Love Letters by Katie Fforde Page B

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.
    The smell of the turf fire was the first thing that hit them as they fought their way in. The bar was just visible and behind it could be seen at least three young men, pulling pints, pouring whiskey and handing over change with astonishing speed and accuracy.
    Laura kept her quarry in her sights, wondering if this made her a stalker, or just a fan. Because he was so tall, she could follow him as he wove through the crowd in the main bar to where someone was gesturing to a pint glass of black fluid that had been ordered for him. The pub seemed to consist of several small wooden rooms; the now illegal nicotine had stained the walls to a warm brown. Her moment had come. It would have been easier to have ducked out of the way into one of the side rooms, but she was determined not to lose sight of him now.
    Laura watched him dispose of most of what she assumed was porter in one draught. She leant in to Monica to ask if she thought ‘a pint of plain’ meant porter.
    Monica, who had no literary references to worry about, shrugged, struggling to make herself heard over the noise. She said, ‘We’ve got to get nearer to him. You can’t ask him to come to the festival from here.’
    Dermot was obviously in full