Love Letters

Table of Contents

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Epub ISBN 9781409062646

  

Published by Century in 2009

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Copyright © Katie Fforde Ltd 2009

Katie Fforde has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Century

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ISBN 9781846057342

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Katie Fforde lives in Gloucestershire with her husband and some of her three children. Recently her old hobbies of ironing and housework have given way to singing, Flamenco dancing and husky racing. She claims this keeps her fit.
Love Letters
is her fifteenth novel.

Living Dangerously

The Rose Revived

Wild Designs

Stately Pursuits

Life Skills

Thyme Out

Artistic Licence

Highland Fling

Paradise Fields

Restoring Grace

Flora’s Lot

Practically Perfect

Going Dutch

Wedding Season

To Ireland and Irishmen, this is for you!

To the lovely Laura Flemming, who really did organise a literary festival while a toddler, and was so inspiring.

To fellow writer Lesley Cookman for introducing me to the golden voiced Louise Cookman and incidentally, Lindy Hop.

To the wonderful Irish writers I met while doing an event over there, including Sarah Webb whose beautiful boots I also borrowed for this book.

To all the people who have unintentionally inspired me during the writing of this book. Some of you can’t be mentioned for legal and embarrassment reasons, but if you read this, and are in it, thank you!

To all my wonderful agents! In no particular order, Sarah Molloy, Sara Fisher and Bill Hamilton. Thank you! Only you know how much I owe you!

To everyone at Random House. Kate Elton and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore for their wonderful editing, inspiring suggestions and infinite patience. Thank you!

To the behind the scenes people who do the work, but don’t get the glory.

To Charlotte Bush and Amelia Harvell who are the best fun to go out with and give me wonderful treats (and parties!).

To the shameless marketing and sales departments who force people to buy my books, Claire Round, Louise Gibbs, Rob Waddington, Oliver Malcolm, Jay Cochrane and Trish Slattery.

To lovely Mike Morgan who took me on road trips for many years. So sad we won‘t be going again.

To Richenda Todd, who has protected me from myself for so many years, I am so grateful!

To the creators of my brilliant covers which I love!

None of it could happen without you all, I’m so lucky to have such a brilliant team behind me.

Chapter One

Someone murmured into Laura’s ear, making her jump. ‘So, what do you think of him?’

The bookshop was crowded: the area they had cleared for the reading was full; the queue to the desk of people clutching recently bought books was long and chattering enthusiastically. Laura had felt a post-Christmas event was a bit of a risk but now she was watching the people with a combination of relief and satisfaction. However carefully you prepared for a bookshop event you could never really tell until they turned up how many people would come. Nor could you be sure whether the author would perform well. Writing was a very private occupation and Laura often thought it was cruel to make them stand up on their hind legs before an audience. But even by her high standards this event was a success.

With all this in her mind, however, she hadn’t noticed anyone coming up behind her. She turned round swiftly and saw a short, late middle-aged woman dressed in clothes designed to attract attention. Laura instantly remembered seeing her when she came through the shop door with the rest of the author’s party. Her jacket looked as if it were made of tapestry and her jewellery could have been home-made by a grandchild with a welding kit, or by a hot new designer, it was hard to tell. The most startling thing about her close up was her intense, penetrating stare. She had eyes like green agate.

‘Very good, of course,’ said Laura, startled, but polite as ever, feeling drab in her ubiquitous black trousers and white shirt.

This answer didn’t seem entirely to satisfy the green eyes boring into her. ‘And have you read the book?’

‘Of course.’ Laura was firmer now, indignant at the woman’s combative tone. She worked in a bookshop. It was her job to know the stock.

A pencilled-in eyebrow was raised. ‘No “of course” about it. What did you think?’

Laura opened her mouth to say ‘wonderful’ and then decided to tell the truth instead. She had nothing to lose now, after all: her beloved job was going to be taken from her – she might as well put aside her habitual tact and say what she really thought. ‘I didn’t think it was quite as good as his first but I will be really interested to see his next one.’ She was an avid, enthusiastic but critical reader; she could tell when a writer wasn’t on top form. Then pennies tumbled in her brain, like coins from a fruit machine when someone wins the jackpot. ‘Oh my goodness, you’re his agent, aren’t you?’ Embarrassment turned her from hot to cold and back to hot again.

The woman narrowed her gaze in acknowledgement of this fact, but Laura couldn’t tell if she was smiling, or expressing disapproval – her mouth didn’t move. ‘I do have that pleasure, yes.’

Still blushing, Laura tucked a stray curl behind her ear and looked across at the young man who was now signing books for a long queue of fans. Every book-buyer, she noted, got the charming smile, each book a little personal message as well as a dedication. Not one but two publicists had come with him from his publisher’s, and not just for crowd control, but because they adored him. Writers like him were rare.

It was because he had two young women only too eager to open the books at the right page, put them into paper bags and keep his wine glass topped up, that Laura was propping up a pillar; they didn’t need her help. And Henry, the owner of the shop, had been firm. ‘You set all this up, got all these people here, ordered the wine, opened the polystyrene snacks: take a break.’

‘He’s a star,’ said Laura after watching him for a couple more moments. She wasn’t buttering up her formidable companion; she was telling it as it was.

‘I know. I’m Eleanora Huckleby, by the way.’

‘I know – now,’ said Laura, relaxing a little. Agents didn’t often come to bookshop events, but Damien Stubbs was special. ‘I’m Laura Horsley.’

‘So, do you read all the books of the people who come and do events here? I gather this shop is – was – famous for the amount of them it puts on.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura, not wanting to say ‘of course’ again, and sound prissy. She felt she was prissy, in fact, but didn’t want to advertise the fact. Although talking to this woman made her wish she’d had time to straighten her hair. She felt her rather wild ringlets belied her professional air.

‘So how do you get so many members of the public through the doors and buying books?’ Eleanora added, looking at the queue leading to the signing table. ‘At this time of year, too. I’ve been to so many where only two men and a dog turn up, and they’re staff. Not a single member of the paying public present.’

Laura recognised that sort of book signing; Henry had sent her to one when she first suggested having an event. She had been determined to do it better and had. The shop was fairly well suited to holding events, being big enough to be able to clear the right sort of space. She tried to have something on every month, so people thought of the bookshop as a place to come for a good night out.

‘I have a huge database of our customers,’ she said to her companion, ‘and I hand-pick them. If I think they’ll like the book I invite them personally. They almost always come. I also run a book club from here. Did run a book club from here.’ She sighed as she corrected herself. ‘I expect it’ll go on when the bookshop is closed. I really hope so.’