Love Letters (15 page)

In spite of her huge breakfast, Laura found herself eating with enthusiasm. When it was all gone she lay back and stretched. The sun was shining in her eyes and she closed them. She heard him lie down next to her.

‘Not much to tell. Only child, good girl at school, went to university, got a good degree and ended up working in a bookshop. What about you?’

‘I was the youngest of a large family. Bad boy but bright enough to escape being found out. Wrote a couple of novels and ended up being a writer.’

‘But you also went travelling, didn’t you? I do regret not doing anything like that before I settled down.’

He chuckled. ‘You’re only twenty-six. I don’t think you can describe yourself as “settled down”. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you to go travelling.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m too timid to go backpacking on my own. At least,’ she added as she thought more about what she’d said, ‘I have been up to now.’

‘You don’t have to go backpacking on your own. There’s lots of ways to see a bit of the world that doesn’t involved hefting huge weights about.’

She chuckled and sat up, eyeing the components of the picnic. ‘I suppose so. I’ve done my travelling via books so far, but as you say, there’s time to change.’

He leant up on one elbow and studied her. She sensed the warmth of his body next to hers and felt a glow of contentment. She was conversing with her all-time favourite writer, against the backdrop of a magnificent Irish landscape.

‘The best writer in the world can’t be a substitute for your own experience,’ he said.

‘No, not a substitute, but it can be something better, can’t it?’

‘How do you mean?’

She made a gesture towards the view. ‘Well, take this, for example. It’s brilliant to be here because it’s stunning, really lovely. But if you were describing it in a book, you could give it layers of meaning that a mere picture, or just looking at it, couldn’t.’

He made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. ‘Are you talking about me in particular or writers in general?’

She shrugged. ‘Either. Whichever you like.’

‘I think I’ll take the general option. The responsibility is too great otherwise.’

‘Do you feel your responsibility as a writer?’ This was something Laura had always wondered about.

‘A bit.’ He seemed not to want to carry on with the conversation. ‘Would you like to walk a bit further? We can leave the things here and then come back and have tea.’

‘Oh yes.’ She got to her feet, ‘Maybe I’ll take the opportunity to go travelling but keep it on a very small scale.’

He laughed. ‘Come on then.’

They walked to the top of the hill from where they could see a slightly different view. Still the sun shone and the sea sparkled. Because she was staring out to sea, trying to spot an island Dermot had said was sometimes visible, she stumbled. He caught her arm.

‘Are you OK? You didn’t twist your ankle did you?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Unnerved by his closeness she moved away from him. ‘Race you back down to the picnic things!’

As she ran, making very sure of her footing, she wondered why she had run away from him. Was it him or herself she didn’t trust? As she collapsed in a heap by their belongings she knew it was her. She might do anything. If he asked her to go with him to a sheltered spot and suggested they made love, she might not say no. And she couldn’t. She had to leave soon and she already liked him too much to want to risk doing something she might later regret. She knew herself too well.

‘Well now,’ he said as he joined her. ‘Are you ready for tea? There’s fruit cake to have with it.’

‘Let’s wait, I couldn’t eat a thing now.’ Suddenly tired she lay on her back, listening to the sea and the sounds of the countryside: the occasional baa from a sheep; a distant tractor; seagulls. As she closed her eyes she realised she very rarely just enjoyed nature. Usually she’d have brought a book with her and while she would have appreciated her surroundings, she wouldn’t have given herself up to them in the same way.

A little later she opened her eyes and became aware of him next to her. Although she didn’t stir he must have sensed she was awake because he said, ‘You wouldn’t think you could take a nap in the outdoors in January, would you?’

She chuckled sleepily. ‘No, although of course we are very well wrapped up.’

‘And a good thing too, in my opinion. Although I can’t believe you fell asleep on me again!’

She swiftly changed the subject. ‘I must say this spot is very heaven. I can understand why you don’t want to leave it, although . . .’ she went on, ‘my literary festival would only mean you being away for a few days.’ She closed her eyes again against the sun.

He laughed. ‘To be honest, that’s not the reason I don’t like doing literary festivals any more.’

