Love Letters (22 page)

‘The one in the blue folder.’

‘Oh yes, found it.’

‘Dermot, don’t you read any of them until we’re on the telephone talking about them?’

‘Of course I do.’ He was obviously lying. ‘Tell me about it.’

She sighed. ‘It’s worthy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, it’s a shortlist pick. It’s literary, utterly gloomy and will be the book everyone buys and nobody reads.’

Possibly gauging her feelings about books like this, he frowned. ‘Well, let’s not have it then.’

‘Oh no, we have to have it – her, I mean. It’s good. I may hate it, but I have to admire it.’ She ruffled through her file and produced another photograph. ‘I should have sent you her photo, too. In fact I meant to, but forgot. She’s beautiful.’

‘You seem determined to fill the course with lovely young women.’

‘Well, I know you’re doing it against your will. I thought I should make sure you had some compensations.’

There was a silence. ‘I hate to admit this, but I don’t know if you’re joking or not.’

Laura laughed.

Chapter Eleven

Fenella was firm. ‘Laura dear, if you came and lived here, in this dear little holiday cottage that has no one in it, not only would be you be here when I needed you, you could give up your flat and save shedloads on rent.’ She straightened a throw covering the sofa and twitched a curtain into place. ‘I’d have offered it to you before if it’d been finished. All our other accommodation has been full. I won’t throw you out afterwards until you’ve found somewhere else to live,’ she added, anticipating Laura’s objection.

Laura was extremely tempted by the converted cowshed. It was May, two weeks before the course, and summer was at its prettiest. Hawthorn blossom and cow parsley frothed in the hedgerows and verges around Somerby, the sun shone and the birds sang. Naturally a country lover, Laura’s small flat in town had lost any charm it ever had for her, and living where she did meant she had to do a lot of driving. But she still protested politely.

‘But you’ll need it for a writer or something when the festival is on.’

Fenella ran her hand through her already tangled hair. ‘None of the writers we’ve got booked so far, or even any of those who haven’t got back to us, are as vital to us as you are! Do stop arguing and just move in!’ She looked around. ‘Although now I look at it, it is titchy. Fine for a weekend, or even a week, but otherwise . . . I don’t know.’

‘Oh no, it’s plenty big enough,’ said Laura instantly. Both women surveyed the room, wood-burning stove at one end with a sofabed and an armchair by it, little kitchen at the other, with a staircase to a gallery where the bed was. ‘It’s enchanting, you know it is.’

‘I know it’s a perfect jewel of a cottage, I’m just pointing out it’s awfully small if you want to stay in it longer than a week. There’s very little space for your clothes and things.’

‘I haven’t got a lot of stuff, to be honest. I could bundle up anything I don’t need and take it to my parents. They have a huge attic. What I need around me mostly are books.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of space for them.’ Fenella looked at the more or less empty bookcase. ‘People will leave books behind when they come to stay.’ She looked a little guilty. ‘Last year, I took all the ones they’d left in the other cottages and read them. I’ll have to put them back.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got actually got loads of books and should have a massive prune. I’ll bring them and you can share them round your cottages. How many have you got?’

‘Three, plus this one, but we’re always looking to do up another old cowshed or something to put people in.’

Laura laughed. ‘They’re more than “old cowsheds” by the time you’ve finished with them.’

‘I know. So . . .’ Fenella was still thinking about books. ‘If you were only allowed one shelf full, which books would you choose?’

Laura didn’t have to think for long. ‘Well, Dermot’s first two, of course. Then there’re a couple of authors I’ve followed for their whole careers. Poetry.’

‘So is Dermot really as good as everyone says he is?’ asked Fenella.

‘Yes! He’s amazing! I know he’s driving everyone mad by not allowing his name to be used as part of the publicity, but he’s really – nice.’ ‘Nice’ was such a woefully inadequate way of describing him, she had to smile.

Seeing the smile, Fenella regarded her friend doubtfully. ‘I know he’s awfully attractive and all that, although of course I haven’t met him. But are his books actually readable?’

