Love Letters (34 page)

Laura sighed. It was much too late for that.

‘And I’m not going to Ireland to try and bring him. Not again. It wouldn’t work. It didn’t work on either of the other two times I tried it.’ Laura took refuge in another biscuit.

‘So what shall I tell the man from Ironstone?’ said Fenella after a suitable pause out of respect for Laura’s previous efforts.

‘The truth!’ said Laura, still crunching.

‘Hang on, let’s just think,’ said Sarah, tapping her pen on her cheek. ‘If they came it would really help the festival?’

Fenella nodded. ‘Bloody right! We might get coverage on Radio 1, as well as all the local stations. It’d be mega. We didn’t even ask any bands that big, because they’re always booked up years ahead. Ironstone just happen to have a gap for some reason. Publicity-wise, it would be fantastic.’

‘Well,’ said Sarah, after chewing her pen for a few thought-filled moments. ‘It won’t do them any harm to do something for us. Tell them we can’t guarantee that they’ll get to meet the great man but we’ll do our best. After all, it’s what we’ve been saying to everyone else and they haven’t smelt a rat.’

‘They will expect the great man to appear,’ said Laura, when Fenella had gone away to tell this whopping lie.

‘I don’t care,’ said Sarah. ‘Sometimes one just has to be a bit unscrupulous. Other people often are.’

‘Quite right!’ said Laura, with a very attractive but very unscrupulous-where-women-were-concerned person in her mind.

‘So let’s get these place cards done.’

‘What shall I do with this one?’ asked Laura a little later, holding a card with Dermot’s name on.

‘Put it on the side with the other possible no-shows,’ said Sarah. ‘A couple of people said they might not be able make it.’

Laura was on duty in the hall. Everyone was due to arrive any minute now. She had the house phone, a list of directions from several local landmarks and a note of which author was to stay where.

The first people to arrive were a couple of women’s fiction writers who were very jolly. They’d travelled together, got lost several times and not minded. They’d had lunch at the local pub and were in positive mood.

‘I’m Anne,’ said one, ‘and this is Veronica. To be honest, people who write books like we do don’t often get asked to festivals,’ she went on. ‘And to get to stay in this lovely house,’ she added, looking round at the hall, newly decorated with some very pretty
trompe l’œil
morning glories that were concealing something or other that Fenella was worried about. ‘That makes it really special.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Veronica. ‘I love that fake pillar. Getting it to look like real marble is not easy.’

Laura laughed, grateful that the party included two such good-hearted people. ‘It is a lovely house, and Fenella and Rupert are such good hosts,’ said Laura. ‘Fenella will be here in a minute to show you to your rooms.’ She smiled at both women. ‘I’ve always been a fan of your books.’

Anne Marsh enveloped Laura in a Chanel-scented, silken hug. ‘Bless your heart.’ She wore a lot of scarves and jewellery and was like a softer version of Eleanora. ‘How many writers have you got coming to the dinner?’

Laura considered. ‘Well, there’s you two, Kathryn Elisabeth couldn’t be here tonight but is doing an event in the library tomorrow. There are a couple of literary writers, including Damien Stubbs and a science-fiction writer. We didn’t have room for everyone. So that’s six.’ She didn’t mention that there should have been seven, in case there wasn’t.

‘Well, we’re very happy to be part of it all,’ said Veronica.

‘Hello!’ Fenella appeared. ‘I’m Fenella.’ She shook hands with both women. ‘Now, would you like some tea first, or to be shown to your rooms?’

The women exchanged glances. ‘Let’s find our rooms,’ said Veronica. ‘But then a cup of tea would be wonderful.’

‘I’ll organise the tea,’ said Laura. ‘Would you like it in the sitting room or the kitchen?’

‘Kitchen,’ they said in unison.

‘In which case, you stay here,’ said Fenella to Laura, ‘and I’ll make tea when Anne and Veronica are settled.’

Eleanora appeared and, hard on her heels, a young writer of literary fiction who’d got lost and was not at all happy. Fortunately for Laura, Eleanora gave him a sharp lecture about being grateful for the exposure, and that books like his hardly sold diddly-squat, and that this was a great opportunity.

