Love Letters (19 page)

She got up the stairs to her little flat, opened the door and put the kettle on, even before she’d shut the door.

She had just taken her first, perfect sip of tea when her phone went. She cursed inwardly. She could never drink tea and talk on the phone unless she knew the person well enough to explain that was what she was doing. Praying it was one of those, she found her phone and answered it. It was Mrs Ironside, her downstairs neighbour, who generally preferred to phone than walk all the way up the stairs to Laura’s flat ‘at her age’.

‘Laura?’ Mrs Ironside was an irritable person who didn’t have enough to do and so filled her time with the doings of others. ‘There are a great many parcels for you. I took them in when I saw the postman about to take them all away. Then you’d have had to go to the sorting office for them.’

‘Oh, thank you so much.’ Laura was truly grateful although she didn’t always get on with Mrs Ironside.

‘So will you come and collect them? There are so many of them. What on earth are they?’

‘I really don’t know. I’ll come down now.’

She took a gulp of tea, which was slightly too hot for gulping, and propping her door open, went downstairs. Her tea would be too cold before she got back to it, and she knew that if she made herself another cup, it would not be as nice. It was not her day.

There were fifteen large Jiffy bags piled neatly in Mrs Ironside’s hall. She had a much larger flat than Laura but they still took up a lot of space.

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Laura, wondering how many she could carry at once, and thinking longingly of her tea. If Mrs Ironside had been anyone else, she could have explained about the tea. ‘Right, I’ll take as many as I can and pop back down for the rest.’

She managed five at a time. Three journeys, a sip of tea between each one. She cursed Dermot every step of the way. The moment she had seen them she’d realised what they were: manuscripts for his wretched course.

There was hardly enough floor space for her to get to the kettle by the time she’d brought the last lot up.

‘Oh Lord! What am I to do with this lot?’ she said out loud. ‘I won’t have room to breathe!’

The thought that someone might have written to her about them sent her back downstairs to pick up her post from her pigeon hole.

Yes, there was a letter, and it had a frank on it that indicated a London literary agency. She opened it there and then, not wanting to clutter her flat with any more post, even a single sheet. It was from Eleanora.

‘Darling,’ it read, ‘you’ll be getting the manuscripts any day now. I’ve had them redirected. Any more will come direct to you.’

Thanks a lot, Eleanora, thought Laura, and read on.

‘Don’t feel you need to read every word. If you’re not enjoying it, stop. The first few pages should tell you if they can write, less even. Then just check the synopsis to see if there’s any sort of plot on offer. Make a pile of the possibles, and then weed and weed.’ For a moment Laura wondered if Eleanora had meant to write ‘read and read’ but realised she meant she had to go through the possibles and find excuses to turn them down.

She climbed the stairs again. In spite of the logistics of dealing with all that paper she was quite excited. She might, as Dermot had suggested, discover the next big thing. Maybe it would give her a chance to work as an editor, something she’d always longed to do, but had always felt was beyond her grasp. But it was a big responsibility and she was worried she wouldn’t be able to recognise good writing from bad. At least Eleanora had told her she didn’t need to read the whole manuscript if she wasn’t enjoying it, so it might not take her too long. She hastened up the last flight, eager to get started, all tiredness forgotten with the challenge ahead. If she couldn’t do it, she’d have to let Eleanora know right away.

It was, she discovered, quite easy to tell good writing from bad. After all, she didn’t have to decide if it was publishable in the current market, something she’d learnt quite a bit about from Henry. She just had to decide who could write and who couldn’t. And two hours later she realised that none of these aspiring writers could.

Some had dialogue so stilted it could have been examples from a grammar textbook. Others had characters who were not even dislikeable, let alone engaging; they just didn’t have enough substance to be anything. Not one of them had a plot. She was very depressed. She decided to ring Eleanora about it the next day and leave a message if necessary. She also needed to think about buying a laptop. She’d lost her Internet connection after today, where she had it at the shop, and she couldn’t organise a literary festival without email.

Eleanora was out when she rang, but returned her call shortly afterwards. ‘Laura? Sweetie? Are they God-awful?’

