Love Letters (44 page)

Jocasta was now handing round olives the size of bantam eggs. ‘Of course I keep the serious literature, but this is just light reading.’

Laura heard Shona snort into her wine.

‘I could sell the books, of course,’ Jocasta was saying now as she swayed her perfect figure on to another sofa that was not only cream, but suede and pristine. ‘I spend a fortune on them. I love to support writers.’

‘Don’t sell them to a second-hand bookshop then,’ said Laura, wishing she hadn’t opened her mouth before she even started. ‘The authors don’t make a penny and it’s their intellectual property.’

‘Oh.’ Everyone was staring at her. She really did not want to get into a discussion about how authors were paid. ‘So if you’ve excess books,’ Laura said, ‘you should give them to a hospital or something.’

‘Or a charity shop?’ asked one woman.

‘Or that.’ Laura had a feeling this wasn’t the perfect solution for writers either, but she couldn’t remember all the arguments that had been dinned into her by an author once when she worked at the bookshop.

There was some low-voiced chat and the books were picked over and some claimed. Eventually Jocasta took charge. ‘Can I call us to order? Has everyone got a drink?’

‘I’d quite like a top-up,’ said Shona boldly.

‘And me,’ said a couple of the other women. ‘We all walked here, so we don’t have to worry about drinking and driving.’

You could tell, thought Laura, that Jocasta only poured very small amounts into the glasses not because she was mean, but because that was how you should pour wine.

‘OK, we’ve all got drinks,’ Jocasta expressed her disapproval very subtly. ‘Who would like to go first?’ She looked round the room. ‘Well, shall I? Because I chose the book?’

‘Why not?’ said one of the women.

Laura began to feel even more tense. Supposing they didn’t like Dermot’s book? It felt utterly personal to her, and she thought it would have done even if she hadn’t met him – let alone all the other stuff that had gone on between them.

‘OK, well, I chose it because I’d read an article about the writer in the paper. And of course I read it to the end,’ said Jocasta, ‘because I’m one of those people who, if I start a book, have to finish it.’

‘Did you not like it, then?’ asked Shona. ‘Because if you didn’t, for once, I have to agree with you—’

‘Shona?’ Jocasta was disappointed more than annoyed. ‘I shouldn’t have to remind you. We wait until one person has finished speaking before we move on to the next.’ Laura was reminded of Bill Edwards and smiled to herself.

‘Sorry,’ said Shona, feigning meekness.

Jocasta gave her an irritated look. She had a copy of the book in her hand and was looking at it, as if it could help her express herself. ‘I thought this book was wonderfully lyrical. The characters were marvellous. The descriptions of the scenery were superb.’

Although Laura should have loved hearing Dermot’s work praised like this there was something about Jocasta’s enthusiasm that seemed a little forced. Jocasta looked at the woman on her left and said, ‘Your turn, Fionnuala.’

Fionnula’s opinions echoed Jocasta’s fairly closely. She praised the writing, the characters, the scenery. It seemed to Laura that they had all missed the point; they were admiring the book from a distance, they weren’t getting into it, living it and, alas, loving it. Was it their fault, or was it the book’s? Laura yearned to bang the glass coffee table and demand, ‘But did you like it?’

Maybe Shona was telepathic because while she didn’t bang the table, she did ask the question.

‘Oh of course! I loved it!’ said Jocasta. ‘After all it’s one of Ireland’s most important books – from recently, anyway.’

‘Not that recent,’ objected Shona. ‘It seemed to me to be set in the Dark Ages, although I didn’t finish it.’

‘You never finish the books, Shona!’ It was not only Jocasta complaining now. ‘You should have more intellectual rigour.’

‘I’d rather have a life,’ she said, unrepentant.

‘Well,’ said Jocasta, ‘perhaps we can hear from Laura now? Any questions you’d like to ask? We find having someone with us who hasn’t read the book can promote some interesting discussion – except Shona, of course, who’s never read it!’

Shona laughed good-naturedly, immune to Jocasta’s reprimands. ‘I did read quite a lot of this one. I might even finish it now,’ she said.

‘So, Laura?’