A couple of men in country clothes arrived. They turned out to be literary editors. They’d travelled together and were extremely pleasant. ‘So will Dermot actually appear?’ one of them asked Laura.

She shrugged, and then smiled, remembering that they were supposed to be pretending he was coming, at least to everyone else.

‘Shall we open a book on it?’ said the other one.

Laughing, they followed Fenella to their accommodation.

At last everyone they were expecting had arrived, except Dermot.

‘It really is an amazing room,’ said Laura, looking around her.

The huge table took up most of the middle, but the room was so large there was ample space for sideboards and serving tables at the edges.

The vast mahogany table shone, set off by the sparkling glasses and crisp white napery. Laura’s eye was caught by something and she looked closer.

‘It’s a darn! In the napkin!’

Sarah laughed. ‘It’s all antique, from Rupert’s family, or from car-boot sales, depending. The glasses are a bit mixed if you look carefully. Fenella’s been hunting for nice ones on eBay.’

‘But so many of them – the polishing must have been a nightmare.’

‘The Catering Ladies really enjoy making everything look perfect.’ Sarah chuckled. ‘They were a bit horrified when they saw the number of bottles of wine Rupert’s put out.’

Laura made a rough calculation. ‘That’s nearly a bottle per person, no wonder they were shocked.’

‘That’s just the red wine. The champagne and the white is all being chilled.’

Laura laughed. ‘My goodness!’

‘Rupert says dinner parties where the empty bottles don’t exceed the number of guests are niggardly affairs. And Eleanora says writers all drink like fish.’

‘Well, I don’t think we need worry about anyone going thirsty!’

‘There’s masses of soft stuff as well, if you don’t want to drink much.’

Laura made a rueful face. ‘I’d prefer not to tonight. Rupert still needs to run through his pieces for Saturday, so we’ll have to get up at a reasonable time tomorrow.’

‘Rupert’s cooking breakfast, so unless it’s before dawn, I’m afraid you’ve missed that slot.’

This was a bit of a blow. Doing something like this without proper preparation could end up the most amateur disaster: hideously embarrassing. Suppressing a feeling of panic, Laura said, ‘Oh well, might as well get pie-eyed then!’ Seeing Sarah’s searching look she added, ‘It’s all right, I’m joking.’

There was a pre-dinner reception in the long gallery that had, Fenella told Laura proudly, been the venue for a celebrity wedding that had featured in all the gossip magazines. Laura hadn’t liked to admit she didn’t read gossip magazines, but when she had passed this information on to Monica, she was very impressed.

Monica was sharing Laura’s little cottage for the festival while Grant was in a local b. and b. Monica arrived back from sorting out yet another ‘slight hiccup’ on the music side of things while Laura was ironing her best white shirt.

After hellos, the discussion about opening a bottle of wine or not and the bewailing of Dermot’s as yet no-show, Monica said, ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’

‘Why not? It’s clean, freshly ironed, and I’ve got all the dog hair off my black trousers!’ Laura was feeling combative, mainly because she felt she was going to look a little dull next to Monica’s glittering pink number that perfectly toned with her glittering pink hair.

‘Haven’t you got anything else?’

Laura sighed. ‘I was going to go into town and buy something, but the time slipped away.’

‘OK, let’s think. You’re a bit shorter than Fenella. Shoe size?’

Laura told her and Monica rushed off. For want of something better to do, Laura picked up a bottle of nail varnish that had fallen out of Monica’s make-up bag and began to apply it. Lucky Monica – this was just a jolly dinner for her. It could make Laura look a complete fool.

Monica came back with a hanger on which hung a tiny velvet item that she declared was a tunic. ‘But wear it over tights, with these boots’ – she produced the long, pale green suede pair that Fenella had been wearing when Laura had first met her – ‘and it’s an outfit.’

‘But it’s summer. I can’t wear boots, and besides, that – dress is terribly short.’

‘Put it on!’

As Monica was sounding very like Laura’s mother when getting Laura dressed to visit her grandparents, she did as she was told.

‘Fantastic! You look great! Now let me get at your hair.’

‘I look like a pixie having a bad hair day,’ said Laura when she had manoeuvred herself in front of a mirror, Monica following behind holding said bad hair.

‘You won’t when I’ve finished with you. Just stand still!’

