Cover

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Cover

Copyright

About the Author

Also by Katie Fforde

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Love Letters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Epilogue

Other books by this author

About the Author

About the Author

Katie Fforde lives in Gloucestershire with her husband and some of her three children. Recently her old hobbies of ironing and housework have given way to singing, Flamenco dancing and husky racing. She claims this keeps her fit. Love Letters is her fifteenth novel.

Also by Katie Fforde

Also by Katie Fforde

Living Dangerously

The Rose Revived

Wild Designs

Stately Pursuits

Life Skills

Thyme Out

Artistic Licence

Highland Fling

Paradise Fields

Restoring Grace

Flora’s Lot

Practically Perfect

Going Dutch

Wedding Season

Dedication

To Ireland and Irishmen, this is for you!

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements

To the lovely Laura Flemming, who really did organise a literary festival while a toddler, and was so inspiring.

To fellow writer Lesley Cookman for introducing me to the golden voiced Louise Cookman and incidentally, Lindy Hop.

To the wonderful Irish writers I met while doing an event over there, including Sarah Webb whose beautiful boots I also borrowed for this book.

To all the people who have unintentionally inspired me during the writing of this book. Some of you can’t be mentioned for legal and embarrassment reasons, but if you read this, and are in it, thank you!

To all my wonderful agents! In no particular order, Sarah Molloy, Sara Fisher and Bill Hamilton. Thank you! Only you know how much I owe you!

To everyone at Random House. Kate Elton and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore for their wonderful editing, inspiring suggestions and infinite patience. Thank you!

To the behind the scenes people who do the work, but don’t get the glory.

To Charlotte Bush and Amelia Harvell who are the best fun to go out with and give me wonderful treats (and parties!).

To the shameless marketing and sales departments who force people to buy my books, Claire Round, Louise Gibbs, Rob Waddington, Oliver Malcolm, Jay Cochrane and Trish Slattery.

To lovely Mike Morgan who took me on road trips for many years. So sad we won‘t be going again.

To Richenda Todd, who has protected me from myself for so many years, I am so grateful!

To the creators of my brilliant covers which I love!

None of it could happen without you all, I’m so lucky to have such a brilliant team behind me.

Love Letters

Chapter One

Chapter One

Someone murmured into Laura’s ear, making her jump. ‘So, what do you think of him?’

The bookshop was crowded: the area they had cleared for the reading was full; the queue to the desk of people clutching recently bought books was long and chattering enthusiastically. Laura had felt a post-Christmas event was a bit of a risk but now she was watching the people with a combination of relief and satisfaction. However carefully you prepared for a bookshop event you could never really tell until they turned up how many people would come. Nor could you be sure whether the author would perform well. Writing was a very private occupation and Laura often thought it was cruel to make them stand up on their hind legs before an audience. But even by her high standards this event was a success.

With all this in her mind, however, she hadn’t noticed anyone coming up behind her. She turned round swiftly and saw a short, late middle-aged woman dressed in clothes designed to attract attention. Laura instantly remembered seeing her when she came through the shop door with the rest of the author’s party. Her jacket looked as if it were made of tapestry and her jewellery could have been home-made by a grandchild with a welding kit, or by a hot new designer, it was hard to tell. The most startling thing about her close up was her intense, penetrating stare. She had eyes like green agate.

‘Very good, of course,’ said Laura, startled, but polite as ever, feeling drab in her ubiquitous black trousers and white shirt.

This answer didn’t seem entirely to satisfy the green eyes boring into her. ‘And have you read the book?’

‘Of course.’ Laura was firmer now, indignant at the woman’s combative tone. She worked in a bookshop. It was her job to know the stock.

A pencilled-in eyebrow was raised. ‘No “of course” about it. What did you think?’

Laura opened her mouth to say ‘wonderful’ and then decided to tell the truth instead. She had nothing to lose now, after all: her beloved job was going to be taken from her – she might as well put aside her habitual tact and say what she really thought. ‘I didn’t think it was quite as good as his first but I will be really interested to see his next one.’ She was an avid, enthusiastic but critical reader; she could tell when a writer wasn’t on top form. Then pennies tumbled in her brain, like coins from a fruit machine when someone wins the jackpot. ‘Oh my goodness, you’re his agent, aren’t you?’ Embarrassment turned her from hot to cold and back to hot again.

The woman narrowed her gaze in acknowledgement of this fact, but Laura couldn’t tell if she was smiling, or expressing disapproval – her mouth didn’t move. ‘I do have that pleasure, yes.’

