Love Letters by Katie Fforde Page A

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