Laura was not at all sure she liked the impression she gave but she had to admit that the bits of her legs that showed between the short dress and the long boots did look rather fine.

‘It doesn’t really matter what I look like anyway,’ she said.

Monica made as if to clip her round the ear.

When they got to the house everyone was wearing their finest. There was quite a lot of sparkly black; Eleanora’s jewellery was longer and more glittery than ever. The men wore suits or dinner jackets; Grant was wearing a white dinner jacket with a black sequinned bow tie. Laura noticed one of the romantic novelists writing things down in a tiny notebook.

Rupert, particularly dashing in a velvet tuxedo, filled everyone’s glasses with either champagne or elderflower pressé that had a few stars of elderflower in it. Then Sarah banged something against a glass.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Rupert. ‘Fenella was supposed to be doing this opening speech but she absolutely refused, so I’m doing it.’ There were polite murmurs and sips of champagne. ‘She and I and all the festival committee have worked incredibly hard to make this first Somerby Festival a roaring success, and I’m sure it will be. But one person has done more, gone to lengths far greater than anyone else, to get the literary side of it all going, and that’s Laura Horsley.’

Laura blushed so deeply she thought she would spontaneously combust, and vowed to take out a contract on Rupert’s life at the first opportunity. The applause was loud and extremely embarrassing. The cries of ‘Speech, speech’ got so loud she realised she’d have to say something.

‘Thanks, Rupert, for that,’ she said meaningfully, making sure he picked up the message that she would never forgive her for dumping her in it. ‘It’s very sweet of Rupert to say those kind words about me, but these things never hang on one person, however much that may seem to be the case.’ There was a stage-whispered ‘bloody Dermot’ from Monica. ‘This was a new—’ A buzzing sound from the pocket of Fenella’s tunic stopped Laura mid-sentence. ‘Saved by the bell!’ she said gaily and groped for her phone.

An angry Irish voice growled in her ear as she said hello, ‘Where the feck am I?’

A beatific smile spread from Laura’s lips and ended possibly at her toes. ‘Give me a hint and I’ll try to talk you in,’ she said, aware she was grinning so hard she could barely speak. He was here. Nothing else mattered.

‘That’ll be Dermot,’ said Monica, half cross, half delighted.

‘I’ll go and change the place settings,’ said Sarah.

Laura walked away from the sound of rejoicing and speculation that was going on in the gallery. She went back down to the hall where all her written instructions were.

‘I’m in some godforsaken hole with an unpronounceable name,’ Dermot went on.

‘Right. I think you might be in Wales.’

‘Wales!’

‘But don’t worry, it’s not all that far. Are you driving yourself?’

‘Who the feck else would be driving me?’

‘OK, now what I want you to do is to find a safe place to park the car. I’ll send someone to come and get you. You don’t sound fit to drive.’

‘Feck that! I haven’t had a drink for weeks! I’ll find the way myself.’

‘Don’t disconnect! Head for . . .’ Laura found the directions she needed and read them out to Dermot. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘I will be, probably. I can’t answer for you, getting me into all this.’

‘I’ll keep my phone by me. Just ring if you get lost again.’

Laura didn’t rush back upstairs again. Just for a while she wanted to keep Dermot for herself. When he arrived he would be common property, everyone would be dancing attendance, admiring, admonishing, wanting a part of him. Now, while she held her phone in her hand, and knew that the last person to have spoken to her on it was Dermot, he was hers: her irascible, ornery, difficult, egoistic, wild Irish writer. She finally admitted to herself that she loved him, even without any hope or expectation that he might love her back. Just loving him was enough for now. And he had come to their festival.

‘When do you think he might arrive?’ asked Fenella when she went back upstairs again.

‘Depending on whether he gets lost again or not, about half an hour.’

‘Do you think we should start without him?’ said Sarah, who had an anxious-looking woman at her side.

‘Definitely. He doesn’t deserve to be waited for.’

For some reason, Fenella moved forward and kissed Laura’s cheek.

Laura was in two minds whether to wait for Dermot in the hall or to sit down and start eating. She felt fairly sure Dermot would need directions at least once more so she decided to eat. She was seated next to one of the romantic novelists, Anne Marsh.

‘I must say, I adore Dermot’s writing,’ she said.