Page 73 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“It’s all basically fine,” she told Petra. “We’ve sold a good number of tickets for all the events now—I’m glad we kept it smallish this year—and all our participants have their accommodation lined up. I’m so glad Candida Bertolli is bunking up with Flo. I know she’ll be spoiled rotten, which she seems to need, if my friend who did a book tour with her is anyone to go by.”

“Is she a monster?” asked Petra understandingly.

“Wouldn’t go that far—actually, scrap that—yes, she’s a monster. And how about our launch panel mystery guest, how is he this morning? Not that he’s a monster,” she added, apparently hearing how the juxtaposition had sounded.

“Still in bed, having a lovely lie-in,” reported Petra. “I think he’s okay. I’d be terrified. Actually, I think I am terrified, on his behalf.”

“When are you going to set off the fireworks?” asked Jess.

Petra knew Jess was keen to get the story out there. It was the jewel in the crown of the whole festival, having Ross come out of the shadows as its star turn.

“Soon,” she reassured Jess. “Timing is critical, our publicist says. You’ve had the draft release from her?”

“From that Louise lady?” replied Jess. “Yes. It looks fine to me. I’ve signed off on it.”

“Me too. First thing tomorrow, The Bookseller, Society of Authors, and all the national newspaper literary editors are informed and given an invitation to the launch,” said Petra, with a confidence she didn’t feel.

Once it was out, it was out, and then her real job—supporting and protecting Ross from the fierce, overwhelming interest—would begin. It was her job to harness that interest and turn it into a stunning offer. It was going to be like reaping the whirlwind. Or harnessing an earthquake.

Petra hadn’t even read it all herself yet because there was still no final chapter. Most evenings, she had been casting an eye over the pages Ross had edited that day. The ending—the final fate of Miranda and Caliban—was still missing, but that didn’t matter. It was brilliant. She reckoned she could sell it on Ross’s reputation plus a concept written on the back of a cigarette packet alone, just like Alistair said.

So why did she have this vile sense of unease?

Louise, the publicist, messaged Petra almost as soon as the release went out, but she needn’t have bothered, because Petra’s phone had already started to ring.

First, it was The Bookseller, the trade magazine for UK publishing. Publishers Marketplace in the US called too, which didn’t surprise her, knowing Ross’s first book had sold more in the US and Canada than in any other market worldwide.

In fact, her phone rang all day. All these conversations were brief as Petra politely and regretfully explained. Yes, Ross was going to be headlining the Portneath Literary Festival, yes, there would be a chance for press to ask questions. No, they would not be offering an exclusive. Blanket coverage was the aim. Yes, there was a manuscript—well, there was a sample of a manuscript, at this stage—yes, she would be inviting offers, naturally . . .

And, of course, the acquisition editors had been emailed too. It was no time at all before individual editors started to call. It wasn’t the junior staff members who were calling Petra either, even though these were usually the ones Petra liaised with. Instead, it was the great silverbacks in the top five publishers, the publishing directors in charge of multiple imprints and serious money. If they felt that they were lowering themselves by calling little old Petra, they were polite enough not to show it.

Relating stories of her day to Ross later, she was hyperaware of his body language. Where he would normally lounge on the sofa beside her, idly stroking her hair as she lay with her head on his lap, this evening he sat bolt upright, hand clutching the sofa arm like a claw, determined—it seemed—to keep an inch of distance between them.

“So, who else?” he kept saying, as she ran him through the names—big names—although he seemed sweetly unaware of just exactly how much of a big deal these people were.

“Anyone else?” he said, as she reached the end of her litany.

“Um . . . I don’t think so. I mean—I’m pretty sure it’s everyone who’s anyone—”

“Are you sure?”

This was getting weird. “Was there someone in particular . . . ?” she queried gently, but Ross looked away.

“Nope,” he said. “No one at all . . .” As if she had reminded him of something, he reached for his phone and switched it to silent before staring, apparently unseeing, into the middle distance. And then he seemed to snap back into gear. “Bloody well done,” he said. “I knew you’d be brilliant at this. And Petra?”

She looked at him enquiringly.

“Thank you. I mean it.” He reached out his hand and captured her own, bringing it up to his lips for a kiss. “Whatever happens . . .” he added vaguely.

“Mixing business and pleasure?” she teased and then wished she had kept her mouth shut.

His eyes went dull, just for a moment, and then he summoned a smile with visible effort. “Your pleasure is my business,” he said, pulling her over onto his lap.

“But his first publisher is the one best placed to build on his existing readership,” Alistair made his point. “You know that.”

“They have to offer the best package too, though,” Petra replied. “And she’s not even called so far. Plus, I happen to know Ross is keen for a fresh start.”

“Of course,” said Alistair, “I get that. But, like it or not, Henrietta is one of the key players in the industry, even more so than she was when she worked with Ross the first time. Are you sure he wouldn’t work with her again?”