Knowing that he must have done hundreds of them when he was first published she didn’t need to ask for his reasons; he’d be bored stiff with them.

‘So,’ he went on, ‘why are you so eager to get me to come to yours?’

She would have liked to deny being eager – she hated to sound needy – but she couldn’t. Besides, it was surprisingly easy to talk while lying on your back with your eyes closed, knowing your companion was doing the same. ‘Well, we’ll get sponsorship if you come, that’s all. I was sent here on a mission to get you to come at all costs.’

‘Hm. I don’t like to be indelicate . . .’

She chuckled, ‘Well, I’ll pretend to believe you.’

‘But would you have shown quite so much dedication to duty if I’d been eighty, with no hair and false teeth?’

‘No. But if you’d been eighty, with no hair and false teeth, would you have said you’d come if I went to bed with you?’ She paused. ‘No, don’t answer, I don’t want to hear it.’

He was chuckling now. ‘You’re quite right. I’ve been in training to be a dirty old man since I was seventeen.’

‘I thought you were in training to be a writer when you were seventeen.’

‘The two activities go together.’

Lying supine was making her prone to giggling. ‘I don’t want to hear that. I’m a serious student of literature. I am a big fan of your work, and I was very drunk. And I’m also a virgin – I thought—’

All desire to giggle left her. Why had she said that? Why had she let the words escape? Her train of thought was perfectly logical: she’d been going to tell him that she thought she would like him to have her virginity because of who he was, how he wrote. But that wasn’t the sort of thing you told people, unless they were very close friends, like Monica.

He didn’t speak for some seconds. ‘Oh. So when you agreed to go to bed with me, it would have been your first time?’

‘Uh-huh.’

He laughed gently. ‘No wonder you ran away.’

‘I said, I was very drunk, and I wouldn’t have run away if I hadn’t fallen asleep.’

‘So what was so frightening? The sight of me snoring my head off or the thought that you might have given your virginity to a wild Irish writer?’

Although she wanted to be entirely truthful, she didn’t then tell him that there was no one else in the world she’d rather give her virginity to. His tone was teasing and she wasn’t sure if it was just a game – albeit a very pleasant one – to him or not. She would keep her answers as light as possible. ‘The realisation that I’d been so drunk I didn’t know if we’d made love or not. I was appalled at myself.’

‘But not at me?’

‘No. You’re a man. You’d made a casual suggestion; you didn’t expect me to take you up on it. Did you?’

He paused for a long time. ‘As we’re being totally honest with each other, I’ll tell you: I don’t get turned down all that often.’

She put her hand over her eyes, although he wasn’t looking at her. ‘Oh God! Now I feel like I’m in a long line—’

‘If it’s any consolation to you, I don’t ask anything like as often as I used to. I’m quietening right down. And I always use a condom, you can tell Monica.’

She chuckled softly. ‘I’m glad to hear it. And I think you convinced Monica about the condoms. I’m so sorry she harassed you like that. She was only looking after me, but it must have been desperately embarrassing.’

‘Not at all,’ he said softly. Laura could hear the smile in his voice. ‘I’ve been asked worse things, I can tell you.’

‘Really? You didn’t look embarrassed, I must say.’

‘So you could see, could you? From your spot at the back there.’

‘Yes. It was quite a small hall.’ So her trying to hide at the back again hadn’t worked.

‘And I filled it. You don’t need to say anything else about me being a big fish in a small pond.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it! I’ve no doubt you could fill the Albert Hall if you’d agree to go.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ he said dismissively, and then went on, ‘And another thing. I promise you that if we had made love you would have known about it, drunk or not.’ He paused. ‘Were you really that far gone? You didn’t seem it.’

She sighed. Being drunk seemed a better excuse for her behaviour than being in love – thrall – lust – she still couldn’t decide quite how to define her feelings for him. That would be really outrageous. ‘I’m not used to drinking whiskey by the tumbler full.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘And the fact that I’m a virgin is not something I usually tell people.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘No, but at my age it’s a bit – well, odd, really.’

‘Is there a reason for it?’

