Love Letters (36 page)

‘Oh? What were they?’ asked Adam. ‘I always like to plant a few good questions.’

‘I don’t think you’d want that kind of question,’ said Laura, blushing hard, hoping everyone would just think she’d had too much to drink.

‘No, but something that allows one—’

‘She asked me when I last used a condom,’ said Dermot brutally.

‘Oh!’

Anne and Veronica both snorted into their wine, unable to hide their amusement.

‘But Dermot’s not going to hold that against me,’ said Monica. ‘Are you? I want to ask you about Seamus.’

‘And I don’t think—’ said Laura.

‘What about Seamus?’ asked Dermot. ‘Who is Seamus?’

‘He’s a musician,’ said Monica, fighting for her man. ‘I just don’t think – I mean, possibly—’ She stopped. ‘You might know him?’

‘Just because they’re both Irish, doesn’t mean they know each other,’ said Adam. ‘Hi, Dermot, may I introduce myself? Adam Saint.’ He leant over and stuck his hand out towards Dermot.

‘What’s his surname?’ said Dermot, having smiled briefly at Adam, ignoring the proffered hand.

‘O’Hennessy. He lives—’

‘Oh God,
that
Seamus! Of course I bloody know him! Don’t tell me he’s made you pregnant? I’ll knock him down for you.’

Becoming hysterical, Monica began to laugh. ‘No! He hasn’t! Anyway, if he had it would be my responsibility. He just wants to play—’

‘Monica,’ Laura implored. ‘His band was dreadful! You said so yourself.’

‘What does he want to play, and why?’ demanded Dermot.

‘His bodhrán. Behind you as you read out pieces from your great work.’

It was Adam Saint’s turn to laugh. Dermot made a face at Laura. ‘Did I agree to this?’

‘I probably didn’t get round to asking you,’ she admitted. ‘I got distracted!’

Dermot smiled. ‘So you did. So what precisely would you have been asking me to do if you hadn’t . . . got distracted?’

‘To read from your work to the accompaniment of Irish music,’ Laura muttered. ‘It’s to link the music and the literary bit of the festival together. I know you hate the idea, but don’t worry, we can do Rupert’s thing.’

‘With the fake accent and the Celtic Twilight bollocks?’

Anne and Veronica were loving it. Even Adam Saint seemed content.

‘Yes,’ muttered Laura, concentrating on getting a bit of sweetcorn back into the rice it had escaped from with her fork. It was wonderful to be so close to Dermot but also agony. It was making it so much harder to keep her feelings in check. Unrequited love was so painful.

‘Well, I’ll do something, if only to spare us that. And Seamus can play, as long as it’s
not
the fiddle.’

‘Oh Dermot, thank you!’ said Monica, reaching across three plates of chicken to kiss him, and narrowly missing some curry-and-mango-flavoured mayonnaise as she did so.

‘So who’s going to do the big interview on Sunday night?’ asked Adam. ‘Everyone’s going to be really interested to hear that.’ Something in his tone suggested
schadenfreude.

‘I’m sure they are,’ said Dermot lazily. ‘Did I agree to do a big interview? Or did you slip that one by me too?’ His gaze wandered over Laura in a speculative way that made her feel weak and angry with herself and consequently cross with him for having this effect on her. He obviously thought they could pick up where they’d left off. That he only had to look at her and she’d willingly leap into bed with him.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop being such a prima donna. Of course there’ll be a big interview! This is a literary festival! It’s what happens!’

‘So who’s doing it?’ Adam pressed on, possibly hoping for the hardest-hitting, most incisive, unkindest interviewer around – the Jeremy Paxman of the literary world, if not
the
Jeremy Paxman.

‘I am,’ said Laura, more sharply than she had intended.

‘Oh,’ said Adam. ‘Bit of a pushover that will be for you, Dermot! Can’t you face a proper interviewer, then?’

‘I’ll have you know that the leprechaun here is very proper, or she was until I got to her, and I’m sure she’ll ask some very searching questions,’ said Dermot.

‘I will indeed,’ said Laura, hoping to goodness she’d be able to think of more than the three she’d scribbled down in her notebook late one evening. ‘We couldn’t book anyone famous without knowing if Dermot was able to attend,’ she said to Adam.

‘You see? It’s all my fault,’ Dermot said. ‘Laura dear, is there any chance of getting you on your own?’ He raised an eyebrow and Laura flushed. Did he really expect to claim his ‘shag’? While the mouse was safely back in Ireland, the cat could claim his prey. Humph!

