Love Letters (38 page)

Dermot closed the book and Seamus rested his fingers on his guitar strings to silence them. It was over. For a moment there was silence, as if no one wanted to break the spell Dermot had woven around them. And then the theatre erupted.

There was, inevitably, a standing ovation. Laura slipped outside, too overwhelmed to be able to join in. Damn the man for putting her in this turmoil, she thought. But wasn’t he wonderful? Walking up and down in the road on her own, her heart began to sing. He was a star; he wouldn’t regret coming to the festival. And however painful it was to admit it, she loved him with all her heart.

‘Are you OK?’ A friendly male voice addressed her. ‘It’s me, Hugo. I’m Sarah’s other half and a friend of Rupert and Fenella’s.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Hello again. I’m fine,’ she insisted.

Hugo studied her thoughtfully. ‘Do you want me to run you home? Escape all the crowds? You’re interviewing the great man tomorrow, aren’t you? You might need some time away from the furore.’

‘That would be brilliant! Can you do that?’ Laura felt relief course through her and she almost stumbled.

‘What, drive you home? Yup, and be back before anyone notices I haven’t been here all the time. Come with me. The car’s here.’

Having asked Hugo to tell Monica and Grant she’d gone home, she left a note for Monica and then fled up to the mezzanine and went to bed. She couldn’t think of any questions tonight: she was too wrung out. After ten minutes she came back downstairs and made some hot chocolate. She took it back up to bed with her and hoped she’d get to sleep this time. Surprisingly, she did.

On Sunday she had very little time either to think about the interview later that day or dwell on the emotions Dermot’s reading had stirred up in her the night before. She’d joked to Fenella and Sarah at breakfast about needing time to lie on her bed with slices of cucumber on her eyes, but really she was worried that if she didn’t have time to prepare, Dermot would make her look a complete fool. And while it was how Dermot performed that mattered, his reputation wouldn’t be enhanced if he was asked obvious questions by a slip of a thing with wild curly hair who was totally unprepared. She owed it to herself, too.

Sunday’s schedule was genteelly packed. As soon as they’d had one of Rupert’s famous breakfasts, Veronica and Anne plus Maria Cavendish, a crime author, squashed themselves into the car and Laura set off towards the first of their destinations. The ‘Festival in the Community’ had been a very popular idea – one Laura now wished she hadn’t had, although perhaps it was the distraction she needed.

At the last place, a very grand home for retired gentlefolk, she was about to get out of the car when Veronica said, ‘You stay here and prepare your interview. We’ll be fine. Honestly.’

Grateful, Laura agreed that she would, but instead she found herself daydreaming.

A tap on the window jolted her out of her reverie. She realised she had actually fallen asleep. All this emotion was wearing her out.

‘Never mind, you’ll be better for a nap,’ said Veronica, when they all got back in the car and discovered Laura in dreamland. ‘I’m a great believer in catnaps.’

‘But you don’t want Dermot to run rings round you,’ said Anne. ‘What time is the event?’

‘Seven. We’re having an early meal. Maybe I should skip that and think up some questions then.’

‘Really,’ said Maria Cavendish, who’d only joined the group that day and wasn’t as friendly, ‘you should have thought up your questions weeks ago, when the event was first arranged.’

‘But she didn’t know if Dermot was coming,’ explained Veronica. ‘There was going to be a panel of authors instead.’

‘Oh? Is that why that was cancelled? Hmph. I could have come tomorrow instead.’

‘But the old ladies loved you!’ said Anne. ‘It’s amazing how many of them read really gritty crime.’

In between navigating back to Somerby and telling the writers how brilliant they’d been Laura tried to pull her disparate thoughts together. By the time she finally delivered her literary load, all she’d come up with was ‘Did you like school?’ Then she remembered she’d asked him for his Desert Island book. He’d said
Ulysses
. She could get him to talk about James Joyce for a little bit. It would ease them both into the interview. Once she was back in the quiet of the cottage, she noted both these questions down in the back of her diary, ready to transfer them to something more substantial. Sarah had asked her if she wanted a clipboard, but Laura felt some notes on a sheet of A4 would be easier.

