Love Letters (16 page)

‘No thank you, I’ll be all right,’ she said and then paused, struggling to think of something suitably light and flirtatious, to give the impression that she wasn’t really bothered. ‘I’ve got used to being a virgin, after all these years.’

He chuckled. ‘The status quo has something to be said for it.’

Thinking the status quo wasn’t as easy to live with for him, she said, ‘I don’t suppose I could help you with your problem?’

He shot her a glance filled with mischief. ‘If I was really wicked, I’d tell you that the virginity of a young girl was a well-known cure for writer’s block.’

She twinkled back at him. ‘But you’re only partly wicked?’

‘Most of the time, yes.’

She considered for a moment whether, if he did really think her virginity would cure him, she’d give it to him. The answer was probably. And not just so the literary world would be so grateful (it was not a favour she could call in, after all), but because underneath all her reservations, she really wanted to sleep with him, almost as much as she wanted to help him. But the moment was lost.

‘It’s a shame really,’ she said, thinking aloud.

‘What? That I’m not exploitative enough to demand the sacrifice of your maidenhood?’

She laughed, to deny it, but in her heart she was saying, ‘Yes!’ ‘No, I meant it’s a shame that things aren’t so easily solved. Things like not being able to write any more when really, in your heart, you know you can write like an angel. You may have your problems with the people who give literary prizes but they don’t give them to people who can’t write.’

‘Oh they do, you know, but let’s not argue about it. It’s time for tea. You English must have your tea, isn’t that so? But don’t worry, you don’t have to move. I have all the makings.’

‘The thermos is a wonderful invention,’ she murmured.

‘Indeed, but we’re not having any truck with them. I have my Volcano kettle with me.’

She sat up. ‘Your what?’

‘Do you not have them in England? Sure you’re terribly behind the times over there.’

She watched as he took out of his rucksack a copy of the
Irish Times
and a large cylindrical object in a drawstring bag. He took this out and then started to tear up sheets of newspaper and stuff them down the column in the middle. When all the newspaper was used up, he took the cork from the top. ‘Right now, I’m off to find some water.’

He took a small can from the rucksack. ‘You can go back to sleep if you like. I may have to go a little way away to find it.’

She closed her eyes. This was so blissful. The thought of catching the ferry and going back to England intruded on her joy and she batted it away. Live in the moment, she told herself, using a saying that was printed on uplifting postcards they sold in the bookshop. Just enjoy what you have right now, she added, quoting another of them.

Dermot came back a few minutes later. He poured the water into a little spout at the top of the kettle, and then set light to the paper.

‘How does it work?’ she asked, fascinated and amused.

‘The paper burning in the central column heats the water in the jacket outside. One copy of
The Times
, or the
Irish Times
, is just enough to boil the water. Madam will have her tea in but a moment.’

‘I don’t remember Madam asking for tea, she was offered it.’

‘Don’t split hairs.’

‘Well no, that would be cruel,’ she agreed.

‘You’re a mad girl, so you are.’

The sun, which had burned so enthusiastically, was fading. She lay back on the heather, although she was getting cold now. She loved him thinking she was a mad girl, when really, back on the mainland, she was almost boringly efficient and predictable.

He put tea bags into mugs and then poured on the boiling water from the little spout in the water-jacket. Milk came from a jam jar.

They sat together companionably, clutching the mugs of tea and looking at the sea. A few clouds were gathering now, and a chilly wind was getting up.

‘Thank you so much for bringing me here,’ she said, aware that their final parting would be hard for her. ‘It’s been a lovely day.’

‘For me too,’ he said. ‘You’re great company.’

She sipped her tea.

‘Damn, I forgot the cake. Here.’ He handed her a plastic container that was full of wedges of fruit cake. ‘What time is your ferry again?’ he asked as she took one, and she knew her perfect day was over.

She told him.

