Love Letters (43 page)

Her heart soared and descended in a sickening way as she hoped, and then stopped hoping, that it was Dermot. She’d told everyone not to tell him where she was after all. She got up from behind the table to meet the first of the builders.

The builders were, they told her, ‘snagging’. There were two of them. They were in their thirties and brothers, and were there to go through the long list of little things that hadn’t gone right the first time round. There was a radiator to move so a door would close properly, there were skirtings that didn’t fit, taps that dripped and generally things that weren’t right.

‘That Gerald,’ said the older brother. ‘Stickler for detail.’

‘Gerald’s fine. It’s his wife who’s the real obsessive.’

‘Quite right too,’ said the younger one. ‘If only they’d got us in in the first place, they wouldn’t have this long snagging list. The first builder went off abroad before the job was finished,’ he explained. ‘Which is why your man got us in.’

Laura was just about well versed enough in the vernacular to realise that this was a general term, and that the building brothers didn’t think that she and Gerald were connected in any way except as employer and employee, landlord and tenant.

‘So how long will it take you to get through the snagging list?’ she asked.

The brothers exchanged glances and then took on the slightly anxious look that builders will when asked how long anything will take. ‘Hard to say,’ said one of them. ‘We’ve got the decorating to do when we’ve done the carpentry and plumbing. Could take a while.’

Laura smiled. ‘Well, that’s fine with me. As long as you’re here, I’m here rent-free. So take your time!’

Another glance was exchanged and then the older one said, ‘It’s not often you hear that in the building game.’

‘Well, obviously,’ Laura went on, feeling guilty about Gerald, who’d been so kind to her, ‘don’t take too much advantage . . .’

‘We’d call that “extracting the Michael”,’ said the younger brother. ‘And don’t worry, we won’t. We’ll try not to disturb you too much. Now, would you like a cup of tea? I’ll bring it in for you if you’ve work to do.’

Later Laura emailed various friends with a description of these unusual builders and instantly Fenella came back with one asking if the builders would travel, but then said she was only jealous.

Laura got through the slush pile quite quickly. Lots of it was so far off publishable standard she knew a simple rejection slip would deal with them. Others were better, and on these she wrote a report, but she knew they too would be rejected. In fact there was nothing that sang to her and told her it was the book the world needed next. Gerald’s last words to her with regard to the slush pile had been, ‘Remember we’re looking for an excuse to turn a book down. Taking one on means a lot of work and possibly no return.’

Laura had refrained from asking him why he was a publisher if that was his attitude, because she did understand. Her experience with the writing course had taught her a lot. Manuscripts could be promising, good even, but still a long way from being something the public would want to read. But Laura’s bookshop experience, however, told her that lots of the books that did get through this process were still not, in her opinion, actually good.

Gerald had told her to ring him when she’d done the slush pile, so after a couple of days, she did.

‘Laura! You’re a wonder! I’ll have to send Eleanora flowers to thank her for putting us together.’ He paused. ‘Are you doing anything on Thursday night? Cara and I were thinking of coming down. We can have a look at the house and I can pick up anything you might have to give me.’

‘I don’t think so, but I have to say, and it’s all down to you, I have been invited out for meals several times already. People have been so kind.’ She had been dreading feeling lonely at the end of her working day, far away from home and family, but she hadn’t had a chance to, and as books had always been her friends, the odd night on her own had been welcome. But somehow, being in Ireland made putting Dermot out of her head harder than ever. She missed him dreadfully. How long did it take to get over a broken heart? At least she was busy, she had a social life and she was surviving.

‘You’re kind too,’ said Gerald. ‘And people are curious. They want to have a look at the new arrival in the area.’

After he had put the phone down, having arranged to come up to collect the manuscripts, insisting that she was going to be taken out to dinner by him and his wife, a sudden thought struck Laura. Did all the people who had been so kind to her know about her connection with Dermot? Had Gerald told them, or hinted at something? There had been that mention in the trade press but ordinary people didn’t read that, did they? Or was that why they were all being so nice? Then she realised she was being neurotic. No one had mentioned his name to her. Just because he was on her mind every minute of every day, it didn’t mean other people were similarly afflicted.

Although she almost craved time alone, she resolutely accepted all invitations. Later on she could decide whom she really wanted to spend time with and whom she didn’t, but she was keen not to get a reputation for being unfriendly. Her heart sank a bit when she was asked to join a book group, though. She’d enjoyed running the book group attached to the bookshop, but this might have been because she was usually the one who got to choose the books.

‘Oh well,’ she said now to Shona, who seemed to be the social engine of the community, ‘I’d love to come another time but I’m not sure I’d have time to read the book.’

‘Oh God, we don’t worry too much about that! At least, I don’t. Just come for the crack and the cake and the wine.’ She paused. ‘Crack is conversation, you know, I wouldn’t want you to think . . .’

Laura laughed. ‘It’s all right, I know that.’

‘Then come along. You can keep me company if you haven’t read the book. We can ask pertinent questions – or at least you can.’ Shona paused again. ‘You can tell I’m trying to convince you that we do actually talk about the book, at least for part of the time.’

‘I wouldn’t like to come if I haven’t read it, but what is it?’ She didn’t like to say she’d read most of the books groups tended to choose. ‘I used to work in a bookshop so I’ve read a lot.’

‘That’s why we want you to come!’ said Shona cheerfully. ‘And the book is
The Willows
by—’

Laura’s heart had started to race before Shona had got halfway through the title of Dermot’s second book. ‘I – I have read that,’ she managed after a few dry-mouthed seconds. Typical. She was reminded of him at every turn.

