Love Letters (29 page)

Her recycling soul meant she would have to wash the baked-bean cans but there was a lot to tackle before she had to worry about them. She worked out the washing machine and filled it, holding her breath as she stuffed the clothes into it. Once that was chugging away she turned her attention to the rest of the kitchen. She simply couldn’t bear to leave it in this state for a moment longer and she might as well make herself useful until Dermot finally woke up. She didn’t like to admit to herself she was doing it because she cared.

It was a feat of organisation: finding somewhere to put the dirty things and then the clean ones. No wonder Dermot had resorted to the floor. She opened the window and turned on the hot tap. When hot water did emerge she offered a prayer of thanksgiving, doubled when she also found washing-up liquid. If she hadn’t had that she’d have had to go to the shop. Now she’d started, she really wanted the kitchen to gleam before Dermot woke.

When she’d dealt with the kitchen, the bathroom (which was worse than the kitchen, in a way) and had vacuumed the sitting room, she went up to the bedroom and said Dermot’s name several times. He still didn’t stir. Sighing loudly, she stamped down the stairs. She would brave the shop and the questioning. There was absolutely nothing in the fridge or the cupboards and Dermot was bound to be hungry when he woke up – she didn’t fancy the idea of facing a hungry, feral Dermot without food on hand to calm him. It would be her peace-offering – even if she hadn’t been the one who’d gone to the press.

She left the front door on the latch and headed down the lane. She was lucky. The shop was full of people, all talking away. She was able to slip among the aisles, tossing things into her basket. The girl at the till rang them up without much in the way of chat. It was possible that she just looked like a woman on holiday, stocking up her holiday cottage.

Back at the house, she had made a nourishing soup, dusted the sitting room and even cut some branches from the garden and put them in a vase when she could stand it no more – Dermot Flynn was going to wake up!

She stood at the doorway of the bedroom thinking what to say when a rasping voice made her heart pound.

‘What the hell is going on?’

Trying to give an appearance of calm, she went into the room so he could see her. ‘It’s me.’

A long list of blasphemous expletives issued from his lips but he didn’t sound angry, just very, very surprised.

Laura was not impressed. ‘It’s all very well you lying there and saying all that, but have you any idea what time it is?’ she demanded. She was tired, had been worried and was hungry. This all combined to make her angry, too.

She saw his stomach muscles ripple as he chuckled. ‘What do
you
think?’

‘The time isn’t a matter of opinion!’ Then she glanced at her watch. ‘Nearly five o’clock. Good God! I’ve been here for hours!’

‘How did you get in?’

‘Through a window. Dermot, everyone’s been so worried about you. Are you ill? Have you been ill? Why haven’t you washed, or eaten proper food, or done any washing up for . . .’

‘Just over a fortnight.’ He was still lying there, showing no signs of moving.

‘Listen, get up, have a shower, a long shower, shave, and then I’ll give you soup. Leek and potato. I made it myself.’

‘How could I possibly resist?’

She stomped out of the room and downstairs. Once in the kitchen she shut the door and sat at the table. Then she did what she’d been longing to do for some time. She allowed herself to weep. What had she done? She’d travelled hundreds of miles, cleaned his disgusting house, made him soup, done his washing, probably got herself drummed out of the feminist sisterhood, and for what?

She’d done it officially because Eleanora had asked her to come, to find out what had happened to him. She also needed to know if he really meant not to come to the festival. That furious text might have been sent when he was at the height of his anger; maybe he didn’t really mean it. But in her heart she knew she’d also come because she loved him. That was why she’d cleaned his house and cooked for him. If she’d only come for professional reasons, she’d have just chucked a bucket of water over him or something and retreated to a safe distance, explaining to the neighbours that he was fine, just in a drunken stupor. Eleanora would have expected her to do a bit more than that, possibly, but she wouldn’t have demanded she became a domestic drudge for him.

There was no shame in loving someone. Love was a good, uplifting emotion that made the world go round. Everyone knew that. But everyone, even one as inexperienced as Laura, knew that it was best to keep your feelings to yourself until you were fairly sure they were reciprocated.

