Page 67 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“You’ve never really told me what happened before?” she went on, in too deep to stop now, even if she wanted to. “What made you so sure you couldn’t be romantically involved with anyone you were working with? Was it your agent? It was Veronica Bampton, wasn’t it? Were you in a relationship, you and her . . . did you . . .”

Stop talking, stop talking, thought Petra, seeing Ross’s face go blank, as if she had wiped it clean like a blackboard. She managed to make herself shut up by physically putting her finger on her lips, like her primary school teacher Mrs. Grafton used to make the whole class do when they got too noisy.

She wished she was back there now. Back in her childhood where life was simple, and the grown-ups were in charge, and she didn’t feel like she was going to blow her life to smithereens by opening her big mouth. Again.

With a sigh, Ross turned to face her now, placing his hands heavily on her shoulders. His expression was bleak.

“I told you,” he said gently, but with studied patience. “I detached myself from my agent when it was clear she was going to have nothing of mine to go out with—that there wasn’t going to be another book. That was a long time after . . .”

He hung his head, shaking it, as if trying to shake away the memories.

Petra stayed silent. Motionless, hearing the chatter and clatter of the chip shop fade as they became enclosed in their own intense little bubble.

“I was having an affair with my editor,” he said at last. His voice was a monotone, like he was the most bored newsreader in the world, reading from a teleprompter. “Her name is Henrietta. We began an intense relationship when we were communicating about edits. I felt she really got me,” he admitted. “She got my story . . . and it was intoxicating. I was flattered that she was taking so much care and excited that she was so committed to making the book a success, knowing it was a tiny deal as far as this publisher was concerned. I felt lucky. I felt seen.”

Petra stayed very still, looking up at him, giving him space to talk. A clumsy intervention at this stage would be a disaster. For once she managed to keep her mouth shut, and Ross continued:

“Genuinely, she helped me make it a better book but—at the same time—she was prescriptive. Overly prescriptive. Gradually, I realized that I had let her take control to the point where I was being told precisely what to write, down to individual words and phrases. And then we started having creative differences, but she was making it very clear it was her way or the highway. If I insisted on my own perspective, then I was told I was sacrificing the success of the book. So I went along with it. I didn’t know how not to. Of course, the book was published, it did well . . .” He shrugged. “But, by that time, rightly or wrongly, I felt like it wasn’t my book, so—obviously—it wasn’t even my success. Not entirely.

“Next thing I knew, she withdrew emotionally. I asked what was wrong. She told me I was being paranoid. Again and again, she lied. She gaslit me. It eventually turned out she was in a relationship with another young writer. He was just like me, starting out, a bit younger than her, talented but inexperienced, naïve . . . He was me, basically. Anyhow, when I learned she had been lying to me for months, there was a huge row, and we went our separate ways,” he explained wearily. “And I think it was only then it slowly dawned on me how Faustian the whole affair had been. I loathed her. I was glad I was free. But—when I sat down to write, I discovered . . . I had nothing. It was as if she had wormed her way inside my creative mind and trained it to think she was the creator, not me. I was second-guessing and shooting down every idea before it even crystalized. I was self-sabotaging. I couldn’t stop.

“Anyhow,” he shrugged, staring unseeing at the plastic chip shop menu on the wall, “I realized that without her, I was nothing. I could write nothing,” he declared, giving Petra a sad little smile. “I thought she was my muse.” He gave a hollow laugh. “The things—it turns out—we are prepared to do for what we think we want . . . There’s a cost,” he declared, straightening and squaring his shoulders. “And it’s not a cost I am prepared to pay again.”

How desperate! thought Petra. No wonder he had been so broken when she met him.

“Petra?” he said softly, reconnecting with her gaze as her eyes filled with tears for him.

“I would never, ever do that to you,” she choked, slipping her arms around him and resting her head on his chest. He enfolded her in his embrace, his chin resting on the top of her head. This was their thing. Their “go-to” position. She sometimes felt she could spend the rest of her life just being held like this, by him.

“I know you wouldn’t,” he said. “This thing we have is so different,” he went on with quiet intensity, squeezing her with a fierceness that made her want to groan. “We can’t break this. Whatever happens with the book—good or bad—we will still have this. Right? Because,” he told her, leaning back so he could fix her gaze with his own, “if we don’t have ‘us,’ then I don’t think I can do this.”

Long after Ross had fallen asleep, breathing deeply and evenly beside her, Petra lay awake, looking at the silver moon through the little cottage window. The cottage was so remote, they rarely bothered to draw the curtain at night.

She knew, without question, that what Ross had told her about Henrietta was true. There had been whispers for years: She had a penchant for young, beautiful men; she got too close to her writers; she exerted a level of creative control that bordered on coercive; she damaged the careers of anyone—writers, staff, agents—who dared to cross her.

You made an enemy of Henrietta at your peril. And Ross had done just that.

As well as pondering what Ross had told her about the reasons for his long absence from writing, Petra had been increasingly nervous about Jules and Roman’s return. Grilling Freya and Flo for details—because she didn’t want to pester the couple by texting them every five minutes—she was under the impression they were flying back into the country at the beginning of the following week.

Flo had chatted to Petra often over the months about Roman and Jules, and how Roman was the details man, the hardheaded business brain, fresh from a top-flight career in New York. What he brought to the table was an analytical mind and an iron grip on the financials. By contrast, Jules was the creative one. Flo related fondly how Jules was a mass of energy and enthusiasm, and an ex-London publishing editor herself, with a passion for books that had been all-consuming since she was a child.

Petra had thought, over the months, that she and Jules had much in common. But now that she was going to meet her properly, she felt hopelessly colorless and dull.

When a tall, handsome, black-haired man with piercing blue eyes, and a lithe, pretty young woman burst into the shop that Saturday mid-morning to cries of delight from Flo, Petra assumed at first they were Flo’s favorite customers. Then the woman wrapped Flo in a fierce and all-encompassing hug, to the accompaniment of much chatter and many exclamations.

Seconds later, the young woman released Flo, and the man replaced her in grabbing Flo for a tight squeeze.

The woman then turned to Petra and gave her a noisy air-kiss on the cheek, before holding out her hand.

“Jules,” she announced. “And you’re Petra, of course.”

Petra could not deny this, tempting though it was—for a nanosecond—to pretend she was nothing more than a passing tourist.

“We are so grateful to you for doing what you’ve done,” Jules declared.

Jules was glowing, Petra observed. She could only imagine this was what a person looked like when they had the love of a good man, a stable career that no longer included schmoozing in the torrid London publishing scene, and the wherewithal to take a six-month vacation on a whim. In fact, the pair of them were radiant, so in love, and so bright and shiny, in the way most people in Portneath seemed to be, it must be the effect of happiness, Petra supposed . . .

“I love the window!” Jules went on. “You are so creative. I knew you’d be amazing. Am I allowed to confess? I’ve had the most incredible feedback from Flo and everyone about how well you’ve been doing and . . .” Jules leaned in conspiratorially, “you’re going out with Ross McCloud!” Her sotto voce rose to a squeak, and then she stopped herself, glancing round to make sure they were alone. “I mean . . . oh my good God!” she went on, slightly more quietly. “He’s my hero . . . I can’t wait to meet him. Now,” she went on, not giving Petra a chance to draw breath, “tell me you’re both available for dinner tonight. Freya’s at six, yes or no?”