Love Letters (39 page)

As he read on about commitment and letting someone down gently, Laura’s mouth went dry, blood coloured her cheeks scarlet and she thought she might faint. Was he talking about her? Had he written a short story about her, and their relationship, if it could be called a relationship?

The rest of the story passed through her ears without fully connecting with her brain. It was a defence mechanism, she decided, when she realised she couldn’t capture his words any more than she could catch thistledown. The odd word floated through slowly enough for her to grasp it. ‘
Betrayal . . . passion
’, and, cruelly, ‘
hero-worship
’.

The more he read the more she felt a chill clutch at her heart. He’d written about her, about them, about unrequited love and letting someone down gently. And he had read it out loud, to a room full of people. Why couldn’t he have just sent her an email? At least she could have read it in private.

She sat on the stage waiting for the torture to end, grateful that the audience was so enraptured by Dermot that none of them was looking at her. Thankfully no one would connect the story with her, there was no reason why anyone should. That helped. She felt now she could finish the event with dignity even if she felt like crawling away and hiding from the world for ever. She realised a small part of her had still hoped, but he couldn’t have been clearer. How could she ever face him again? A glance at her watch told her there’d be no time for questions. She knew Dermot would be glad of this.

When his story came to an end the audience got to its feet, thundering applause as loud as possible. She was vaguely aware of mobile phone cameras clicking and even some flashes. Had some press got in the event? She knew they weren’t supposed to be there, but how could they be stopped really?

Dermot came to the front of the stage with his hands held up to silence them. Laura crept off the stage into the sanctuary of the darkened wings.

Chapter Twenty

She knew that however much she wanted to, she had one more task to do before she could head for the sanctuary of the cottage. Seeing her old boss Henry in the book room was a lovely surprise. It shouldn’t have been, of course. She knew he was supplying books for the festival but it was the first time they’d caught up with each other. His dear old face was a welcome sight after what she’d just been through.

‘Sweetie!’ he said, leaping to his feet, then added, less enthusiastically, ‘You’re looking rather tired.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Laura, smiling widely, hoping he wouldn’t spot the effort it took, ‘we’ve been fantastically busy.’

‘But hugely successful,’ Henry said approvingly. ‘All the literary world is here and listening to every word Dermot utters.’

Laura shuddered and then hastily turned it into a shrug. ‘His events have been very well attended, but so have all the others. Now, am I really needed here? Or shall I get back?’ She so wanted to creep away to a darkened room.

‘You’re needed here.’ Henry was firm. ‘You’ve just interviewed the star of the show. That means you’re a bit of a star yourself. Ah, here’s Eleanora.’

Eleanora swooped down on Laura in a cloud of black sequins, shocking pink bugle beads and marabou. Her earrings bit into Laura’s cheek as they kissed. ‘Darling, if you’re even dreaming of escaping before Dermot’s done his signing, forget it. He’s having a late supper with Jacob Stone, but right now he’s fighting his way through the autograph-hunters. He’ll be here in a minute to sign books.’

‘I hope some of this vast crowd buy books,’ said Henry. ‘Trouble is, when there’s nothing new—’

‘There IS something new,’ said Eleanora triumphantly, ‘and I can’t help thinking that Laura had something to do with it.’

Laura sat down suddenly on Henry’s recently vacated chair, her knees weak. She felt hot and cold all at the same time. For a moment she thought Eleanora had guessed. ‘I really don’t think – I mean – I think he must have been writing obsessively before I . . .’ Aware she was in danger of revealing what had gone on after she’d discovered him in Ireland she stopped.

‘Oh, darling,’ Eleanora would have none of it. ‘You’re so bloody modest! Take the credit! He’s produced nothing for nearly fifteen years. You walk into his life and he’s writing again! And you were so professional out there. Now, just for a moment, be happy!’

‘But I’m not—’

‘You’ll never get her to take the credit for anything,’ said Henry, producing a glass of wine from behind his table and handing it to Eleanora. ‘Best not to pester her.’

Laura was about to protest some more when he handed her a glass of wine too. ‘Just sit there and relax. You’ve had a long day.’

Laura sipped the wine, missing her quiet days at the bookshop and Henry very much. Just lately life had been far too exciting for a bluestocking.

Monica came rushing in. She bent and hugged Laura hard. ‘That was so lovely! So tender, so utterly beautiful.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve been crying my eyes out!’

‘Why? What?’ Laura narrowly missed spilling her wine as she disentangled herself. Surely Monica didn’t suspect either? She was in danger of sobbing into her friend’s chest.

The thought of everything she and Dermot had shared reduced to a story – albeit a brilliant one – made her want to cry. She knew for the sake of the literary world she should be thankful he’d lost his writer’s block, and if she’d helped in any way then she should be proud to have been of service, but right at this moment she could only think of herself and the tragedy of it all and just hope no one thought to ask whom the story was about. She couldn’t bear to be exposed to the examination of the world. She would just die of embarrassment if word got out.

People were beginning to come through to buy books now, but no one was looking in her direction as if to say ‘poor you’.

And then the great man himself arrived, flanked by admirers and press alike. Their eyes met briefly and Laura saw in his a tender concern that told her everything she felt she needed to know: the story
was
about her. The reason he’d wanted to talk to her in private was so that he could explain it to her and she hadn’t let him. He probably knew she was in love with him. She wouldn’t have been the first down that particularly rocky road, after all. And with her naivety, it was pretty inevitable, given what they’d shared. He, being basically kind, didn’t want her hurt. But her feelings were not returned. She just wished he hadn’t put it all into a story and read it out so publicly. He of all people should know the value of privacy. And if he felt that way why had he even joked about a ‘shag’? She was so confused.