Laura was overcome with a desire to rush out of that beautiful room and jump in the mud and then come back in and roll on the rug. Fortunately before the urge overwhelmed her completely, the ‘Minute Waltz’ tinkled out of someone’s handbag, growing louder as the owner of the phone hunted around. While Fionnuala apologised and moved away from the group, Laura decided if she went to the loo, they’d have forgotten all about her by the time she came back.

She was directed to a downstairs cloakroom of such grandeur it made her wonder what the family bathroom or Jocasta’s en suite would be like. She confirmed there were children in the house because there were gold imprints of two little sets of hands and feet, mounted and framed, decorating the walls.

As she washed her hands in the glass basin, inevitably splashing the glass tiles, she speculated that no non-organic product would ever pass Jocasta’s children’s lips and that Jocasta’s bedside table would perfectly reflect those one read about in feminist literary magazines. There the celebrities only seemed to have fresh flowers, incense and a couple of literary novels, one of them in French, by their beds. Not for them the radio, the clock, the pile of half-read tomes, the face cream and the dusty bottle of water.

She patted her hands dry on the back of the towel, so as not to mar the perfection of the room, which in real terms was a downstairs loo, but in Jocasta’s was another opportunity to reveal her perfect taste. Laura was ashamed to realise that had Jocasta raved about Dermot’s work with a proper amount of passion, she wouldn’t have been having these bitchy thoughts, she’d have been admiring her taste and her perfect minimalist style.

She went back into the room, hoping that Jocasta had forgotten about giving her time to ask questions about a book she knew almost by heart. Perhaps by now they’d be talking about childcare, builders and bonuses. Laura knew nothing about any of these subjects, but she didn’t care about them either so she didn’t need to be anxious. But they were still on the book and Shona was getting the third degree.

‘What do you mean you don’t understand why the father was so angry?’ one of the women was demanding. ‘It’s an Oedipal thing. Oedipus made love to his mother and murdered his father! It’s blindingly obvious!’

‘You spotted that too?’ Jocasta seemed delighted to find a fellow intellectual. ‘I thought I was the only one. The author was drawing an exact parallel to the Oedipus myth!’

‘But that’s disgusting!’ said Shona. ‘I don’t want to read books with things like that in them!’

‘It’s not in the book in actuality,’ explained Jocasta kindly. ‘It’s symbolic! It’s what’s behind the author’s thinking when he put that bit in.’ Seeing Laura return to the room she said, ‘I do think you should give this book a try if you have a moment. You might find what we’ve all had to say about it quite illuminating.’ She paused. ‘It’s a bit of a meaty read so take it on holiday with you, when you’ve got a bit more time and can really concentrate.’

She meant well, Laura could see that, but she was cross with Jocasta and the others, not only for not enthusing about her favourite book, but for patronising Shona. ‘Oh I have read it, years ago. And I must say I think it highly unlikely that Dermot – the writer, I mean – had even heard of Oedipus when he wrote it.’

‘How can you possibly say that?’ Jocasta exchanged glances with the woman who’d made the reference. They didn’t want their insight questioned by Laura who was not only new to the group, but English to boot.

‘Well, I can’t say for definite, but he was in his early twenties when he wrote it, he hadn’t been to university and came from quite an intellectual backwater. When you meet him—’ She didn’t know if she’d intended to reveal that she knew Dermot, to discommode Jocasta and her scary friends, or if it was an accident, but whatever, she was stuck with the result. Unless maybe she hadn’t actually said that out loud? She crossed her fingers and prayed.

But she had said it out loud. Everyone started plying her with questions.

‘You’ve met him? Do you actually know him? What’s he like? He was so gorgeous as a young man, God, I’d have slept with him no matter how boring his books were.’ The comments came flying at her and she took the opportunity to think up what to say when everyone fell silent, which eventually they did.

‘I do know him, a bit. He attended a literary festival I helped to organise.’ Talking about him made her miss him even more.

‘He can’t have done,’ said Jocasta knowledgeably. ‘He never goes out of Ireland. It’s a well-known fact.’

‘But he did,’ said Laura.

Jocasta shook her head. ‘I think you must have been mistaken. We know our Irish writers in this group and—

‘Actually,’ spoke up one of the women. ‘There’s been a bit about him in the papers recently. One of them mentioned a festival. Didn’t you see that one, Jocasta?’

Jocasta’s eyelashes fluttered while she hunted for a reason why she hadn’t been completely on top of all the Sunday papers.