Still blushing, Laura tucked a stray curl behind her ear and looked across at the young man who was now signing books for a long queue of fans. Every book-buyer, she noted, got the charming smile, each book a little personal message as well as a dedication. Not one but two publicists had come with him from his publisher’s, and not just for crowd control, but because they adored him. Writers like him were rare.

It was because he had two young women only too eager to open the books at the right page, put them into paper bags and keep his wine glass topped up, that Laura was propping up a pillar; they didn’t need her help. And Henry, the owner of the shop, had been firm. ‘You set all this up, got all these people here, ordered the wine, opened the polystyrene snacks: take a break.’

‘He’s a star,’ said Laura after watching him for a couple more moments. She wasn’t buttering up her formidable companion; she was telling it as it was.

‘I know. I’m Eleanora Huckleby, by the way.’

‘I know – now,’ said Laura, relaxing a little. Agents didn’t often come to bookshop events, but Damien Stubbs was special. ‘I’m Laura Horsley.’

‘So, do you read all the books of the people who come and do events here? I gather this shop is – was – famous for the amount of them it puts on.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura, not wanting to say ‘of course’ again, and sound prissy. She felt she was prissy, in fact, but didn’t want to advertise the fact. Although talking to this woman made her wish she’d had time to straighten her hair. She felt her rather wild ringlets belied her professional air.

‘So how do you get so many members of the public through the doors and buying books?’ Eleanora added, looking at the queue leading to the signing table. ‘At this time of year, too. I’ve been to so many where only two men and a dog turn up, and they’re staff. Not a single member of the paying public present.’

Laura recognised that sort of book signing; Henry had sent her to one when she first suggested having an event. She had been determined to do it better and had. The shop was fairly well suited to holding events, being big enough to be able to clear the right sort of space. She tried to have something on every month, so people thought of the bookshop as a place to come for a good night out.

‘I have a huge database of our customers,’ she said to her companion, ‘and I hand-pick them. If I think they’ll like the book I invite them personally. They almost always come. I also run a book club from here. Did run a book club from here.’ She sighed as she corrected herself. ‘I expect it’ll go on when the bookshop is closed. I really hope so.’

‘You sound like a treasure. I’m sure another bookshop will snap you up. It’s so sad that this one’s going. I suppose it’s threatened by the supermarkets?’

Laura nodded. ‘And Henry wants to retire.’

Eleanora Huckleby took a bottle of wine from the table and tipped some into both her and Laura’s glasses. ‘Even the wine is drinkable.’

‘I’d love to find another bookshop, but it would have to be a quirky independent shop like this one,’ said Laura. ‘I’m not sure I could cope without all the autonomy Henry allows me. He’s been great. Lets me order extra copies of books I think will do especially well, read all the proof copies, all the fun stuff.’

Eleanora snorted, possibly at the thought of reading proof copies being described as fun. ‘I should think he’s grateful someone wants to read them.’ She paused, pressing her lips together in thought. ‘So who do you think is the rising literary star?’

Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Apart from Damien Stubbs?’ She indicated her companion’s client, who was still signing and being charming.

‘Yes. What do you think of Anita Dubrovnik?’

The fact that Laura rarely expressed her true opinions out loud didn’t mean she didn’t have them. Now, when she was about to lose her job and had a glass of wine in her hand, she decided to say what she thought. ‘A great writer but lacks narrative thrust.’

The older woman’s eyes narrowed in agreement. ‘Who else have you read recently?’

‘Bertram Westlake?’

The women exchanged speculative looks. ‘Worthy but dull,’ said Laura firmly.

‘Oh God! Such a relief to find someone who agrees with me. I mean, there’s some great writing in there but whatever happened to plot! OK, what about Janice Hardacre?’

‘Well, I loved The Soul-Mate, but haven’t liked any of her others.’

‘Me neither. And that last one went on for ever.’

‘It was shortlisted for a prize,’ Laura pointed out.

‘God knows why!’

They talked about books, tearing apart the current literary masterpieces and raving over the unsung heroes that sold under a thousand copies, until the more senior of the publicists came over and addressed Eleanora.

‘Fifty books sold!’ She turned to Laura. ‘This has been such a good event. Henry told me you organised most of it. Brilliant! Thank you so much!’ Then she turned back to Eleanora. ‘We thought we’d push off to the restaurant now, if you’re ready.’

‘Mm. May I bring a guest?’

‘Of course! I booked a huge table. Who do you want to bring?’

‘Laura here.’

