Love Letters (37 page)

Laura didn’t have time to worry about how Dermot got on with the journalists. She had to take Veronica and Anne to their venue, where they were doing a joint talk, followed by a signing. Then the two authors were adjudicating a short-story competition that they had already judged, before going to a local café for a ‘Tea with Two Authors’ event. They were good sports and didn’t mind working so hard, but a great deal had been asked of them and Laura felt a bit guilty. When she’d suggested them as adjudicators for the competition, she hadn’t realised it would mean running from place to place in quite the way it had worked out. Fortunately the cakes at the café were extremely good and Laura insisted they be allowed to eat a couple before the questions began again.

She was just contemplating a Jap cake, a wonderful old-fashioned confection involving coffee icing and crushed meringue, when her phone rang. She went outside to take the call. It was Fenella.

‘Sorry to bother you, but Dermot asked me to call.’

‘That’s OK, but he could have phoned me himself. I know I said I didn’t want to speak to him, but I only meant—’

‘It’s not that. Dermot’s been giving interviews all day. Eleanora is thrilled! She doesn’t know why he’s being so obliging, but never mind that. He hasn’t got time to choose readings for his event tonight and wonders if you have any ideas?’

Laura had thought about this when she very first had the idea of combining music and readings. ‘OK, I’ve marked some places. If you go into my house, on the bookshelf are copies of both Dermot’s books. The passages I think are best have paperclips on the pages.’

‘You’re amazing! I bet you’re glad I never got round to borrowing them after all, or we’d never find the books, let alone some good bits.’

She wanted to retort that Dermot’s books were all ‘good bits’ but just said, ‘Glad to be of help.’

Laura went back to the tea shop and decided Jap cakes were no longer optional, but essential. She was frantically thinking about when she was going to have time to plan what to ask Dermot the following night. Tomorrow she was touring the countryside for the ‘Festival in the Community’ with authors in the back of her car, taking them to visit old people’s homes. Still, there should be time between getting the authors back to Somerby and being on hand again in case she was needed to get them to Dermot’s musical event. With luck, she shouldn’t have to do that at all, and then she’d have plenty of time. Well, an hour or so, anyway.

When she and Fenella had been planning the festival they had welcomed each new suggestion and set it up gleefully. The programme was full of events at venues all over the area. Everyone had taken up the ideas with enthusiasm. It was only now, when the festival was actually happening, that they realised quite how much running around was involved.

It was quite late by the time they got back to Somerby as Veronica had insisted on visiting a local garden centre and Laura felt she could hardly say ‘there’s no time’. Grant and Monica were waiting for her on the doorstep of the main house. She had forgotten they were all going to have a drink together before Dermot’s event. She’d have no time to write down her questions this evening. She sighed.

‘Laura, I can’t believe you’ve been taking these lovely authors round the country in my old banger,’ said Grant as he and Monica helped Veronica and Anne out of his old car.

‘It’s been fine,’ said Anne, taking his arm and heaving herself out of the back of the car. ‘It’s just we’re women of a certain age.’

Veronica, in the front, who had got out unaided, humphed. ‘Women of a certain arse, more like!’

Grant regarded them both. ‘I don’t know if I should laugh at that joke or not!

‘Right!’ he went on, once Anne and Veronica had been shown back to their accommodation and supplied with tea and whisky. ‘Let’s go back to yours and have a glass of wine. I’ve been saving myself. I want a full update. Didn’t you pack just a bit too much in to the literary festival, Laura?’

‘Mm. We did,’ she admitted as they set off towards her cottage. ‘The thing was we didn’t realise how everyone would leap at the chance of having an author, or a writing competition, or even a “Stitch and Bitch with Books” event so avidly.’

‘So, what’s a “Stitch and Bitch with Books” then?’ asked Grant.

‘It’s like a Stitch and Bitch, when women get together and—’

‘It’s all right, I worked that out.’

‘Well, in this instance, someone reads aloud, so there’s no bitching really, and everyone knits squares for a blanket. It’s happening on Monday morning. Fenella’s providing the cake.’

‘Come on you two, never mind Stitch and Bitch,’ said Monica. ‘I’m going to the event early with Seamus to help with the sound check and things. We need to hurry.’

Upping the pace a bit, Laura said, ‘What’s your b. and b. like, Grant?’

‘Lovely, but a bit bucolic. There are cows right outside my window.’