‘They are dire,’ said Laura. ‘Honestly, to start with I thought I’d give each one fifty pages, just to be fair, as I’d heard the judge for a major award say that was what he does. But after a couple I just couldn’t bear to.’

‘Sweetie, don’t sweat it. Most of them will be dire, but how many have you read so far?’

‘Fifteen. They all arrived at the same time.’

‘Only fifteen? Nothing to worry about. There’ll be at least a hundred.’

‘A hundred?’ Laura took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Have you any idea of how tiny my flat is – no, of course you haven’t. Sorry.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t got to send them back, have I?’

‘Are you saying they haven’t got return postage, self-addressed labels? All that?’ Eleanora was outraged.

‘Well, I think most of them have but—’

‘Then just stick on the return labels and bung ’em off to the post office.’

‘I haven’t got a car and the post office is miles away.’ Laura didn’t want to sound grumbly but she thought it had been a while since Eleanora had ‘bunged anything off to the post office’ personally. Did she know that many small, queue-free post offices had been closed?

‘Well, wait until you can get a lift or something. These people don’t need to get their hopes and dreams thrown back at them too soon. Give them a few days’ hope before you let ’em down.’

Shortly afterwards, Laura ended the call. She needed to get to bed. Tomorrow she would address the car and laptop situation which was becoming more and more urgent. Then she had a more uplifting thought: a hundred scripts at ten pounds a throw would come to a thousand pounds. Handy! Her redundancy money wouldn’t last for long.

‘Why don’t you buy my car?’ said Grant. They had arranged to meet for coffee a week or so later so they could co-counsel each other on their bookshop-withdrawal. ‘Then I could upgrade.’

They were sitting in their favourite café just around the corner from the bookshop. Laura couldn’t help but glance in as she went past. It was empty now and except for the many shelves it looked like any other retail space. It had felt strange not to be going into work but she hadn’t really had time to feel too bereft. And now she and Grant had been catching up as well as reminiscing.

‘Isn’t it supposed to be a really bad idea to buy cars from friends? What if it goes horribly wrong? I might never speak to you again,’ she said.

‘I’ll take the chance,’ said Grant. ‘I’ve got lots of friends, after all. I can afford to lose one. You’re not so lucky, of course.’

‘I’ve got loads of friends! You, and Monica. Fen’s definitely a friend. All my uni friends—’

‘Who are where, exactly? Not taking you out clubbing every weekend, are they?’

‘They’re not exactly local, I must admit.’ Laura wondered if she could change the subject before she had to also admit that all her uni friends had high-powered jobs in London or were saving the planet in the Galapagos. ‘Are you in close touch with all your uni chums?’

He shrugged. ‘Only on Facebook, I suppose. But I really do think I’m the only normal person you know round here,’ he said, sipping his coffee and preparing to dig into a slice of lemon cake.

‘Monica’s normal,’ said Laura, wondering if someone who wore a pink wig for a living could truly be described as normal.

‘I’d love to meet her.’ He paused. ‘Tell you what, I’ll sell you the car for five hundred pounds and a night out with Monica. Can you manage that?’

‘The night out with Monica, almost certainly, but as for the car, jot down its CV and I’ll ask my car consultant.’

‘Your who?’

‘Rupert. He was advising me on what sort of car to get.’

‘Well I should think mine ticks all the boxes and it’s in good nick.’

‘I know, and I like driving it, but I feel I should just run it by him as he was taking such an interest.’

‘Give me a bit of paper then, and I’ll write down the details.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Laura, taking the paper and putting it in her bag. ‘Now do you think we should ask any sci-fi authors to the festival, or are they a bit specialist?’

‘Depends who you have in mind.’

They discussed this for a while until Laura looked at her watch. ‘Now I really must go back. I’ve got all those manuscripts to read and I must phone Rupert about the car. I’ll ring you the moment I decide. OK?’

Back home, Laura decided to find out about the car before going back to her pile of manuscripts. Talking to Fenella was always cheering and there was some festival stuff they needed to talk about as well.

When they’d updated each other on who had confirmed and whom they’d need to chase, again, Laura said, ‘Is Rupert there? Grant from work has suggested I buy his car. I borrowed it the first time I came to Somerby. Rupert said he’d help me get one and I want to ask his advice.’

