Love Letters by Katie Fforde

the festival and was relieved to discover that getting him to England, so they would have a sponsor, was not at all the reason she wanted to sleep with him – if he really meant it, of course, which she doubted – he was knee-tremblingly attractive. ‘But you did this one?’ She was trying very hard to enunciate and was pleased how sober she sounded.
    ‘The place is dead in winter. It’s where I live and it would be churlish not to put on a show that will fill the pubs and all the accommodation if I can, without much – any, frankly – effort.’
    Laura sipped at her drink. ‘I think I’m drinking neat whiskey.’
    ‘It won’t do you a bit of harm.’
    Laura laughed ruefully, aware that it may have already got her into a lot of trouble if not actually done her harm. She couldn’t decide what was to blame for what she was about to do: the whiskey or her wanton lust.
    ‘So what have you read lately that you’ve got really excited about?’
    ‘Well . . .’ She went on to enthuse about a recent prizewinner, and a new women’s fiction writer, and several other books that she’d enjoyed. She was proud of how lucid she sounded – to her ears at least.
    He countered with books and films he’d liked, only of course he was far more critical than even Laura was, and she always thought she was picky. As she talked she saw his attention wander. No male writer could resist talking about their work, she remembered – something Henry from the bookshop had told her when she’d first started organising events. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘what we’re all waiting for is another book from you.’
    There was a pause and then he took the glass out of her hand and put it down. ‘I think it’s time I took you home to bed.’
    Her reactions were slowed by strong drink and it took Laura a moment or two to realise what he’d said. She forced her brain to pay attention and tell her to politely decline. It wouldn’t. She wanted to go home to bed with him and that was that. She realised she hadn’t really believed he meant it, she’d just enjoyed flirting with him. It had felt good. But she liked the idea of sleeping with him even better. She pushed aside any lingering sensibility and nodded her assent.
    She retained enough sanity to text Monica to say, if not where she was going, whom she was going with, confident that someone would give Monica the address should she need it. She also added ‘I really want this’ to stop Monica rushing to the rescue. She knew that Monica would really like an in-depth discussion about what Laura was about to do, her motivation, and what she felt the outcome might be. But Monica even saying, ‘Are you sure?’ might make her change her mind, and Laura really wanted her virginity to go to her favourite writer in all the world (who also happened to be the most attractive man on the planet). She may never have another opportunity to really live and she didn’t want to be talked out of taking it.
    It took them a little while to get out of the pub, Dermot had to say goodbye in various ways to so many people. But no one seemed at all surprised that Laura was going with him. She realised he could probably have had any woman he wanted in that pub at that moment; while they might have wondered at his choice, the fact that he was going home with a woman was to be expected.
    ‘I’m just one in a long line of women,’ she told herself during the last ‘goodbye’ conversation. ‘But that’s all right. Poets are all womanisers. At least it means he’ll know what he’s doing.’ Anticipation and fear heightened her desire. She remembered reading that they did and her addled brain tried to think where. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ she told herself, ‘and if it isn’t, it’s something to tell my grandchildren.’ Then she giggled as she imagined the unlikely scenario of her own grandmother telling her about her first sexual encounter.
    Eventually they were out into the cold air. She