Page 4 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

That was lucky, thought Petra. She reckoned Freya’s wasn’t the cheapest and she was going to have to be really careful with money.

By the time Petra had finished off a huge plate of pasta and a large glass of wine, a contented glow had suffused her. She regretfully turned down sticky toffee pudding for another time but accepted the suggested cup of chamomile tea to round off her meal.

Now, with her cup drained, and the key to the shop sitting by her saucer, there could be no further excuses to linger.

The little restaurant had filled up gradually as Petra ate and was now humming with life, the clinking cutlery and low rumbles of conversation all but drowning out the gentle, rhythmic roar of the sea. All around her were rosy-cheeked groups of friends and couples of all ages, some with children or grandchildren, and all looking as if their lives were quietly delightful. Which they probably were.

Petra began to wonder why she had clung to her life in London. After all, rents were exorbitant, property prices made buying somewhere to live totally unattainable, and only people with disposable income far exceeding hers could really take advantage of the delights that the city had to offer. But then she remembered, even with the whole post-Covid working-from-home thing, it surely must be unrealistic for a literary agent to base themselves so far from where the action was. Those human relationships, those business contacts, were key to success. And success had been pretty elusive for her, even when she was on the spot. So that was that.

Anyhow, thoughts of her old life, and how it had imploded, were enough to make her cheeks flush scarlet again. She was now allergic to books, and the entire publishing industry, she decided, draining her cup and placing it carefully back on the saucer in a decisive gesture. A complete change of career was probably in order. And she had six months to think of what that might be.

Yawning, and shivering just at the thought of venturing outside again, she gathered up the keys, hauled her backpack onto her shoulder, and slipped out without interrupting people to say goodbye. She would have liked to thank Freya, but she could see her through the hatch into the kitchen—a whirling dervish as she produced plate after plate of delicious food.

Petra could see herself eating at Freya’s rather too often.

The lock was tricky. So tricky Petra thought perhaps she had been given the wrong key, but just as she was seriously beginning to wonder where she was going to sleep that night, the door succumbed, flying open so unexpectedly she nearly ended up sprawling headfirst onto the floor for the second time that day.

Her more pleasant childhood dreams had included one where Petra was locked in a bookshop overnight. And this little shop, with its squeaky wide-oak floorboards, crammed shelves that reached the ceiling, and twisted oak beams, dark with age, was pretty much that dream. If the horrors of the last twenty-four hours had not happened, Petra would have been flinging on all the lights and delighting in her new domain, but now she yawned again and wondered if Jules and Roman had left her bed made up.

She trailed wearily up the steep wooden staircase, finding herself on a second floor of books—this time used ones, judging by the faintly musty smell.

The second flight of stairs—marked with a polite sign saying “private”—delivered her straight into a narrow hallway with doors on both sides. A quick exploration revealed a neat little kitchen, a tiny bathroom with an old-fashioned, claw-footed tub—no shower—and a cozy sitting room with a pretty fireplace, plump blue sofa, and a dormer window with a view all the way up the main street. It had a cushioned window seat built into it too—the perfect corner to curl up with a book.

Ah yes, reading . . . At that moment, Petra didn’t think she would care if she never read another book in her life.

All she wanted to find was a bed to sleep in. Right away. Trying the last doorway, she found herself in a windowless hallway, with two further doors leading off it. The smallest room—tiny, actually—housed little more than a low wooden single bed with a faded patchwork quilt and a hole in the shape of a heart carved into the painted wooden headboard. It was obviously a child’s bed, and Petra was not at all sure that her feet wouldn’t be sticking out of the end. Thankfully, the final room was an absolute delight: In pride of place was a high, wrought-iron bedstead piled with plump feather pillows and made up with blankets, a silky eiderdown quilt, and impeccably ironed white sheets. Whoever ironed their sheets these days? Whoever had sheets and blankets these days? Not that she was complaining. The bed was positioned in the middle of the wall opposite the window and was high enough to allow the occupant to gaze out of the open curtains and survey most of Portneath, or at least the same jumble of pastel-painted cottages she had seen on her walk into town. In daylight, there would surely be a clear view of the beach and the cliffs beyond.

