Love Letters (9 page)

‘Don’t be silly!’ Monica was indignant. ‘How sad will that make me look?’

‘Not much sadder than if we’re both here, me giggling and both of us holding bicycles as if we’re kids from school. What are you going to say anyway? “We were passing so we thought we’d drop by?”’

Monica humphed in irritation. ‘Well, why not? It’s true!’

‘No it’s not. We cycled bloody miles, we were not “just passing”.’ She sniffed, found a bit of old tissue, blew her nose and then said, ‘But I’ve stopped giggling now, so go ahead, look a fool. I’ll look one with you.’

‘Thanks, Laura, you’re a good girl.’

Monica lifted the knocker and banged hard. There was no answer. ‘Well, now what do we do?’ she said after a minute and another knock.

‘Write your mobile number on a bit of paper and post it through the letterbox. Although you may have to write a short essay reminding him who you are,’ said Laura.

‘Not at all! He’ll remember exactly who I am, but the mobile number’s a good idea. Oh, do you think it’ll work in Ireland?’

‘Mine did. I phoned the shop while you were in the Ladies.’

‘Don’t you mean
Mna
?’

‘Oh, shut up and write your note. I want to get back to the b. and b. I may need a bit of a lie-down before tonight.’

She was briefly aware of a flutter of anxiety and then dismissed it. She was enjoying herself and didn’t want any nerves about the coming evening to spoil this delicious feeling of freedom.

‘Lightweight,’ muttered Monica, writing.

Laura’s giggliness continued for the journey home even though she was now exhausted.

‘I’ll never ride a bike again,’ she said as they finally made it back to the b. and b. ‘In fact, I don’t suppose I’ll ever sit down again comfortably.’

‘Shut up moaning. It was downhill all the way.’

Their landlady provided a huge plate of sandwiches with a monster teapot full of strong tea. They ate every scrap and drained the pot. The sandwiches were followed by two sorts of cake, both home-made, both utterly delicious.

‘I can’t believe we ate all that!’ said Laura as they tottered from the dining room back to their room. ‘I’m going to need some indigestion tablets or something.’

‘Good idea,’ said Monica. ‘Top tip: before a big night out, take a Zantac, stops you throwing up afterwards.’

Laura paused, her hand on the bedroom door. ‘We’re not having a big night out, Monica,’ she said. ‘We’re going to worship at the feet of a great writer and persuade him to come to our literary festival. Throwing up is not on the To Do list.’

Monica laughed, obviously not convinced. But now it was nearly upon her, Laura suddenly felt the weight of responsibility for securing Dermot Flynn. It was her mission. She so wanted to make a success of this project. Helping with the literature festival was her first foray outside the bookshop since she’d left university. If she failed she’d feel less able to attempt any other new challenges. And she had personal reasons for wanting to meet Dermot Flynn and get him to the festival: he was her favourite living writer. How would she feel if he was a complete show-off, happy to rest on his early laurels? Seeing a man in the flesh you’d worshipped through his writing for years was a risky business!

After much discussion, the girls had decided to dress down, in jeans and sweaters. Monica added a cashmere pashmina for warmth for the walk to the venue, Laura a cheery but unstylish scarf an aunt had given her for Christmas one year.

The event, as Laura called it, or the gig, as Monica referred to it, was in the only large building in the village and any doubt they might have had about finding it was dispersed by the streams of people making their way to it, many of them clearly coming from the pub.

‘I can’t believe how many people are going!’ said Laura, daunted. ‘It would be amazing if we could get a crowd like this for him in England. If so many people come this far to see him, imagine how many might come if he was on the mainland.’

‘Absolutely! Not all these people can be locals.’

But then pessimism descended. ‘But if he won’t do an event practically next door, he’s not going to come to our festival, is he? Even if I can get near enough to ask him.’

‘Don’t give up! And you want to see him anyway, don’t you?’

Laura agreed that she did. She had butterflies in her stomach at the prospect although they weren’t all good ones. She had so loved his books – there were only two of them – at university that she had practically learnt them by heart. And the author photograph in the back was stunning: a mean and moody young man in a black T-shirt. While her contemporaries were in love with band members, Laura used to gaze at the photo of Dermot Flynn.

The trouble was, that was years ago, and the photo hadn’t been new then. She still loved the books and felt that in them was some of the tenderest, most erotic writing she had ever read, before or since. What she was dreading was that her hero had turned into a fat and balding has-been, trading on the bright young talent he once had.

Still, she thought as she and Monica joined the throng, if this had happened, it would be sad, but not heartbreaking. What was slightly more desperate was the fact that he wouldn’t move out of his home village; she’d have to go back to England empty-handed, so to speak.

Their tickets were unnumbered, and Laura was resigned to standing at the back behind umpteen other people, but Monica was an old hand at gigs with standing room only, and wriggled and wheedled her way to the front, Laura following, embarrassed and apologising as she went.

They found a spot near the stage and although they had to stand, they could at least lean against the book table that had been set up.

‘What time is he due on?’ asked Monica.

‘About ten minutes ago,’ said Laura. ‘He’s late.’

‘Oh, don’t be saying your man is late,’ said a friendly man who was leaning on the same table. ‘I’ll get us all a drink to pass the time with.’

‘Oh no—’

‘Yes please,’ said Monica firmly. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘And what will you have?’

‘Better stick to shorts,’ advised Monica. ‘We’ll never get to the loos.’

‘I’ll be right back,’ said the man, and began shouldering his way against the tide of people to the bar.

‘We don’t know what we’re getting,’ said Laura.

‘That’s the joy of travel,’ said Monica. ‘Surprises.’