‘Oh, you can’t nobble her,’ said Adam. ‘That would be entirely unsporting.’

‘I’m not entirely sure what you mean by “nobble”,’ said Dermot, ‘but that was the very last thing I had in mind.’

‘Here’s the pudding,’ said Veronica quickly, sensing trouble. ‘Banoffee pie. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’

Laura caught her eye and smiled her gratitude. She knew Dermot had been going to say something outrageous and realised Veronica had too.

‘No really, I insist,’ went on Adam. ‘It would be unethical for you and Laura to talk before the interview.’ He paused. ‘Because it seems to me that Dermot can twist any woman round his finger and he’d just talk her out of asking anything remotely tricky.’

‘I assure you what I want to say to Laura is of an entirely private nature,’ said Dermot. He was serious now; no more suggestive looks.

Sweat prickled along her hairline as she realised what Dermot might be going to say. He was probably going to ‘explain’ about Bridget, make it clear that what had happened between them had been delightful, but it was a one-off and she mustn’t think of it or him any more, but how about a shag for old times’ sake, Bridget need never know. She could almost hear his lovely sexy voice saying the words. She couldn’t bear it. ‘I think you’re quite right!’ She said this so vehemently, people looked a little startled. ‘I mean,’ she went on, trying to sound more rational, ‘I think it should be like the bride not seeing the bridegroom the night before the wedding.’

Dermot was frowning and apparently somewhat confused. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, Laura.’

‘I do! I think I’d feel better about interviewing you if we hadn’t talked beforehand. I could approach it in a more professional way.’

‘And a writer of your experience, Dermot,’ said Veronica, ‘shouldn’t have any problems with Laura here. Oh, I do realise she’ll be a lot tougher than she looks in that tiny dress and those heavenly boots, but she’s not going to hang you out to dry!’

‘No,’ Laura agreed meekly, ‘definitely not.’ The ache in her heart had returned with a vengeance.

Dermot sighed. ‘For feck’s sake! But if you insist!’ He looked around the table and then got up. ‘If I can’t talk to the person I want to talk to, I’d better go and see my agent. Is there any chance of any brandy, do you think?’

The happiness that Laura had felt on seeing Dermot again had turned to the depths of despair. She managed to stay chatting to Veronica, Anne and Adam for a few moments longer and then she excused herself on the pretext of seeing when the coffee might turn up.

Fenella was in the kitchen on the same errand, much to the irritation of the Catering Ladies who had it all in hand.

‘Are you all right, honey?’ said Fenella.

‘I’m fine, or rather I will be. I’ve just suddenly realised what Dermot turning up means. I’ll have to interview him, unless there’s anyone else.’ Frantically she mentally scanned the authors who were around. She couldn’t do it, she just couldn’t. ‘Maybe—’

‘No,’ said Fenella firmly. ‘It has to be you. You know his work, you won’t take the limelight away from him, you are the one.’

‘You know, there are at least two song titles in that sentence,’ said Monica, appearing behind Laura. ‘But Dermot is utterly lovely.’

‘You know, you’re sounding very Irish these days,’ said Laura. ‘Maybe you’re spending too much time with Seamus.’

‘Well, you’re right there,’ she agreed happily, ‘but isn’t it just darling of Dermot to let Seamus play behind him?’ Monica seemed to have forgotten Dermot was the bad fairy who had broken her friend’s heart.

‘He doesn’t know how bad Seamus is, obviously,’ said Laura.

‘He can’t be that bad,’ said Fenella.

‘And he knows him,’ Monica said. ‘Anyway, Seamus isn’t bad, it’s the band that’s awful, and Dermot probably knows exactly how bad – or even good – he is. It’s a great chance for Seamus.’

‘If you ladies would either like to take up some jugs of coffee, or get out of the way, we’d be very grateful,’ said one of the Catering Ladies.

‘Oh, sorry,’ they said in unison, and moved out of the way.

What she needed, Laura decided in the shower the following morning, was time to go away by herself with Dermot’s books and think up some really insightful questions. But she had a busy day ahead of her and even her time alone in the shower was limited; Monica needed to get into it.

‘Do you want toast and stuff here, or to go across to the house for a cooked breakfast?’ she asked a still-damp Monica a short time later. ‘I wouldn’t mind checking in with Veronica and Anne. I’m taking them to their event later.’