‘What do you expect in the country?’ asked Monica.

But Grant forgot his objections to rural life when he saw where Laura and Monica were staying. This was the first time he’d been over. ‘Oh, this is charming,’ he said. ‘Really nicely done.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Laura agreed, retrieving a bottle of wine from the fridge. ‘You go first in the shower, Monica. You’re in a hurry.’

‘Only the same hurry you’re in,’ said Monica, pausing en route, looking at her friend suspiciously.

‘I don’t have to go early like you do.’

Monica gave her a beady glance.

Laura inspected her nails. ‘I may not go tonight. I need to plan my questions for tomorrow.’

‘You can’t not go to Dermot’s event,’ Monica protested. ‘He’d be so upset.’

‘No he wouldn’t be!’ Laura was equally adamant. ‘He wouldn’t care at all, if he even noticed.’

‘But, Laura!’ Grant was appalled. ‘You can’t miss it! You’ve loved his work since you were a baby—’

‘Not quite a baby,’ she protested quietly.

‘You can’t miss hearing him read,’ Grant went on. ‘You’d never forgive yourself.’

After being stared at by two indignant friends for several seconds, Laura sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right, Grant. I’ve heard enough lesser writers read their stuff. It would be silly to miss the best.’

‘Let’s get out the wine,’ said Grant.

‘Monica can’t have a drink if she’s driving,’ said Laura, feeling bullied and wanting revenge.

‘It’s OK, I’m not driving,’ said Monica. ‘We’ve got a driver. We’re picking up Seamus on the way. It’s such a shame he’s not staying at Somerby.’

‘Somerby is filled to the gunwales,’ said Laura. ‘Some authors have had to stay in bed and breakfasts.’ She paused as a happy thought occurred to her. ‘You could go and stay with him, if you want.’

Monica shook her head. ‘No. I need to be on-hand really, for the music festival stuff.’

Laura sighed, contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Mon, I keep forgetting about that side of things. How’s it going? Did you tell Ironstone? Will they be there tonight?’

‘Some of them, definitely, but it’s a sell-out. Seamus is bricking it.’

‘We have got the CD fall back position if he’s that scared.’

‘No! Dermot has vetoed that, remember.’

‘Come on, Mon, never mind all that, do you want a glass of wine first, or a shower?’

‘Both of course! Haven’t you heard of multi-tasking?’

Grant and Monica both insisted that Laura came early with them, not trusting her turn up unless they took her to the event by force.

‘It is a shame we couldn’t organise the pub to host this event,’ said Monica.

‘Yes, but apparently it couldn’t fit in nearly enough people so they moved it to Fenella’s cinema,’ said Laura.

‘Fenella’s cinema?’ said Grant.

‘Not her personal cinema. She loves the building and wanted it used for everything.’ Laura paused. ‘It’s also the biggest venue around. It’s where Monica did her gig, remember?’

‘Oh. I thought it was just a theatre.’

‘Poor Seamus! He’s going to be so nervous!’ said Monica interrupting. ‘He’d have been much happier in a pub.’

Monica sat in the front next to the driver on the way to pick up Seamus. Grant and Laura sat in the back, squashing up when Seamus got in. Laura was also feeling nervous. She so wanted it to go well, for Seamus’s sake, and, of course, for Dermot.

Sarah had asked her if she should photocopy the pages of the book and enlarge them for Dermot to read from. They had discussed it and decided it could do no harm, but Laura said that laminating them wasn’t a good idea. Apart from anything else, if he dropped the pages they would skid all over the place. Laura had the sheets; Dermot had the books.

‘It’s like members of the cabinet not travelling on the same flights in case there’s a plane crash,’ Sarah had said solemnly. ‘There’s a back-up position.’

Laura wasn’t sure if being made to laugh was helpful or not. It did relieve a bit of tension, but now she was worrying about Dermot’s driver, a very steady ex-policeman called Reg, getting into an accident on the way to the venue.

The venue functioned as a cinema most of the time except when the local amateur-dramatics group put on productions, or the village panto was on. It was a very pretty building, kept up by massive fund-raising activities. This time, all the seats were in place so as to have as big an audience as possible. Although they arrived a good hour before the event, there were already people gathering outside.

‘Kerrist!’ said Seamus as the driver slowed down, looking for a place to stop. ‘There’s bloody loads of them here!’

