Love Letters (11 page)

He countered with books and films he’d liked, only of course he was far more critical than even Laura was, and she always thought she was picky. As she talked she saw his attention wander. No male writer could resist talking about their work, she remembered – something Henry from the bookshop had told her when she’d first started organising events. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘what we’re all waiting for is another book from you.’

There was a pause and then he took the glass out of her hand and put it down. ‘I think it’s time I took you home to bed.’

Her reactions were slowed by strong drink and it took Laura a moment or two to realise what he’d said. She forced her brain to pay attention and tell her to politely decline. It wouldn’t. She wanted to go home to bed with him and that was that. She realised she hadn’t really believed he meant it, she’d just enjoyed flirting with him. It had felt good. But she liked the idea of sleeping with him even better. She pushed aside any lingering sensibility and nodded her assent.

She retained enough sanity to text Monica to say, if not where she was going, whom she was going with, confident that someone would give Monica the address should she need it. She also added ‘I really want this’ to stop Monica rushing to the rescue. She knew that Monica would really like an in-depth discussion about what Laura was about to do, her motivation, and what she felt the outcome might be. But Monica even saying, ‘Are you sure?’ might make her change her mind, and Laura really wanted her virginity to go to her favourite writer in all the world (who also happened to be the most attractive man on the planet). She may never have another opportunity to really live and she didn’t want to be talked out of taking it.

It took them a little while to get out of the pub, Dermot had to say goodbye in various ways to so many people. But no one seemed at all surprised that Laura was going with him. She realised he could probably have had any woman he wanted in that pub at that moment; while they might have wondered at his choice, the fact that he was going home with a woman was to be expected.

‘I’m just one in a long line of women,’ she told herself during the last ‘goodbye’ conversation. ‘But that’s all right. Poets are all womanisers. At least it means he’ll know what he’s doing.’ Anticipation and fear heightened her desire. She remembered reading that they did and her addled brain tried to think where. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ she told herself, ‘and if it isn’t, it’s something to tell my grandchildren.’ Then she giggled as she imagined the unlikely scenario of her own grandmother telling her about her first sexual encounter.

Eventually they were out into the cold air. She stumbled slightly and he took her arm. Should I tell him I’m a virgin, she wondered, and then decided not to. It might stop him. It would make it far too big a deal. I want to have sex with him for all the right and all the wrong reasons, she reminded herself. I don’t want to make him feel bad about it.

She was barely aware of the short journey to his house. He strode purposefully up the path, opened the front door and pushed her gently inside. Before she had time to take anything in he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He was an expert, she decided, her knees almost buckling as whiskey and desire hit them at the same time. I have made exactly the right decision, she thought: my virginity is safe in this man’s hands! Is that what I mean? Her brain seemed to be twirling away on its own, disconnected from anything that made sense. She decided to put all thinking on hold until later; just now, she wanted to relish every moment.

Without letting go he manoeuvred her into a bedroom and carried on kissing her. He held her very tightly, pressing her to him. His hand moved from the back of her waist to her bottom and she realised she had never wanted any body else’s hand to go there – how strange it was that an intimate touch could be so horrible from the wrong person and so wonderful from the right one.

‘Do you need to use the bathroom?’ he murmured into her hair that he was now curling his fingers into.

‘No thank you,’ she murmured back, knowing that if she stopped she might lose her nerve. It wasn’t her nerve she was intent on losing. Tenderly he undid the buttons of her jacket and took it off. Underneath she was wearing one of her collection of black V-neck sweaters. This was lifted and pulled over her head. Now she stood before him in a strappy top and a pair of black trousers. A part of her registered that they were the same clothes she wore for work and felt that was a bit odd. But Dermot didn’t seem to care what she was wearing; he was only intent on getting it off. He found the hook at the waistband of her trousers, and the zip and then they fell off her hips. He pushed her gently back on to the bed and laughed.

‘You’re wearing socks!’

‘Of course I am,’ she said hazily. ‘What’s wrong with wearing socks? I expect you’re wearing them too.’

