Love Letters (26 page)

Panting slightly and beginning to perspire she debated just running to join them, but still couldn’t persuade herself that she wouldn’t look pathetic. Why oh why didn’t Dermot dispatch them on their separate ways to work on their pieces?

She decided running to join them would only work if she had something of vital importance to tell them. What could she say? She couldn’t say there was a fire because there obviously wasn’t, and anyway they were in the garden. Floods and swarms of locusts wouldn’t work either. What about a particularly beautiful bit of garden, perhaps with a butterfly or, better, a dragonfly involved? She wiped her brow. No, she wouldn’t just look keen like an ambitious Girl Guide but barking mad because if there was a dragonfly, there was no way it would still be there, even if everybody did troop off to look at it. And if it was a particularly fine bit of planting involving old roses and lavender, there would be no need for her to have run.

Sighing, she stumped off towards the stumpery – at least it sounded cool.

She spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between feeling like a very bad private detective, trying to stalk Dermot, and like a detective’s quarry, trying to avoid being joined by any students, so if she did manage to get Dermot on his own, she would be on her own too.

When they finally met up in the tea room, she said to him casually, ‘It’s a lovely garden, isn’t it? There must be acres and acres. I don’t think I ever spotted you.’ This was a lie but she didn’t want to say she’d only spotted him from a distance because it would imply she’d been looking.

‘Oh, I found a really hidden-away corner in the wood,’ he said. ‘I read my book.’ Seeing her react he added, ‘No, not written by me. If I told you it was poetry would you think I was impossibly pretentious?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded, smiling, lying again. ‘But it’s very writerly, so I’ll forgive you.’

Back on the bus she sat at the back and soon fell into a reverie. Trying to get Dermot on his own was just too stressful. If he fancied her – and it was increasingly likely that he didn’t –
he
could seek
her
out.

It was the last day of the course and everyone was anxious about Eleanora’s impending visit. Although they had never met her, the students instinctively felt their work was going to be torn to shreds, even though Dermot had already taken it apart and put it together again. Dermot may well have been wondering if his agent would press him on his work-in-progress, although he didn’t tell Laura this, there had to be some reason for his twitchiness. And Laura was convinced Eleanora would feel she should have got Dermot to announce his presence at the festival to the world. Although, when she thought more deeply, she realised this probably wasn’t the case at all, and she was just picking up nerves from everyone else.

Eleanora arrived in style, driving herself in an old Ferrari that roared up to the building leaving an expensive trail of blue smoke behind it.

Dermot was there to greet her. He had put on his suit, which was now so creased it looked as if it had been run over several times by a steamroller. Laura had longed to tell him to brush his hair but had refrained, realising that Eleanora, who knew him quite well, wouldn’t expect him to be smart. The rest of them had all got used to his scruffy, writerly appearance.

He kissed Eleanora warmly and said, ‘I’m not sure you can leave your car there, Nellie, dear heart.’

Eleanora bridled and said, ‘Don’t call me Nellie, and I’m sure this nice young man will park it for me.’

The ‘nice young man’ in question was Gareth, whom Laura privately referred to as the Young Turk. He was only too delighted to catch the keys that Eleanora tossed to him. Grateful that she hadn’t been asked to park it herself, Laura followed Dermot and Eleanora into the building and along the corridor to the lecture room.

Eleanora was ferocious! Laura thought that Dermot had been quite tough, but Eleanora was tougher. She’d suspected she’d tell it how it was but Eleanora went to town and what’s more seemed to enjoy imparting every negative aspect of the writer’s lot she could think of – and more. She told the students the chances of them getting published were hardly better than winning the lottery. She then went on to say that getting published wasn’t half as hard as staying that way. If your first book didn’t do well, your second wouldn’t see the light of day, and if you weren’t well published, you might as well burn your books in a corner of your garden because they might attract more attention that way.

No one actually burst into tears, but Laura felt it was only a matter of time.

Then Eleanora added the final can of petrol to the fire of despondency she had created. ‘And if you’re not good-looking, very old, very young, related to a football star or the managing director of a publishing company, forget it again. If you’re not promotable, you’re not publishable.’

Eleanora seemed faintly surprised that the room didn’t erupt with applause. Dermot was struck dumb, a rare thing for him, and faint whimperings began to emanate from the students.

Laura got to her feet. She couldn’t send them all home with their collective heart in its boots.

‘Well, thank you, Eleanora, that was fascinating. And isn’t it a good thing to hear the very worst-case scenario? Dermot and I know that there’s a lot of talent in this room, and while I don’t think any of you are best friends with a football star, or married to the head of a major publishing house . . .’ She paused. ‘But if you are and you didn’t tell us, we’ll kill you later . . . Dermot and I have seen the immense amount of work and dedication you’re capable of, and I know – am sure –’ she wasn’t at all sure, but she said it anyway, aware that she was sounding rather like an over-enthusiastic headmistress ‘– that Eleanora would agree with us when we say that talent and perseverance are more important than any of the things she mentioned. Cream will rise to the top. Just you lot go and be cream! And meet us in the bar afterwards.’

The applause wasn’t thunderous, but it was there. As her encouraging words sank in they came out of their state of shock and clapped gently.

‘Darling, you’re too soft on them!’ said Eleanora the moment the three of them were alone. ‘Tell it like it is!’

‘Sure, I know every word you said is true –’ Dermot ran his hand through his hair making it even more like a wind-damaged bird’s nest – ‘but they’d have all gone out and cut their throats if Laura hadn’t rescued the situation.’

‘Yes, Laura dear, you have done well! I knew you were the person to run Fenella’s festival. You’ve done a splendid job with this course, too! Now I see why you wanted her on board, Dermot.’

