Page 83 of How to Find a Romance in a Bookshop

“Are you sure you can do this?” she asked anxiously. “You and Flo? I wish I wasn’t away so long.”

“It’s three days,” said Jules. “We’ve been running Capelthorne’s for decades. We’ll cope. And Roman can step in if we need muscle,” she added.

Jules had a point.

“Hang on, I’ve got something for you to take with you,” said Jules, remembering. She hurried into the office and came out with a printed copy of The Bookseller, which was delivered to the shop weekly.

“Very pretty,” said Petra, seeing the front cover was entirely dedicated to a publicity shot of Ross, looking every inch the successful young novelist. “Who is Miranda?” blazed the headline.

“Never mind the cover, it’s what’s inside that counts,” said Jules. “You can read it on the plane. I think you will find it very interesting.”

“Thanks,” said Petra, rolling up the magazine with Ross’s face on the inside and stuffing it into the outer pocket of her backpack. She didn’t tell Jules she generally read the online version on her phone. Except that now she wouldn’t bother. She had no interest in reading a puff piece that rehashed the same old publicity anecdotes. She was going to have to cope with the man himself soon, which was bad enough.

Predictably, the plane was delayed, and the airport was packed. Petra, already exhausted by the long trip from Portneath to Heathrow Airport, had drunk too much coffee and eaten too many pastries. Feeling wired and slightly sick, she found a wall and slid down it, plonking her backpack next to her on the floor. The magazine was poking out of the side pocket, and, in a spirit of masochism, she thought she might as well make herself even more miserable by reading the article. Maybe it would get the emotion out of the way so she could be cool and collected when she saw him.

The halls of Frankfurt are buzzing, and all the talk is of Ross McCloud’s long-awaited second novel, to be published as a lead title by Darcy Press next year. With world English rights sold for a “significant sum” by six-way auction, translation rights are set to be hotly contested at FBF this year. And all without publishers even having the final chapter of the manuscript. As Ross McCloud explained, in an exclusive interview with The Bookseller, this deeply personal work is—as yet—unfinished. He credits the inspiration for his Shakespeare retelling with a real-world Miranda who he says persuaded him to return to writing. The untitled novel tackles the relationship of Miranda and Caliban from The Tempest, an oft-reworked Shakespeare play. Scholars frequently consider the Caliban character problematic as the manuscript suggests that he molests Miranda, his childhood friend. However, Ross McCloud has a more sympathetic take on the story.

“Caliban is a troubled soul, as I am myself,” he admits. “But I believe he is transformed from this brutish character into something more noble by Miranda, who he adores and idolizes. My own Miranda came into my life when I was broken by my first foray into publishing, and I credit her with all the good things in my life since. I don’t believe Shakespeare intended his audience to believe Caliban did what he was accused of. To me it is obvious the accusation, which comes only from Prospero’s say-so, is simply a sign of the magician’s determination to control the agenda by gaslighting all who he seeks to control. I have been in a controlling relationship myself and maybe that is partly why I have the zeal to redeem the reputation of Caliban in this way.”

Then the interviewer returned to Ross’s first book and its extraordinary success, but Petra skipped down the page.

“My real-life Miranda showed me a brave new world. She inspired me to believe in myself, to write again, and—critically—to show me how even a damaged character like Caliban could be brought into the light, through steadfast love.”

But who is this Miranda to whom the reading public will owe so much? There are rumors that McCloud declines to confirm. But, whoever is his muse, the publishing world—and then the world of readers—await this book and its final chapter with breathless anticipation.

Sitting on the hard stone floor, Petra was immune to the discomfort. She read the entire piece from top to bottom. And then she read it again. And then she carefully rolled up the magazine and placed it back in the pocket of her backpack.

Chapter Thirty-One

The rest of Petra’s journey passed in a dream. Hours went by, and Petra allowed herself to be funneled through the public transport system until eventually she arrived in her beige hotel, with its beige hotel room that was so anonymous it could be anywhere in the world.

Alistair’s secretary had set up text reminders for Petra’s schedule, and her phone duly pinged to tell her she was expected at the main stage to see Ross’s live, onstage interview, a coup secured by his publicist to help ensure bidding around translation rights would reach a fever pitch.

