Love Letters (33 page)

‘You’re not still on the voddy, are you, Monica?’ asked Grant as Laura doled out bottles of water and spritzers, giving the only glass to Monica.

‘God yes, I need something. Laura’s driving home. She’s so loved up she doesn’t need alcohol.’

A look like an interrogation lamp turned on Laura. ‘Loved up? Something you’re not telling me, Laura?’

‘It’s Dermot,’ said Monica.

‘Ye Gods! I might have guessed!’ said Grant. ‘I always knew she’d lose her cherry to a poet.’

‘He’s not a poet,’ said Laura, eventually, when she’d processed what Grant had said and recovered. ‘He’s a novelist . . .’ And then she gave up. The cat was out of the bag. Luckily Grant and Monica started having an argument about who was the greatest band ever and she was spared any further interrogation.

Chapter Seventeen

Laura woke up on the Friday of the pre-launch festival dinner feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She had had very confusing dreams, including one in which Grant was reading nonsense rhymes while Laura’s old school orchestra played in the background. It was a relief to be fully awake. At least in real life one had the impression of having control over events.

As she brushed her teeth she wondered how Monica had got on. She’d been to see what she’d declared to be her final band. Grant had gone with her as a driver, so Monica could drown her sorrows if necessary. The music festival had some good acts, Monica had told her, but was short on publicity. Although Monica didn’t dare say it, to her at least, Laura knew Monica wished she had a musical Dermot, to create a bit of useful scandal.

A couple of nights before a group of them had gone to see Monica’s band open the music part of the festival. In theory they were supporting a better-known group (which Laura had never heard of), but in fact they had stolen the show. The entire audience had stamped and clapped along and a goodly proportion of them got up and danced in the aisles of the old cinema. Laura had been amusing herself spotting people from the Lindy Hop night she and Grant had been to when Grant pulled her to her feet.

‘Come on, girlfriend, let’s see if we’ve remembered anything from when we did this before.’ He led her to the front where several rows of seats had been removed (Laura didn’t know if this was to disguise slightly low sales figures, or to make room for dancing) and they started to dance. Soon they were joined by Fenella and a reluctant Rupert. Everyone was laughing and clapping – even the boy band kept time, trying to look cool amidst so much overt enjoyment.

‘What a fabulous opening night!’ Laura said to Monica when they met up backstage, where the party continued, just as exuberantly, only without the dancing.

‘There’s no greater high on earth than ‘a gig going that well,’ said Monica, ‘except being in love!’

As her Seamus was standing by her, Laura didn’t know if Monica was addressing this to her or to Seamus. But at that moment Fenella came up and hugged Monica, and then all her band mates, so Laura didn’t have to respond.

Although Dermot was always in the background of her thoughts, leaping to the front whenever there was a nano-second of space between one useful thought and the next, Laura was gradually coming to terms with what had gone on between them.

She realised it had been quite unreasonable of her to expect – even to hope – that Dermot was unattached. Her head had filled in the blanks, even if her heart didn’t want to accept it. He was highly sexed and had the free attitude to love and life that great artists often did. If his girlfriend was away there would be a vacuum and he would fill it. Bridget (in spite of her hard-won rationality she could hardly even think her name) would have known this when she went away, pragmatically accepting that being with Dermot meant putting up with his occasional infidelity. Well, good for her, thought Laura, doubting she would have been able to be so adult about it.

Having attempted to sort it all out in her mind she felt marginally better. She just had to accept Dermot as he was. He’d been a lovely dream. Some irritation remained: even if he didn’t want to contact her, he could at least reply to Fenella’s emails and say whether or not he was coming. But if he didn’t she’d cope. She’d have to.

Laura presented herself to Fenella as soon as she was dressed. It was another glorious day with the promise of more of the same over the weekend. At least the weather was being kind to them.

‘So what do you want me to do for tonight?’