‘I think I’m getting the hang of it at last,’ said Laura ruefully. ‘I’ve led such a sheltered life.’

The man handed each girl a glass of brown liquid. Laura took hers wondering if they sold sherry by the tumbler everywhere, or if it was only in this particular venue. Only it wasn’t sherry, it was whiskey, and it was neat.

After watching Laura’s range of expressions from horrified realisation of what she was drinking to appreciation as the fiery liquid warmed her, Monica said, ‘We may as well be drunk as the way we are.’

Laura wondered how much longer it would be before Monica started saying, ‘top o’ the morning’ and ‘begorrah’.

‘Well now, girls,’ said the man who’d bought them drinks. ‘What are you doing in these parts in January? Have you just come to see Himself?’ He nodded to an old publicity photograph mounted on a battered showcard.

‘We have,’ Laura admitted, sipping her drink, beginning to feel its effect.

‘He’s great now, isn’t he? He’s a lovely man but I warn you, he’s often late to things if he doesn’t really want to do them.’

‘Oh.’

‘But it’s OK, the crack will keep you entertained until he turns up.’

Laura was surprised to discover it did. The air was buzzing with chat, with laughter, people squashing past with drinks. The sheer numbers of people helped boost the limited warmth coming out of a couple of ancient heaters and added to the cosy atmosphere.

Laura had pressed euros into the hand of their self-appointed escort and bought more drinks, and the time passed quickly enough.

An hour after the appointed time, a roar started at the back of the room and gathered momentum. It was in the wake of a tall man in a tattered sweater, black jeans and boots. Dermot Flynn had arrived. For a second Laura wondered if he was in the same clothes he’d been wearing in his author photo but concluded he just wore a lot of black. He leapt up on stage without using the rickety steps and turned round and greeted his audience. He raised his hands for silence and then smiled.

Laura felt as well as saw the smile. It was like a zillion-watt lightbulb. The whiskey probably had something to do with it, she realised – she was now on her third – but it was truly dazzling.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Dermot Flynn had to shout over the applause and the whooping that had greeted him. Eventually, the crowed quietened apart from the odd stray whistle.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he repeated. ‘Will you ever shut up?’

He certainly had a brogue, thought Laura, but it wasn’t really an accent.

There was laughter.

‘Now I’m going to read to you, but I’m not taking questions.’

Laura felt a moment of panic. This was awful news. How was she going to ask him to come to England if he wasn’t taking questions?

‘I’ll take questions tomorrow when the drunks aren’t in.’

Huge relief swept over Laura and then she realised she was probably one of the drunks. She resolved not to drink any more. Monica was now holding a pint glass containing a neon-orange liquid she said was lemonade. Laura accepted she was naïve but felt this was unlikely. She herself had decided to stick to what she knew: namely whiskey.

His voice was like tweed made of silk, rough-smooth, dark brown and the sexiest thing Laura had ever heard in her life.

‘Good evening, everyone.’

‘Good evening!’ the crowd roared back. This was unlike any event Laura had ever been to.

‘It’s nice of you to show up,’ went on Dermot. ‘People have been asking me why I showed up myself, but you asked me, so I came. I wrote these books a long time ago and I’m going to read you some out of both of them. Afterwards I’ll talk a bit about how they came to be written.’ He paused, cleared his throat and began to read.

She knew the words by heart – the opening passage of his first book – the bestseller that shocked the literary world. Dermot Flynn had been only twenty when out came this masterpiece. It won every literary prize it was eligible for.

She had studied his books – there were only two – at university, and of all the books she had read since, and there’d been many, these were the two she loved best.

Laura was not the only person entranced. He had such a beautiful voice. Listening to it was like hearing a musical instrument playing the most beautiful piece. The applause when he’d finished was deafening. And then he spoke about how he’d come to write them, how when he lived abroad for a while he was so homesick for his home, his land, its culture and its geography, the only way he could ease his pain was to write.

Laura clapped until her hands were sore. She drummed her feet and she may have even whooped a bit. The audience was treating him more like a rock star than a writer; the event was the most exhilarating thing she’d ever experienced. She was flying and didn’t want to stop. He was every bit as wonderful as she had always dreamt he would be. When he jumped off the stage she felt as if a magic spell had suddenly been broken.

Chapter Five

‘Come on,’ said Laura. ‘We’re going to the pub.’

Monica looked at her quizzically. ‘Are we? Are you sure?’

Aware she was behaving out of character, and that this was probably caused by alcohol as much as anything, Laura made her case. ‘I know we’ve had more than enough to drink and I’m worn out and should probably go home but I’m not ready for the evening to end just yet.’

‘But, Laura!’ Monica was amused as well as surprised. ‘We’ve had a long day. He’s doing another gig tomorrow.’

Laura shook her head. ‘It’s hard to explain but I need to ask him my big favour now, before I lose my nerve.’ She paused, wondering how to express her feelings about Dermot without sounding completely deranged. ‘I sort of feel fired up for it and I know the feeling won’t last.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Monica. ‘Although it’ll be hard to get near him.’

‘I know.’ She just stopped herself telling Monica that even watching him drink pints with several dozen people between her and him would be good. Being sensible could wait until she was back in England. Here, she didn’t want to miss a minute of him, even if she could only look at him across a crowded room. Seduced by the romance of the place, the beauty of his writing, the charm of his voice, she felt as if she was in another world, one sprinkled with fairy dust, she didn’t want that feeling to end. An enchanted evening, very different from the one in the song, had already begun.

Not all the audience went to the pub afterwards, in fact Laura saw several dozen of them scattering into the darkness, but there was still a stream of people to follow through the narrow streets to the village local. It was a long, low building that seemed to occupy the width of several shopfronts. It was still going to be a crush.