Laura, her habitual shyness coming back in a rush, felt totally thrown. ‘No. No really, I can’t come. It’s terribly kind of you to ask me. But there’s so much to do here.’ Never in the three years she’d been organising bookshop events had she been to dinner with the author afterwards. Her place was in the background, making things happen. It was where she felt most comfortable. Talking to a whole lot of strangers was not her thing. ‘I’ve got to help clear up. Wash the glasses, get rid of the chairs . . .’

‘Don’t move!’ said Eleanora firmly and strode off in the direction of Henry.

‘You’d better not move,’ the publicist advised. ‘She’s known as the Vixen in the trade. Easier to do what she says, really. I’m Emma, by the way, Emma Bennet.’

‘But I can’t imagine why she would want to ask me to dinner.’

‘Maybe she enjoyed your company?’ Emma smiled, amused by Laura’s incredulity at this suggestion.

Laura could see Eleanora, followed by Henry and her colleague Grant, coming over to where she and Emma were chatting.

‘She’s got reinforcements,’ muttered Emma. ‘You’ve got no chance.’

Both her boss and her colleague came to a halt.

‘You know perfectly well none of this would have happened without your very hard work,’ said Henry, who was tall, balding and distinguished-looking. If he hadn’t been forty years older than her and married already, Laura would have fancied him. ‘You go and have a nice dinner. You’ve earned it. Grant and I will clear up.’

‘But really . . .’ She bit her lip. Panic that she was going to be taken out of her comfort-zone, aka the bookshop, made her look urgently at her friend.

Grant, interpreting her expression, shook his head, determined that she should take this opportunity to mingle with people other than her colleagues for a change. ‘That’s right,’ he said firmly. ‘You go and enjoy the ball. Cinderella here will clear up after this one.’ He put his hand on her forearm. ‘Have a great time and tell me all the goss tomorrow. And don’t forget, we’re going to the Sisters of Swing gig tomorrow?’

‘Oh yes.’ She clutched at his arm for a moment.

‘Go on! You’ll be fine!’ Grant, the only other full-time member of staff and her closest colleague, gave her hand an encouraging pat. He was on a you-must-get-out-more mission with Laura and was taking her to a club to hear ‘an incredible new girl band’. He teasingly described her as his ‘beard’, which made her laugh. Nothing and no one could make Grant look anything other than openly gay. But he did have her best interests at heart and she knew he was right and that she should go.

Now Laura had been officially dismissed – or in her eyes, abandoned – Eleanora grasped her arm. ‘Show me where the coats were put and get yours. You’ll need it. The wind is bitter!’

Instead of a coat, Eleanor had an item that looked like a cross between a hearthrug and a small tent. It enveloped the wearer in red, prickly wool: not a garment for the faint-hearted.

Seeing Laura’s slightly startled reaction, Eleanora said, ‘I always think I could camp out in this all night if I had to. And I can only wear it in deepest winter, or I sweat like a pig.’

Laura felt her own navy blue overcoat was pathetically drab. She’d bought it from a charity shop while she’d been at university and still hadn’t worn it out. Alas, working in a bookshop didn’t give one huge amounts of spare cash for clothes.

‘Well, come along now,’ said Eleanora. ‘Take my arm. I can’t really walk in these heels but I refuse to wear ballet slippers at my age. And lace-ups would ruin my image.’ She looked down at Laura’s shoes, which were almost completely flat. ‘I rest my case.’

In spite of her disapproval of Laura’s footwear, which was comfortable if unglamorous, Eleanora talked to her all the way to the restaurant, grilling her for her opinions of all sorts of books.

Laura read a lot. She lived alone in a tiny bedsit and her television was so small and snowy she didn’t watch it much. But she read all the time: at bedtime, while she ate, while she cooked, while she dressed and while she brushed her teeth. She would have read in the shower if she could have worked out a method that wouldn’t completely ruin the book. In the same way she could read anywhere, she could read anything, and if it was good, enjoy it. There wasn’t a genre or an author that Eleanora quizzed her on that Laura didn’t have some knowledge of. Still in the reckless mood engendered by losing her job and finding in Eleanora someone who cared about books as much as she did, she let herself speak her mind without holding back.

Eleanora was impressed. ‘Darling! You’re a phenomenon!’ she declared. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you.’

At the restaurant Laura was introduced again to the young literary lion, Damien Stubbs. He’d said hello briefly when he arrived at the bookshop and had been as charming then as he was now. He thanked her for arranging such a good event and she muttered a few words of praise for his book. But he didn’t seem to need reassurance. Confidence shone from him, and everyone around him basked in its warmth. He was the young writer of the moment and the world loved him.

