Love Letters (12 page)

Laura pulled a face. ‘No, but then I was too busy finding my clothes and wanting to leave as quickly as possible.’

Monica sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s not looking good, Laura, if you don’t want to have had sex with him. A man like that, naked in bed with a girl, who was also naked, I presume?’ Laura nodded. ‘The chances of him not having had his evil way with you are slim. And no sign of a condom – very irresponsible.’

‘But surely I’d remember if we had?’ Laura asked quietly, looking down the lane towards the pub where this whole sorry situation had started. She sighed and pulled her coat round her more tightly.

‘Not if he put Rohypnol in your drink,’ said Monica matter-of-factly.

‘He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t need to.’ Of this Laura was absolutely sure.

‘You don’t know that, sweetie, you know very little about him,’ Monica reminded her, albeit gently.

‘I wrote my bloody dissertation about him! I know everything there is to know. And besides, where would he get Rohypnol in Ballyfitzpatrick?’ She doubted they’d even heard of it here.

Monica chuckled again. ‘You have a point, and you may be able to quote his books by heart, but you don’t know about his sex life, now do you? I got the impression from Charles that he’s quite a ladies’ man. You can never be too careful, you know.’

‘It wasn’t mentioned in the author biog in the back of the books, no,’ said Laura. ‘You do have a point.’

‘You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?’ said Monica, touching Laura’s arm, serious now.

‘Well, yes! I, the last virgin in the Northern Hemisphere over twenty-one, may or may not have had sex. I would kind of like to know.’

‘Do you want to go home? We could leave early . . .’

Laura shook her head. ‘Oh no. We can’t go before his other session – and I’ve got to get him to say definitely that he’ll come to the festival. There’s more than just my virginity at stake here! Besides,’ she went on in a small voice, ‘I can’t pass up a chance to see him again.’

Monica patted her hand. ‘Of course.’

‘But I also need to know what happened last night. Otherwise how can I speak to him about the festival, make arrangements, stuff like that?’

‘I see your point. We need to find out.’ She stood up, putting out a hand to pull Laura up. ‘Come on, it’s freezing out here, let’s go to the café and warm ourselves up.’

‘But, Monica, how? I’m certainly not asking him,’ said Laura as they walked towards the café where they’d had their first Irish breakfast what seemed like days ago now.

‘OK, then I will,’ said Monica.

‘Mon! You can’t ask him. You cannot go up to Dermot Flynn and say, “Did you have sex with my friend?” You’ve got to promise me you won’t. It’s too embarrassing.’ She thought for moment and then flourished, ‘It’s Girlfriend Law.’

‘I invented Girlfriend Law,’ said Monica firmly, ‘but I admit it is the sort of thing that would be on it. Tell you what, I will ask him, but he won’t know I’m asking him, so it’ll be all right.’

‘I may not be at my intellectual best – my head is aching so much I think my brain has atrophied – but how on earth are you going to do that?’

‘I’ll think of something.’ Monica flashed her irrepressible grin, but Laura wasn’t convinced.

Chapter Six

The second event, although in the afternoon, was just as crowded. If this was an indication of how many people he would attract to the Somerby festival, Laura could see why everyone was so keen to have him. Maybe, she said to herself, it’s just because he’s local. But although lots of the voices around her were Irish, there was a substantial smattering of English and American accents too.

This time Laura hid at the back. Her hangover was mercifully a distant echo but whatever had – or hadn’t – happened the night before, seeing Dermot again was going to be acutely embarrassing. Although, if it transpired that they had made love (even in her imagination, Laura didn’t think this was really the right expression) she would hold him to his promise. But how terribly sad – tragic, really – that she’d been so drunk she couldn’t be sure if it had happened or not! Supposing she had given her virginity to the man she wanted to have it more than anyone and not been aware of it? She knew what she felt for him wasn’t love in any real sense, but it was the sort of adulation young women usually reserved for singers or film stars. Being unconscious through the process was unforgivable.

Monica had agreed that she would go nearer the front so she could grab him and ask her question before everyone went to the pub. Laura needed to know as soon as possible, and while she and Monica agreed that several pints or shots down the line it would be easier to ask, the answer might not be coherent, or lead to other things. Both women agreed that for their livers’ sakes, they shouldn’t spend longer in the pub than they had to.

The ‘what on earth are you going to say?’ conversation had gone on some time.

‘How about “Have you ever had sex with a virgin and if so, when was it?”’ suggested Monica.

Laura had spent several seconds in shock before she picked up that Monica was joking. ‘Why beat around the bush, Mon? Why not just come out with it?’ Laura was giggling now, as Monica had intended she should. But there was an edge of hysteria to it.

She tried again. ‘What about: “Have you ever acted out the sex scenes in your books and if so when?”’

Laura stopped giggling and became indignant. ‘No! There are no sex scenes in his books that would give us the remotest clue!’

Monica shrugged. ‘Sorry, haven’t read them.’

‘That’s blindingly obvious!’

‘Hang on! I’m doing you a favour, don’t forget!’

Laura was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry! I’m being a bitch. I got myself into this, I should get myself out of it really. Why should you embarrass yourself for me? If only I wasn’t such an idiot!’

‘Look, it’s OK. You don’t need to beat yourself up more than you already have done. Hair shirts are so last century, or even several centuries before. I’ll think of something at the time, so it sounds more natural.’

Laura was not reassured. ‘I’ve set up a lot of signings, readings, Q and As, and been to a few I haven’t arranged, and no one ever, ever, asked about the author’s sex life.’

Monica was dismissive. ‘But I’m a scary rock chick. I can ask stuff you literary types wouldn’t.’ Monica put on an expression of insouciance that might have convinced Laura when she first met her, a couple of weeks before, but by now she realised that the ‘scary rock chick’ or in her case a ‘scary swing band chick’ was an image that went on with the pink wig and false eyelashes.