He unzipped her short boots and they joined her other clothes on the floor. It ought to have felt odd being with a man she didn’t know in just her underwear, but it felt right, nice. Sexy.

He stood looking down at her as she lay there in her bra and pants. He was still fully clothed.

‘You’re beautiful, you know that?’

Laura chuckled gently. He probably said that to everyone. She didn’t mind. She wanted him to treat her just as he’d treat any of his previous girlfriends.

‘Get under the duvet, you’re shivering,’ he said, tenderly amused as he started to strip off his own clothes.

From under the duvet, Laura watched him. His body was fit and well muscled. He may have been a writer but he obviously didn’t spend all day sitting at a desk. As his boxer shorts dropped she closed her eyes. The room swung round as if she was on a carousel and she quickly opened them again.

He switched off the main light and replaced it with the bedside one. Then he took Laura into his arms.

The feeling of his skin against hers was like silk. She closed her eyes again, in spite of the spinning room, and let herself enjoy the sensation of lying in his arms as he got rid of her bra and pants. Miraculously any nerves she might have felt seemed to have fled with her inhibitions. He pulled her towards him and began to stroke her back. And all the time he breathed endearments in his deep, sexy voice. He raised himself on his elbow and kissed her face, lightly, more a breath than a kiss, all over her eyes, her lips, her cheeks and then he moved down to her neck, just under her ear.

She sighed deeply and snuggled closer. Only then did he touch her breasts and kiss her chest. Now his hand moved over her body, featherlight caresses, tantalising in their tenderness. He had just discovered that the backs of her knees were particularly sensitive when he said, ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute.’

She sighed ecstatically and passed out.

She awoke to find him snoring beside her. She felt terrible: thirsty and a head that felt as if it was about to split. Panic filled her. What had she done? How on earth had she ended up naked in bed with a naked man? She flew out of bed and hunted for her clothes. She was dizzy and couldn’t tell if she was still drunk or if the dizziness was part of the hangover.

She found her knickers and socks in separate parts of the corner of the room. Waves of panic came over as she tried to navigate her limbs into them. What had she done?

Terrified Dermot would wake up she tried to assemble what she could remember of the night before as she pulled on her trousers and top. Dermot’s event was clear in her mind. Then she remembered dragging Monica to the pub and some of what had gone on there was clear, but how in merry hell had she ended up in Dermot Flynn’s bedroom, naked, with him in the bed next to her?

Terrible flashbacks came to her as she pulled on her coat – some dim recollection of him saying he’d come to the festival if she went to bed with him. Had she really said yes? Surely not! However much she admired and fancied him, surely she wouldn’t have agreed to sleep with him? Would she? It would make her little better than a prostitute! She didn’t dare look at the sleeping form in the bed. If she couldn’t see him perhaps he didn’t really exist: it was all a figment of her over-active imagination. But she knew he was very real. Oh, why had she drunk so much? Her mother was right about the demon drink. This thought brought a fleeting smile to her lips until the reality of the situation came flooding back. She had to remember what happened last night.

She did remember fancying him. She remembered him taking her clothes off, and her liking it very much. As she did up her trousers she wondered if she’d ever feel the same about that particular pair again.

She looked at her watch but it was too dark to see the time. She’d have to get back to the bed and breakfast and hope she could wake Monica to let her in. Thank goodness it was a bungalow and their bedroom window was round the back. If she was attacked and dragged into the bushes by a passing rapist on her way there, she had only herself to blame.

The Patron Saint of Stupid Women guided her back down the road and along the lane to where the bed and breakfast was. Laura had a terrible sense of direction and knew it was only the intervention of this divine being that got her there. By now her head was clearing a little; she studied the outside of the building and worked out where their room was. She tiptoed round and knocked on the window.

Fortunately Monica was a light sleeper. A tousled head appeared behind the curtains. ‘Laura! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Oh, just let me in, Monica, please!’

‘OK. Go to the front door and I’ll see what I can do.