‘It’s all right,’ said Grant. ‘They’re here for Dermot. You don’t need to worry.’

‘That’s not very kind!’ said Monica, shoving Grant’s arm. ‘Of course they’re here for Seamus!’

‘They’re here for the event,’ said Laura diplomatically. ‘And I’m really nervous too!’

‘And me,’ said Grant. ‘I’m really worried that someone will forget their lines or something. I feel like a mum at a kid’s play. Let’s get in there. The bar should be open, shouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘The idea is to make it feel like an Irish pub as much as possible, given that it isn’t one. With music and crack, and porter.’

‘Crack?’ said Monica. ‘I thought this was a nice sedate music festival.’

‘It is,’ said Grant. ‘It’s the writers who might let the side down.’

‘Shall I drop you here?’ asked the driver, who’d been chuckling quietly to himself. ‘And you’ve got my mobile number? Ring me when you want to go home.’

‘Could that be now?’ asked Seamus.

‘No,’ everyone chorused, and they all got out.

The first person they saw when they got inside was Adam. ‘I came with Dermot,’ he said, implying he was doing a useful task. Laura, who normally would have had sympathy for the young writer, found this rather annoying. ‘He doesn’t want to be swamped with fans,’ Adam went on. ‘Or to discuss tomorrow’s interview. He needs to focus on tonight’s performance.’ He glared at Laura as if she was a door-stepping paparazza looking for scandal.

Laura didn’t respond. Adam had obviously appointed himself as Dermot’s minder – a task that Fenella or Rupert had been allocated. But as they were busy, they’d probably been happy to let Adam do it, and presumably Dermot hadn’t objected. As for discussing tomorrow’s interview, it was the last thing she would have ever done. It was a bit ironic that all Adam’s original resentment of Dermot had somehow morphed into hero worship and a fierce protectiveness.

Monica took Seamus up to the stage and was already giving orders to the sound crew. Dermot was sitting on the stage, on a chair, reading, a well-thumbed copy of one of his books in his hand. He had a tall glass by his side.

‘Let’s go and get a drink,’ Grant suggested. ‘We’re not needed here.’

The bar was already buzzing. The usual volunteers had been supplemented by staff from the local pub, there not usually being much call for draught stout at the theatre. There was a young man in black jeans, black T-shirt and a ponytail instructing a woman in her sixties how to pull the perfect pint.

‘I’m not sure if I should drink,’ said Laura when Grant asked her what she wanted.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! You’ll never get through this sober! I can tell, you’re far more nervous than Seamus is. Have a large whisky.’

By the time he’d got back to their table, the place was packed. Laura was relieved. A good audience, and no chance of Dermot being able to spot her in the crowd. It couldn’t be better. But she still planned to sit right at the back, behind a pillar if she could find one.

Laura wasn’t surprised that Dermot was a star; he read beautifully, captured the audience and held them, totally enthralled. She was momentarily surprised that Seamus was so good. He didn’t play the bodhrán he’d been so miserable at, but the guitar. Very, very softly, he played traditional Irish songs: ‘She Moved Through the Fair’, ‘Down by the Salley Gardens’, ‘The Lark in the Clear Air’. And Dermot read.

In deep, dark brown tones he described a small boy watching through a window as his mother kissed his father and feeling excluded, a windy morning in spring, a blackbird’s song and a feeling of expectation that had no cause; falling asleep on a hard, leather-covered banquette in a pub while the wedding party caroused.

There wasn’t a cough, a murmur or a fidget to be heard. Even Grant was listening intently.

Laura knew she was what was popularly known as being ‘tired and emotional’ but the words were so evocative, so poetic without being sentimental, and the music was so touching that she felt tears smarting in her eyes.

She concentrated on keeping them very wide open and then occasionally blinking, so a big tear splashed down. This way she could blot up each tear with her hand, and hope no one noticed how overcome she was. Not that anyone would, she realised. They were all transfixed.

She and Grant were right at the back. On Laura’s insistence they had delayed going in as long as possible. She had said she wanted to get back as soon as the event was over, to prepare for her interview, and to avoid Dermot until she could face him calmly and unemotionally the following morning. Now she was even more glad she had. His reading had brought up every feeling, every longing – not that they were buried that deep beneath the surface, but with each sentence all her love and admiration for him rose up with renewed force.