Page 64 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“—is the correct answer,” said Flo, beaming.

When the women were both furnished with large glasses of icily delicious gin and tonic, so strong the first sip made Petra wince a little, they went up the narrow stairs together.

There was little more than a cast-iron bed and a huge brown wooden wardrobe in Flo’s guest room, the low casement window casting golden summer evening light across the bare waxed floorboards. On the stone windowsill, a day of sunlight had warmed the bowl of dried rose petals, which was releasing a heady scent.

Flo threw open the doors of the wardrobe with a flourish, releasing a waft of dust and lavender.

She began pulling out clothes and laying them reverently on the bed. Dress after dress materialized, each one neat, pressed, and impeccable. The vibe was Audrey Hepburn, and it was clear Flo had bought—or at least kept—only the best.

“Can’t do black for a wedding party,” said Flo, regretfully disregarding an enchanting black minidress with a white collar and cuffs. “I loved that one to bits.”

Then she disappeared back inside and reappeared holding a stunning dress covered in the most enchanting purple pansies, with yellow buds and green leaves. The dress was a classic fifties shape, with a full skirt, neat waist, boatneck, and no sleeves.

“You would need a little cardigan with it,” said Flo doubtfully. “Even in August, it can get nippy in the evenings. I used to have one specifically for this very frock . . . Why don’t you pop it on, while I go and see? Just a moment . . .”

The dress slipped off the hanger with a quiet swish. It was surprisingly heavy and—Petra quickly realized—pure silk. It was hand-painted by the looks of it too. The label was for a fashion house Petra had never heard of, but it claimed to have outlets in London, Paris, and New York. So—fancy.

She dropped her T-shirt and jeans on the bed and carefully stepped into the dress.

It was beautifully constructed. Petra had never worn anything like it and had never expected to, except perhaps on her wedding day.

If she ever had a wedding day.

Carefully pulling up the side zip and then opening the wardrobe door wider so she could see herself in the mirror, Petra gasped. It was stunning. The boatneck and the full, flared skirt made her waist look tiny. Her neck, with the nape exposed, looked long and delicate, but the front of the dress was high and surprisingly demure. She twisted her raven black hair up and held it there while she turned one way and the other. Being an avowed lover of trousers, Petra rarely wore even a skirt, let alone a dress, but in this she felt delicate, feminine, and—yes—pretty.

Normally barely glancing in the mirror except when she was brushing her teeth and hair, Petra was entranced by this new and glamorous version of herself. It might have been the flattering evening light, but her skin—bare of makeup—had lost its gray London pallor at last. Instead, perhaps from her regular walks on the beach and the hills with Ross, she was prettily flushed and lightly freckled. Lugging boxes of books around had toned her arms and kept her fit too. Also, Ross was determined that she should eat well and made sure she did by cooking for her most nights, so her body had lost all of the angular awkwardness she was used to covering up with baggy clothes.

“You look gorgeous!” exclaimed Flo, as she came back into the room, holding a purple wisp of something.

“It’s a stunning dress,” Petra replied shyly, looking away from her reflection at last. “Are you sure? I promise to take the best, best care of it.”

Flo made a dismissive noise. “It will be a pleasure to see it worn,” she said. “I’m hardly going to parade myself in something like that these days. It’s too good to be shut away in the dark, waiting for the moths to eat it for lunch. Ross is going to adore you in it,” she added slyly. “He won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

“Flo!” said Petra, blushing scarlet.

“Just saying,” replied Flo unrepentantly. “Now, it’s a shame to cover those elegant arms, but you’ll need this with our English summers.” She held out the wisp, which turned out to be a sweet little cropped bolero cardigan with delicate beading along the edges. It matched the purple of the hand-painted pansies perfectly.

Flo nodded her satisfaction when Petra slipped it on. From its lightness and softness, Petra realized it must be cashmere.

“Shoes?” Flo enquired.

“I’ve got big feet,” admitted Petra. “Bigger than yours anyhow, but there are some lovely summer sandals in that shoe shop on the main street. Perhaps I’ll pop out when you’re in next Tuesday and see?”

“Splendid!” Flo exclaimed. “Now, bring your drink, and humor an old woman while I give you a tour of the garden.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Back at the flat later that night, Petra sat on the bed gazing at the pansy dress that was hanging in front of the wardrobe door. It was one of the increasingly rare nights she and Ross spent apart these days. She had had a dusk tour of Flo’s garden, which was magical, and then shared a simple supper of scrambled eggs on toast with the older woman. It had been late by the time she was ready to leave and—after messaging Ross—they had agreed to reunite the following evening so Ross could pull a late one tonight and work through. He had been writing at such a frantic pace that the manuscript was now complete, barring the final chapter, and he was immersed in rewrites and editing, smoothing the rough corners off the already sparkling prose.

When she was at the cottage, she would sometimes wake in the night and find herself alone in the bed. She would turn to look and there he would be, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, his laptop on his knee, totally immersed, just like he was the morning after he rescued her.

Sometimes he would work all night and then go to bed at dawn. Mostly, on the nights when she knew he was planning to do that, she would stay in the flat alone, so as not to risk waking him when she got up.

Their lives were molded around each other now. Petra had started to imagine there could be no other way of living. Slowly, almost by stealth, she had found herself completely committed to this man.

Petra sighed, putting the dress away in the wardrobe and contemplating putting her pajamas on. It was late.

Instead, she stood in front of the window for a while, gazing out at a view that had already become very dear and familiar. Across the rooftops and out to sea, she could see the bright white light of a lonely fishing boat working its way across the mouth of the bay, kept safe from the rocks by the lighthouse on the promontory.