‘Oh well then, that’s grand. You must come. You probably understand all that highbrow stuff. It was Jocasta’s choice. She likes all that literary fiction. I prefer a good raunchy read myself.’

Laura didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. To hear Dermot’s great work described as ‘highbrow stuff’ was partly satisfying: he might have caused her much heartache, but she did think it was one of the greatest books of the current time and she wanted to defend it. But could she bear to sit and listen while people declared they ‘couldn’t get through it’ and ‘felt it was a bit obscure’? She’d never chosen his work for her own book group, it was too special and personal to her. And that had been before she’d met the man and fallen in love with him.

‘What night is it you meet?’

‘It’s the second Wednesday of the month. It’s usually the first one, but we missed it. Someone had a fortieth.’

‘That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘It is so. Can you come? You can easily walk from your house, but I’ll pick you up so you don’t feel lonely when you arrive. I’ll be with you just before eight.’

‘Did I agree to that?’ Laura asked her half-built kitchen a few seconds later. ‘No, I didn’t think I had.’

But she was glad enough to be going out by the time she had to get ready. Although she loved the book she was now working on, getting it into some sort of order was like herding cats. The main character was wonderful but she kept going off to other places in her head and it was hard to decide if these flights of fancy should just be severely cut or if they valuable insight into the protagonist’s mind.

Shona was on her doorstep at a quarter to eight. ‘Do you mind if I come in and have a look around? I’ve been dying of curiosity about what your man is doing to these houses.’

Glad she’d thrown all her dirty washing into the bin when she’d got ready, Laura laughed, and obliged.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘These women scare the bejaysus out of me,’ said Shona as they walked up the drive to one of the big houses that Laura looked out at every day. They had views of the sea and lots of them were converted to holiday flats. This one was still a big family house. ‘They all have degrees, or are going back into education or something.’

‘Now you tell me! You made out they were a friendly lot who just drank wine and ate cake.’

‘I know. I lied. I thought if I brought you it would give me a bit of credibility, having a clever friend.’

Laura had to laugh.

‘Honestly,’ Shona went on. ‘They only tolerate me because the book group was my idea.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ Laura sounded convincing but she was wondering if she’d made a horrible mistake coming. Her own academic qualifications were fine but she’d always tried to keep her book group open and accessible to everyone. She hated it when people scored academic points over the people who were there because they loved reading.

A slim, elegant woman in a white linen dress opened the door. She had cork wedges on her perfectly groomed feet and her tan, be it fake or genuine, revealed not a single streak. Her hair was blonde, short and beautifully cut. The highlights could have been put in strand by strand. All this perfection was set off by the hall behind her: pale, hardwood floors, inset lighting and one stunning piece of glass at the end of the hall.

‘Hello, so glad you could come.’ A dazzling smile, with teeth to match, was directed at Laura. Its brilliance dimmed slightly as it moved to Shona. ‘Shona, I do hope you’ve read the book this time. You know we made a rule, three non-reads and you’re out. You’re on your fifth.’

Shona tossed her head defiantly. ‘Who cares? Anyway, it’s you lot’s fault for choosing such boring bloody books. Reading is a leisure activity not designed to improve the brain.’

‘I’m Jocasta,’ said the woman, ignoring this denial of a sine qua non as she would have undoubtedly phrased it, and putting a perfectly manicured hand into Laura’s.

‘I’m Laura. It’s very kind of you to let me come.’ The hand was cool and Laura was aware that hers was hot and anxious-feeling.

‘Well, we are a closed group really, but when Shona explained that you’re new to the area—’

‘And I said I’d never make cake again,’ put in Laura’s champion.

‘We felt it would be churlish of us not to let you come,’ finished Jocasta. Then she studied the woman she’d been so generous to. ‘Laura? That’s a pretty name.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I long for something more ordinary – Jocasta is from the classical Greek.’

‘So is mine, Laura that is. It means laurels.’

Jocasta laughed. ‘Oh. I don’t think mine means anything. But do come in. Most of the gang are here.’

They were ushered into more perfect space: cream walls, cream sofas, a cream rug on the blond floor, a massive abstract painting. Surprised, Laura noticed some wooden frames with pictures of children in them on a side table. Were they hers? If so, how did she keep all this so pristine? Maybe they never came in here.

Laura was introduced to the half-dozen women already there. They were all well dressed and probably went to the same hairdresser as Jocasta as their hair had that sleek every-three-weeks look. Unlike the one that Laura had run, this book group didn’t seem to have the young mums who ran out of the house with baked beans on their clothes, desperate for a bit of adult conversation and having to fight to get it.

She sat down on a sofa next to one of the other women. Some dog hairs on her black trousers, brought with her from Somerby, made her suddenly yearn for it, as if it were home. She wasn’t exactly untidy herself, but she felt out of place, like a pigeon in a flock of parakeets, in this elegant, magazine-like setting. She needed a bit of mess to make her truly comfortable.

There was a low glass coffee table in front of them and on it was a pile of books.

‘I’m doing some decluttering,’ explained Jocasta, handing round glasses with an inch of chilled white wine in the bottom. ‘So do help yourselves to anything you’d like. Otherwise they’ll go to the charity shop.’

Laura recognised most of the books. Not one of them would she describe as a ‘good read’; all of them were a ‘virtuous read’: the kind of books you could boast of having read at dinner parties.

‘I can never get rid of books I’ve enjoyed,’ said one woman, picking over the selection. ‘But maybe you didn’t enjoy these?’