Love Letters (25 page)

An anxious silence filled the room until Maggie spoke up. ‘I’m sure we’ve all got a lot to learn. I know I have. After all, I presume we’re going to be reading stuff out to each other. When you read it to yourself, it always seems amazing.’

Laura smiled fondly at her. She was going to contribute and co-operate, what a relief!

‘I’d rather just work on my novel than do a lot of poxy exercises,’ said John.

‘In which case you shouldn’t have entered the competition,’ put in Laura. ‘Exercises are extremely useful and we’re going to be doing a lot of them.’ Rather too late she remembered that she and Dermot hadn’t discussed what they were going to do in detail. She shot him a look and he returned it with an amused eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ said Maggie. ‘Lots of people would have given their eye teeth to be here. If you’re lucky enough to be chosen, you should make the most of your opportunities.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Writing is a strange, ephemeral thing,’ said Dermot, smoothing over potential troubled waters. ‘You never know what’s going to help and what’s not. I don’t intend to do exercises on punctuation. But writing for a given time on a given subject can really loosen you up.’

Dermot was cruel. They had five minutes to write about ‘money’. Another five to cover ‘death’, but ten whole minutes to write about ‘birth’.

As a concession, he allowed people to choose what they considered to be their best piece before making them read it out. He’d done the exercises himself and went first.

‘It’s to give you lot confidence,’ he explained. ‘When you see how crap I am, you’ll feel a lot happier about exposing yourselves to the criticism of others.’

But of course, he wasn’t crap. Laura was mildly surprised as she thought his writer’s block implied he could barely write a shopping list, but then the workings of his literary mind were still a mystery to her. And reading out loud was still agony for most.

By lunchtime, everyone was settling down nicely and went off to the cafeteria talking away as if they really knew each other.

‘God Almighty, what I have let myself in for?’ declared Dermot the moment they were alone.

Laura laughed delightedly. ‘You’re brilliant at this! They love you! Although,’ she added, less happily, ‘I do think it was mean of you to make me do the exercises too.’

‘Don’t be silly – yours were just as good as anyone else’s, but I do think there’s some talent there, don’t you?’

‘Definitely. I just hope we can keep them entertained and happy for the entire time.’

‘I’ve got a plan if things look like dragging,’ said Dermot. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

The afternoon was taken up by students writing longer pieces. They were going to be read and discussed in the bar after supper. After lunch, Dermot said he’d see everyone later in the bar for a quick drink before supper. Trying not to feel disappointed, Laura went to her own room to work. She had quite a lot to do for the festival – inviting all the writers appearing to Rupert’s pre-festival dinner for one – and she had promised to read one of Tracy’s category romances. They had agreed between them that Dermot would be shown it only if Laura thought it was fantastic. Her afternoon flew by and she found she only had time for a mug of tea at her desk, although when she looked out of her window, she could see everyone else gathering on the lawn, lying around sunbathing, talking, no doubt, about writing.

She grabbed a quick shower and arrived at the bar late and a little damp.

‘Hey, Laura! You’re at least three drinks behind us,’ said Samantha. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Oh, a white wine spritzer, please.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Have a proper drink!’ Samantha made her opinion of Laura’s choice very clear. ‘Have the wine on its own, at least.’

Laura laughed. ‘If I can have the water separately. I don’t drink much as a rule.’

‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Dermot, his eyes dangerously teasing.

‘Isn’t it?’ she said blithely. ‘Well, I can’t imagine where you got your information.’ Then she wondered if she’d been wrong to trust him not to tell everyone about her exploits in Ireland.

Someone touched her elbow. It was Tracy, the woman whose novel Laura had spent a lot of her afternoon reading. ‘Oh, let’s go and talk privately,’ she said. ‘I’ll just get my drink.’ She was relieved to have an excuse to change the subject.

‘Well?’

Tracy was so diffident Laura hastened to reassure her. ‘I couldn’t put it down! I did my other work first and thought I’d just read a bit so I could tell you, one way or another, and I couldn’t stop reading!’

