Page 27 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

The shop was busy the following day, mainly with men rushing in out of the freezing rain, grabbing last-minute Valentine’s presents.

Petra dealt with them smilingly, touched on behalf of the lucky recipients, whoever they were. She applauded these men on the whole. It might all be a bit “lastminute.com” but they got points from her for picking poetry books rather than gas station flowers, where red roses, in particular, were an outrageous price for just that week. Petra had had an earnest, very boring boyfriend in her teens who insisted on buying her roses like that, with their bare, ramrod-straight stems and tightly furled scarlet flower heads that didn’t so much bloom as unfurl slightly, so as to look ragged and untidy before crisping at the edges and withering in defeat. They never had any scent either.

Petra had always promised herself that one day she would have her own garden. It didn’t have to be big or grand, but she was going to fill it with big earthenware pots overflowing with scent and color. She would plant stock flowers, and sweet peas in a riot of shades, and roses! Not just any roses, but the old-fashioned ones with the fat, heavy flowers that burst open on a sunny day, a riot of pinks, creams, velvety reds, and peaches, scenting the air with cinnamon and marshmallow. Petra would cut these flowers for the house, of course, going out at dawn with her scissors to cut just one perfect dew-soaked rose destined for a glass by her bedside. Or perhaps she would cut a fat fistful of sweet peas to cram into a little vase on her desk, their honey scent filling the room.

Ah, this life she would have.

One day.

“I wish I could get someone to look at me like that,” came a deep voice.

Petra jumped, startled out of her reverie. It was lovely Mungo, Diana’s other half. “You were miles away,” he went on, “so radiant and full of joy, as if you were gazing at the person you loved more than anyone else in the world.”

“I was miles away,” Petra admitted, taking the book he had selected and scanning it. “I would imagine Diana looks at you like that all the time.”

“I’d be horrified,” he retorted. “We do live together, true, but Diana and I are definitely just friends. She’s . . . not my type, if you take my meaning?”

“Ah, I see, sorry!” said Petra, catching his drift. “So are you out on a hot date tonight?”

“I’m not,” admitted Mungo. “Sadly, my most recent boyfriend has just gone back to Brazil. No, no,” he added, seeing Petra’s sympathetic look, “it was nothing serious. But I am sure Diana has multiple grand plans. She’s generally beating them off with a stick.”

Petra giggled. “I’m not surprised. She’s very glamorous.”

“And you, my dear?”

“Yeah, I’m not exactly beating them off with a stick,” Petra admitted.

“Then, I don’t suppose you would allow me . . . ?” Mungo said diffidently. “Freya’s is probably fully booked, but I’m sure there’s somewhere . . .”

He really was the sweetest man Petra had ever met.

“That’s so kind,” she said, “but you don’t have to take me out, I’m fine. As a matter of fact, I am having supper with a friend—another friend,” she said in deference to Mungo, “and we are going to spend the evening being completely unromantic together.”

Mungo smiled. “That sounds perfectly delightful, my dear, but if it doesn’t pan out, you know where I am.” He gave her a little bow, tipped his splendid homburg hat, and left with his book under his arm, Petra smiling after him.

Yikes, she thought. About that supper with Ross: He had said not to bring anything but obviously she was going to ignore that. What did you bring to an un-Valentine supper?

She had very handily learned that Freya did a takeout service, selling her divine patisserie in slices to go. She could bring two slices of the raspberry gateau, with its swirly crème patisserie and layers of raspberry in jewel-pink jelly, but it was altogether too pink and white. Too Valentiney. So, what about the lemon tart? Or the chocolate ganache? But then, if he had made a dessert, they would be unneeded, she thought. Plus, they were so exquisite, whatever he had made himself would compare unfavorably so—no . . . Okay, flowers then? That was a hard no. Far too romantic.

The other difficulty was that she couldn’t close the shop until five o’clock, so when was she going to get anything anyhow? It was looking like her only option was the little supermarket over the bridge, which didn’t offer a lot of classy choices. A packet of wine gums? A box of Maltesers?

Ha! Chocolate . . . Now that was a good idea.

Chocolate didn’t have to be lovey-dovey did it? Everyone liked chocolate. And there was that amazing-looking chocolatier, with its tiny shopfront squeezed between two tea and cake places just up the main street. Petra grabbed her phone and googled “chocolate Portneath.” There it was—Maison Chocolat—and, thank goodness, it didn’t close until six o’clock today. Of course, late closing on Valentine’s Day, for all those last-minute lovers.

“I want something manly,” Petra told the exquisite French lady behind the counter, who was managing to look chic and Parisienne, even in a food-hygiene hairnet.

“Du chocolat masculin?” the lady queried, clearly nonplussed.

“Yes, you know, not . . . ‘girlie,’” Petra explained, scanning the glass shelves for inspiration. There were serried rows of the most exquisite handmade chocolates; violet creams, with crystallized violets on chocolate so dark it was almost black, rose-centered ones with tiny rose petals, some with gold leaf, pyramids of cocoa-dusted truffles . . . all far too exquisite, far too—well—“love-tokeny,” Petra attempted to explain.

And then, with an emphatic nod, the lady turned around and brought out a slab of dark chocolate, swirled with thick splodges of milk- and white chocolate and studded with whole nuts, Brazil nuts, hazelnuts, and heaven knows what else, chucked randomly onto its surface before it set.

“So,” said the lady, producing a small hammer, “with zees, we bouf, bouf, bouf,” she mimed shattering the slab into shards. “Oui?” she raised her exquisitely plucked eyebrows, seeking approval. “C’est très viril, n’est-ce pas?” she queried, flexing her tiny biceps and giving a little French-accented growl, for emphasis.

Petra giggled. “Oui. C’est bien. Merci,” she agreed.

The lady made a surprisingly violent job of breaking up a considerable quantity of the chocolate and then—with a silver trowel—sliding the pieces into a black, corrugated cardboard box. It was the shape of a cube, lined with black tissue paper. Deftly folding the origami-style lid so it was closed, she then walked her fingers over the rolls of pastel-colored ribbon questioningly before selecting a dark brown grosgrain, tying it around the box and finishing it, not with a bow, but a sleek knot, more like one you would see on a necktie, all the while chattering to herself under her breath.