Laura’s teeth were chattering and she felt sick. She had managed to think of a list of questions and written it out, and she could tell, just by looking at her handwriting, that she was terrified. Not that she’d been in any doubt but the spiky, uneven strokes revealed the turmoil going on inside. She was slightly disappointed that Dermot hadn’t even tried to see her. But then she’d been busy and so had he and they had said they wouldn’t. He’d sent one text saying ‘Go gently on me’ which she’d decided not to reply to. On reflection she was grateful she hadn’t seen him after last night.

And she decided that she’d feel better about the whole thing if she controlled the one thing she actually could control: her hair. On hearing this, Sarah, who’d come to see why she hadn’t been at the meal, bringing a sandwich with her, went to find some straighteners. When she brought them, she insisted on staying to do Laura’s hair for her.

‘I’m not a hairdresser,’ Sarah explained, gathering up a strand of Laura’s hair, ‘but I have seen lots of brides getting their hair done. It’s a shame I didn’t book Bron. She’s my hairdresser friend I’ve worked with a lot. I just didn’t think of it.’

‘If I didn’t have mad hair it wouldn’t be a problem. I don’t usually think about it much myself—’

‘But this is a big occasion. You want to look your best. It’s natural.’

Sarah was getting on quite well with the hair straighteners. Laura sat quietly for a while, enjoying being looked after for once. It was strangely comforting. Then she said, ‘What do you think I should wear?’

‘You looked lovely in what you wore last night, unless you want Dermot to see you in something different.’ She frowned. ‘Not that he would have seen much of it.’

‘I can’t care what Dermot sees me in!’ Laura’s anxiety turned this into a bit of a shriek. Hearing herself she added, ‘I do hope that didn’t come out as if I cared what he thinks.’

Sarah laughed soothingly, taking up another lock of Laura’s hair. ‘No, it just came out as if you want to look professional for the audience, how Dermot feels about it is neither here nor there.’

‘That’s excellent! That’s just what I meant. How did you know?’

‘Oh, I spent a lot of time kidding myself about my feelings too,’ Sarah went on. ‘Now, are you going to clip your hair back? Or just let it hang?’

‘I think a clip.’ Laura scooped up a hank of carefully straightened hair and held it up. ‘What do you think?’

‘You look about twelve, but adorable. Are you going to wear make-up?’

‘A bit. Some mascara. Anything else always ends up under my eyes in seconds. Will that be enough, do you think?’

‘And some lipstick.’ Sarah supervised the clip, the mascara and the lipstick. ‘There, now you look at least fourteen.’ She paused. ‘Have you got any notes? Questions?’

‘Mm.’ She picked up her sheet of A4 and noticed it shaking. ‘I need a file to put this in.’

Sarah noticed it too and smiled reassuringly. ‘I’ll give you one. And do you want me to drive you to the theatre? Or will you travel with Dermot?’

Laura’s mouth went dry at the thought of travelling with Dermot. ‘Oh no. I’d rather go with you.’

‘Then I’ll make sure I don’t have to give anyone else a lift.’

‘Gosh, thank you, Sarah. You’ve been amazing.’

‘I haven’t done anything, actually. But
you
really will be amazing. I promise you.’

Somehow Sarah’s words stayed with her as they drove to the venue. Her parents had never had much faith in her but other people had, and Sarah reminded her that she had done difficult things in the past and done them well. She thought of everything she had achieved since the whole festival thing had begun, from Lindy Hopping to speaking to schoolchildren to talking would-be authors through their manuscripts. Asking Dermot a few questions, allowing him to talk as much as he liked on the subjects that came up shouldn’t be as hard as any of that. And yet somehow it seemed, much harder.

Sarah stayed with her, keeping her calm and bolstering her spirits until it was time for her to go on to the stage behind the drawn curtain.

The stage was set with a low table covered with a cloth and two chairs. On the table were two glasses of water and a carafe. Dermot was already there. He smiled at Laura. ‘Maybe we should shake hands before we start, like boxers.’

His smile made her stomach turn over. ‘I’m interviewing you. It’s not a confrontation,’ she said, and heard her voice tremble. And she didn’t believe it, really.

