Love Letters (24 page)

He walked her back to her accommodation, to her very door, after their meal out. ‘There you are, sweetheart, safe and sound. We’ll meet for breakfast, to make sure we’re all sorted, and then expect the hordes to arrive at ten. Is that right?’

‘It is.’

‘Good. Nighty-night, then. See you at nine.’ And he strode off to his rooms.

Laura was very happy, despite feeling slightly disappointed he hadn’t even given her a goodnight peck on the cheek. The evening had been a wonderful combination of them just chatting – about everything – books mainly, but also films, music, politics, the state of the planet and the course, and there’d be other opportunities for a moment alone.

He had been delighted with the way she’d set things up to be easy for him. Each student had a brief CV, a résumé of their work and a photograph, plus the notes they had both discussed, neatly printed up. They both had full sets. He was going to study his now, he said, so he had half a chance of remembering people’s names. What she hadn’t got round to asking him was why he’d agreed to do the course, at short notice, in the first place. But there’d be plenty of time to do that later. And there’d be plenty of time to make her move on him, in the way Monica would. It would be easy. She got ready for bed with a smile on her face.

Laura, aware that the students might find the section of the university allocated for the course a little difficult to find, even if they had been sent maps of the campus, had printed out (courtesy of the office) some huge signs, and the following day, she and Dermot waited optimistically in the room allocated to them, smiles ready to pin on the moment anyone looked like arriving. They were both nervous.

‘You do the opening bit and I’ll take it from there,’ said Dermot, walking up and down, reading old notices, opening and shutting cupboards and picking off bits of flaking paint.

‘I’ve never done any public speaking of any kind—’

‘Yes you have!’ objected Dermot. ‘You spoke to all those children. How many schools did you do in the end?’

‘Only three, and I couldn’t have done it at all if you hadn’t coached me. You should do it.’

‘I’m no teacher.’

‘But you’re a writer. That’s why they’re here!’ Why didn’t he understand the huge draw he was to the world? ‘Besides, you liar, you’ve done loads of teaching!’

He chuckled. ‘But not adults. I told you, I specialise in the under-elevens. And didn’t you introduce the writers at all those signings you arranged when you were at the bookshop?’

As she’d told him she had, she couldn’t very well deny it. ‘All I had to say was what a wonderful writer the author was and how grateful the shop was to everyone for coming.’

‘You could say that! I wouldn’t mind at all!’ He was laughing – at himself – at her – at the situation and looking at her in a slightly distracted way. Suddenly she found she couldn’t meet his gaze without blushing, so she didn’t. It was odd to see him so nervous. It was reassuring but at the same time she wasn’t quite sure if it was just nerves about the course that were making him glance at her every couple of minutes. It certainly wasn’t helping hers.

She busied herself with her register. ‘All right. I’ll just do a very brief hello, but then it’s down to you.’ Was this the moment to ask him why he’d agreed to run the course? Maybe not. It might have been complicated and someone could appear at any moment.

She looked at her watch and then at Dermot to see that he’d just done the same thing. It was still only ten to ten. They exchanged rueful smiles.

‘Eleanora’s coming on the last night,’ said Laura to break the anxious silence. ‘Which is good because she’ll tell them what’s what if we can’t.’

Dermot nodded. ‘She can be very scary. I always deal with Tricia, her assistant, if I can.’

‘Oh, I’ve met Tricia.’ Laura wondered if all this small talk was actually making them more nervous. ‘So, have you got any ideas for exercises?’

‘Mm. Some.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll be fine once I’ve started, but I always get like this before a gig.’

‘You would never have guessed it,’ said Laura, recalling his prowl through his fans, his leap on to the stage, his rock-star confidence. He was wearing a rumpled linen suit which would have looked silly on anyone else but seemed to go well with his generally rumpled look. He was so staggeringly attractive he could pull on any old pair of jeans and manky sweatshirt and look sexy. She decided now was as good a time as any to find out why he was here. ‘But if it terrifies you so much, why are you doing this course?’

He made a nonchalant gesture that didn’t quite come off. ‘The money.’