Dermot was fantastic with the students in the bar. He bought drinks all evening and listened to everyone’s comments with apparent respect and kindness, and even signed copies of his books a couple of the students shyly presented to him. He was particularly sweet to the older women who lacked the brashness of the young, beautiful high-flyers. It was a side of him Laura hadn’t seen much of and she liked it.

‘Finding time to write isn’t easy,’ said Tracy, feeling more confident since she and Laura had had their chat. ‘Especially when you’ve got a young family. Writing seems very self-indulgent, sometimes.’

‘If it’s good for you, it’s good for the family,’ said Helen. ‘I really believe that. You can’t be a good wife and mother if you’re stifling your creativity. Isn’t that right, Dermot?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘Not having been a wife or a mother I’m not really in a position to comment but stifled creativity is a very bad thing.’

Everyone laughed. ‘Not that you’d know about that either,’ said John, who, having wanted to challenge Dermot to begin with, to establish his credentials, was now as admiring as everyone else. ‘You obviously have no problem with it. What are you working on at the moment?’

It was natural that John should assume that Dermot was working on something, but Laura winced. She didn’t want Dermot put on the spot like this.

‘I never talk about my work-in-progress,’ said Dermot, evading the question skilfully. ‘But creativity is a wilful mistress,’ he asked, ‘she won’t always do what you say.’

Everyone had had a couple of drinks by then and only Laura heard the tinge of pain in his words.

‘Could I just have another word?’ Tracy asked Laura. ‘Not many people I know understand the genre as you seem to. Do you really think my book is publishable?’

‘Well, obviously, I’m not an expert . . .’

Laura and Tracy discussed her book until they were summoned to dinner by the others. Several of them, including Dermot, were carrying bottles of wine and as Laura had already had two glasses, the second pressed on her by a grateful Tracy, she decided she wouldn’t personally drink any more.

She didn’t get to sit within easy reach of Dermot but she could see his students were lapping up every word he uttered. Still, that was fine. She was enjoying herself down her end of the table and she could talk to Dermot later, when they went back to the bar.

But by the time everyone had finished eating she felt too tired to carry on with the party. There would be other evenings, she told herself. She’d been working hard and it had been a long day.

‘I think I’ll just go to bed,’ she told everyone, feeling sheepish and a party pooper. ‘I seem terribly tired, for some reason.’

Dermot was so engrossed in a discussion about the merits of various genres he barely noticed her leave. She pushed down a feeling of disappointment. He was here for the students, she reminded herself.

‘Well, I’m still up for it because I had a nap,’ admitted Maggie, one of the older women.

‘Me too,’ said a couple of others. ‘Learning stuff is so tiring!’

The next two days of the course followed the same pattern. Exercises in the morning, private writing or more exercises in the afternoon, long sessions in the bar, before and after dinner in the evening. Each student was to get a one-to-one session with Dermot. He had arranged this timetable himself although she’d been detailed to do it, so Laura didn’t know when he would be closeted with a lovely young writer. This was probably a good thing. She had enough on her plate. A flurry of writers had confirmed for the festival and as Fenella was now totally tied up with weddings, it being summer and the wedding season, Laura was trying to work out a timetable. Her afternoons were spent on this, and on reading other people’s work. Tracy had been so pleased with her criticism of her book, everyone else wanted Laura’s opinion. As the time had passed it had become obvious how highly Dermot thought of her, and how much he valued what she had to say, so the students did likewise. Although she had twice managed to get to the bar after dinner, she could never stay up for more than one drink, however much she wanted to. And much as she’d planned to make a move on Dermot, there just hadn’t been a moment. Nor had he suggested a quick, private coffee with her. He seemed to appreciate having her there but she just couldn’t work out if there was – as she hoped – a bit more to it than that.

