there.
‘I hope I’m not so much a guest as you feel we should eat in the dining room.’ Laura found the place mats in the drawer and distributed them.
‘Well, we don’t see you all that often.’
‘I know and I’m sorry, but it’s not always easy for me to get here.’
Her mother pursed her lips. ‘I’m sure you could get a job in a bookshop a bit nearer home.’
‘Well, yes. Actually I’ve got a bit of news. But I think I’ll wait until Dad’s here – save me going over it all twice.’
‘I can’t believe you’re gallivanting off to Ireland when you should be looking for another job!’ her father had declared a little later, putting down his knife and fork to lend emphasis to his words.
‘This literary festival could be a great opportunity,’ Laura said quietly. ‘You’ve always said I was wasted working in a bookshop. They were impressed by my knowledge of contemporary literature.’
This only set her father off on a familiar rant about English degrees and a ‘knowledge of contemporary literature’ being a complete waste of time. Her mother hadn’t been too thrilled by it all either. Laura had left as soon as she possibly could, glad she’d arranged to meet up with Grant later.
Grant loyally took the opportunity to reiterate what a chance this was for her.
‘You need to spread your wings, have new experiences! I know you think you just want to find another bookshop, just like Henry’s, and bury yourself in it for ever, but you mustn’t! You must follow your dreams! Which are?’ he added, to check she actually had some.
Laura took a breath. ‘Well, I’ve always wanted to work for a publisher really, as an editor. I don’t suppose this festival is going lead to anything like that, but it has opened my eyes to other book-related opportunities.’
‘Fantastic! Let’s have another Baileys to celebrate.’
Thus, just over a week later, Laura and Monica found themselves on a ferry to Ireland.
Monica and Laura were now sitting in a café in the little fishing village on the west coast of Ireland that was the venue for the ‘Festival of Culture’ they had come to see. They’d been travelling, give or take a few stops, some hours in a ferry and a catnap in a lay-by, for approximately nineteen hours.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever eat again,’ said Monica, looking at her empty plate with disbelief.
‘Well, we won’t need to eat this evening, that’s for sure,’ said Laura. ‘Now I know what the difference between an English breakfast – high tea, whatever – and an Irish one is: size.’
‘And those scrummy potato pancakes.’
‘And the black and white pudding.’
They both leant back in their chairs and drained their mugs of strong tea, sighing with pleasure and feeling a little more human again.
‘I never thought we’d get here,’ said Laura. ‘It feels as if we’ve been travelling for days.’ She yawned. ‘I’d only just got off to sleep when it was time to get up again.’
Monica was dismissive. ‘At least it wasn’t rough, and I think the time in the bar got me in the mood for Ireland, all that singing, fiddle-playing and the drum thing. And sleeping together has made us practically best friends.’
Laura laughed sleepily. ‘Mm.’
‘Being on the road together really does bond you.’
Laura nodded agreement. ‘We could make a movie.’ Monica was right, they had got to know each other very well, and luckily, the more they discovered, the more they bonded. They’d been up half the night chatting too. She yawned widely. ‘I think we should check into the bed and breakfast and have a nap.’
‘Then we’ll fall asleep for hours, wake up at midnight and not be able to get off again. I know, I’ve done that. No fun at all.’
‘OK, let’s check in, then go for a walk or something.’
‘Actually,’ said Monica. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting the car checked out. Its steering has gone a bit funny. It probably would be all right, but if there
‘I hope I’m not so much a guest as you feel we should eat in the dining room.’ Laura found the place mats in the drawer and distributed them.
‘Well, we don’t see you all that often.’
‘I know and I’m sorry, but it’s not always easy for me to get here.’
Her mother pursed her lips. ‘I’m sure you could get a job in a bookshop a bit nearer home.’
‘Well, yes. Actually I’ve got a bit of news. But I think I’ll wait until Dad’s here – save me going over it all twice.’
‘I can’t believe you’re gallivanting off to Ireland when you should be looking for another job!’ her father had declared a little later, putting down his knife and fork to lend emphasis to his words.
‘This literary festival could be a great opportunity,’ Laura said quietly. ‘You’ve always said I was wasted working in a bookshop. They were impressed by my knowledge of contemporary literature.’
This only set her father off on a familiar rant about English degrees and a ‘knowledge of contemporary literature’ being a complete waste of time. Her mother hadn’t been too thrilled by it all either. Laura had left as soon as she possibly could, glad she’d arranged to meet up with Grant later.
Grant loyally took the opportunity to reiterate what a chance this was for her.
‘You need to spread your wings, have new experiences! I know you think you just want to find another bookshop, just like Henry’s, and bury yourself in it for ever, but you mustn’t! You must follow your dreams! Which are?’ he added, to check she actually had some.
Laura took a breath. ‘Well, I’ve always wanted to work for a publisher really, as an editor. I don’t suppose this festival is going lead to anything like that, but it has opened my eyes to other book-related opportunities.’
‘Fantastic! Let’s have another Baileys to celebrate.’
Thus, just over a week later, Laura and Monica found themselves on a ferry to Ireland.
Monica and Laura were now sitting in a café in the little fishing village on the west coast of Ireland that was the venue for the ‘Festival of Culture’ they had come to see. They’d been travelling, give or take a few stops, some hours in a ferry and a catnap in a lay-by, for approximately nineteen hours.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever eat again,’ said Monica, looking at her empty plate with disbelief.
‘Well, we won’t need to eat this evening, that’s for sure,’ said Laura. ‘Now I know what the difference between an English breakfast – high tea, whatever – and an Irish one is: size.’
‘And those scrummy potato pancakes.’
‘And the black and white pudding.’
They both leant back in their chairs and drained their mugs of strong tea, sighing with pleasure and feeling a little more human again.
‘I never thought we’d get here,’ said Laura. ‘It feels as if we’ve been travelling for days.’ She yawned. ‘I’d only just got off to sleep when it was time to get up again.’
Monica was dismissive. ‘At least it wasn’t rough, and I think the time in the bar got me in the mood for Ireland, all that singing, fiddle-playing and the drum thing. And sleeping together has made us practically best friends.’
Laura laughed sleepily. ‘Mm.’
‘Being on the road together really does bond you.’
Laura nodded agreement. ‘We could make a movie.’ Monica was right, they had got to know each other very well, and luckily, the more they discovered, the more they bonded. They’d been up half the night chatting too. She yawned widely. ‘I think we should check into the bed and breakfast and have a nap.’
‘Then we’ll fall asleep for hours, wake up at midnight and not be able to get off again. I know, I’ve done that. No fun at all.’
‘OK, let’s check in, then go for a walk or something.’
‘Actually,’ said Monica. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting the car checked out. Its steering has gone a bit funny. It probably would be all right, but if there
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