‘Well, I can’t remember it, but I have no memory for cars. I’ll put you on to Rupes.’

‘Hi, Laura.’ Rupert’s deep voice sounded curious. ‘What’s all this about a car?’

Laura gave him the details. ‘And he’s anal about getting it serviced and things, so I think it should be all right,’ she added, after they’d discussed it for a while. ‘I just needed a second opinion really.’

‘And you don’t want me to come over and check it out for you?’ Rupert said eventually.

‘I really don’t think it’s necessary. I’ve driven it and I really like it.’

‘Then it sounds just the job, and five hundred seems a good price. Go for it!’

‘Brilliant, Rupert, thank you so much. Now all I need to do is get a laptop.’ She spoke lightheartedly enough but she realised she was about to spend her entire fee for the festival on a car. Would a laptop take all her redundancy money? Suddenly Dermot and his writing course seemed like a life-saver.

‘Would it have to be a new one?’ asked Rupert.

‘Oh no, I don’t think so. I only really need something to write letters on and do emails.’

‘They’re not terribly expensive new, but don’t buy anything without telling me. I may be able to get you one second-hand.’

‘Oh Rupert! You are a star.’

‘That’s what they tell me,’ he said with a laugh, and then rang off.

Having sorted out the issue of the car, she decided to call Monica. Today was turning into a catching up with friends day, after all. Monica was delighted to hear from Laura. ‘I have such a lot to tell you! Yes, do let’s go out, and any friend of yours can certainly come. As long as we get a chance to exchange girly chats.’

‘Grant’s good at girly chats,’ said Laura, suddenly aware she didn’t want Grant knowing too much about what had gone on in Ireland: it was still too raw. She wasn’t fully aware of how she felt about it all herself. It was bad enough that Monica knew, she didn’t want anyone else picking over the bones just yet. ‘So when’s good for you?’

Monica was silent, presumably flicking through her busy social calendar. ‘I’ve been so frantic, trying to get bands to confirm for the festival,’ she murmured.

‘Me too,’ said Laura. ‘I must have spoken to every publicity department in every publisher there is, trying to get people to confirm. Then I’ve been on to the sales people to see if they can produce multiple copies for reading groups and put it all through Henry.’ She paused. ‘And I’ve got all these manuscripts to read as well.’

‘Manuscripts? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Oh, it’s all Dermot’s fault,’ said Laura and was about to explain when Monica interrupted her.

‘You know something?’ She sounded amused and happy. ‘A lot of what’s happened to you recently is Dermot’s fault. You gotta love him.’

‘No you haven’t!’ squeaked Laura, whose feelings for him were very confused. Did lust combined with huge liking and a touch of obsession equal love?

‘I suppose I haven’t, as long as you do.’ Monica paused, to give this little barb time to find its mark. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘we can talk about all that when we meet. What about Friday?’

‘Hang on, I’ll just call him on my mobile. Friday?’ Laura asked Grant when he answered.

Luckily he had read her mind, as he was so often able to do. ‘Fine. Where and when?’

It was agreed to meet Monica in a wine bar in one of the better parts of Bristol. Grant said he’d drive home as it would be one of the last times he could. Once Laura had paid him the money, the car would be hers. Laura, however, had to drive there. She wasn’t a very experienced town driver and the thought of the Bristol traffic terrified her. She wasn’t going to let on to Grant though – he might decide not to sell her his car after all.

Meanwhile the manuscripts kept arriving. Mrs Ironside took them in if Laura was out and Laura took to calling at her flat before going upstairs to her own. Mrs Ironside had the kettle on and Laura had a cup of tea and a chat with her before going upstairs with her parcels. Relations had improved between them and Mrs Ironside was a lot less frosty these days. She told her about the festival and she became quite enthusiastic.

‘I’d definitely come if Kathryn Elisabeth was going to appear,’ she said, mentioning one of the most successful romantic novelists ever.

Laura dutifully wrote the name down, wondering if it would look rude to invite an author at this late stage. ‘She’s very popular,’ she said warningly. ‘She’s probably booked up for years ahead, but I’ll definitely ask her publishers.’