Laura put her hand on Fenella’s arm to emphasise the strength of her feelings. ‘Do yourself a favour and read them. Really. They are truly wonderful.’

‘I’d better anyway, if he’s our star attraction.’ Laura was disappointed Fenella wasn’t enthusiastic about her task, but reading was so subjective, she reminded herself. ‘And it’s nice to be able to boast about difficult books you’ve read. Now, anything else you think you’ll need?’

When Laura had insisted that there was nothing, several times, Fenella said, ‘You do think Dermot will turn up, don’t you?’

‘Why? Why do you ask?’ Laura was suddenly worried. Dermot had said he’d come; she assumed he would.

‘It’s just something Eleanora said. She was on the phone the other day and warned me not to have all my eggs in one basket, festival-wise. She seemed to think he might let us down.’

Laura considered. Dermot could be very kind and she didn’t think he would say he’d come and then not turn up. But could she be sure? ‘I’m sure it will be all right.’

But although she reassured Fenella, she had doubt in her own mind now.

Slowly the literary side of the festival began to take shape. Eventually writers confirmed they could appear, and pre-festival events began. A local writers’ circle was writing short stories, the best to be read at the festival and put into a book. An art group was illustrating chosen works from some of the confirmed authors. There was going to be an exhibition and as many as possible would decorate the village hall that was going to host one of the events. A popular children’s poet was hosting a poetry slam, so poetry workshops were going on in all schools as well as energetic story writing. Most of the local schools had already submitted theirs and Laura’s retired teachers were making their first selection. The Knitters and Embroiderers’ Collective was making a bedspread out of knitted or embroidered squares that was going to be raffled one evening. Fenella was already determined to win this, even if it meant buying all the tickets herself.

But the publicity was severely hampered. The fact that Dermot still wouldn’t let it be announced that he was appearing meant that many people who might well have sponsored something weren’t taking the festival seriously enough. They’d been promised a big name and, so far, no big name had been given to them.

Laura sent him regular emails explaining all this, begging for him to let his name be announced and, just as regularly, he emailed back saying no.

‘We’ll have a summit meeting,’ announced Fenella, when one morning Laura had gone over to the big house and broken the bad news yet again.

‘What? With Jacob Stone and Eleanora or Trisha, and that lot?’ Laura was a bit startled. Although so much of the festival was going well, she was feeling a bit of a failure about this and didn’t want to have to explain herself to all those people.

‘Oh no.’ Fenella made a dismissive gesture. ‘No, I meant with useful, fun people, like Sarah and Hugo – he’s Sarah’s other half. Maybe Grant and Monica?’

Rupert came into the kitchen and moved the kettle across to the hotplate. ‘Great if you want a party, otherwise better keep it small. Why don’t you just ask Hugo and Sarah? We’ll come up with something. When are you doing this course with Dermot, anyway?’

‘Quite soon. End of the month.’

‘That’s only two weeks away!’ said Fenella. ‘Well, he must let us use his name by then, surely!’

‘Even if he does, it’s almost too late, publicity wise,’ said Rupert. ‘Bloody Irishmen! Always have to be so bloody mysterious.’

‘Rupert! You’re half-Irish yourself, don’t forget, and Irishmen aren’t always – oh my God!’ Fenella paused, enlightenment dawning. ‘I’ve cracked it! We don’t need a summit meeting!’

‘What?’ asked Laura and Rupert simultaneously, watching as Fenella pushed her fingers into her hair, searched for a pen and generally became like an ant when its nest has been exposed.

‘We’ll make a thing of it!’ she said, flourishing her pen and finding a pad to write on. ‘We’ll refer to our “mystery guest”! We’ll prime all the literary press that the mystery guest will be announced at a certain time—’

‘But will they think our mystery guest worth all that tra-la?’ asked Rupert. ‘Any mystery guest, come to that?’

‘They would if they knew who he was,’ said Fenella.