She could hope he wouldn’t realise why she’d done what she’d done. She could hope he wouldn’t read the signals that to her seemed as clear as if she’d arranged an aeroplane to trail a banner through the sky saying ‘I Love You’ in big letters. Men were notoriously dense about matters like this.

She heard movement in the rooms above her and realised she had to get rid of any signs of her tears, or her weakness. She’d blame it all on Eleanora. He might think she had insisted that she dealt with his sordid house and cook for him. He might not identify her as a complete, loved-up sucker.

Her emergency make-up kit in her handbag produced a tiny sample tube of foundation that she patted on round her nose, disguising the redness. Some mascara sorted out her eyes, and by the time she heard him thundering down the stairs she felt quite respectable.

‘Laura, dear girl, what are you doing here?’ His voice was still a little hoarse, but that didn’t make it any less sexy.

‘Eleanora sent me. Everyone’s beside themselves with worry. They didn’t know what had happened to you. They thought you must have been ill, or gone on a bender or something.’ She paused, looking at him questioningly.

‘Or something,’ he said after an annoyingly long pause, and pulled out a chair and sat on it. He was wearing clean jeans and a shirt that was clean if very crumpled. It was only half tucked in. Part of Laura was grateful that he hadn’t run out of clothes completely.

‘But you’re all right?’ Laura ladled soup into a bowl. She wanted an explanation: summer flu, a bad back, something.

She didn’t get one. ‘Yes.’ He started to eat the soup hungrily. ‘There wouldn’t be a . . .’

She handed him a plate of bread and butter. ‘You obviously haven’t eaten a thing for ages. Whyever not?’

He shook his head. ‘I was not able,’ he said through a mouthful of bread.

Silently, Laura added the missing ‘to’, liking the difference between Irish English, and English English. ‘I could make you a sandwich.’

‘That would be fantastic.’

Now he’d started eating he didn’t seem able to stop. He ate an entire loaf of sandwiches, all the ham, cheese and tomatoes that Laura had bought, and then looked round for more. Eventually he said, ‘Aren’t you eating anything?’

She laughed at him, sipping her tea. ‘Not now, no. I’ll go back to the shop for more supplies. Will it still be open?’ She wished she’d bought more last time, but she hadn’t realised just how hungry he’d be.

‘Oh yes, it’s open all hours in summer. Have you got money? My wallet must be somewhere.’ He got up and started staring around. ‘God, the place is clean!’

‘Yes. And don’t worry about money. Eleanora gave me lots of euros. It’ll all come out of your earnings eventually.’

He sat back down in his chair, genuinely horrified. ‘Don’t say that, for God’s sake. When did I last earn her a brass farthing?’

‘Don’t sound so melodramatic. Your first two books still sell very steadily, as you must know.’

He shook his head. ‘I always forget about that. I think in some ways I try to forget I ever wrote those damn books.’

Laura pursed her lips and put her head on one side. ‘I don’t think so.’

He regarded her for a long time and then sighed deeply. ‘God, I’d kill for a cigarette.’

‘And would it be me you’d kill?’

He narrowed his gaze. ‘Tell you what, if you don’t buy me some fags immediately, it definitely will be you I kill.’ Then he smiled.

‘Oh Dermot,’ she said, oozing sarcasm to cover up her melting stomach, ‘you surely must have kissed the Blarney Stone, coming out with such seductive phrases. Surely the birds would come down from the trees to do your bidding.’

‘Listen, if you don’t want to find out, with demonstrations, exactly what the Blarney Stone and meself have got up to, I’d go to the shop in double-quick time.’

If Laura hadn’t been so hungry, and so aware that her feelings for him must be so blatant, she might have been tempted to call his bluff. But she didn’t. She gave him a schoolmistress’s smile, picked up her bag and went shopping again. It was only when she was halfway down the overgrown path that she realised there was no earthly reason why he couldn’t have gone to the shop himself.

Her reappearance in the shop so soon caused an almighty stir; she had not been mistaken for a holidaymaker before, everyone had known exactly who she was and whom she was shopping for. It meant she had to tell everyone, several times, exactly how fine he was, and how hungry. She filled two wire baskets with supplies and then just in time remembered. ‘Oh, do you know what sort of cigarettes he smokes?’