Fenella kissed her cheek, partly in greeting and partly in thanks for her prompt appearance to report for duty.

‘A seating plan. Sarah’s upstairs and she’ll do it, but she needs you to tell her who is who. You’ll know if people are deadly rivals, at daggers drawn. Damien Stubbs has confirmed. And Kathryn Elisabeth can’t come to the dinner but she’s fine for her event and for the panel.’

‘Oh, that’s OK then. But I don’t know any of the authors personally, you know.’ Laura felt obliged to make this clear, although this wasn’t absolutely true.

‘Which is how it should be,’ said Fenella firmly. ‘Any problems, you can ask Eleanora. She’ll know exactly who doesn’t speak to who.’

‘I think maybe that should be “whom”,’ suggested Laura softly.

‘Oh shut up,’ said Fenella good-naturedly. ‘Sarah’s in the dining room. I’ll bring some coffee up.’

Sarah had all the names of the guests on place cards and was putting them down and then picking them up again.

‘Hi, Laura, how are you? Come and tell me if I’ve made any ghastly mistakes.’

‘That’s a lot of people,’ said Laura. ‘But in spite of what Fenella might have said, I don’t really know who’s who.’

‘But you’d know if I’ve put a romantic novelist next to a science-fiction writer.’

‘Well, yes, but I’m not sure that would matter too much. All the writers of women’s fiction I’ve met have been very down-to-earth and easy.’

‘But what about the sci-fi ones?’

Laura considered. ‘Ah well – they vary.’

‘So where would you like to sit?’ asked Sarah when they’d moved the place cards around quite a bit.

‘Really, I don’t mind. Just fit me in anywhere there’s a gap. I’m surprised I’m invited, actually. I feel I should be helping to serve or something.’

‘It’s being catered. Fen was muttering about her and Rupert doing the cooking but I put my foot down. They’re here to entertain the guests, and so are you. Hey, it’s good that they got the old dumb waiter sorted, isn’t it? Otherwise it would have to be a cold dinner.’

‘That will have made a big hole in the budget.’

‘What? Fixing the dumb waiter? Not at all. It only needed the cords replacing.’

‘I meant having the dinner catered.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Not really. Rupert has provided all the wine from his cellar and has sourced the food. It’s being done by this lovely firm of women I know, the Catering Ladies. They’re very low key, reasonable and utterly brilliant.’

‘Oh well, that’s good.’

‘You look worried. Is it Dermot?’

Laura sighed. Was it that obvious to everyone? Although she was sure Sarah didn’t mean to imply anything personal. ‘Not so much him, or at least, not just him, it’s the whole thing. I feel we’re going to look awfully silly if our star turn doesn’t pitch up, however many things we’ve arranged to fill in the gaps.’ She also felt guilty. Although she had emailed him, as had Fenella and Eleanora, she couldn’t bring herself to phone. She didn’t want to hear his voice. She was just about managing to get her feelings under control; she didn’t need anything to undermine that. Anyway, why should she? Why should she even care after he’d effectively used her? And would a call from her make him come when everything else had apparently failed? If several fierce messages from Eleanora hadn’t done the trick, nothing would. And should she really sacrifice herself once more for the greater good?

‘I don’t think once it’s started anyone will really notice,’ said Sarah, unaware of Laura’s internal inquisition. ‘We’ve got the dinner tonight – well, that’s not for the punters, but it’ll keep the performers happy.’

‘And tomorrow’s either Dermot, reading with music, or Rupert, pretending to be Irish, reading with a CD.’ Laura made a face. ‘It doesn’t sound very convincing, does it?’

‘But there are free drinks, courtesy of the local micro-brewery – we’ve Rupert to thank for that – so no one will mind if it’s not amazing.’

Laura sighed agreement. ‘And then the big interview or the panel the day after tomorrow.’ She frowned. ‘I do see that with free beer Rupert might go down all right, but a panel of authors? Instead of the big star name? I’m really not sure.’

