Love Letters (3 page)

‘Look, I can tell losing your job has knocked your confidence. It would. But don’t turn this down until you’ve had a proper think about it. Fen said there’s some sort of meeting at Somerby – hang on, I’ll tell you when it is.’ Eleanora took a big gulp of her wine and then started burrowing in her handbag, which had a Mary Poppins quality: it was enormous and possibly contained a standard lamp. She produced a Filofax the size of a family Bible and riffled through the pages. ‘Next week. Two o’clock. At Somerby. Do you know where that is?’

‘No,’ said Laura firmly, although a small part of her wanted to find out. Despite her reservations – and they were strong ones – she felt a flutter of interest. Anything to do with books had that effect on her.

‘I’ll get Fenella to email you some details. You are on email?’

‘Well, at the shop.’

‘You’ll need a laptop. Better get one with your redundancy money.’

Laura inwardly bristled. She didn’t like being told how to spend her as yet unspecified redundancy money. She might need to pay a gas bill or her rent with it.

Eleanora hadn’t got to be a top literary agent without knowing how to read body language or how to get people to accept challenges. ‘You might as well go to the meeting, at least. If your only other job opportunity is stacking shelves in a supermarket . . .’

Struggling to stick to her original reaction that running a literary festival was not what she wanted to do, Laura kept up her argument about practicalities. ‘That’s not my only job opportunity, and I’m working at the shop for the next two months!’

‘What else are you going to find that involves books, except another bookselling job?’

‘I do realise that I might have to broaden my search a bit but that’s probably a good thing.’

‘Do you want to move house as well as change your job?’

Laura visibly shuddered. Her tiny flat was not a palace but it could have been far worse and, more importantly, she could afford it. ‘Not really, but I suppose I may have to.’

‘Then far better quit while you’re ahead. Run the festival for my niece and you won’t have to move. You can live on-site, there’s plenty of room. And I’m sure you’d be brilliant at it.’

‘Honestly, I may be able to set up a reading in a bookshop but I couldn’t do the other stuff – such as how to calculate how big a marquee I’d need for the events. There’s nothing worse than a tent for two hundred and only twenty people in it.’ Laura had experienced this for herself – she had nearly frozen to death.

‘You won’t have to do that sort of thing,’ said Eleanora confidently. ‘There are others who can do that. We – they – need you for your knowledge of books and writers.’

Trying to clamp down on the stirrings of interest this flattering statement aroused, Laura said, ‘Will it pay well?’ The answer was bound to be no and then she could just say no. Eleanora was the sort of woman who would understand this practical approach.

For once, the forthright Eleanora didn’t instantly reply. Instead, she fiddled with her cutlery for a second. ‘There’ll be some sort of fee, I imagine. To be honest, I’m not sure exactly.’

Laura felt on solid ground at last, although she didn’t find it as comfortable as she would have thought. ‘Well, that settles it. I can’t possibly afford to work for nothing.’ She felt a little sad to have got out of it so easily, then shook herself. She didn’t exactly get a king’s ransom working in a bookshop, but at least it paid the bills and she couldn’t be reckless and agree to something on the basis of an as yet unspecified fee.

‘But you said! You’ve still got your job at the shop for the next two months! And all the big festivals are mostly run by volunteers.’

‘I can’t afford to be a volunteer, I need paid work,’ she gently reminded Eleanora.

‘As I said, you’ve got that!’

‘But Miss—’

‘Eleanora.’

‘Eleanora . . .’ she blundered on, not quite happy with calling this woman she didn’t know very well by her first name. ‘I’m paid to work in a bookshop. That means I have to be there, doing my job.’

‘Oh, your boss will give you time off to run the festival! I’m sure he will! He seemed such a nice man.’

