 Love
Letters
With bookshop where she works about to close, Laura
Horsley, in a moment of uncharacteristic recklessness, finds herself
agreeing to help organise a literary festival deep in the heart
of the English countryside. But her initial excitement is rapidly
followed by a mounting sense of panic when reality sinks in and
she realises just how much work is involved – especially when
an innocent mistake leads the festival committee to believe that
Laura is a personal friend of the author at the top of their wish-list.
Laura might have been secretly infatuated with the infamous Dermot
Flynn ever since she studied him at university, but travelling to
Ireland to persuade the notorious recluse to come out of hiding
is another matter.
Determined to rise to the challenge, she sets off
to meet her literary hero. But all too soon she’s confronted
with more than she bargained for – Dermot the man is maddening,
temperamental and up to his ears in a nasty case of writer’s
block. But he’s also infuriatingly attractive – and,
apparently, out to add Laura to his list of conquests …
Chapter One
Someone murmured into Laura’s ear, making her jump. ‘So,
what do you think of him?’
The bookshop was crowded: the area they had cleared for the reading
was full; the queue to the desk of people clutching recently bought
books was long and chattering enthusiastically. Laura had felt a
post-Christmas event was a bit of a risk but now she was watching
the people with a combination of relief and satisfaction. However
carefully you prepared for a bookshop event you could never really
tell until they turned up how many people would come. And nor could
you be sure that the author would perform well. Writing was a very
private occupation and Laura often thought it was cruel to make
them stand up on their hind legs before an audience. But even by
her high standards this event was a success.
With all this in her mind, however, she hadn’t noticed anyone
coming up behind her. She turned round swiftly and saw a short,
late middle-aged woman dressed in clothes designed to attract attention.
Laura instantly remembered seeing her when she came through the
shop door with the rest of the author’s party. Her jacket
looked as if it were made of tapestry and her jewellery could have
been home-made by a grandchild with a welding kit, or by a hot new
designer, it was hard to tell. The most startling thing about her
close up, was her intense, penetrating stare. She had eyes like
green agate.
‘Very good, of course,’ said Laura, startled, but polite
as ever, feeling drab in her ubiquitous black trousers and white
shirt.
This answer didn’t seem entirely to satisfy the green eyes
boring into her. ‘And have you read the book?’
‘Of course.’ Laura was firmer now, indignant at the
woman’s combative tone. She worked in a bookshop. It was her
job to know the stock.
A pencilled-in eyebrow was raised. ‘No “of course”
about it. What did you think?’
Laura opened her mouth to say ‘wonderful’ and then
decided to tell the truth instead. She had nothing to lose now,
after all: her beloved job was going to be taken from her –
she might as well put aside her habitual tact and say what she really
thought. ‘I didn’t think it was quite as good as his
first but I will be really interested to see his next one.’
She was an avid, enthusiastic but critical reader; she could tell
when a writer wasn’t on top form. Then pennies dropped in
her brain, like coins from a fruit machine when someone wins the
jackpot. ‘Oh my goodness, you’re his agent, aren’t
you?’ Embarrassment turned her from hot to cold and back to
hot again.
The woman narrowed her gaze in acknowledgement of this fact, but
Laura couldn’t tell if she was smiling, or expressing disapproval
– her mouth didn’t move. ‘I do have that pleasure,
yes.’
Still blushing, Laura tucked a stray curl behind her ear and looked
across at the young man who was now signing books for a long queue
of fans. Every book-buyer, she noted, got the personable, charming
smile, each book a little personal message as well as a dedication.
Not one but two publicists had come with him from his publisher’s,
and not just for crowd control, but because they adored him. Writers
like him were rare.
It was because he had two young women, only too eager to open the
books at the right page, put them into paper bags and keep his wine
glass topped up, that Laura was propping up a pillar; they didn’t
need her help. And Henry, the owner of the shop, had been firm.
‘You set all this up, got all these people here, ordered the
wine, opened the polystyrene snacks: take a break.’ ‘He’s
a star,’ said Laura after watching him for a couple more moments.
She wasn’t buttering up her formidable companion; she was
telling it like it was.
‘I know. I’m Eleanora Huckleby, by the way.’
