Chapter Two #2
All she wanted to find was a bed to sleep in.
Right away. Trying the last doorway, she found herself in a windowless hallway, with two further doors leading off it.
The smallest room—tiny, actually—housed little more than a low wooden single bed with a faded patchwork quilt and a hole in the shape of a heart carved into the painted wooden headboard.
It was obviously a child’s bed, and Petra was not at all sure that her feet wouldn’t be sticking out of the end.
Thankfully, the final room was an absolute delight: In pride of place was a high, wrought-iron bedstead piled with plump feather pillows and made up with blankets, a silky eiderdown quilt, and impeccably ironed white sheets.
Whoever ironed their sheets these days? Whoever had sheets and blankets these days?
Not that she was complaining. The bed was positioned in the middle of the wall opposite the
window and was high enough to allow the occupant to gaze out of the open curtains and survey most of Portneath, or at least
the same jumble of pastel-painted cottages she had seen on her walk into town. In daylight, there would surely be a clear
view of the beach and the cliffs beyond.
It was quite dark now, though, with just the glow of the lights in the cottages and a silver moon lighting a wide, shimmering
path across the sea. Who needed books? Petra felt she would be happy if she spent the rest of her life cocooned in that glorious
bed with its stunning view. Other than the bed, the furniture in the room comprised a dark brown wardrobe, so tall it barely
fit under the sloping ceiling, a chair and dressing table under the window, and a highly polished rosewood chest of drawers
that doubled as a bedside table. Clearly Jules—or someone—had prepared for her arrival. Not only were there two fluffy white
towels on the bed, but the bedside light was glowing warmly through its pink silk shade and there was a little posy of flowers
in a rose china jug beside it. There was even a glass and a carafe filled with water sitting ready. Petra discovered the drawers
were empty, as was the wardrobe, other than a handful of wooden hangers that rattled like bones as she opened the door.
Unpacking could wait. Petra quickly undressed and—chilled, in nothing but her underwear—dived into the bed. She moaned with
gratitude on discovering that there was an electric blanket and that her mystery benefactor had switched it on for her.
Cocooned in the most comfortable bed she had ever encountered—and used to battling insomnia in her London flat, where traffic noise and sirens roused her repeatedly throughout the night—Petra was soothed by the gentle sound of the sea, sucking and roaring like a giant snoring in the background.
Sleep claimed her in minutes.
Petra jolted awake, adrenaline pumping. For several moments, she had no idea where she was, then her memory of recent events
returned, and her stomach lurched with anxiety. She groaned aloud. Maybe she would just stay in bed with the covers pulled
over her head today? She was sure she must be ill. Her head was definitely aching a bit.
Some considerable time later, bored and too hot, Petra poked her head out again, reluctantly admitting to herself that a)
she was basically fine—if her head was sore it was because of the wine she had with supper, and b) she owed it to Jules and
Roman—her saviors—to actually do the thing she had come all the way to Devon to do. What day was it? Thursday. Definitely
a day when the shop would be—should be—open.
Sighing, Petra climbed out of bed. Taking just a few moments to unpack, she dressed in yesterday’s clothes and went to explore
the kitchen. Astonishingly, even after her hearty supper, she was hungry again. Either that or her churning stomach was a
precursor to an ulcer brought on by all the stress. Petra mentally prepared herself that breakfast was unlikely to be on the
agenda until she found somewhere to shop for provisions, but she discovered her hospitable hosts had—once again—been extremely
kind.
Sitting on a scratched wooden board that rested on the countertop was a delicious-looking crusty sourdough loaf alongside a dish housing a slab of primrose yellow butter, speckled with salt crystals.
After flicking on the kettle, Petra opened the fridge to discover an old-fashioned glass pint bottle of gold-top milk for her tea, along with a carton of half a dozen eggs, and a greaseproof parcel of streaky bacon.
Wow! Bacon and eggs for breakfast? Both items were apparently from a place called Hollytree Farm in Middlemass.
Middlemass? Wasn’t that the nearby village the Tourist Information Office had mentioned? She was sure it was.
Petra rarely ate breakfast, but fresh local eggs and bacon? This was appealing. Glancing at her watch, she realized reluctantly
she had slept too late to indulge in the full “hearty English breakfast” experience, but she did pop some bacon under the
grill and slice some bread while she waited for the kettle to boil.
Just minutes later, after a quick face wash and toothbrushing, she carried her bacon sandwich and tea downstairs to eat while
she figured out how to open up the shop.
Seeing the shop in the cold daylight, Petra’s anxiety returned. She wasn’t completely green, she reminded herself: Her first
sortie into the book trade as a teenager had been a Saturday job working in the local branch of Waterstones bookshop. And
then, after university, there had been several years in junior editorial roles. But it felt now that those experiences, plus
being a—not very able—literary agent had in no way prepared her for this. Even an old-fashioned bookshop like Capelthorne’s
would have more up-to-date systems than Waterstones had had, back in the day. She probably wouldn’t even be able to work the
card scanner, let alone having the first clue about ordering and deliveries.
What on earth had made her think she could do this?
The one thing she was good at was letting people down. She was bound to achieve that, at least.
It took a couple of minutes to find out where to switch all the lights on, and another couple to figure out how to power up
the cash register, which didn’t—to be fair—look too different from the ones she remembered from ten years earlier. Whatever
this bookshop was, it wasn’t on the cutting edge of book retail IT systems, that was for sure.
“Door unlocked? Check. Sign turned to ‘open’? Check,” Petra said aloud, to give herself confidence. Then she sat expectantly
on the stool behind the checkout desk.
Let them come, she thought.
Nobody did.