She was probably right about this, Laura acknowledged. Henry would be as helpful as possible and give her as much time off as she needed if it involved her getting paid work. But she wouldn’t do it unless there was money involved. It would be gross foolishness and unfair to Henry. And when she thought of what her parents would say if she admitted to working for even less than she was currently earning, she reached for her wine for support. They still hadn’t quite forgiven her for doing English at university instead of studying something that would give her a job that paid ‘proper money’.

‘All that student debt,’ they had said, ‘and you’ll never be able to pay it off!’

When she’d told them that if her wages were so low she wouldn’t have to pay it off, they weren’t remotely impressed. Nor was she, really. She didn’t like being in debt to the government but she still wasn’t going to study to be an accountant.

‘Just go to the meeting,’ said Eleanora. ‘If your boss doesn’t want to give you time off, I’ll speak to him. Once you’ve seen the house and met my niece, you’ll want to do it. I promise you.’

‘I’d better not go then,’ muttered Laura. Eleanora didn’t hear, but then Laura hadn’t intended her to.

Chapter Two

‘So,’ said Grant in the shop the next day, before he’d even got his coat off, ‘did you sit next to the wunderkind?’ They were in the stockroom that combined as a staffroom, in the basement of the building.

‘Oh, you mean Damien?’ As usual, Laura had got in early, and had finished the clearing up that Grant and Henry had promised they’d do, before going downstairs and putting on the kettle. ‘No. He was surrounded by beautiful young women who worked in the publicity department.’

‘Jealous?’ asked Grant, tipping half a jar of instant coffee into a mug. He was the sort of person who always wanted to know how everyone felt. Laura often told him he should give up bookselling and become a counsellor – it would be his ideal job.

She shook her head, squishing her peppermint tea bag against the side of the mug with a spoon. ‘No. Not my type.’

‘So what is your type?’ Grant poured boiling water on to the coffee.

‘I don’t know really.’ Laura scooped out her bag and dropped it into the bin-liner she’d just put in place. ‘I don’t fancy many people.’

‘You must have some idea. If I’m going to help you find a boyfriend, I must know what I’m looking for.’

Laura laughed. ‘I don’t want you to find me a boyfriend! I’ll find my own if I want one!’

Grant made a face of utter revulsion as he sipped his coffee. ‘Of course you want one, darling, we all do. I just need to know the type. Pipe and slippers? Snappy dresser? Yoghurt-knitter-and-dedicated-recycler? Actual cycler?’

‘I think the word you’re looking for is cyclist.’

‘You’re such a pedant sometimes, Laura. And you must have some idea of your basic type.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ They’d had this sort of conversation before and it never led anywhere. Although she had no particular ambition to end up a lonely spinster with the regulation cat, she did sometimes feel it was inevitable. She sighed. ‘We’d better get upstairs. It’ll be time to open soon.’

‘No hurry.’ Grant was rummaging in a tin of shortbread left over from the staff party. ‘I need breakfast and everyone’s at the sales, buying tat or taking back the tat they were given for Christmas.’ He frowned. ‘I see your mother is still giving you “slacks” for Christmas, and you’re still taking them back?’

Laura glanced down at her new black trousers. ‘My mother can’t see why I’d rather wear clothes that need ironing instead of nice, easy-care polypropylene or some such. She doesn’t understand about static and how it’s just not cool to create sparks when you walk quickly.’

Grant laughed. ‘It is in some circles, sweetie. At least mine has stopped giving me diamond-pattern golfing sweaters.’ He gave her sweater a disparaging look.

‘I know black is dull but clothes get filthy working here.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘Maybe I’ll have a nice nylon overall for my next job.’

‘You and me both, ducky! Now are you going to open up, or aren’t you?’

Laura went upstairs to the shop. Henry came through the door just as she was turning round the sign.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ he said, as he always did. ‘How did you get on last night? Eleanora Huckleby’s a piece of work, isn’t she?’

‘She certainly is. She—’

‘Wants you to run a literary festival, I know.’ He took off his hat and threw it deftly to a row of pegs where it obligingly landed. ‘She phoned me. First thing.’

