her voice. ‘No! Dermot! Is Dermot really as difficult as everyone says he is?’
At that moment the double doors opened. ‘Right on cue,’ murmured Veronica. ‘You couldn’t have stage-managed it better.’
Dermot, shaved but still wearing his casual shirt and jeans, stood looking directly at Fenella. Then he smiled. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
Fenella got up from the table and walked round to greet him. She hesitated as if not sure if she should kiss him or shake his hand. ‘I don’t know what to say. In some ways, I feel I know you,’ she said.
He just smiled and opened his arms. ‘You’d better give me a hug, then.’
Fenella went straight into them.
Laura was aware of a pang of jealousy so deep at first she thought it was actual pain. She’d thought it was fine, that she’d had her magical time with Dermot and now he belonged to the rest of the world. But her heart wasn’t clued up to her rationalisation and it hurt. He hadn’t hugged her like that.
‘I’ve put you next to Eleanora,’ Fenella was saying.
‘I don’t want to sit next to her. I want to sit by the leprechaun and these attractive women.’
There was an instant shuffling of chairs and people getting up and sitting down. Laura caught Sarah’s look of resignation as her carefully planned seating arrangements were tossed into disarray. There was a frantic shifting of cutlery and glasses, too.
‘I know perfectly well why you don’t want to sit by me, Dermot,’ said Eleanora placidly. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll get to you later.’
‘We ought to discuss your various events,’ said Laura, struggling to breathe properly and working very hard on being businesslike. ‘Tomorrow you’re supposed to be reading extracts of your books with Celtic music accompanying.’
His look of disgust made Anne and Veronica chuckle.
‘Of course, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,’ said Fenella quickly. ‘Laura’s chosen some extracts and Rupert’s going to read them in an Irish accent. We have a CD for the music.’
At this his look of disgust was even more extreme.
‘Or whatever you prefer,’ said Fenella. ‘Really—’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ said Laura. ‘I’m sure now he’s here, Dermot will do whatever he’s scheduled to do.’ She smiled sweetly at him.
‘For a leprechaun you’re very bad-tempered,’ he said.
‘Not at all. Leprechauns are notoriously bad-tempered. Think of Rumpelstiltskin,’ she said, trying to sound sniffy. She was enjoying herself. She could banter with him without fearing for her safety.
‘I always thought he was very hard done by,’ said Anne to Veronica.
‘So did I!’ said Dermot, joining in with glee. ‘He helps that materialistic woman—’
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Anne. ‘She was sold into that marriage by her father.’
‘And the king wasn’t much better,’ agreed Veronica. ‘He only wanted her for her ability to spin straw into gold.’
‘Oh, I think he wanted the girl for her beauty too,’ said Dermot. ‘He just used the straw-into-gold thing as an excuse.’
Laura channelled her tumultuous feelings into a snappish efficiency. ‘Lovely though it is to hear all your thoughts on the subtext of traditional fairy stories, firstly I don’t think Rumplestiltskin was actually a leprechaun and secondly, could I just bring us all back to the present day? Dermot has to do an event for which every ticket has been sold. Could we agree what it is?’
‘Does that mean we won’t be doing the panel?’ said Adam, sounding disappointed. ‘I was really hoping—’
‘For some publicity?’ said Anne. ‘Surely not!’ Her amused expression took the sting out of her words.
Adam glanced at her sideways, as if a full-on look might turn him to stone, and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘So how many paperbacks would you reckon to sell?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Anne. ‘If I’m lucky, about a hundred thousand.’
‘A hundred thousand? Bloody hell!’
‘She’s being modest,’ said Veronica. ‘She sells far more than that.’
‘Only because they’re in the supermarkets.’ Now that she’d demolished him, Anne now wanted Adam to feel better.
Laura was trying to catch Dermot’s attention but he was too busy enjoying the interchange between the popular-fiction writer and the literary novelist.
She opened her mouth to try again but Monica pipped her to the post. ‘Dermot, do you remember me?’
His charm was like an interrogation light: no one, let alone a woman like Monica, could fail to melt a little under its influence, in spite of how she’d been with him when they were in Ireland. ‘How could I forget the woman who asked such searching questions from the floor?’
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