Love Letters by Katie Fforde

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.