‘I know – now,’ said Laura, relaxing a little.
Agents didn’t often come to bookshop events, but Damien Stubbs
was special. ‘I’m Laura Horsley.’
‘So, do you read all the books of the people who come and
do events here? I gather this shop is – was – famous
for the amount of them it puts on.’
‘Yes,’ said Laura, not wanting to say ‘of course’
again, and sound prissy. She felt she was prissy, in fact, but didn’t
want to advertise the fact. Although talking to this woman made
her wish she’d had time to straighten her hair. She felt her
rather wild ringlets belied her professional air.
So how do you get so many members of the public through the doors,
and buying books?’ Eleanora added, looking at the queue leading
to the signing table. ‘At this time of year, too. I’ve
been to so many where only two men and a dog turn up, and they’re
staff. Not a single member of the paying public present.’
Laura recognised that sort of book signing; Henry had sent her
to one when she first suggested having an event. She had been determined
to do it better and had. The shop was fairly well designed to hold
events, being big enough to be able to clear the right sort of space.
She tried to have something on every month, so people thought of
the bookshop as a place to come for a good night out.
‘I have a huge database of our customers,’ she said
to her companion. ‘And I hand pick them. If I think they’ll
like the book I invite them personally. They almost always come.
I also run a book club from here. Did run a book club from here.’
She sighed as she corrected herself. ‘I expect it’ll
go on when the bookshop is closed. I really hope so.’
‘You sound like a treasure. I’m sure another bookshop
will snap you up. It’s so sad that this one’s going.
I suppose it’s threatened by the supermarkets?’
Laura nodded. ‘And Henry wants to retire.’
Eleanora Huckleby took a bottle of wine from the table and tipped
some into both her and Laura’s glasses. ‘Even the wine
is drinkable.’
‘I’d love to find another bookshop, but it would have
to be a quirky independent shop like this one,’ said Laura.
‘I’m not sure I could cope without all the autonomy
Henry allows me. He’s been great. Lets me order extra copies
of books I think will do especially well, read all the proof copies,
all the fun stuff.’
Eleanora snorted, possibly at the thought of reading proof copies
being described as fun. ‘I should think he’s grateful
someone wants to read them.’ She paused, pressing her lips
together in thought. ‘So who do you think is the rising literary
star?’
Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Apart from Damien Stubbs?’
She indicated her companion’s client, who was still signing
and being charming.
‘Yes. What do you think of Anita Dubrovnik?’
The fact that Laura rarely expressed her true opinions out loud
didn’t mean she didn’t have them. Now, when she was
about to lose her job and had a glass of wine in her hand, she decided
to say what she thought. ‘A great writer but lacks narrative
thrust.’
The older woman’s eyes narrowed in agreement. ‘Who
else have you read recently?’
‘Bertram Westlake?’
The women exchanged speculative looks. ‘Worthy but dull,’
said Laura firmly.
‘Oh God! Such a relief to find someone who agrees with me.
I mean, there’s some great writing in there but whatever happened
to plot! OK, what about Janice Hardacre?’
‘Well, I loved The Soul-Mate, but haven’t liked any
of her others.’
‘Me neither. And that last one went on for ever.’
‘It was short-listed for a prize,’ Laura pointed out.
‘God knows why!’
They talked about books, tearing apart the current literary masterpieces
and raving over the unsung heroes that sold under a thousand copies,
until the more senior of the publicists came over and addressed
Eleanora.
‘Fifty books sold!’ She turned to Laura. ‘This
has been such a good event. Henry told me you organised most of
it. Brilliant! Thank you so much!’ Then she turned back to
Eleanora. ‘We thought we’d push off to the restaurant
now, if you’re ready.’
‘Mm. Can I bring a guest?’
‘Of course! I booked a huge table. Who do you want to bring?’
‘Laura here.’
Laura, her habitual shyness coming back in a rush, felt totally
thrown. ‘No. No really, I can’t come. It’s terribly
kind of you to ask me. But there’s so much to do here.’
Never in the three years she’d been organising bookshop events
had she been to dinner with the author afterwards. Her place was
in the background, making things happen. It was where she felt most
comfortable. Talking to a whole lot of strangers was not her thing.