‘Nope. Only I never found a man I fancied enough.’ She blushed, praying his eyes were still shut and he wouldn’t see. She’d virtually told him that in him she had found a man she fancied enough.

‘Well, I have a confession to make too.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve had writer’s block for nearly fifteen years.’

‘Oh my goodness.’ Laura didn’t know what else to say. It was quite a revelation.

‘And the reason I’m telling you is there’s something about confession being sort of mutual. Not that I expect Catholic priests hearing the peccadilloes of their parishioners necessarily say, “Don’t go worrying about that now, I often have a wee peep at that sort of magazine myself,” but you shared something with me, and there’s been no one else I can tell.’

She felt incredibly privileged, although she also thought that maybe people would have guessed.

‘Well, you can understand it.’ He seemed eager to justify himself. ‘Two books straight off the blocks on to the bestseller lists and the literary prize shortlists.’

‘And you won most of the prizes.’

‘I did.’ He sounded embarrassed. ‘They’re all waiting for me to fail now.’

She wanted to deny it but she knew how cruel the literary world could be. Cutting down tall poppies was what it liked to do best. ‘Does your agent know?’

‘Nope, and she mustn’t. I fob her off every time she rings me, tell her I’m working on a huge book that’ll take years – is taking years.’

‘Does she buy that?’ She was pretty sure Eleanora didn’t for one moment.

His laugh was rueful now. ‘Never mind buying it – she’d much rather have something to sell.’

She joined in his laughter. ‘There isn’t a publisher out there who wouldn’t pay millions or at least hundreds of thousands for it.’

‘I know. And I could do with the cash.’

‘You couldn’t offer them three chapters – they wouldn’t have to be all that good after all – and get them to cough up an advance?’

‘That, young lady,’ he said, sounding stern, ‘would not be ethical.’

She sighed. ‘I suppose not. Plenty of writers would do it, though.’

‘I feel if I did that, my block would be permanent. The guilt would make it even harder for me. The Irish are cursed by guilt, you know.’

‘Really?’ She didn’t mean to sound disbelieving, but she did. To gloss over it, she said, ‘Or you could teach creative writing. They run courses in wonderfully exotic locations. I don’t suppose they pay that much but they might be fun.’ She hesitated. ‘All those eager young women writers. You could have your pick.’ It cost her something to go on in this lighthearted manner. He could have his pick of any group of women, she was certain. Knowing it didn’t make it easier for her. Now that she’d actually met him and talked to him properly, she knew her feelings for him were no longer just infatuation, but were in danger of becoming the foundation for something much stronger.

‘I do give the odd lecture, but I always felt those writing courses were for writers who didn’t write any more.’

‘Not at all. Some very busy writers do them because they want to give something back, and like encouraging new talent.’

‘Ah, you wouldn’t be muddling me up with one of them, would you?’

She giggled again. ‘Not at all, at all.’

‘Don’t mock me.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘I’d love to know what you do dream of,’ he said.

Laura swallowed. ‘I’ve confided in you quite enough,’ she managed, sounding suitably prim. She felt she would literally die rather than let him know what she was dreaming of right now.

He laughed softly and they fell into a comfortable silence. She felt a contentment she had rarely felt before, even at the bookshop where she’d always been so happy. Now it seemed far away and no longer so desirable.

But would she have felt like this, about this headland, this wildness, if the bookshop hadn’t been about to close? She didn’t know. Nothing was certain any more. But she did know that even though it was January, she felt she was in the most beautiful spot on earth. And it wasn’t just being with Dermot, it was something more.

A while later he said, ‘I could help you out with your problem, you know. Not here and now, obviously, but in more comfortable surroundings.’

The thought of this was somehow a bit heartbreaking. He obviously didn’t feel the same way about her as she did him – how could he? She felt she’d known him all her life, but he’d only just met her. She didn’t know how he really felt about her, if this really was only a bit of fun for him, and she couldn’t ask. It would sound so serious. But she just couldn’t let go and call his bluff. Whether it was bluff or not, she couldn’t do it. And if he was just being kind that would somehow be worse.