‘Really?’ She found this hard to believe. She didn’t know anything about his finances, of course, but she doubted that the course would be well paid enough to tempt him if he didn’t want something else out of it. Her own fee was welcome, but it wasn’t huge.

‘I’m doing it under sufferance. And under false pretences.’

‘What do you mean? Are you saying that Eleanora made you?’ If she had such power over him why hadn’t she just ordered him to do the festival? Why had she been sent to persuade him?

He shrugged, sighed and came back to the desk. ‘Let’s just say that Eleanora told me – reminded me – that you learn what you teach. She thought it might get me writing again.’

‘I thought she didn’t know about your block?’

‘She didn’t actually say that, but I know it’s what she felt. She must suspect. She’s no fool.’

‘Well, that makes perfect sense!’ Laura smiled, happy that he was making a positive step towards getting over his writer’s block.

‘Does it?’ His smile was incomprehensible. ‘Then I’m glad.’

A bit confused, Laura went on. ‘So what about the false pretences bit?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m just not sure you can teach people to write.’

‘I know what you mean, but there must be some tips you can pass on. I mean, what’s the hardest part of learning to write?’

He shrugged again. ‘I didn’t ever learn to write. That’s my problem. I just did it.’

Before Laura could react, the door opened and the first students arrived.

‘Hi!’ Dermot and Laura said brightly and simultaneously at the first couple. They exchanged glances and then Dermot went on.

‘I’m Dermot Flynn and this is Laura Horsley. Laura’s going to open proceedings officially when everyone is here. In the meantime, if you’d like to come up and collect your name badges.’ He smiled. ‘We want to start putting the faces to the work as soon as possible in case you don’t look like your photos!’

Laura was pleased that any sign of nervousness from Dermot had gone and turned her attention to the group, which now numbered four, as they clustered round the table, looking for their names. They seemed so eager and pleased to be there. Would they still be so keen when she and Dermot started tearing their work to shreds? She felt personally that although she could criticise writing perfectly well when it was just her and the manuscript, she might feel different when the writer was actually present.

‘Sit anywhere, but not too spread out,’ she said as another clutch of potential writers arrived. ‘There are going to be exercises and some of them might involve getting into groups. It’s really important that we all feel comfortable with each other, so shyness is not acceptable.’

How she would have cringed if anyone had said this to her a few months ago. How her life had changed! This time last year she would never have dreamt she could pitch a short-story competition to schoolchildren, do interviews to local newspapers and all the other front-of-house-type things that had previously terrified her. She had discovered that when you were involved in a project, particularly one you felt passionately about, you just got on and did what was needed.

The ten writers carefully selected by Laura and approved by Dermot had arranged themselves among the chairs and were chatting to each other in low, excited voices. Getting on the course had obviously meant a lot to all of them. Laura couldn’t decide if this keenness was a good thing or a bad thing.

She did a rough head-count and everyone seemed to be there. She and Dermot exchanged glances and he nodded, indicating she should get things under way.

‘OK, everyone, let me just check that you’re all here.’ She smiled. Having seen their photos and commented on their writing, in some ways she felt she knew these people already. ‘Maybe when I’ve read your name and you’ve confirmed you’re here, you could tell us a bit about yourself for the benefit of the group.’

‘It would be quite hard to confirm we’re here if we’re not,’ said one young man who Laura identified as the one Dermot hadn’t wanted on the course, in case he was a pain. It looked as if Dermot had been right. She didn’t look at him now but she knew he was looking at her knowingly.

‘Very true,’ she replied solemnly, and started reading the list. ‘Gareth Ainsley?’

Rather to her annoyance, it was the young man who answered. ‘That’s me.’

‘And what are you writing, Gareth?’ Although she knew from his covering letter, and having read his work she wanted to hear him actually say it, for the others.

‘I don’t think that pigeonholing writers is very constructive. I’m not prepared to put my work into a slot decided by the publishers.’

Laura bit her lip to hide her emerging smile. Boy did this young man have a lot to learn! Then she realised he was about the same age as she was. ‘OK, Gareth, but just to give us an idea, name a writer whose work you admire and who may have influenced you.’