Dermot had a file of papers propped against his chair. ‘I know you didn’t want us to talk but I feel I must. We haven’t had time – you rushed off and—’

She put up her hand. ‘No really, there’s no need for you to say anything. It’s fine. I do understand.’

Sarah called from the wings. ‘It’s time. Are you guys ready?’

‘Not quite,’ said Dermot. He was gazing at her, a puzzled look on his face.

‘Oh yes we are.’ Laura was firm. She felt if she waited any longer she might actually be sick.

‘We must find a moment to talk,’ he began. ‘What happened in Ireland—

‘We don’t need to talk about that. In fact, we don’t need to talk about anything except – oh, the curtains are going back,’ she said with relief, even if it meant her next ordeal was about to begin.

Rupert introduced them and, staring beyond the lights, Laura could see the place was packed. She glanced at Dermot, to see if he was shaking too, but he didn’t seem to be. He was looking out at the audience; how he felt about it was a mystery to her.

When the applause had died down Laura took a sip of water so her mouth would work. This was it.

She recited the phrases of introduction she had prepared and then turned to Dermot with the first question.

‘So, tell us, Dermot, were you happy at school?’

The question surprised him but after a few seconds he was off, describing how bad he was at so many subjects, how he read Proust under the desk and that the whole school thought he was a complete idiot until he won an essay competition. He captured their interest, he made people laugh, and everyone loved him.

‘And now, something I always want to know about writers, what’s your Desert Island book? If you could only have one book, for the rest of your life, which one would it be?’

His eyes smiled and for a moment she was transported back to the day on the headland when they first really talked. ‘God, that’s a hard one. Fortunately, I’ve been asked it before and so I know the answer.’

She nodded, smiling.

‘It’s
Ulysses.
’

‘But many people find James Joyce impenetrable.’

‘He is, but infinitely rewarding.’

He went on to talk about Joyce for a little longer and then turned to Laura expectantly.

Her next few questions were as insightful as cocktail party small talk, she knew, but fortunately Dermot answered them brilliantly. Whether this indicated that he had at one time gone to a lot of cocktail parties, or that the small talk down at the pub in Ballyfitzpatrick was very similar, Laura didn’t know. Either way, the audience was in turn laughing hysterically or leaning forward to pick up every nuance.

Having warmed him up she felt she had to ask her proper question now. It was a slightly risky one but any interviewer worth his or her salt would have asked it. Another sip of water, a deep breath and she launched in, ‘So, Dermot, it’s been a few years since there’s been any new work from you. Would you like to tell us why?’

She felt like Judas and couldn’t look at him, but she could imagine the flash of anger he must have been shooting at her.

‘Actually, Laura’ – it sounded very personal, although it was addressed to the audience too – ‘there has been some new work.’

As she expected this answer – it was his usual front – she decided to push on. She’d got this far, she couldn’t back out now. ‘Well, have you got it with you?’ she asked.

‘I have.’ He picked up his folder and put it on his lap.

‘Oh.’ She certainly hadn’t been expecting this answer, but now came the real challenge. She was curious as to how he’d respond. ‘So then would you like to read some of it? Or shall we go straight to questions from the floor?’ she said.

‘Read!’ came the reply from the audience.

Dermot smiled at them and then turned back to Laura. ‘It’s a short story.’

‘That’s nice,’ she said, not wanting to reveal her mounting excitement. He really did seem to have something new. ‘Would you like to read it?’ She felt as if she was encouraging a small child.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to ask me some more questions instead?’ he asked teasingly.

Was the man mad? He was offering to read a short story, thus putting an end to the agony that was this interview and make literary history in one simple action!

‘Well, let’s ask the audience again, shall we?’ she said, confident that they’d back her up.

The ‘yes’ from the audience was deafening, but Dermot kept his gaze on Laura. She sneaked a look at him but she couldn’t guess how he was feeling.

‘Then that would be lovely,’ she said, as if accepting a second cup of tea.

‘OK then. Here goes.’

‘
It’s wrong to play a game when the other person doesn’t know the rules, but somehow we find ourselves doing it all the time.
’

His voice was so beautiful, and so sexy, at first Laura just enjoyed listening to the melodic sound of each eloquently expressed phrase without really taking in what he was actually saying, but gradually the story took shape in her mind and she listened more attentively.