But she smiled at him, every cell of her body trying to convey that it was all right, she wasn’t in love with him, didn’t think the story was about her. In fact, she wanted him to know that everything with her was fine and dandy. She was asking a lot from her smile, she was well aware, but she did her best.

Then, making a heroic effort, she moved her way through the crowd until she met him, halfway to his signing table. ‘Well done, Dermot!’ she said bravely. ‘That was fantastic! I hope you don’t mind if I go back now. I’ve got a splitting headache.’ The fact that this part was true lent veracity to the rest of it. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

He looked back up at her, frowning a little as his pen hovered over a book. ‘Will I not see you later?’

Laura shrugged. ‘Oh yes. When I’ve got rid of the headache I’ll come over. Probably.’

She didn’t wait to see if he’d accepted this, she just fought her way out of the room and then the cinema, hoping she’d come across someone who could take her home.

She spotted Reg, the driver who’d brought Dermot to the event. She knocked on the window. ‘Any chance of a lift back to Somerby? Dermot will be ages yet. I’ve got a frightful headache.’

He wound down the window. ‘Jump in. I’ll have you back in no time.’

So far so good. She’d take aspirin, drink hot milk and go to bed and worry about having to face Dermot, possibly over breakfast, in the morning. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

Another note to Monica, apologising for her ‘copping out’, and Laura climbed the stairs to the mezzanine level and fell into bed. She was genuinely exhausted but it took her a little time to relax enough to sleep. She knew that everyone else involved in the festival was just as exhausted and she was dipping out, leaving them to carry on. It wasn’t fair, really. But although she felt guilty, she didn’t feel guilty enough to get up again and go over to the main house and help. She had to think how she was going to get through the next twenty-four hours.

Laura awoke full of determination. She would go to breakfast at nine o’clock and face Dermot like a grown woman, not a lovesick teenager. She’d had her night of heartbreak, now she’d face ‘Real Life’ head on. She would not let anyone, most of all Dermot, see how hurt she was.

She would have liked to have had Monica with her, but as she’d suspected she might, she had a text instead, saying that Monica was staying with Seamus and would be back sometime the following day and that Grant had headed off to his aunt’s for the day.

Oh well, thought Laura, trying to find something to be positive about, it means I can spend as long as I like in the shower. She was determined to turn up to breakfast looking fabulous. No one would know she was heartbroken and felt betrayed, least of all Dermot. She would sweep in on the tide of the success of the festival and eat sausages, eggs and bacon with pride! She was seriously tempted to put a fabric rose Monica had left lying about behind her ear.

‘Good morning,’ she cooed as she opened the kitchen door, sounding worryingly like a primary-school teacher addressing her flock.

She looked quickly round the room and realised Dermot wasn’t there. Relief and disappointment raged for a moment and disappointment won. She chided herself. Even now her heart was in danger of ruling her head. She pulled out a chair next to Veronica, who was reading the paper. Veronica lowered the
Daily Telegraph
a little and gave Laura a warm smile over the top of it. Fenella was yawning into a cup of coffee; Reg, the driver, had a piece of fried bread and was cleaning up every scrap of egg yolk with it; and Sarah was writing things down in a notebook. Hugo, next to her, appeared to be composing a sonnet to the piece of sausage on his fork. Eleanora was sipping mint tea with her eyes half closed. Although there were several people in it, the big kitchen felt rather empty.

‘Laura!’ said Rupert from the Aga, wearing a striped apron and wielding a fish slice. ‘What will you have? A bit of everything? A kipper?’

‘No kippers, thank you. But I’ll have everything except black pudding,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Black pudding is full of iron you know, darling,’ said Eleanora, ‘but I’m glad to see you’ve got an appetite. You look a bit peaky.’

The appetite vanished. Why did Eleanora say that? Why was she surprised, or commenting on her appetite? She must stop being paranoid.

Laura reached for some toast. ‘Well, you know how it is, I didn’t eat much last night.’ She took a breath. ‘Dermot not up yet?’

‘Oh no!’ Eleanora was suddenly bursting with good humour and news. ‘I forgot you didn’t know. He went off to London last night so he can do breakfast telly today.’

‘But I thought he was having a late dinner with Jacob Stone?’

‘He did, and then the two of them went off to London in Jacob’s helicopter,’ said Fenella. ‘We’ve recorded the show,’ she went on. ‘It was on horribly early. But I think he’s doing another couple of shows, isn’t he, Aunt – I mean, Eleanora?’

‘Loose Women
,’ said Eleanora. ‘Excellent programme.’

Laura, feeling bewildered, looked round the table for clarification.

Sarah, who had closed her notebook and was now gathering plates in the corner, helped her out. ‘It’s a lunchtime show where a group of women discuss current affairs, and gossip.’

‘It sounds right up Dermot’s street,’ said Laura, just as Rupert put a sizzling plate down in front of her. ‘Oh, that looks delicious!’

Reg got up, taking his plate with him. ‘It was. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.’

Now that Reg had left, it seemed that everyone else apart from Laura had had their cooked breakfast and were now just reading the papers, eating toast and drinking coffee.

Everyone was behaving so naturally she didn’t need to pretend to be her usual cheery self. And with Dermot out of the county there was no danger of her bumping into him and being forced to see the concern on his face all over again.

Fenella came and sat down next to her. ‘So it’s just Damien Stubbs’s event tonight, and then we’ve done the big stars. The event is sold out and that man from
The Times
is arriving at lunchtime. Plenty of time for Damien to miss his train and get the next one.’