Reluctantly he mumbled a few names of which Dermot’s was one, and Laura made a note on her register.

‘OK, Samantha Pitville?’

‘I’m here. And I write chick lit!’ The very pretty young blonde declared this with defiance as if she expected people to boo.

‘There is nothing wrong with being commercial,’ said Laura. ‘If you’re keener on sales than critical acclaim it’s best to know that as soon as possible.’

Samantha smiled, adding to her prettiness by about a hundred watts. ‘Yes, but I’m writing chick lit because I can’t write anything else. And I like it.’

‘Good for you!’ said Dermot.

Laura wondered if he could possibly resist such pulchritude. Her only hope was that Samantha didn’t go for older men.

At last the register was taken and every one had nailed their colours to the mast in one way or another. The older women, Helen and Maggie, who declared they were writing cosy crime and ‘thoughtful books for older women’, did blush a bit as they did so, but Laura felt proud of them.

‘Well that’s all very interesting,’ said Dermot. ‘Now Laura’s going to give you a bit of an introduction.’

‘Well,’ said Laura, ‘I’m not going to say much, but firstly, well done for getting a place on this course. You probably know there were a lot of applicants and you were all picked because of your talent.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘But now may be the only time you feel talented because I know this course is going to be fairly tough—’

‘Can I just ask – er – Laura?’ It was Gareth Ainsley and Laura stiffened. ‘We all know who Dermot Flynn is, but who are you? I mean, what are your qualifications for assisting on this course?’

Dermot moved forward from where he’d been leaning against a desk but Laura put up a hand to stop him. She was going to deal with this herself. She felt she should. She didn’t want them thinking she had no experience at all. ‘I’m here to help Dermot. I used to work in a bookshop and because I’ve spent so much of my life reading, I’m now setting up a literary festival and I helped Dermot make the selection. So if any of you aren’t up to it –’ she glared at Gareth, trying to make him feel he might not be up to it ‘– it’s my fault you’re here. OK?’

Gareth glanced at Dermot and possibly sensed something protective and maybe threatening about his stance. ‘Oh yes, fine.’

‘Well then, I’ll hand you over to Dermot.’

Sweating slightly in spite of her brave front, Laura withdrew to the second desk and sat behind it, arranging her pile of student notes and putting a secret mark on Gareth’s.

‘Hello,’ said Dermot. ‘Nice to see you’re all here. As Laura said, there was very stiff competition to get on this course, but I’m afraid it’s nothing to the competition of the real publishing world. Later in the week my agent is coming to talk to you. If I haven’t managed to convince you of this, then she will. Now, I’d like to kick off with a question-and-answer session and general chat. Feel free to comment if you want to. We’re not kids. And this will give us an idea of what you’re expecting to gain from the course, and it’ll give you lot a chance to find out more about each other. Who’s first?’

A young man put up his hand. Dermot looked down at his pile of papers. ‘John? You have a question?’

‘OK,’ said the young man who Laura remembered wrote literary, autobiographical, rather navel-gazing fiction. ‘Obviously, I entered for the competition, but I started writing when I was a student. I mean, so much of the stuff we had to read was crap. I knew I was better than that.’

‘Nice to have confidence,’ said one of the older women dryly.

Laura glanced down at her notes. She had this Maggie Jones noted down as promising. The book she’d entered was a bit downbeat but Laura was confident she’d be able to put a bit of uplift into it, if she knew it was required.

‘Well, if you’re know you’re good, there’s no point in pretending you’re not,’ said John, although he flushed slightly.

‘Confidence is a gender thing,’ said Samantha, who didn’t seem to be lacking in it herself.

‘I think you’re right,’ said Tracy, a feisty young woman who had proudly announced she wrote short romance novels. According to Laura’s notes, they were sparky and very sexy.

‘And your point is?’ Dermot said to John.

‘I just wonder if there’s any point in this course.’

John’s words caused a frisson of anxiety around the room.

‘Probably not,’ said Dermot, his lazy delivery belying his critical gaze.