‘You’re bloody lucky they don’t go in for burglar alarms round here,’ whispered Monica a few minutes later.

‘I feel like a burglar. Worse.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing. I don’t think. Can we talk about it in the morning?’

‘Fair enough. Get into my bed, it’s warm and you’re shivering like a jelly. I demand a blow-by-blow account in the morning though.’

Laura just wanted to get into bed and search for oblivion but Monica was firm. ‘Here,’ she said, holding a glass. ‘It’s got something in it to restore your salts. You’ll feel less awful in the morning if you drink it.’

Laura drank it but as more and more memory came back to her in Technicolor detail she felt that it wasn’t going to be a hangover that made her feel as if death was an attractive option.

‘Tea’s up!’ said Monica, cruelly loud, the following morning. She was fully dressed and made up and seemed on top form.

‘Oh God!’ Laura moaned, yawned, moaned again and then sat up and took the tea.

‘How are you feeling?’

Laura considered. ‘Better than I should, probably. Physically, anyway.’

‘I want to hear every detail later, but now we should have breakfast.’

Laura, who hadn’t felt like eating anything, did feel a bit better after a pint of orange juice, a huge Irish breakfast and several mugs of tea, and two strong painkillers. Monica hustled her into her warmest clothes, put on her own, and dragged them both off for a walk.

‘OK, so tell me everything. Was it wonderful? First times can be dodgy, but at least with a man like that he’ll know what he’s doing.’

Laura remembered this thought making its appearance in her own head sometime the previous evening.

‘Well?’ Monica was insistent. ‘You have to tell me everything. That’s the first rule of Girlfriend Law.’

‘I’ve never heard of the Girlfriend Law,’ said Laura.

‘I’ve just made it up, but you’ve still got to tell me. Don’t hold out on me.’

‘I’m not holding out. I’m just trying to remember.’

‘What? Surely you weren’t that off your face?’

‘I had had a fair bit to drink, I know that. I must have or I would never have gone back to his house. Although . . .’

‘Confession time,’ said Monica, accurately interpreting her sudden pause. ‘You fancied him rotten. I’d have gone back to his place after a glass of Ribena. He’s a ride.’

‘What?’

‘Local expression. Self-explanatory. Shall we go and sit down on that bench over there? I’ve had a broken night.’

‘Oh, me too.’ Shivers were convulsing Laura’s body and she didn’t know whether they were caused by the cold, her hangover or by what had happened the night before. She remembered now exactly how much she had wanted to sleep with Dermot Flynn. She remembered how she’d decided that of all the men in the entire world he was the one who should have her virginity. And although the light of day was horribly cold and she felt iller than she could ever remember feeling, she hadn’t changed her mind. Not really.

‘So, did you have fun?’ asked Monica. ‘I won’t ask if you had an orgasm, because you probably didn’t.’

‘No . . . I don’t think I did.’

‘What? Have fun or the orgasm?’

‘Monica, I know this sounds really mad but I’m not sure if we had sex or not.’

Monica didn’t answer immediately. ‘Do you think it’s possible that you had sex and can’t remember?’

They reached the bench and as they sat on it, Laura winced.

‘You’re tender – down there?’

Laura acknowledged that she was. ‘But we went on that bike ride to see your boyfriend.’

‘But I’m fine! I know I’m more used to cycling than you, but you’re young and fit. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be that uncomfortable. You walked most of the way, after all.’

‘There were some very bumpy bits on the way home.’ Laura turned to her friend. ‘I do need to find out, Mon. I have to know if I had sex or not. I feel it’s important.’

Monica laughed gently. ‘Well, of course it is important, but—’

‘No, really. I have to find out. I can’t go back to England not knowing. I just can’t.’

Monica became practical. ‘OK, let’s try and work it out. Were you alone when you woke up?’

Laura shook her head. ‘No. He was asleep beside me. Snoring. And naked.’

‘Hmm . . . Well, did you notice anything, er, discarded on the floor? You know, like a condom?’