‘Trust me,’ said Dermot. ‘I do have to. For various reasons, I haven’t had a shower for a few days.’

‘Right. I’ll show you to your room then. It has an en suite.’

‘And how will I find my way to the party afterwards? This is a huge pile you have here.’

‘I’ll come and fetch you,’ said Rupert. ‘In about fifteen minutes?’

‘Fifteen minutes is fine. But would you not send the leprechaun?’ He nodded his head towards Laura, in case Rupert was in any doubt who he was referring to.

Rupert laughed. ‘She’ll get more lost than you will.’

‘Mm,’ said Dermot, looking at Laura in a way that made her just want to smile and smile, ‘that might not be so dreadful.’

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Laura went back upstairs trying very hard to wipe the smile of sheer joy at seeing Dermot again off her face. As she got to the door she remembered she could be pleased for the festival’s sake, and stopped bothering. There was time enough for her to be sensible and remember he was the enemy and she needed to protect herself – and more importantly her heart – from him.

‘He’s here!’ she announced. ‘Dermot Flynn has actually deigned to turn up!’

A buzz of exclamations filled the room. ‘What’s he like?’ said Anne Marsh, when Laura had got back to her place.

‘Well, I had met him before—’

‘You’ve met him before? But I thought he was practically a recluse!’

‘Not at all,’ broke in Eleanora. ‘He’s just damn difficult to get out of Ireland. Laura did a grand job getting him to come.’

Some man said, ‘Did you have to sleep with him to get him to agree?’

Laura looked and saw it was one of the young literary writers. She gave him a withering look. ‘As if that would really work.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would for me.’

‘Oh,’ said Laura, having worked out eventually that he didn’t mean that he wanted to sleep with Dermot. She blushed deeply.

‘It would be no hardship sleeping with him,’ said Veronica. ‘I saw him on television, years ago and thought: Mr Darcy, eat your heart out.’

Perfectly presented portions of Jubilee Chicken were being served over their shoulders. ‘I prefer that Sean Bean myself,’ said the Catering Lady who had just delivered the chicken.

The young writer ignored this interjection, it being from a motherly soul who was obviously only a waitress. ‘You romantic novelists, you’re just suckers for an Irish brogue and an easy smile,’ he said. Laura remembered he had been shortlisted for some prize or other and one reviewer had likened him to Dermot.