Laura lost her breath suddenly. She’d assumed it was Eleanora who’d suggested she come. She couldn’t work out how she felt about it. She was pleased he thought she’d be useful, of course. It was flattering that he thought so highly of her editing and organisational skills. But did this mean he really didn’t fancy her at all, and just saw her as useful? Was that why he hadn’t wanted to be alone with her? It was a devastating thought.

‘Laura has been a complete star,’ said Dermot. ‘I couldn’t have managed without her by my side.’

There was a moment’s silence and then Eleanora patted Laura on the shoulder. ‘Good for you! Now where’s the bar?’

At first the students were wary of sitting near Eleanora, but gradually they crept nearer and found she didn’t bite. By the end of the evening she’d bought them all drinks and, with a little prompting from Laura, offered to read anything they sent to her.

As Laura walked a rather intoxicated Eleanora back to the room where she was staying the night, she said to her, ‘I don’t know why I offered to do that. My slush pile is quite big enough already.’

‘But these will be quality slush! I hand-picked them myself and their books will be a lot better when they’ve done more work.’

‘All right, darling, I trust you. And Dermot trusts you too, which is very interesting.’

As Laura had always thought of herself as trustworthy, she didn’t think it was that strange. But Eleanora, given her slightly drunken state, possibly wasn’t thinking clearly.

The students all left immediately after breakfast, many of them saying they felt thoroughly inspired. Eleanora had left before breakfast, saying she was visiting an old friend on the way home, and so suddenly it was just Dermot and Laura.

‘Well, I don’t know what to say,’ said Dermot.

‘That must be a first!’ Laura teased him, trying to sound lighthearted, although that was the last thing she felt. She remained puzzled by his behaviour over the course. He seemed to genuinely enjoy having her there, but apart from the odd almost brotherly look, she couldn’t read him properly and felt completely confused by his attitude towards her. She was also sad because she hadn’t managed to make the most their time together. She suddenly felt less confident – so much for her wanting to seduce him. A university car park wasn’t the most romantic of settings. And he wasn’t striking the pose of someone about to make a move on her as he stood there with his hands in his pockets looking anxious to get away. She told herself she’d see him again at the festival, but would they ever have a minute alone? She couldn’t rely on it. And she had to face the possibility that he just didn’t see her in that way, if he ever had. She was good old helpful Laura.

‘Irishmen are famously loquacious,’ she added brightly.

‘Not this particular Irishman, at this particular time.’ Then he put his hand on her cheek. ‘You’re a very sweet girl.’

She blinked to disperse her sudden tears. He was being very kind and gentle but it was only affection that she detected in his voice. ‘Right then. See you in July at the festival.’

‘Oh God, the bloody festival! I’d forgotten all about that.’

‘Well, let me remind you!’ she said, with feigned strictness.

‘One of these days we’ll meet under more auspicious circumstances,’ he said. Then he kissed her cheek and walked off towards his car without looking back.

Laura stood and watched him go, her tears flowing freely now. She didn’t care if anyone saw her.

Chapter Thirteen

The drive back to Somerby gave Laura plenty of time to sort out in her mind her feelings for Dermot and, more importantly, his feelings for her. Although she couldn’t really tell how he felt, Laura was now convinced she was really in love with Dermot. The course had given her an opportunity to see him as a man, and how he functioned in society. He could be cutting, sarcastic and rude but it was all tempered with humour, wit and extreme kindness. All of the students had been criticised, but all of them had received praise they would cherish for the rest of their writing careers.

He saw her as a helpmeet, that was it. Reliable, diligent, forgiving – none of the characteristics that made her a force to be reckoned with, unless they happened to be jointly reckoning the chances of a particular writer’s success. His tenderness to her as they parted showed her how fond he was of her, but fondness was not enough. A part of her wished she’d never met him, that he’d remained the elusive figure she’d dreamt about. Now like all good heroines in the books she devoured as a teenager, she’d have to pick herself up and get over him as best she could.

She was soon thrown back into festival work with little time to dwell too much on the great Dermot Flynn and for that she was very grateful. She’d slipped the photograph one of the students had sent her of them all together into one of the books on her shelves after briefly tracing the outline of his face and then telling herself not to be so silly.

She’d been to stay with Grant for a few days, who was back from a holiday ‘somewhere hot and expensive’ and wanting to tell her all about it, with pictures. She was now returning to Somerby once more – and work.

Fenella greeted Laura as she drove round the back to park her car near her converted byre, calling through the open window. She seemed very over-excited.

‘Have you heard? Dermot’s gone public! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Let the poor girl get out of the car!’ Even Rupert, following his wife, seemed less laid-back than usual.

Laura did this. ‘Sorry, Fen, what do you mean?’

‘Jacob Stone phoned me. Apparently Dermot has gone public. He saw it on some news thing. He’s thrilled, naturally.’

‘But he hasn’t!’ Laura opened the back door to get her bag. ‘I’m sure he’d have said something to me if he was going to do that.’ She felt desperately betrayed. It was her festival! Surely she should have been the first to know, not some news agency and Jacob Stone! Anyway, on the course he’d said he’d forgotten all about it!

‘We’ll ring Eleanora,’ said Fenella. ‘She’ll know.’

‘Good idea. I think we need to check this story, I really do.’

Apparently it was true. They went on to an Internet news site on Rupert’s computer. Some news agency had got hold of the story that
formerly reclusive writer Dermot Flynn has agreed to appear at the Somerby Literary Festival. There are rumours that he’ll produce his first new work for many years and also that there’s a bidding war for his next novel.