Love Letters (48 page)

‘I asked the farmer to keep them in.’

‘Oh, that was very kind of you. I would have coped.’ Now that she and Dermot were together she felt nothing could daunt her, certainly not a few noisy collies.

‘I didn’t want you having to cope with anything, not today,’ he said firmly.

When they had climbed over the gate, Dermot assisting Laura in a way that involved his hand on her bottom and her giggling for quite a long time, they set off walking.

After a little way, Laura said, ‘I can’t quite believe we’re preparing for my parents to come to stay.’

‘We should have that spare bedroom in a good state before they get here.’

‘What I really can’t believe is that you invited them.’

Dermot had behaved like a perfect gentleman the morning after he had burst into the Horsley household and by the time he and Laura left (by taxi – very extravagant) her parents had seemed quite happy that he was now taking charge of their daughter and her journey back to Ireland.

‘I thought it was only fair that they should see their only child was being properly looked after,’ he explained. ‘And I’ve been thinking, we may want to sell my house.’

‘But you’ve lived there for years?’

‘I’ve always had a fancy to build one where you can see the sea. There’s a plot up here I might persuade the farmer to sell.’

‘Oh!’ This sounded exciting – it was the most beautiful place. He’d obviously been giving it quite a bit of thought. And knowing how much Dermot was adored in the area, even more now he was known to be writing again, a film was to be made of
Mountain Road
, his first book, and he was bringing in more than a trickle of wealth along with his fame, she felt fairly sure the farmer would willingly sell him a field. She suspected the local planning official would also grant planning permission for it if he possibly could.

‘I thought we’d have our picnic there and maybe make a few sketches of what we might want.’

It sounded like heaven and Laura was ridiculously pleased with the way he so easily and readily said ‘we’ these days, but she didn’t comment. Anything too enthusiastic would cause Dermot to kiss her and then they might not get to their picnic destination by teatime.

They walked on in silence, Laura reliving everything that had happened since they’d last climbed the hills together and looked out over the sparkling sea. She was now working full-time as an editor, mostly at home, so she could indulge herself by cooking for Dermot when he wasn’t cooking for her. They were a very modern couple. There were times when Laura still couldn’t quite believe it wasn’t all a dream. Then she would pinch herself and know that it was all deliciously real.

Bridget had left the village, returning to where she’d been when Laura first arrived. Although no one said anything, during the couple of times she and Dermot had gone to the pub together, she got the impression people were relieved that it was she and not Bridget who had captured the heart of their favourite bachelor.

Dermot had started a fourth book. He had turned one of the bedrooms into a study. It was a room she hadn’t been in when she’d found him after he’d disappeared from the world. It was where he had been writing, writing, writing the book he had hidden under the bed that was now being fought over by several publishing houses. Now his writer’s block was cured, he couldn’t seem to stop, as if all the unwritten words of the previous years had been dammed up and were now flooding out of him.

When he’d finished a long stint, he’d find Laura, who was using the dining room as an office, and snatch her up wanting to make love to her. If she really had to finish a piece of work he’d go off into the kitchen and start cooking, finding recipes on the Internet and then charging off in the car, hunting for esoteric ingredients in all the neighbouring shops. Their local store was considering having a section labelled ‘Dermot’s Follies’ in the hope that his influence might encourage others to buy shiitake mushrooms, truffle oil and capers.

‘I think this is the perfect spot,’ he said.

‘For the picnic or the house?’

‘Both.’

They stood together, arms wrapped round on another, their hands in each other’s back pockets, staring out to sea.

‘Imagine pulling back the curtains to that view every morning,’ said Dermot.

‘On a day like today it would be bliss, but what about when it was stormy and grey?’

‘Then we’d pull them shut again and not get up at all.’

She tried to look disapproving but a smile kept tugging her mouth into the wrong expression. ‘Let’s have tea. Have you got the kettle?’

