Love Letters (7 page)

‘But supposing I go and he refuses to come?’ Although still chuckling, Laura was feeling the pressure badly.

‘At least you’ll have done your best,’ said Tricia.

Monica struck an attitude. ‘Good God, girl! Do you think he’ll be able to resist? Irish men are all awful womanisers. He’ll be made up to do anything for us!’

‘Just say you’ll give it a go,’ said Tricia. ‘Maybe Jacob Stone would still sponsor the festival if you’ve done your absolute best.’

Fenella shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. He’s a man who means what he says.’

‘How did he get to be a millionaire?’ asked Tricia, which pleased Laura because she didn’t like to ask herself but really wanted to know. She was glad, too, that the conversation had finally veered away from her.

‘Industrial diamonds,’ said Fenella. ‘And he’s just as hard.’

‘So how did you get him to come to the meeting?’ Tricia was obviously intrigued.

‘Well, he’s connected to Rupert’s family in some way and although he didn’t go to university himself or anything, he’s a great fan of literature. Reads the entire Man Booker shortlist every year, stuff like that. He was the natural choice when we were looking for a sponsor.’ She turned her gaze on Laura. ‘Which is why it’s so important you get Daniel O’Flaherty or whoever it was.’

‘Dermot Flynn,’ said Laura and sighed.

Monica had decided. ‘We’ll go to Ireland and get him.’ She paused, looking at Laura. ‘I’ll give you free tickets to our next gig if you agree.’

Laura regarded Monica thoughtfully. The tickets would be a good present for Grant, and she owed him something for lending her his car. ‘So why are you so keen?’

‘I really want to go.’ She paused. ‘I’ve got a bit of unfinished business over there.’ She hooked her arm into Laura’s in a friendly way. ‘And it’ll be fun, for feck’s sake!’

Everyone laughed as she broke into an Irish accent.

Laura felt she’d fought her hardest and could fight no more. She put her hands up in surrender. ‘OK, I’ll do my best. But I’m not making any promises.’

Fenella leant forward and hugged her. ‘You’re a star! Thank you so much! I’ll get Jacob Stone to pay for your fares.’

‘A free holiday in January,’ said Laura. ‘In Ireland. How can I resist?’

Chapter Four

‘It’s awfully kind of you to come with me,’ said Laura to Monica as they waited in her Volkswagen Beetle – a car she declared suited her image as a singer in a forties band – to get on the ferry. ‘Especially at this godforsaken hour.’

It was half past two in the morning and they were very tired.

‘It means we can drive in daylight the other side,’ said Monica. ‘And I wanted to come. You’d never have gone on your own even if you could have got there and I told you, I have my own reasons for going. Besides . . .’ Monica paused. She frowned a little as if thinking how best to express her thoughts. ‘There’s something about you I like. I think if you came out of your shell a bit you could be jolly good fun.’

Laura laughed. ‘Some people think I’m quite fun in my shell.’ Grant was probably the only one who qualified, even if he was also trying to get her out of it, but she felt she ought to protest a bit about Monica’s backhanded compliment.

‘I’m sure, but I think you’d be a lot more fun if you mentally came out from behind the counter of a bookshop.’

‘Have you been talking to my friend Grant?’ she asked suspiciously.

Monica laughed. ‘No. I haven’t met him yet.’ A man came out of the shadows and beckoned them forward. ‘Thank goodness, it’s our turn now. I hope they don’t put us on a shelf somewhere. Technically called the swing decks.’ She moved the car gently forward.

‘How do you know so much about ferries?’ asked Laura, glad she didn’t have to plunge the car into Stygian gloom and interpret the hand signals of men wearing fluorescent jackets walking backwards at speed.

‘I used to drive the band round in an old van,’ said Monica, coming to halt at the end of a chain of vehicles. ‘Ferries are no problem.’