‘Jocasta! We usually rely on you to tell us all that’s going on,’ said one of the women who lived near enough to walk.

‘It must have been the week when Rickie had a green fit,’ Jocasta said, ‘and wouldn’t let us buy any Sunday papers. Trust him to make me miss out on such important news.’

‘Not important, really,’ said Shona. ‘It’s just celebrity gossip. You wouldn’t mind missing out on that, would you?’

‘This is literary gossip!’ said Jocasta. ‘It’s different! It does matter!’

‘It did matter to the literary festival,’ said Laura, chuckling a little. ‘And he did come and it caused quite a sensation in the literary world. I think he’s still in America, talking about film rights.’ She didn’t know for sure. Eleanora had been rather vague.

‘Well, I know you’re wrong there,’ went on Jocasta, on firmer territory now. ‘There was a big feature some time ago when he said he’d never let his books be filmed. And he hasn’t written anything new for years and years.’ She paused. ‘I looked him up on Wikipedia.’

‘Not a terribly reliable source, if I may say so,’ said one of the other women.

‘Tell you what,’ said Shona, possibly taking pity on Jocasta. ‘I think it’s time for a socking great bit of chocolate cake!’

Jocasta wasn’t grateful. She broke into the general agreement with, ‘Sorry, we don’t do sugar and fat in lethal combinations in this house, although we know Shona’s cake is to die for.’ She smiled in a way that almost earned her a slap. ‘But I have made some flapjacks with millet and just a little organic honey.’

‘How do you know it’s organic honey?’ demanded Shona, who felt slighted in so many ways. ‘Do they tell the bees not to go near flowers that have pesticides on them?’

‘I don’t know,’ snapped Jocasta, getting up. ‘I just buy it. OK!’

While she was gone the other women gathered round Laura. ‘So what about the real Dermot Flynn, then? Is he anything like as wild as they all say he is?’

Laura realised it would be so much easier if she could say, ‘Tell you what, girls, he was a ride!’ Being unable to admit she’d slept with him – for all sorts of reasons – and tell them what a fantastic lover he’d been, she just said, ‘Well, he has a great sense of humour.’

Laura didn’t like being the centre of attention and cursed herself several times over for not keeping her mouth shut. And she went on being unable to keep it shut, too.

‘The thing about Dermot’s books,’ she heard herself saying, ‘is the passion. Never mind the symbolism, the beautiful writing, the prose, just think of the young man’s journey. Do you want to go with him, or not? If you don’t, toss the book aside and read something else.’

‘I couldn’t do that,’ said Jocasta, who’d come back into the room with a tray of herbal teas and a cafetiere of coffee for those rash enough to ingest caffeine so near to bedtime. ‘If I start a book I have to finish it. I feel it’s my duty.’

‘Me, I’m with Laura,’ said Shona, happy to be able to associate herself with the one who knew Dermot Flynn personally. ‘If I don’t like a book I just read another one.’

No one else confessed to sharing this cavalier attitude to books and the subject moved on.

‘So,’ said Jocasta a bit later, ‘do you think you could get Dermot to come and talk to us, as a group?’

‘No,’ Laura said bluntly. ‘I’m not in touch with him any more and even if I were, that is the last thing I’d ask him to do.’

‘But you could get in touch with him, via his publisher,’ Jocasta persisted. ‘And if you got him to go to England, you could surely get him to come a few miles up here.’

‘No! He’d hate it!’

‘How do you know? How well do you know him?’

She didn’t really know he’d hate it. He might absolutely love being idolised by all these yummy mummies, but however much he’d love it, she wasn’t going to track him down and invite him. ‘Not all that well.’

‘So! And he can’t be that precious if you got him to attend a literary festival in England!’

There was just a hint in Jocasta’s voice implying that if Laura, not a formidable opponent, had got Dermot to attend the festival, Dermot must be the sort of genial guy who’d go to a book-group meeting for the promise of a glass of wine and an organic canapé.

Laura was fairly used to this reaction by now. ‘He had his own reasons for attending the festival. I can’t tell you what they are’ – well, she could have done but she wasn’t going to – ‘he’s a law unto himself.’

‘Still,’ said Shona. ‘You must be proud of yourself for doing that. It’s still a great feather in your cap. And knowing him personally – it’ll make you a great dinner-party favourite in these parts.’