It was quite dark now, though, with just the glow of the lights in the cottages and a silver moon lighting a wide, shimmering path across the sea. Who needed books? Petra felt she would be happy if she spent the rest of her life cocooned in that glorious bed with its stunning view. Other than the bed, the furniture in the room comprised a dark brown wardrobe, so tall it barely fit under the sloping ceiling, a chair and dressing table under the window, and a highly polished rosewood chest of drawers that doubled as a bedside table. Clearly Jules—or someone—had prepared for her arrival. Not only were there two fluffy white towels on the bed, but the bedside light was glowing warmly through its pink silk shade and there was a little posy of flowers in a rose china jug beside it. There was even a glass and a carafe filled with water sitting ready. Petra discovered the drawers were empty, as was the wardrobe, other than a handful of wooden hangers that rattled like bones as she opened the door.

Unpacking could wait. Petra quickly undressed and—chilled, in nothing but her underwear—dived into the bed. She moaned with gratitude on discovering that there was an electric blanket and that her mystery benefactor had switched it on for her.

Cocooned in the most comfortable bed she had ever encountered—and used to battling insomnia in her London flat, where traffic noise and sirens roused her repeatedly throughout the night—Petra was soothed by the gentle sound of the sea, sucking and roaring like a giant snoring in the background.

Sleep claimed her in minutes.

Petra jolted awake, adrenaline pumping. For several moments, she had no idea where she was, then her memory of recent events returned, and her stomach lurched with anxiety. She groaned aloud. Maybe she would just stay in bed with the covers pulled over her head today? She was sure she must be ill. Her head was definitely aching a bit.

Some considerable time later, bored and too hot, Petra poked her head out again, reluctantly admitting to herself that a) she was basically fine—if her head was sore it was because of the wine she had with supper, and b) she owed it to Jules and Roman—her saviors—to actually do the thing she had come all the way to Devon to do. What day was it? Thursday. Definitely a day when the shop would be—should be—open.

Sighing, Petra climbed out of bed. Taking just a few moments to unpack, she dressed in yesterday’s clothes and went to explore the kitchen. Astonishingly, even after her hearty supper, she was hungry again. Either that or her churning stomach was a precursor to an ulcer brought on by all the stress. Petra mentally prepared herself that breakfast was unlikely to be on the agenda until she found somewhere to shop for provisions, but she discovered her hospitable hosts had—once again—been extremely kind.

Sitting on a scratched wooden board that rested on the countertop was a delicious-looking crusty sourdough loaf alongside a dish housing a slab of primrose yellow butter, speckled with salt crystals. After flicking on the kettle, Petra opened the fridge to discover an old-fashioned glass pint bottle of gold-top milk for her tea, along with a carton of half a dozen eggs, and a greaseproof parcel of streaky bacon. Wow! Bacon and eggs for breakfast? Both items were apparently from a place called Hollytree Farm in Middlemass. Middlemass? Wasn’t that the nearby village the Tourist Information Office had mentioned? She was sure it was.

Petra rarely ate breakfast, but fresh local eggs and bacon? This was appealing. Glancing at her watch, she realized reluctantly she had slept too late to indulge in the full “hearty English breakfast” experience, but she did pop some bacon under the grill and slice some bread while she waited for the kettle to boil.

Just minutes later, after a quick face wash and toothbrushing, she carried her bacon sandwich and tea downstairs to eat while she figured out how to open up the shop.

Seeing the shop in the cold daylight, Petra’s anxiety returned. She wasn’t completely green, she reminded herself: Her first sortie into the book trade as a teenager had been a Saturday job working in the local branch of Waterstones bookshop. And then, after university, there had been several years in junior editorial roles. But it felt now that those experiences, plus being a—not very able—literary agent had in no way prepared her for this. Even an old-fashioned bookshop like Capelthorne’s would have more up-to-date systems than Waterstones had had, back in the day. She probably wouldn’t even be able to work the card scanner, let alone having the first clue about ordering and deliveries.

What on earth had made her think she could do this?

The one thing she was good at was letting people down. She was bound to achieve that, at least.

It took a couple of minutes to find out where to switch all the lights on, and another couple to figure out how to power up the cash register, which didn’t—to be fair—look too different from the ones she remembered from ten years earlier. Whatever this bookshop was, it wasn’t on the cutting edge of book retail IT systems, that was for sure.

“Door unlocked? Check. Sign turned to ‘open’? Check,” Petra said aloud, to give herself confidence. Then she sat expectantly on the stool behind the checkout desk.

Let them come, she thought.