‘I’ll get you back in plenty of time to leave. And I will come to your literary festival, without your sacrifice, if you don’t tell anyone about it – any press, I mean. Not until the last minute, anyway. I don’t want to have to battle with all the publicity.’

Laura found herself close to tears. ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily, hoping he would think it was the cold wind that was making her eyes water.

Chapter Eight

‘Don’t mind the hounds, they get out of the way eventually,’ said Fenella, opening the door to Somerby wide.

‘Hello, hounds,’ said Laura, wondering why she was coping with Fen’s pack perfectly well, although they were completely blocking her way, when those on a certain farm in Ireland had seemed so threatening. (Possibly because none of this lot were snarling and curling their upper lips.) ‘Are there some new ones, or did I just not notice them when you let them out as I left last time?’

‘I’m looking after my sister’s two little Tibetan terriers while she’s on hols. Treacle and Toffee. I’m not going to want to give them back.’

‘They are very sweet,’ said Laura, putting out a hand to be sniffed and finding six noses eagerly searching for food traces. She stifled a sigh, remembering how Dermot had rescued her in Ireland. Ballyfitzpatrick seemed a world away. She had half hoped she might have heard from him – a friendly text at least – but then admonished herself. Why should he? And somehow she felt too shy to be the one to make contact first.

‘It wasn’t too hard getting the time off?’ asked Fenella, kissing Laura on the cheek and stirring the dogs away with her foot.

‘No, Henry’s been very understanding. So’s Grant. But Henry wants to supply the books and Grant wants to do something glamorous for the festival.’

‘We’ll be glad of all the help we can get.’

Laura indicated a cloth bag filled with files. ‘I’ve been quite busy since I got back from Ireland.’

‘Brilliant!’ Then Fenella gave a little jump and clapped her hands. ‘I can’t believe you got Dermot Flynn! Jacob Stone is thrilled. He’s going to give us lots of money and I’ve insisted we increase your fee. Five hundred pounds.’

‘Brilliant. Thank you.’ She had phoned Fenella the moment she got back from Ireland with the good news. She had followed it up with the bad – that Dermot didn’t want anyone to know he was appearing until the last moment – almost immediately. Fenella hadn’t seemed to take in what a drawback this might be.

Now Fenella hugged her tightly. ‘Sorry, I was so excited about Dermot that I forgot my manners. Come in properly, dump your bags and come on down to the kitchen. I’ll show you your room when the fan heater’s had time to warm it up a bit.’

Laura put her case down and separated the carrier bag with a box of chocolates and a plant in it. She had come for a serious planning weekend. ‘So Jacob Stone didn’t mind that Dermot wanted to keep it all under wraps for as long as possible?’

Fenella shook her head. ‘I don’t think he cares that much about the festival, he just wanted to hear Dermot Flynn.’ She paused. ‘Well, come on. Let’s go down to the kitchen and have a drink. Rupert’s cooking supper. It smells heavenly. I’m doing pudding, which is the very exotic ice cream with Marsala poured over it.’

‘Unusual,’ said Laura, following her hostess down the stairs, holding her carrier.

‘Actually it’s delish, but not exactly labour-intensive, which is why I serve it so often.’

‘You don’t think we should start work before we eat? I’ve come to work, after all.’

‘I know and you will but tomorrow will do. My brain doesn’t function after five o’clock anyway. Just be a guest and relax tonight.’

Within minutes the present was delivered and exclaimed over and Laura was seated at the kitchen table with a big glass of wine and a bowl of pistachios in front of her. Rupert had delivered these shortly after he had embraced her warmly. ‘Oh that’s delicious!’ she said, having taken a sip. Although superficially she was talking about the wine, privately she was commenting on the welcome. Her own family didn’t do hugs and wine, more ‘Oh, hello dear’ and ‘I suppose I’d better put the kettle on’. She had yet to tell them how she’d got on in Ireland, but as they hadn’t asked either, she didn’t feel too guilty. And she’d been too busy to visit them since she’d got back.

