Page 60 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“Petra!” cried Alistair. “What a pleasure to hear from you. It’s been so long I thought you might have gone native down there in Devon—forgotten all your London friends.”

“My London friend, singular,” she reminded him. “Pretty sure everyone else was happy to see me go.”

“Not at all,” he said gallantly. “If anything, people have been missing your entertainment value.”

“Ouch,” said Petra. That was mean! She had actually been making a real effort and insulting people less often, these days. Although Alistair wouldn’t know that, of course.

“Sorry,” said Alistair, sounding genuinely contrite. “Still too soon?”

“Hmm . . . no, you’re fine,” Petra reassured him. “I fully accept my blurting problem is amusing for everyone. I am glad to be of service. I am starting to like it down here, though. People live well. There’s a lot to love . . . the beach, the people, the shop! The shop is amazing, I love the shop. Obviously I’m only temporary, though, but—yeah—I’m kind of envious of Jules, not going to lie.”

“So, to what do I owe the considerable pleasure?” Alistair enquired gently.

She could picture him sitting at his huge walnut desk, perhaps fiddling with one of his bonsai trees, or casting his benign gaze on the garden square that the offices overlooked. As London venues went, the agency’s offices were not bad. The silver birch trees would be fully in leaf now, she thought, casting their delicate, dappled shade.

But Petra still didn’t miss it. Not one bit.

“So a quite exciting thing has happened,” she said slowly, choosing her words.

“Hmm?” He would have his gently bemused face on, Petra knew, the mild, bumbling, literary creature with a vagueness that was entirely illusory. Alistair had a mind like a steel trap, Petra knew, and his judgment was rock solid. It was those attributes she needed now.

“Um, do you remember a writer called Ross McCloud? He wrote a—”

“—of course I do,” Alistair broke in. “Who could forget? Debut author, stunning first novel, and crazy young too, makes me wonder what I’ve been doing with my life. Didn’t he win the Booker too that year?”

“He did,” Petra confirmed.

“Haven’t heard of him for—what?—five years?” Alistair mused. “Strange . . . It’s like he dropped off the face of the earth, now that I think about it. Why? What about him?”

“He’s here,” Petra said simply.

Alistair made a noise. She could picture him sitting bolt upright now, all pretense of dusty, vague establishment figure banished.

“What do you mean? You’ve seen him? Are you sure? Do you actually know him?”

“Yes, I actually know him quite . . . well,” said Petra carefully.

“Is he writing?” Alistair demanded, razor sharp now.

“He is.”

“Is there . . . is there a manuscript?”

“Nearly. Yes, there is. It’s not quite finished . . .”

“Doesn’t need to be. We could sell Ross McCloud if he just scribbled down his shopping list,” said Alistair rapidly. “But wait a minute, does he have representation? He must have . . . Wasn’t it Eleanora Francis?”

“Veronica Bampton,” said Petra. “But—no—he doesn’t have representation currently.”

“He’s going to need it,” Alistair said curtly. “If anyone gets wind that there’s another manuscript going begging. This could be the deal of the decade. Have you offered?”

“Yes and no,” admitted Petra. “It’s complicated. But here’s the thing—he’s been incommunicado for years, but he’s now agreed to front up the Portneath Literary Festival in a few weeks, his first public appearance since he disappeared, so . . . people are going to notice.”

“They most certainly are,” said Alistair, “and he’s going to need a team around him. A publicist, and an agent obviously, and the publishers are going to be buzzing around like flies as soon as they get wind of it—when’s the festival?”

“End of August,” said Petra.

“Good,” said Alistair crisply. “Then there’s time. I envisage we’ll make the announcement, open the bidding, and tie up the deal just in time for the winning publisher to have it as the jewel in their crown at Frankfurt. They’ll have sold translation rights to the world and its wife by the end of the show. I hope very much you are telling me he would like our help?”