The man behind the counter reached behind him. He produced a packet of tobacco and some papers. ‘He rolls his own but he gave them up in March.’

‘Well, he said he’d kill me unless I got him some cigarettes so maybe I won’t remind him.’

After her purchases had been rung up and settled into bags the man said, ‘Sure Dermot’s a lucky so-and-so to find a woman like you.’

‘Oh, I’m not his woman! It’s just . . . a business relationship.’ She didn’t want to go into details.

The man laughed. ‘I’ll tell my wife that. She’ll find it very amusing.’

Laura decided not to press the point. She could perfectly understand that the thought of Dermot having a business relationship with any woman younger than Eleanora was a bit hard to credit.

Dermot took the tobacco and the papers from her with a smile that would have melted her heart if it hadn’t already happened. His smile was exceptionally sexy. Knowing that every other woman on the planet would probably share her feelings about this wasn’t encouraging.

‘So,’ he said, putting tobacco into a dark-coloured paper and, having seen it properly disposed, licking the paper and closing it. He didn’t put the cigarette between his lips but just watched Laura, seemingly for ever.

‘So?’ Laura caved in, unable to stand another second of the silence.

‘So was it you who revealed my story to the press?’

She’d known they’d have to have this discussion and felt more or less ready for it. ‘It wasn’t “your story” – it was just the fact that you’d agreed to appear at the festival.’ She was pleased that she sounded so calm. ‘But actually, no, I didn’t. I wouldn’t.’

His narrowed gaze and slightly flared nostrils meant she had to keep up the pretence of calm with slightly more effort. ‘It must have been Eleanora,’ he said, a growl in his voice.

‘No! It wasn’t. And it wasn’t Fenella or Rupert or anyone from the festival. Not even Jacob Stone, who would have dearly loved to shout your name from the rooftops.’ Laura felt a growing sense of irritation. How could he think any of them would do such a thing when they’d promised they wouldn’t? Did he doubt their word?

This evidence of Jacob Stone’s admiration made no impression. ‘It sounds as if you know who it was.’ He was looking as if he might eat her, whole, in one big bite. ‘For God’s sake tell me!’ he demanded.

She was determined not to let his anger faze her. ‘I think it was one of the students,’ she said quietly but steadily. ‘There’s a blog I’m fairly sure was written by one of them.’

‘Who?’

‘Gareth Ainsley.’

‘I’ll kill him,’ he said, standing up, his fist clenched, his face furious.

The piece of internal elastic that had been keeping Laura functioning, doing the right thing, focused on the task in hand, snapped. She turned on him.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Dermot! You are so bloody precious! What the hell does it matter if some poor student of creative writing blogs about you, revealing your not very interesting secret to the world! He didn’t tell everyone you were gay! He didn’t declare you as a secret heroin addict! Or a paedophile! All he said, in among a lot of sycophantic rubbish, was that you’d be appearing at a tiny little literary festival no one has heard of!’

His eyes blazed and if she hadn’t been so angry herself she’d have been frightened. Part of her was, anyway. ‘Well, they’ve heard of it now, haven’t they? This has put it on the map well and truly!’

‘And is that such a bad thing? Does it really matter, in the scheme of things, that people know that Dermot Flynn, the “greatest living Irish writer”, might appear at a literary festival?’

‘It matters if you’re Dermot Flynn! Have you any idea how destructive all this attention is to a creative person?’

‘No, because, thank the Lord, I’m not a creative person! I’m just the little Jane Eyre character who makes it all possible for you pathetic, irritating, solipsistic, up-themselves “creative people”!’ She took a breath. She was on a roll now. She’d had enough. ‘Well, I’m fed up with creative people. I think they’re a myth. I think you’re a myth! A self-created myth who pretends he has writer’s block so he can spend the rest of his life doing sweet FA! I think—’

His arms came round her, pushing the breath out of her body, and before she could inhale again his mouth was on hers.

Laura didn’t know if she nearly fainted through lack of oxygen or desire. Every feminist part of her should have been kicking, screaming, biting and scratching him, but every womanly part of her refused to do more than moan faintly.

His lips captured hers as if he was going to devour her, the ferocity of his feelings clear. His hands gripped her clothes, pressing her to him, crushing her, making her legs buckle.