Fenella took the seat opposite her, having been assured by her husband that there was nothing she could do to help with the meal until later. ‘So,’ she said eagerly, anxious to prise all the details out of Laura. ‘Tell all. Did you have to offer Dermot Flynn your body to get him to agree to come?’

For a stunned moment, Laura wondered how on earth Fenella could have known this, but then realised she was joking. Monica, the only other person apart from Dermot who knew, wouldn’t have told her.

She decided the truth would be a good disguise. ‘Practically, but you’ll be glad to hear he didn’t take me up on it.’

‘Oh?’ said Rupert, stirring thoughtfully. ‘That’s not his reputation. I heard he was a bit of a womaniser.’ He lifted his spoon to his lips. ‘Ah yes. The gravy is coming along nicely.’

‘Going by his photo he wouldn’t have to work too hard at it,’ said Fenella. ‘Is he as gorgeous in real life?’

‘Mm, but older,’ said Laura carefully.

‘I think men improve with age, like fine wine. Isn’t that right, Rupert?’

‘Whatever you say, honey.’

‘So,’ Fenella turned her full attention on Laura again. ‘What did you have to do to persuade him to come? Eleanora said for years you couldn’t drag him out of Ireland for love nor money, but now he’s doing this course as well.’

‘What course?’ Laura put down the nut she had just prised open and looked at Fen.

‘Oh, haven’t you heard? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have, it’s only just been settled. It’s a writing course – a competition – at Bath Spa University. People have to send in their novels and the best ten or so get to go on the course. One of Eleanora’s other clients – can’t remember who – was supposed to be doing it but they had to pull out for some reason. Anyway, she’s got Dermot to do it.’ She frowned. ‘In fact, I think he might have actually offered. She mentioned the problem with the other author while she was talking to Dermot about something else, the festival probably, when he suggested he did it. She was quite taken aback – especially as she’s hardly spoken to him in ages and he usually avoids her calls.’

Laura found herself oddly put out. It was nothing to do with her, but somehow, after the enormous lengths she had gone to just to get Dermot to give a talk at a literary festival, let alone the lengths she had been willing to go to, she felt affronted that he had actually offered to teach a writing course, which would be a far bigger deal. ‘I must say, I am a bit surprised. I had to go all the way to Ireland to get him to do an hour sitting on a stage being asked questions by a sycophantic interviewer. Piece of cake compared to actually setting exercises, thinking up a course, all that stuff. And he offered to do it? It doesn’t make sense.’ She really wanted to say that it didn’t seem fair but didn’t want to appear churlish.

‘Maybe he felt once he’d decided actually to leave his native land for one thing, it wouldn’t be so hard to do it for two.’ Fenella frowned for a second, ‘Although the course thing is first, come to think of it. Maybe he’ll be moving straight here after the course. Anyway,’ she went on enthusiastically, ‘do you suppose having done the course he’d let us advertise him for the festival?’

‘I don’t know, but if he’s actually had students, who couldn’t all be sworn to secrecy, he should do by then.’ Laura was still miffed and tried to shake herself out of it. Another sip of wine helped. ‘How’s the music festival going?’

‘OK, I think. We’ve got one or two quite famous bands who have almost definitely confirmed. And Monica, of course. Did you and she have fun in Ireland?’

‘Gosh yes. She’s a real laugh. She made me hire a bicycle with her to go and track down an old boyfriend.’

‘Did she find him?’

‘He wasn’t in when we first arrived on our bicycles, thank goodness, considering I was giggling so much I was nearly wetting myself. And afterwards, when she had a another chance to visit him, she got no reply either.’ Finding she didn’t want to explain now about why Monica was on her own for a day, she moved on. ‘But she was a great travelling companion. Made me go to the pub and things.’

‘Was it a real Irish pub with music and lots of crack?’ asked Rupert, still stirring his gravy.

‘I don’t think anyone was taking drugs,’ said Laura, pretending to misunderstand.