She barely had time to splash water on her bare face and swipe her deodorant under her arms, fearing her long, sweaty journey might have made her stink. Fleetingly, she wished she had brought something smarter to wear, but her trusty navy trousers and blazer, with chunky sneakers for all the walking from one hall to another, would have to do.

Petra remembered her first trip to the Frankfurt Book Fair as a very junior member of her editorial team. The arrival at the airport, the study of the hall plans and the seminar timetable, the insane meeting schedules, and the effects of living with minimal access to daylight for several days while subsisting on Danish pastries and bad coffee . . . It felt like something that could be fun only in a past life.

She was exhausted.

But then, she was always exhausted these days. It had been tempting to skip day one of Frankfurt and just arrive for the meetings, but she had to face him eventually. After this one event, she was reckoning on an early return to her hotel, a glass of wine, a hot bath, and early bed, in preparation for all the meetings she had scheduled the following day.

Marching through the interminable conference spaces to her destination, the thought that she and Ross might inevitably have to be in the same room, seeing each other for the first time in the six or so weeks since the Portneath Literary Festival, filled her with queasy excitement—or possibly dread. She slipped into the back of the hot, stuffy room, packed full of shiny-faced, slightly sweaty humanity, and—because she could see no empty chairs at all—propped herself against the back wall.

Checking her phone for last-minute schedule updates from her assistant, Petra missed the moment when Ross and his interviewer walked out on the stage and took their seats. She looked up and there he was, perhaps sixty feet away. He was clean-shaven, she noted, and was wearing a blindingly white cotton shirt, open-necked under a black jacket with dark blue jeans—new, Petra thought. He looked so handsome, and so very agonizingly dear and familiar, Petra had difficulty swallowing.

The applause died down, and they were off. First, the interviewer, an esteemed Radio 4 arts presenter known universally as simply “Declan,” bigged up Ross’s career to date, while he bashfully stared down at his feet. Then they were into his early influences: an inspiring English teacher, a primary school success with a national writing competition. Petra was soothed, hearing this now familiar story play out. The room was warm, and she had not slept well. Seeing Ross up onstage, being charming, handsome, and clearly “together” gave her the first peace she had felt in weeks. He was okay, thank goodness. And Henrietta was nowhere to be seen. Also thank goodness.

“So tell us what it was like when your first book became so remarkably successful. How did that feel from the inside, looking out?”

“‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’” Ross quoted, shaking his head. There was a silence while he stared at the floor. It felt like the whole room was holding its breath. Petra was definitely holding her breath. “Okay, so . . .” he said at last, raising his head again and fixing his eyes directly on Petra at the back of the room. “It’s the fairy-tale ending, isn’t it? I mean, it’s what everyone here in this room wants, for a book to be published that does well. As an author, writing a book, getting it published, having it be a huge success, ‘’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,’ but—not to be ungrateful—for me, at that time, it was anything but a fairy tale. I felt as if I had made a Faustian pact, where I sold my soul . . .” He stopped, put his hand to his mouth and then used it to ruffle his hair distractedly, “So—yeah—I know now that I believed I could only be successful if I capitulated to this ‘romance’—at least, I thought that was what it was at the time. I realized later—much later—it was an unhealthily controlling relationship where I mistakenly believed I owed this person my success. I gave them a lot of power. Which they then abused.”

At these words, the room collectively gasped, and then hummed excitedly, and then—straining to hear Ross’s next words—it fell silent again.

Petra was relieved that Henrietta was not present. If she could hear herself be described in such a way in front of a roomful of her industry peers, Petra feared Henrietta would lose her shit. Which would actually be quite exciting, she admitted to herself, with something approaching schadenfreude.

Her heart swelled with pride that Ross was brave enough to talk about it in such a public arena. At the center of Henrietta’s world, of all places.

“. . . and I carried a lot of shame from that situation,” he went on, his eyes still resting on Petra as if he and she were the only people in the room. “I had this idea my success was a fluke, a construct created by this woman in return for my obedience. I was beguiled. But I was also kind of trapped. I began to think this woman’s input was necessary for me to be able to create and that meant I was paralyzed. I was basically suffering from a terminal case of imposter syndrome.”