Fenella had insisted that they booked a cabin, even if only for a very short time. Jacob Stone was paying, after all, and he could afford it. Whether or not he would demand his money back if they returned empty-handed, so to speak, had yet to be discovered.

‘We’ll think of something to tell him when we meet up for our first proper meeting,’ Fenella had said casually. ‘As long as you try your best, it won’t be a problem.’ Then her insouciance had left her. ‘You do realise we have to get Dermot Flynn to confirm as soon as possible? Otherwise we’ll have to find not only another literary superstar but another sponsor, and God knows where we’ll find one of those.’

Laura had nodded. ‘We can only do our best but we will do that, I promise. But if I can’t get time off work, Monica will have to go on her own.’

However, she was not going to get out of it that easily. Henry practically pushed her out of the door.

‘It’s a quiet time after Christmas and I can always give Brenda a few more hours if we’re busy.’

With that excuse not to go denied her, she went to see her parents, feeling it was time they knew about her imminent redundancy. She and Grant discussed the visit before she set off. This was one of the things that bonded them: Grant’s aunt had never heard of homosexuals and Laura’s parents still berated her for going to university, getting a good degree and ending up working in a shop. The fact that it was a bookshop made no difference.

‘Still, we’ve got our night out to look forward to,’ said Grant, who had once brought Laura home to meet his aunt so he could appear to have a girlfriend.

‘Yes, and my mother will send me home with a fruit cake because in her heart she thinks I’m still a student.’

‘Hmm. I might have overdosed on fruit cake over Christmas, but bring it anyway.’

Her parents greeted her in their usual understated way. They were pleased to see her, but her monthly visits did disrupt their routine rather.

‘Hello, dear,’ said her mother, kissing her. ‘Supper won’t be long. You go and watch the news with your father and I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

‘I’ll set the table for you, Mum,’ said Laura, feeling a wave of love for her mother. She might often feel like a cuckoo in the nest, but she knew her mother had done her absolute best for her. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that Laura had always been so different from her parents.

‘You don’t mind eating in the kitchen, do you?’

As she filled a glass jug with water Laura wondered why on earth her mother might think she’d mind. It was a ‘kitchen-diner’ and they always ate there.

‘I hope I’m not so much a guest as you feel we should eat in the dining room.’ Laura found the place mats in the drawer and distributed them.

‘Well, we don’t see you all that often.’

‘I know and I’m sorry, but it’s not always easy for me to get here.’

Her mother pursed her lips. ‘I’m sure you could get a job in a bookshop a bit nearer home.’

‘Well, yes. Actually I’ve got a bit of news. But I think I’ll wait until Dad’s here – save me going over it all twice.’

‘I can’t believe you’re gallivanting off to Ireland when you should be looking for another job!’ her father had declared a little later, putting down his knife and fork to lend emphasis to his words.

‘This literary festival could be a great opportunity,’ Laura said quietly. ‘You’ve always said I was wasted working in a bookshop. They were impressed by my knowledge of contemporary literature.’

This only set her father off on a familiar rant about English degrees and a ‘knowledge of contemporary literature’ being a complete waste of time. Her mother hadn’t been too thrilled by it all either. Laura had left as soon as she possibly could, glad she’d arranged to meet up with Grant later.

Grant loyally took the opportunity to reiterate what a chance this was for her.

‘You need to spread your wings, have new experiences! I know you think you just want to find another bookshop, just like Henry’s, and bury yourself in it for ever, but you mustn’t! You must follow your dreams! Which are?’ he added, to check she actually had some.

Laura took a breath. ‘Well, I’ve always wanted to work for a publisher really, as an editor. I don’t suppose this festival is going lead to anything like that, but it has opened my eyes to other book-related opportunities.’

‘Fantastic! Let’s have another Baileys to celebrate.’

Thus, just over a week later, Laura and Monica found themselves on a ferry to Ireland.