‘But they don’t!’ said Laura. ‘They mustn’t! Until Dermot OKs it, anyway!’ She was terrified that Fenella might ignore Dermot’s desire for privacy for the sake of the festival. Truthfully, she wouldn’t be able to blame her if she did, but Laura’s loyalties were with Dermot.

‘We’ll leave heavy hints!’ said Fenella. ‘We’ll get Eleanora to take all the relevant people out the lunch. The gossip columnists, the
Bookseller
, all the important mags. It’ll be great!’

‘It could work,’ said Rupert.

‘It will!’ Fenella handed him a bundle of newspapers she’d just gathered up and carried on clearing one end of the table. ‘Give Laura a cup of coffee while we make a list of everyone who needs to be convinced we’ve got the hottest literary date since – since – since some very big author did an event.’

Laura pulled out a chair, thinking rapidly. ‘Eleanora will know lots of the names. I know a few. This could be a very good idea, Fen.’ But secretly she was worried: Dermot would probably hate this, although he had rather forced them into it. Supposing it did make him back out, as Eleanora feared? ‘Maybe we could imply we’ve got J. D. Salinger coming.’

‘Isn’t he dead?’ objected Rupert, joining Fen in clearing the table.

‘Not sure,’ said Laura.

‘Well, if you don’t know, maybe they won’t either,’ said Fenella, ‘and think he’s coming.’

‘They could just check on the Internet,’ said Rupert. ‘And better not to promise anything we can’t deliver.’

‘I only hope we can deliver Dermot!’ Laura moaned, and then smiled to imply she was joking, although she wasn’t. ‘On a brighter note,’ she went on, seeing Fenella’s concerned glance, ‘Monica’s got a gig for Seamus. We should all go. Check him out for the festival. We did wonder about having his band playing, very softly, while Dermot reads.’ Laura had seated herself at the table and was making notes in the notebook she had taken to carrying around with her everywhere. If she was ant-like too, her real anxieties about Dermot might not show. She felt she’d got to know him quite well over the phone, but Eleanora was his agent – surely she knew him better than Laura did?

‘I think that sounds wonderful,’ said Rupert. ‘We want to try and do some things that involve the literary and the music festivals together.’

‘Dermot will probably refuse to do it though,’ said Laura, ‘but I will ask him.’

‘If it wasn’t for the fact that Jacob Stone has been such a generous sponsor and it was because of Dermot that he came on board, I’d say to hell with Dermot!’ said Fenella. ‘But I know you love him, Laura, so I’ll shut up about it now.’

‘It’s not that I love him,’ she lied determinedly, ‘it’s just that I really admire his work.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. So . . .’ Fenella looked at her companions. ‘Anyone else got any genius ideas?’

‘I think if we’re going to make the most of having a secret celebrity, we should offer a dinner with him, as a pre-festival treat, just for the important literary bods,’ said Rupert. ‘We’d make it really gourmet with decent wine.’ He paused. ‘Don’t tell me, Laura, you don’t think Dermot would agree.’

‘Probably not, frankly. He hates literary bods. He thinks they’re out to get him. And they probably are,’ said Laura. ‘Or at least, they will all pounce on whatever he writes next and want to tear it apart.’

‘He hasn’t produced anything for years, though, has he?’ said Rupert.

‘I think he’s got something on the stocks,’ said Laura, wondering if telling lies really made your nose grow longer. ‘But I can’t see him agreeing to it.’

‘Maybe it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t turn up?’ suggested Fenella. ‘After all, we’d give them all a fabulous meal, a night in our “stately home”. They’d have each other to talk to, after all. And we can’t keep writing off ideas just because Dermot might refuse,’ she went on. ‘We’ll have to work round him.’

‘They’ll probably hate each other,’ said Laura, suddenly gloomy. ‘They’ll get drunk and pick fights.’

‘Fabulous publicity!’ said Fenella. ‘It’ll put my festival on the literary map!’

‘Our festival, if you don’t mind, darling,’ said Rupert. ‘More coffee, Laura?’

‘No thanks, I’m jumpy enough already. I’ll go and email Dermot with the next lot of stuff he’s going to refuse to do.’