Laura was used to the hat trick but this was surprising. Henry wasn’t a ‘first thing’ sort of person. It was, he claimed, why he wanted to run a bookshop. She felt instantly guilty. ‘Oh goodness! I can’t believe that!’

Henry shook his head, smiling down at her. ‘She’s not a top literary agent because of her lack of tenacity, that’s for sure. So if you need time off for this meeting, you can have it. But if you do decide to go for it, and actually help set up the literary festival, I insist on providing the books.’

He was being so generous Laura couldn’t help feeling a twinge of conscience. ‘But supposing it isn’t until after the shop is closed?’

‘I’ll still have my contacts, and I think a lit. fest. would be splendid fun!’

Was everyone determined to get her involved whether she agreed to or not? They certainly seemed to be conspiring to erase any possible objections she might have. She supposed she ought to feel grateful they believed in her so much. Now all she had to get through was her monthly visit to her parents.

‘So how did it go?’ asked Grant as he came through Laura’s door barely an hour after she’d got back from what had proved to be the usual frustrating visit home. At least she had the thought of her night out with Grant to keep her going. He’d made a duty visit that day too, to his aunt’s.

‘Oh, OK, you know. Quiet.’

‘You didn’t tell them about the bookshop closing then?’

‘No. I thought I’d wait until I’d got something else lined up. You know what they’re like. My father might insist that I retrain as an accountant or a book-keeper. Did you tell your aunt?’

‘Yup, but as she’s not my mother I felt she could take it. She offered me some money if I wanted it.’

Laura smiled. Grant always went through agonies of guilty conscience when his aunt offered him money although he did sometimes accept it. ‘So did you say yes this time?’

‘Certainly not! I don’t need it at the moment. If I’m out of work for ages I might say yes then.’ He tutted. ‘Don’t look at me like that! I’m her only relation and she’s loaded. She likes giving me money!’

Chuckling, Laura drew him into her flat and shut the door behind him. ‘I know she does and I’m not the one feeling you shouldn’t take her handouts. She’s got more money than she knows what to do with and you’re her only nephew. I don’t think you should feel guilty at all. Hey! Why don’t you ask her for a really big lump and you could open your own bookshop. Then we’d both be back in gainful employment!’

‘What makes you think I’d give you a job?’

‘Because I’m the best and you would.’

Grant sighed. ‘OK, I would, but I wouldn’t like to ask her for real money. She might need it for her care home or something. I’ll be all right anyway. I don’t mind working for a big chain.’ His attention wandered from his possible next job to Laura’s outfit. ‘Sorry, sweetie, you can’t wear that.’

‘Why not? I thought I’d put on a skirt for once, look a bit smarter than usual. For our big night out.’

‘Well, you look like you’re dressed as a secretary in an am. dram. production of something with a secretary in it, only not as sexy.’

Laura was used to Grant’s less than enthusiastic reaction to her clothes. ‘Thank you very much for your vote of confidence. I love you too.’

‘Don’t get huffy, you actually look nearly OK, only you need to wear something a bit fuller, or trousers.’

Laura threw up her hands to express her incredulous frustration. ‘Usually you’re trying to get me out of trousers! But actually I spilt something on my black ones at the restaurant yesterday, which is why I’m wearing a skirt.’

‘I thought you had about five pairs of black trousers – six since Christmas?’ It was quite clear how he felt about the working-woman’s staple.

‘All either dirty or too worn out to be worn out, if you get my meaning.’

Grant sighed. ‘Enough with the puns. Have you got a skirt you can dance in?’

‘I can bop about in this.’

‘I don’t mean bop about, I mean dance. Lindy Hop to be precise.’

‘Why? We’re going to hear a band. We don’t have to dance in the aisles if we don’t want to. It’s usually voluntary.’

‘But it’s at a club. It’s a Lindy night.’

Laura growled at him. ‘Grant, why didn’t you tell me this before I agreed to go? What is Lindy Hop anyway?’