‘Won’t Dermot be there?’ Monica put a large dollop of something smelly on to her hair.

‘I’m allowed to see him, just not alone,’ said Laura primly.

‘Are you all right about doing it, though?’ Monica said, sculpting her hair with the product.

‘I would be if I had time to think about it, but I won’t have a moment to think up anything until about ten minutes before it happens.’

‘It must be extra hard for you, seeing that you’re sleeping with him.’

‘I’m not! It was just that time!’ She sighed. ‘But of course it is harder. I can’t treat him just like any other writer.’ And I don’t want to treat him like the man who’s broken my heart.

‘What you need to do is to work up a good old grudge against him,’ said Monica, plugging in her hair-dryer, unaware of the depth of Laura’s anguish. ‘Think how badly he’s treated you and get your revenge.’

‘But he hasn’t treated me badly, really.’ Laura kept feeling an impulse to confide in Monica about Bridget, then realising she didn’t want to drag it all up again. She was coping as well as she could, she thought. Don’t rock the boat. Monica knew she was upset; she didn’t need all the sorry details.

Monica wasn’t having this. ‘Oh, for Jaysus’ sake! From where I’m standing, he may be lovely and charming and a God’s gift to the literary world, but he had his evil way with you and never phoned! In my book that’s not gentlemanly behaviour. How much more badly could he treat you?’ She obviously still felt loyal towards her friend and for that Laura was grateful.

‘I should think a lot worse. He could have made me pregnant and then left me.’ Then, wanting to change the subject, she said, ‘Now, what about breakfast? Cooked or toast?’

‘Cooked, I think. I want to see Dermot, even if you don’t.’

‘Monica, don’t start interrogating him . . .’ But Monica was already out of the door.

The Somerby kitchen was full of chatter, clattering and the smell of bacon. Rupert was wearing a huge apron and had three frying pans on the go and a separate pan full of scrambled eggs. Dermot wasn’t there.

‘He, Rupert and Eleanora stayed up into the early hours,’ Fenella reported to Laura, obviously annoyed. ‘They’ll be fit for nothing later, and Dermot’s got to do his thing with Seamus.’

‘Have you eaten anything yet?’ Laura asked.

‘No she hasn’t,’ snapped Sarah, equally tetchily. Everyone was obviously a little anxious now the literary festival was officially open and the first proper day of events was before them. She took Fenella by the shoulders and guided her to an empty seat. Then she put a big plate of food down in front of her. ‘Get that down you. I’ll fetch you some tea.’

They all chatted for a while about nothing in particular, and Laura had just begun her own breakfast when Dermot and Eleanora appeared. Eleanora demanded a full English and Dermot just some toast and black coffee. Anne and Veronica, who were tucking their chairs neatly under the table, exchanged glances. ‘I love it when people act out of character!’ one of them whispered as they left. ‘You’d expect Eleanora to gnaw on dry toast and Dermot to have a huge fry-up!’

As soon as she decently could, Laura returned to her little house to sort herself out. She had come back to see if Anne and Veronica were ready when she met Sarah in the hall.

‘This could be a bit awkward,’ said Sarah. ‘There are several journalists here. Would you be a love and run back down and see if Dermot wants to speak to them? Otherwise, I’ll get rid.’

Laura went back down. Only the hard-core coffee drinkers and smokers were left: Dermot, Eleanora and Rupert, who’d blagged a roll-up from Dermot and was looking guilty.

Feeling like a prefect disturbing a midnight feast Laura made her announcement. ‘But Sarah will send them away if you don’t want to speak to them, Dermot.’

‘I think you should see a select few,’ said Eleanora, ‘and then the story comes from you, instead of being a lot of invented rubbish.’

‘Should I send for Max Clifford?’ asked Rupert, only half joking. ‘Or don’t we need a publicity person? We have got Sarah, after all.’

‘So what shall I tell her?’ asked Laura, having turned from one person to another, no longer feeling like a prefect but like a child who isn’t really allowed to join the adults.

‘OK, I’ll see a few, until I get bored,’ said Dermot, getting up and giving Laura a wicked grin. ‘Don’t tell Fenella Rupert had a fag, will you?’

Laura tossed her head and tutted, reverting to prefecthood with gratitude. ‘I won’t need to tell her, she’ll smell it a mile off.’ Then she gathered up some dirty crockery, leaving Dermot to face the press.

Chapter Nineteen