‘Of course.’ Dermot opened the neck of the rucksack and started pulling things out. ‘Volcano kettle – you’ve got the
Irish Times
in your bag. Matches, you’ve got those too. Oh, and tea. I think you’ve got that. In a paper bag? Have a look.’

After a bit of rummaging, Laura found a brown paper bag with something that felt like tea in the bottom. ‘Here you are.’

‘Could you just check it is tea?’ Dermot seemed a bit odd suddenly, edgy almost.

‘I don’t think it could be anything else. There’s only just the cake and biscuits in here.’

‘Just have a look in the bag. Here . . .’ He spread a rug on to the short turf. ‘Sit down first.’

Shaking her head at her loved one’s madness, Laura sat on the rug.

‘Now look inside the bag.’

She looked. ‘It’s definitely tea. There’s no doubt it isn’t coffee, hot chocolate or cannabis.’

Dermot collapsed down next to her and took the bag. He peered into it, and then poked in his finger. ‘Here, have another look.’

Obedient but confused, Laura looked. In among the tea leaves was a ring. Her heart missed a beat and a smile spread across her face as she put her hand in the bag and took it out. For some reason she couldn’t speak; she was overcome with a rush of emotion. She studied the ring. It was a ruby, set in gold, with tiny diamonds round it. It looked old. And there was no way that this was anything other than an engagement ring.

Dermot was looking at her anxiously. ‘If you don’t like it, we can choose another one – together,’ he said.

‘I love it,’ she whispered, looking up at him.

‘Try it on then,’ he urged.

She shook her head. ‘I’m superstitious about putting rings on that finger unless . . .’ She hesitated. Although she’d seen the love in his eyes, saw it every day, knew what this ring symbolised, she couldn’t quite bring herself to take it all for granted.

‘Here, let me.’ He took hold of her left hand and then, taking the ring from her, he slid it on to her finger. It was a little large but she thought it looked lovely. Before she could admire it for long he took it off again.

He was already kneeling but he put one leg behind him so that he was on only one knee. Laura stifled a giggle. It was all so hopelessly romantic and he looked so serious.

‘Laura, dear heart, love of my life, will you marry me?’

Sighing and smiling, she said, ‘Well, I just might.’

‘Just say yes, would you, woman!’

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice strong and clear.

‘Yes, Dermot, I will marry you?’ he said, holding her once more beringed hand tightly as if he was afraid she’d scamper off.

‘Yes, Dermot, I will marry you.’ But she’d hardly got out the last word before he had taken her in his arms and they were rolling on the rug together, kissing and laughing.

‘Now we can tell your parents when they come to stay.’ He reached across to the rucksack and produced a newspaper-covered bottle. ‘Let’s have a mug of champagne.’

‘I thought we were going to have tea!’

‘Bollocks to tea. We’ll have that afterwards. Now, we’re celebrating!’

Read on for an exclusive short story by Katie Fforde . . .

Christmas Shopping

by

Katie Fforde

Christmas Shopping

Evie’s overloaded trolley slid slowly but unstoppably into the trolley next to her. She’d been wishing all the way round that she’d tested it for wonkiness before she set off and should have changed it the moment she realised it wouldn’t steer. Now it paid her back for her inefficiency by crashing into a trolley that seemed a dream – a perfect dinner for two: a packet of pheasant breasts, a bottle of champagne and some potted shrimps. Evie was very fond of potted shrimps. She looked up at the lucky shopper, who apparently didn’t need enough food to feed a small country, just because it was Christmas. Of course, because Evie was showing the strain of the festive season in every line, wrinkle and pore, he was extremely good-looking. He had greying black hair, strong eyebrows, and beneath them dark eyes that crinkled attractively at the corners. Evie was aware her hair needed cutting, she hadn’t bothered with make-up that morning and was wearing clothes she did housework in. She smiled, hoping to distract him from her looks.