Laura, who in the confusion of deciding where everyone should sit, which she took no part in, had an opportunity to wonder why she didn’t fancy Damien Stubbs. Everyone else, men and women alike, seemed to. Several reasons occurred to her, but the one she felt most likely was that she didn’t really admire his writing. When it was allocated to her, she took her seat gloomily. I’m a literary snob, she concluded. My emotions are more wrapped up in books than they are in real life. She felt slightly depressed and not only because she was about to lose what seemed the best job in the world. When had she become so boring? And was it too late to change?

While everyone else sat down, got up again, moved and then ended up back where they’d started, Laura had time for her life to flash before her eyes. Since university, which she had loved, she had only had two jobs, both working in bookshops. Once she’d joined Henry Barnsley Books she hadn’t wanted to work anywhere else. Although she was usually shy in her personal life, she enjoyed finding the right book for the right customer. She was popular with them. They asked for her if they wanted a book as a present and didn’t know what to buy. Some of them asked her out on dates and sometimes, nagged by Grant, who’d worked at the shop longer than she had and so was her superior, she even went. But it never came to anything. If they enjoyed books and reading as much as she did they quite often had soup stains down the front of their cardigans. She might be a bluestocking bookworm, but she had some standards.

Eleanora handed her a menu. Laura hadn’t noticed her sitting down next to her and felt rather cheered. At least she would be able to talk to Eleanora, or if not, sit in silence, observing the other diners, something she loved doing. She much preferred to be safely on the outside of life, watching, than deeply involved. Thankfully there was no one on Laura’s other side.

‘So dear,’ Eleanora said later, and inevitably, Laura felt, ‘any plans for your future? Do you want to be a writer?’

‘Good God no!’ said Laura and then, realising that perhaps she may be shouldn’t have sounded so horrified, went on: ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so vehement, but I would hate to be a writer. I love to get lost in other people’s books, but I really don’t want to write one myself.’

‘Such a relief!’ said Eleanora. ‘I felt I had to ask, but I’m really pleased. Any other plans for gainful employment?’

‘Not really.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve hardly had time to think about it, and I’ve got a couple of months before I’m on the dole. I’m sure to find something.’

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

Laura tried to make herself clear. ‘I’m sure I won’t starve – there are always jobs for willing workers – but it’s unlikely I’ll find anything book related, which I love so much. Not in this town anyway.’

Eleanora narrowed her eyes in thought. ‘I might have something.’

Laura turned to her, not sure if she’d heard properly. ‘Have you?’

Eleanora leant in. ‘Mm, something frightfully exciting!’

Laura’s little flicker of hope died. She didn’t do ‘frightfully exciting’. She wouldn’t be right for the job. It would probably involve marketing, or starting a business from scratch – not her sort of thing at all.

‘Well, don’t you want to hear what it is?’ Eleanora demanded through a slice of tomato and feta cheese.

Laura speared a black olive with her fork. ‘Of course. It’s so kind of you to take an interest.’ She hoped Eleanora wouldn’t hear her apathy.

‘It is, actually,’ agreed Eleanora, possibly slightly annoyed by Laura’s lukewarm response. ‘And if it wasn’t in my interest as well, I wouldn’t bother. Too busy. But what it is, is this!’

At that moment a phalanx of waiters descended on the table, whipping away Greek salad and taramasalata and replacing it with sizzling platters of moussaka, sinister fish dishes and more bottles of wine.

While all this was going on, Laura framed an elegant and polite refusal for whatever Eleanora might be about to suggest. She didn’t think anything this brightly coloured parrot of a woman could offer her could possibly be up her street. They were too different as people.

‘I want you to set up a literary festival!’ Eleanora announced with the assumption that this would be greeted with clapping and shrieks of delight, as if she was a conjuror who had just produced a particularly endearing rabbit. ‘Well, help set up one, anyway.’

Visions of the major festivals – Cheltenham, Hay, Edinburgh, with their phalanx of stars, many of them famous for something quite other than writing books – made her feel weak. ‘I don’t think—’

‘But it’s not just an ordinary lit. fest.’ Eleanora flapped a heavily ringed hand as if it were boredom that made Laura doubtful. ‘There’s a music festival going on too. It’s at my niece’s house.’

‘Oh. Big house,’ said Laura. For a moment, her wayward imagination was distracted by the notion of a two-bed semi with a literary lion in one room and an X Factor entry-level band in another.

‘Huge. A monster, millstone round their necks, but lovely, of course. They’re trying to make it pay its way so they can keep it. The music festival should make them a bit, but my niece, Fenella, wanted a literary festival too, to make it a bit different.’

‘I think there is a festival already that combines—’

‘Doesn’t mean they can’t have one too, does it?’

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