‘I should do this myself. I’m sure if I got drunk enough – hell, when I got drunk before I was ready to have sex with him!’

‘Yes, and you were so drunk you can’t remember if you had sex with him or not,’ Monica reminded her kindly, in case this had slipped Laura’s mind. ‘Much good it’ll do us if you tank yourself up so you can ask him, and then can’t make sense of the answer, or forget what the answer was. No, I’ll do it.’

Shamed by the truth of this, Laura shut up.

While Dermot had said he’d do a question-and-answer-session, ‘Did you have sex with my friend?’ was probably not one he’d be expecting. Laura had no idea if Monica was going to manage to ask it, and was frantically thinking about a plan B. Could she get an email address for him and send him a quick, ‘You may not remember me, but I came and saw you at the Ballyfitzpatrick literary festival and we might have had sex. Ring any bells? Did we do it, or didn’t we? I feel I ought to know . . .’

No, probably not. She had to put her trust in Monica.

Dermot Flynn leapt up on the stage in the same rock-star way he had the night before. Laura sighed. She felt a mixture of huge relief that he was possibly even more attractive than she’d remembered him, which meant she hadn’t had beer glasses (or whatever the expression was) on last night, and a huge sweep of longing. She really, really hoped she hadn’t wasted what should have been one of the most wonderful experiences of her life because she was drunk.

Her knees weakened as she thought of what they had shared that she
could
remember. He couldn’t have done anything she hadn’t liked or surely her body wouldn’t go weak at the sight of him – or at least not weak in the gooey, chest-heaving way she was feeling now. There’d have been some sort of psychic wound, surely? Something her brain might have suppressed but her body remembered? That’s what happened in crime novels.

There was no one with him to introduce him or chair the event. Everyone knew who he was and he didn’t need a minder – she could almost hear him say it. He had two books under his arm and Laura could see bookmarks in them. Someone near her muttered, ‘He might read from both of them. Brilliant!’

‘I’ve come from Canada to hear him,’ said another. ‘I’d go anywhere, pay anything.’

‘If only he’d bring out another book! I know both of his by heart!’ said the first mutterer.

Agreeing silently but wholeheartedly, Laura shifted slightly behind her neighbour as she saw Dermot rake the audience with his gaze. She hoped this time he wouldn’t be able to see her at the back. She’d made such an utter fool of herself.

She wasn’t entirely sure but she had a feeling he paused as he got to her section of the crowd. She closed her eyes – that way he’d never spot her. Or, more importantly, she’d never know he had.

She recognised the reading straightaway, but then, she reasoned privately, she would. Like the person now crushed to her left arm, she knew every word almost by heart. It was a scene where the protagonist is describing the woman he loves to his best friend. The hero is saying one thing, but thinking another. There was nothing explicit or lewd or remotely pornographic, but the young man’s passion and desire for the woman was absolutely clear. Just hearing his beautiful voice saying those beautiful things was enough to make her want to promise to be his sex-slave for ever, and never ask him to go near a literary festival.

When he stopped reading she had to remind herself to breathe. She wasn’t the only one affected; women were near to swooning all around her. Group lust, she concluded, like group hysteria, only (happily) more private. It would only take one of them to start screaming, or throw their knickers on to the stage, for them all to follow suit – or at least all those who didn’t have to struggle out of their jeans, hopping on one leg, fighting with thick socks. Laura felt grateful the venue wasn’t well heated and that the punters had dressed up warmly.

‘Right, any questions?’ he asked.

After a round of questions which Dermot handled expertly with charm and candour, he looked at his watch.

Laura was beginning to wonder if Monica had lost her chance. Her hand had been waving for quite a while.

‘Just time for a few more . . .’

‘Here! Me!’ Monica’s voice sang out from the front of the room. Laura could tell she either didn’t share the feelings of almost all the other women in the room or she was rising above them. But what on earth could she say in front of a large audience to get the required information?

Monica cleared her throat. ‘They say that all first novels are autobiographical. Was this true for you?’

How, Laura wondered, feeling frantic, could Monica get from this pretty bog-standard question, to ‘Is my friend still a virgin?’ It was absurd! Then she chided herself – Monica was a friend doing her a favour, not an expert interrogator. She knew she should ask Dermot herself – but the mere thought made every nerve ending go into spasm. Perhaps it didn’t really matter if she never knew.

Dermot Flynn had of course fielded this question a trillion times. He gave his lazy, charming smile. ‘Well, you have to remember that I wrote this book when I was very young. I didn’t have much to be autobiographical about.’

Monica was obviously not satisfied with this answer. ‘Well, did you go round shag— um – sleeping with every woman you laid eyes on?’

Laura cringed.

Dermot was clearly amused. ‘Let’s just say there’s more imagination in that book than experience.’

‘I’m just wondering,’ Monica asked, ‘if you practise safe sex—’ She seemed to be off on another tack now.

Laura gulped. Dermot looked confused, as did most of the audience.

‘I mean,’ Monica went on, ‘a lot of young people read your books . . .’

Where did Monica get that from? Maybe she had read the book herself, after all.

‘I don’t quite see—’ broke in Dermot, but Monica was set on her course and wouldn’t be diverted or stopped.

‘Don’t you think it’s important that you set a good example?’

‘Of course—’

Monica interrupted before his audience could find out if Dermot was agreeing with her on the subject of good examples or was just going to say something else entirely. ‘When did you last use a condom?’

It all came out in a rush and Laura wanted to die.

Silence fell over the audience as everyone tingled in expectation. It was a very rude question, and if Laura hadn’t known her friend had asked it only for her, she would have thought it unforgivable. Supposing the crowd turned on Monica? Would she be able to save her?