Sarah was firmly philosophical. ‘There’s no point in worrying about it. You’ve done everything you can and set up a good substitute event. If people want their money back, well, we’ll give it to them.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Relax, most people will just go to the events they’re going to, if you see what I mean. The ticket sales have been very good. Lots of the people on the database you provided from the shop have bought tickets. And the competitions have been very well supported. Trust me, it’ll be fine. And Fen says there’s a real buzz locally. People stop her in the street and ask about it every time she goes to town.’

Aware that as an events organiser who specialised in weddings, Sarah was a professional soother of ragged nerves, Laura smiled. But she was still worried.

Just then the door opened and Fenella came in with a thermos jug of coffee and a plate of biscuits.

‘How are you two getting on?’ she said, handing the plate to them. ‘These are home-made. The Catering Ladies made them.’

Laura crunched into a lemon-flavoured biscuit. ‘Delicious! Couldn’t we just have these for the dinner?’

Fenella was just about to tell Laura off when her phone rang. She pulled it out of her back pocket and then walked across the room to where there was better reception. Sarah poured the coffee and she and Laura sipped and ate until Fenella came back.

‘You look as if you’ve either won the lottery or failed your driving test,’ said Sarah. ‘Which is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fenella, looking from one to the other. ‘Sort of both.’

‘Tell us then!’ urged Laura.

‘Well, you know the music festival hasn’t been able to get the same amount of publicity as the literary one? Monica’s worked really hard at getting it attention but no one seems that interested in giving it any airtime. Maybe it’s musicians being even more flaky than writers . . .’

‘Cut to the chase, honey,’ said Sarah.

‘Well, Ironstone – heard of them?’ Fenella addressed this to Laura.

‘I may be a bluestocking,’ she said crisply, ‘but I haven’t been living in a cave for the past year. They are pretty darn famous.’

‘Sorry. Well, they’re willing to do a spot—’

‘But that’s amazing!’ said Sarah.

‘Yes it is! What’s the downside?’ Then Laura suddenly wished she hadn’t asked. Fenella was looking at her with a sympathy that could only mean one thing. ‘Oh don’t tell me. It’s to do with Dermot, isn’t it? They’ll come if they can meet the “greatest living Irish writer” da de da de da.’

‘I want to thank you for not doing those wiggly things in the air with your fingers for inverted commas,’ said Sarah gravely.

This broke the tension somewhat, but didn’t stop Laura clenching her fists. ‘I’m just so fed up with this! Bloody Dermot! Why is he being so – bloody difficult.’ Her pent-up frustration at herself for minding so much was making her crosser than she wanted to be.

‘I thought you were going to use a four-letter word for a moment there, Laura,’ said Fenella.

‘I did in my head. I’ve just trained myself not to say it out loud, because of working in the shop – or at least not often. But you must see my point! He’s been such a – nuisance! I mean, how long does it take to answer an email, even if only to say no! The literary festival starts tomorrow, for God’s sake!’ She’d even rung Marion, her bed and breakfast hostess, to see if she knew anything, but all she could say was that he was holed up again and no one had seen hair nor hide of him. She didn’t tell the others this because they’d ask, perfectly reasonably, if she’d phoned him. She didn’t want to have to explain why she hadn’t. And anyway, Eleanora had and she was much better at getting mountains to move.

‘He did get us a very good sponsor, who hasn’t withdrawn his sponsorship in spite of Dermot being such a loose cannon,’ Sarah pointed out reasonably.

‘He could have lost us it,’ said Laura.

‘And think of all the authors who confirmed when there was all that fuss in the press!’ said Fenella. ‘They were queuing up to come!’

‘And if he doesn’t turn up no one will ever agree to appear at this festival again!’ said Laura. ‘They’ll say we got people here under false pretences. The press will have a field day . . .’

‘He might still come,’ said Fenella softly, obviously not really believing that he would. ‘Try not to take it to heart, Laura.’