‘So sorry. Can’t control this wretched thing. I should have changed it, but you don’t quite have the heart, do you?’ Then she looked at the contents of his trolley again and wished she’d just said ‘sorry.’ Those choice items did not indicate a man who’d appreciate small talk about shopping trolleys.

But he smiled. ‘They’re not very well designed, are they?’ It was only to make her feel better but she was grateful – and he had a lovely voice.

She sighed. ‘No.’ Then she frowned. ‘I’m looking for agar agar. I’ve got the family for Christmas and I don’t cook much as a rule.’

He glanced down at her load which she now had under control. ‘You wouldn’t guess that from the amount you’ve packed in there.’

She laughed. ‘Panic buying. My sister-in-law is a vegetarian and I can’t decide what to cook for her. I thought agar agar would be useful.’

‘I’m sure you must have the ingredients for several recipes – a whole book, possibly.’ His gaze roamed over the disparate ingredients – quinoa, bulgur wheat, various forms of tofu, and some mushrooms she’d have sworn were poisonous if they hadn’t been for sale in an upmarket shop.

‘That’s what I thought! But as I can’t decide I think I’d better have—’

‘Here you are.’ He put the packet on top of the other things.

‘Thanks. I wish I liked cooking more. It’s my turn to have them all and I dread it. Some of them are such foodies.’ The pheasants and champagne caught her eye. ‘Oh, you probably are too.’

‘Well, I do cook, but I have no one to cook for this year. My parents are on a cruise. I’m living in the family home, looking after the cat.’

‘I expect you’re looking forward to a quiet Christmas. I know I would be.’

‘Mm, yes, sort of. It’ll be different, anyway.’

Evie looked up at him, and on impulse she said, ‘Would you think I was absolutely mad if I invited you round for Christmas dinner?’ Aware of his astonishment she went on. ‘Of course, say no. I don’t expect you to accept, but I wouldn’t feel right about myself if I didn’t ask you.’

He laughed. ‘Why ever not?’

She hesitated. ‘Lots of reasons. The most important to me is, if Christmas is about anything it’s about welcoming strangers into your home.’ Too late she wished that she’d said something different – anything but the truth really. She tried to explain further – which would probably make it worse – but what the hell. ‘I’m rubbish at cooking, and cleaning and decorating the house stylishly. I never get the Christmas cards out in time and I mostly buy people things from Marks and Spencers so they can take them back. But I do feel strongly about being welcoming.’ She was blushing so hard now she was challenging the cardboard Santa’s that swayed above her head. ‘Now you’ve confirmed I’m completely batty, you can move on and finish your shopping.’

He laughed again but kindly. ‘Actually, I was going to offer to come round and make you a vegetarian dish. I haven’t got much cooking to do at all and I like it. And you obviously have a lot.’

‘Would you do that?’ Gratitude almost made Evie fling her arms round his neck. Fortunately middle-class restraint saved her from herself.

‘Of course. It would be a pleasure. Where do you live?’

She gulped, suddenly aware that she’d invited a complete stranger into her home. She didn’t know anything about him. He could be targeting her – he could have seen her neediness and deliberately got talking to her. Then she allowed common sense into her panic-stricken brain. She would be surrounded by people on Christmas Day; she’d be perfectly safe.

‘I live at the top of Stoke’s Hill. One of the big houses up there.’

‘Oh yes, I know. Do you live in all of it? Or has it been divided into flats?’

She smiled to hide an unexpected sigh. ‘No, all of it.’ It wouldn’t be for long. Once everything else had been sorted out after her parents’ death, the house would go on the market. It was why everyone decided there needed to be one more family Christmas in the old home. Then it
would
be divided into flats, no doubt.

She gave him the rest of the address and they exchanged names and contact numbers. Then she finished her shopping, adding two boxes of crackers to the pile, just because they were reduced to half price. Still, crackers were always good fun even if she was the only member of the family who thought so.