Monica and Laura were now sitting in a café in the little fishing village on the west coast of Ireland that was the venue for the ‘Festival of Culture’ they had come to see. They’d been travelling, give or take a few stops, some hours in a ferry and a catnap in a lay-by, for approximately nineteen hours.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever eat again,’ said Monica, looking at her empty plate with disbelief.

‘Well, we won’t need to eat this evening, that’s for sure,’ said Laura. ‘Now I know what the difference between an English breakfast – high tea, whatever – and an Irish one is: size.’

‘And those scrummy potato pancakes.’

‘And the black and white pudding.’

They both leant back in their chairs and drained their mugs of strong tea, sighing with pleasure and feeling a little more human again.

‘I never thought we’d get here,’ said Laura. ‘It feels as if we’ve been travelling for days.’ She yawned. ‘I’d only just got off to sleep when it was time to get up again.’

Monica was dismissive. ‘At least it wasn’t rough, and I think the time in the bar got me in the mood for Ireland, all that singing, fiddle-playing and the drum thing. And sleeping together has made us practically best friends.’

Laura laughed sleepily. ‘Mm.’

‘Being on the road together really does bond you.’

Laura nodded agreement. ‘We could make a movie.’ Monica was right, they had got to know each other very well, and luckily, the more they discovered, the more they bonded. They’d been up half the night chatting too. She yawned widely. ‘I think we should check into the bed and breakfast and have a nap.’

‘Then we’ll fall asleep for hours, wake up at midnight and not be able to get off again. I know, I’ve done that. No fun at all.’

‘OK, let’s check in, then go for a walk or something.’

‘Actually,’ said Monica. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting the car checked out. Its steering has gone a bit funny. It probably would be all right, but if there is a garage it would be silly not to have it looked at.’

‘Oh goodness! Of course you must get it checked out. Will there be a garage here that can deal with antique cars, though?’

‘Of course. It’s not that old. I’m sure there’s nothing much wrong with it. I’m just a bit nervous about breaking down far from home. We had some grisly times in the van, I can tell you.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Laura, slightly relieved that Monica, who seemed so well travelled and super-calm, had some normal neuroses.

‘The bed-and-breakfast people will know,’ said Monica.

‘I hope it won’t take us too long to find it,’ said Laura.

‘Oh come on,’ said Monica. ‘How hard will it be to find in a place this size? It’s tiny!’

‘I know. I can’t make out why they’re having the festival based here, and not in the town five miles up the road. And why is it so popular we could hardly find a place to rest our heads?’ Resting her head was a high priority at the moment.

‘Perhaps it’s that writer the sponsor is so keen on. Maybe he’s bringing them in in busloads.’

Laura shrugged. ‘Well, we certainly travelled quite a way to come and see him, although we do have an ulterior motive. But it is a charming place, isn’t it?’

They looked around at the brightly painted houses, the cars parked all higgledy-piggledy and the fishing boats tied up in the harbour. It wasn’t conventionally pretty, but it had great character.

‘Mm,’ agreed Monica, ‘and if it has a garage I’ll think it’s even more charming. Let’s get going!’

As Monica predicted, the bed and breakfast was not hard to find. It was a bungalow, tucked behind a hedge to shield it from the road, not that there was any traffic of note. The landlady was one of those useful people who imparted information without you having to ask for it.

‘Good afternoon girls, I’m Marion,’ she said cheerily. ‘Come in, come in. Would you like a cup of tea now? Come into the kitchen. You’re here for the festival? I expect you’re wondering why we have it in January.’ She paused for breath. ‘Fact is, the place is heaving in summer. It’s a real tourist spot, but there’s nothing going on in the winter, so they thought they’d have a festival of some kind in Patricktown – you know? Up the road?’

Laura and Monica nodded and took seats at the big wooden table.

‘Well – is it builders’ tea you like? Or I’ve got Earl Grey, Lady Grey, any amount of herbals, White tipped China—’

‘Builders’ tea please,’ they said in unison.