‘OK, everyone, change of pace for today!’ announced Dermot when the students had stopped talking and were paying attention. ‘I’ve hired a small coach and we’re going off to a stately home for the day. This is to give us all a bit of a break – we’ve been working really hard since we’re been here.’ Laura’s sudden desire to yawn gave testament to this. ‘So we’re going to get right away. However, you’re not just going to skulk around, you’re going to work.’ He paused for breath. ‘In many ways writing is like painting. The artist looks at life and translates it into something else for the viewer. The writer does it with words, not paint. I want you to make written sketches of what you see. Some will be of physical things: a wood, a statue, a vista. Some will be of people and how they relate to their surroundings. And for the more imaginative among you’ – he glanced at the writers of commercial fiction – ‘I’d like you to write a scene set in the period of the house we’re going to see. It could even be about the real people who lived in the house. I want four pieces of the work by bar-time tonight! Oh, and the cafeteria has made up packed lunches for you all, if you’ll just go along and collect them.’

Laura was thrilled. She felt she needed a day off from festival work and surely, during a day spent in a stately home, she’d have a chance for some private – intimate – time with Dermot. She felt sure she’d seen the same anticipation in the look he’d given her when he’d told them all.

‘How did you get the cafeteria to make up packed lunches at such short notice?’ Laura asked Dermot as they filed on to the bus.

He smiled down at her from the top step. ‘It wasn’t short notice. I booked them on the first morning. I knew we’d need a day away, to freshen us all up. It gives us a bit of time off too.’

Laura gave a little sigh of happiness and didn’t mind at all that Helen had saved a place for her, and she couldn’t sit by Dermot. There was bound to be an opportunity to be alone later; he obviously wanted it too.

Laura longed to doze on the bus trip, which was a little longer than she’d anticipated, but Helen wanted to talk about her work. Still, Laura felt she wouldn’t need to stay up late in the bar, or try to, because she’d get Dermot on his own very soon. The thought made her very happy – and possibly more enthusiastic about Helen’s book than perhaps it warranted.

The garden was attached to a great house that was not to be visited. Dermot had insisted.

‘We’d have to pay more,’ he said, ‘and I want outdoor scenes. You can have people – today’s people, people from the past, but use the garden! I want trees, flowers. In detail – remember “oak” not “tree”. Off you go.’

Unrestricted by Dermot’s orders, Laura did turn to the house. It was large and square and seemed to her to be Georgian. A huge magnolia climbed up one side and lace-cap hydrangeas the other. There was an avenue of lime trees leading to the front door, which, when you turned away from the house, framed the church spire of the nearest village. At the front, parkland stretched to the stone wall in the far distance. A green painted arrow indicated the formal gardens were round the back of the property. They were blessed with a beautiful day and everywhere looked at its best. It was impressive, but Laura found herself thinking that privately she preferred Somerby’s more modest and wilder grandeur.

She stood and gazed for a few moments before turning to look for Dermot.

He’d vanished! How could he have disappeared so quickly? He must have gone with the first group of students who were all chattering away and not, Laura felt, taking in their surroundings.

She wandered slowly along the path, following the signs to the gardens. She’d come across Dermot shortly, she was sure.

The trouble was, there were paths to several different gardens: a cottage garden, a millennium garden, a stumpery – whatever that was – a walled garden and a rose garden as well as a vegetable garden and glasshouses. She suspected there was a more formal garden beyond all that – she could see tall clipped yews in the distance, and a copper beech covered with tiny roses.

She blinked in the sunshine, considering her options. His curiosity might lead him to the stumpery, or he might like glasshouses – she did herself – or would he be drawn to the yews and roses like stars against almost purple foliage? She couldn’t guess, so, deciding simply to enjoy her surroundings, she set off towards the millennium garden. She was just about to reach it when she saw a group of students, including Dermot, right at the end of a wide mown path.

Feeling she couldn’t really gallop down it without looking pathetically needy, like the friendless child on a school outing, she thought she’d try and find a way to meet them without them seeing her approach.

A convenient hedge described in green paint as ‘tapestry’ and consisting of several varieties of tree and quite a few climbing plants, including dog roses and honeysuckle, led, Laura assumed, to the more formal garden where the group was. Hoping she wouldn’t meet anyone and feel obliged to explain why, she hared along it arriving at the other end to see the backs of the group heading along towards a woodland area.