Page 82 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“Were,” remarked Petra, frustrated at the tears that immediately flooded her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. She rubbed them away impatiently, sniffing.

“I don’t believe that,” said Flo, handing Petra a tissue. “Now dry your eyes, my darling, and be brave. All will be well. Speaking of which, how goes it with the man-child’s book sale anyhow?”

“Best and final bids came in last night,” said Petra, blowing out a breath noisily, in an attempt to calm her nervous system. How could it be that she was so exhausted and so jittery at the same time?

“Big?” queried Flo, her intelligent dark eyes inquisitive.

“Very,” confirmed Petra, her heart sinking at remembering, again, that Henrietta’s was the biggest. It was no contest. As his agent, her advice should be nothing but a formality. Apart from anything else, out of her loyalty to Alistair and the agency she should be advising him to take it. The agent’s commission from a deal that big would be the bonus of the year. It covered the salary Alistair paid her and more besides.

“Well done, you. So,” Flo continued briskly, “you and Ross will have to talk. Get through today. And then . . . ?” she made Petra meet her eye.

Petra nodded. Flo was right. When all else failed, keep going, Alistair would always say. If you stay with it for long enough, something will change. And at least she would perhaps be seeing him this evening. They could talk.

Then she received his text. Just sent you an email, it said, with a kiss. Just one. Fingers trembling, Petra fumbled to her emails. There it was.

Thank you, it said. You have done a stunning job. I could not have asked for more, and I don’t deserve you (as my agent, or in any other sense).

Please tell Jemima she’s got the gig, it went on. Petra sagged with relief, but there was more. Events of the last two days show me I need to go away and think. Cliché alert, it’s not you, it’s me, he went on. Henrietta returning to my life is stirring up complicated feelings, and I need to get my head straight once and for all. I know I’m hurting you, and I’m sorry. This is about me trying to find a way not to hurt you any more than I already have because you mean the world to me. Of course, I will be available for professional stuff, but would ask this is kept to a minimum and limited to email?

Love, Ross. xx

So that was it, Petra thought. Ross had chosen Jemima’s team over Henrietta’s, and she was so pleased and relieved for him. Jemima was in it, heart and soul. If anyone could take Ross’s book to stellar success, it would be her. But had he done it so he could be with Henrietta without breaking his life/love cardinal rule? It looked like it to Petra. The wording was so careful. “You mean the world to me.” Not “I love you.” She felt numb, and yet she slowly became aware tears were trickling down her cheeks. Tears that were making Flo’s face crumple in concern. “Bad news?” she asked.

“No,” replied Petra, despising the wobble in her voice. “He’s made the right choice, I’m glad for him.”

“But what about you and him?” Flo insisted, affronted.

“I suppose maybe it was just one of those summer things,” Petra said, making it clear to Flo that this was the end of the conversation on the matter.

Thankfully, Petra and Ross had few real reasons to communicate directly in the coming weeks. Petra chased through the Jemima contract and made sure everything was as it should be. Then it took just one email to let Ross know that he needed to sign.

By mutual unspoken consent, Ross did not divulge where he went, but Petra knew he was no longer in the cottage at the top of the hill. A crushing fatigue had largely prevented her from going on her usual walks, but—just occasionally—Jules and Flo chucked her out of the shop, instructing her to go and get some fresh air. The only walk that seemed remotely attractive was the one that took her to their bench at the summit of the hill. On the days she could summon the energy, she would climb up and sit there for hours, staring out across Portneath to the sea, wondering what Ross was doing. Was he editing? Chatting with Jemima? Doing one of the many interviews the book media were determined to extract from him?

Perhaps he was even writing his final chapter?

The publication date was set far enough into the future, at Petra’s behest, that he was not under intense pressure, but Caliban and Miranda were going to have to have their finale eventually, and much was made of how Shakespeare had left ends untied.

It was down to Ross now.

That early October morning, the Indian summer seemed as if it would go on and on. Starting at dawn, Petra had taken a thermos of coffee to the bench and was sitting there checking email on her phone and tapping out a couple of brief replies. She and Alistair had been working hard to set up meetings in Frankfurt to sell translation rights. The weeks between finishing the festival and the Frankfurt Book Fair in October had seemed interminable.

Now that it was just days away, Petra was panicking. She checked her watch. Just after eight. Her mind made up, she phoned Alistair, who picked up straightaway.

“Alistair, I really think you should go to Frankfurt to do the rights,” she told him briskly. As she talked, she was watching a low gray cloud chasing the sunshine away. She was going to get caught in the rain if she didn’t go back to the shop soon.

“Why ever would I do that?” he replied patiently. “Everyone’s expecting you. Our favorites from Sweden and Lithuania have just confirmed that they want to meet. You’re Ross’s agent, and they know it. They won’t settle for anyone else.”

“Nonsense, they won’t care one bit,” protested Petra. “And”—she took a deep breath before she could get the next words out—“has Ross confirmed he will attend? It can make such a difference . . .”

“He says he’s all yours. Oh, and he’s had tickets for his onstage interview in the main arena couriered over. He especially wants you to be there for that. I’m making sure everyone you are meeting knows about it, just in case they don’t get a chance to ask their own questions if he bails on the meetings.”

“Will he?” asked Petra anxiously. She honestly didn’t know whether the thought of seeing him was worse than the thought of not seeing him.

“I don’t think he will,” Alistair reassured her. “Ross is one of the good ones. He delivers what he promises.”

The morning arrived, and Petra was anxiously packing. In reality, all she needed was comfortable shoes, a few changes of underwear, and her laptop with charger. She wasn’t even going to attempt “glamorous.” Frankfurt was an intense experience, made even more so by having to pretend to be calm and businesslike around Ross when she felt anything but.

She came down from the flat with her backpack to find Flo and Jules already bustling around getting ready to open. Jules’s gently rounded tummy and rosy cheeks signaled that she had reached the “blooming” stage, to Jules’s relief after her early exhaustion. Even so, Petra was fretting. Who was going to manage deliveries? Flo was too elderly, and Jules was too pregnant.