Page 55 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“Yes, stunning,” said Alison, the romance writer, fanning herself at the memory. “Such a strong opening—the whole premise of the novel laid out in the first soliloquy. Clever stuff.”

After this initial praise, Ross seemed to relax a little, and the whole group was soon having a lively discussion about Ross’s decision to write in the first person, and the various pros and cons of the approach. They toyed with the idea that Ross should alternate with Miranda’s point of view, before deciding that Ross would probably do better to show Miranda’s autonomy through the lens of Caliban’s twisted understanding of the world. Ross, the group mused, had to have sufficient faith that the reader could be trusted to intuit, something it could be hard for a writer to allow.

“How does it end?” asked Alison. “I hope the boy gets the girl. I don’t like books that don’t have a happy ending,” she admitted.

“I hope the boy gets the girl too,” said Ross, casting a darting glance at Petra. “I actually don’t know yet . . . it could go either way.”

“I’m frankly astonished you don’t have an agent, lad,” said Simon. “You seem like a very assured writer to me.”

Petra and Ross exchanged a look, but Ross just shrugged and Simon—thankfully—let it go.

Although he was right, thought Petra. Ross didn’t have an agent.

She was touched to see that Ross had somehow—despite his intense writing schedule—also had made time to read and offer feedback thoughts on the work of the rest of the group. They were so generous and kind with each other, she mused, not for the first time. How sad that group members who were seriously seeking representation and a publisher would learn soon enough that the rest of the writing universe was not always as delightful.

Chapter Twenty-One

“See?” Petra told Ross as they washed up the mugs. “You’re not as recognizable as you think you are.”

“Yup, ego only a little bit dented,” Ross acknowledged ruefully. “Five years is a long time.”

“How will you sell it—this lull—when you get back out there with this one?” asked Petra. “Are you going to admit to writers’ block or something? I think there’s an important message about mental health support and managing expectations. You could be the poster boy for change . . . if you wanted?” Petra added, as Ross declined to respond.

“Or on the other hand—you could just say it was all a massive publicity ploy,” Petra proposed. “Like Agatha Christie.”

“I think she only disappeared for a few days,” Ross told her. “And wasn’t it about escaping a failing marriage? Which is understandable . . . I didn’t think it was generally thought of as a ruse. You’re too cynical for a woman your age,” he teased.

“But people will ask . . . You’ll need to be ready,” Petra insisted.

“Not yet . . .” said Ross quietly, hanging up his tea towel to dry.

And Petra left it at that. For now.

Ross didn’t reply to Henrietta’s text, or to the email that followed. What could he possibly say? He mulled over whether to block her, but that seemed childish and cowardly. Plus, she wouldn’t even recognize that she was blocked, and—for all he knew—she would carry on messaging without him even seeing them. Somehow, rendering your enemy invisible didn’t make things better, it made things worse.

“I’m just so nervous that Jules is going to come back and be disappointed,” admitted Jess when she and Petra were poring over the festival plans, fortified by multiple cups of tea and a lemon drizzle cake that Freya had dropped off for them both earlier.

“How would she be disappointed?” Petra demanded. Jess had already done an amazing job of compiling speakers, workshops, signing events, and media interviews. Petra was hugely impressed and frequently said so. “You know what?” she said. “I can see one of the London publishing houses wanting to snap you up for their publicity department when they see what you are capable of.”

“Really?” Jess blushed, clearly abashed. “Although obviously I would hate to work in London,” she added hastily. “I want to stay here with Aiden and Maisie—Maisie has GCSE mock exams this autumn, so there’s no way . . .” she mused, squashing all her remaining cake crumbs onto the end of her finger. “Really, though?”

“Definitely,” said Petra firmly.

“Although I’ve had zero interest from the London publishing scene for this festival,” Jess went on, frustrated. “We’ve got a local crime writer—he’s a big cheese—and it’s like getting blood out of a stone, persuading the marketing team to produce some collateral for him.”

“I suppose they’re waiting to see whether we are worth the bother,” soothed Petra. “This is the guy doing the crime-writing workshop?”

“Yes. I’m really worried no one will sign up to take part. Poor man.”

“Write Club will probably all come,” Petra said, but Jess was beyond reassurance.

“And book signings!” she went on, as if Petra hadn’t spoken. “I hate them. I get so stressed that the writer won’t sell any books. Jules is used to all this stuff, with the publishing job she had before she came down here to live.”

Petra thought again how lovely it was going to be to meet Jules and compare notes, but then her stomach lurched in its now too familiar sign of anxiety. Jules and Roman appearing back in Portneath signaled the end of her time at Capelthorne’s. What she was going to do next was becoming an extremely vexing question.

“You should get involved,” Petra told Ross when she was reporting back about her meeting with Jess. “It’s going to be great. Quite low-key, local, gentle stuff . . . brilliant for getting your feet back under the table.”

Ross was opening a bottle of wine and delayed his reply until he had dispensed with the cork and poured for them both.