‘I’ve got to help clear up. Wash the glasses, get rid
of the chairs…’
‘Don’t move!’ said Eleanora firmly and strode
off in the direction of Henry.
‘You’d better not move,’ the publicist advised.
‘She’s known as the Vixen in the trade. Easier to do
what she says, really. I’m Emma, by the way, Emma Bennet.’
‘But I can’t imagine why she would want to ask me
to dinner.‘
‘May be she enjoyed your company?’ Emma smiled, amused
by Laura’s incredulity at this suggestion.
Laura could see Eleanora, followed by Henry and her colleague Grant,
coming over to where she and Emma were chatting.
‘She’s got reinforcements,’ muttered Emma. ‘You’ve
got no chance.’
Both her boss and her colleague came to a halt.
‘You know perfectly well none of this would have happened
without your very hard work,’ said Henry, who was tall, balding
and distinguished-looking. If he hadn’t been forty years older
than her and married already, Laura would have fancied him. ‘You
go and have a nice dinner. You’ve earned it. Grant and I will
clear up.’
‘But really…’ She bit her lip. Panic that she
was going to be taken out of her comfort-zone, aka the bookshop,
made her look urgently at her friend.
Grant, interpreting her expression, shook his head, determined that
she should take this opportunity to mingle with people other than
her colleagues for a change. ‘That’s right,’ he
said firmly. ‘You go and enjoy the ball. Cinderella here will
clear up after this one.’ He put his hand on her forearm.
‘Have a great time and tell me all the goss tomorrow. And
don’t forget, we’re going to the Sisters of Swing gig
tomorrow?’
‘Oh yes.’ She clutched at his arm for a moment.
‘Go on! You’ll be fine!’ Grant, the only other
full-time member of staff and her closest colleague, gave her hand
an encouraging pat. He was on a you-must-get-out-more mission with
Laura and was taking her to a club to hear ‘an incredible
new girl band’. He teasingly described her as his ‘beard’,
which made her laugh. Nothing and no one could make Grant look anything
other than openly gay. But he did have her best interests at heart
and she knew he was right and that she should go.
Now Laura had been officially dismissed – or in her eyes,
abandoned – Eleanora grasped her arm. ‘Show me where
the coats were put and get yours. You’ll need it. The wind
is bitter!’
Instead of a coat, Eleanor had an item that looked like a cross
between a hearthrug and a small tent. It enveloped the wearer in
red, prickly wool and was not a garment for the faint-hearted.
Seeing Laura’s slightly startled reaction, Eleanora said,
‘I always think I could camp out in this all night if I had
to. And I can only wear it in deepest winter, or I sweat like a
pig.’
Laura felt her own navy blue overcoat was pathetically drab. She’s
bought it from a charity shop while she’d been at university
and still hadn’t worn it out. Alas, working in a bookshop
didn’t give one huge amounts of spare cash for clothes.
‘Well, come along now,’ said Eleanora. ‘Take
my arm. I can’t really walk in these heels but I refuse to
wear ballet slippers at my age. And lace-ups would ruin my image.’
She looked down at Laura’s shoes that were almost completely
flat. ‘I rest my case.’
In spite of her disapproval of Laura’s footwear, which was
comfortable if unglamorous, Eleanora talked to her all the way to
the restaurant, grilling her for her opinions of all sorts of books.
Laura read a lot. She lived alone in a tiny bedsit and her television
was so small and snowy she didn’t watch it much. But she read
all the time: at bedtime, while she ate, while she cooked, while
she dressed and while she brushed her teeth. She would have read
in the shower if she could have worked out a method that wouldn’t
completely ruin the book. In the same way she could read anywhere,
she could read anything, and if it was good, enjoy it. There wasn’t
a genre or an author that Eleanora quizzed her on that Laura didn’t
have some knowledge of. Still in the reckless mood that losing her
job and finding in Eleanora someone who cared about books as much
as she did, she let herself speak her mind without holding back.
Eleanora was impressed. ‘Darling! You’re a phenomenon!’
she declared. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you.’
Cover illustration by Sophie Griotto; Cover: www.headdesign.co.uk
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