Chapter Three
She had turned the “open” sign around, hadn’t she? Petra glanced over to it repeatedly, like a nervous tic, fully expecting a Devonshire
gremlin to have flipped it around to “closed” as soon as her back was turned. Devon was supposed to be a mystical place, with
magical goings-on, wasn’t it? Druids and stuff . . . ? Portneath’s main street, in broad daylight, didn’t look particularly
fey, but you never knew . . .
It wouldn’t do to desert her post, she told herself repeatedly, staring at the door in an attempt to will people through it.
But eventually boredom won, and she began a tour of the shop.
Petra was impressed. This was a “highly regarded” bookshop for good reason. The shop window had a clean, bright, and impactful
display of “new year, new you” books ranging from get-fit guru six-pack shortcuts to step-by-step guides on how to realize
the next big business idea. The less said about Petra’s abandoned New Year’s resolutions the better. If only one of them had
been “blow your career to smithereens,” she would have beaten her own deadline. It wasn’t even February yet. Still, no point
dwelling . . .
There was a large and mouthwatering cooking section, she discovered.
Petra was a sucker for a beautifully photographed cookbook, although she rarely cooked; it never seemed worth the bother, just for herself.
The other reference book sections were similarly compelling—but fiction always had been Petra’s first love.
She skimmed the alphabetically ordered novels lining the walls to see all the usual suspects, with some more unusual choices too, suggesting confident and intelligent buying.
The shelves were flanked with tabletop displays categorized by genre: cozy crime, romance, science fiction, romantasy.
She couldn’t resist looking for her clients’ work and saw nothing to encourage her on the tables.
There was her failure again; she swallowed miserably, remembering.
She had hardly ever managed to get any of her clients the kind of marketing spend that would put their stories on those coveted table spaces.
Turning back to the shelves, she was encouraged to find a couple of books she had played a part in producing, tucked in, spines facing out. From long habit, she guiltily looked over her shoulder as she turned
them face out. Screw it, she told herself. She was in charge now, and she could display the books however she darn well liked!
Momentarily giddy with the power, her hubris was interrupted by the bell signifying an arriving customer.
At last! Skittering back to her seat, she pasted on her brightest, most welcoming smile and turned toward the door to see .
. . nothing. Actually, not nothing, but it seemed the only living being entering the shop was a dog.
Goodness knows how it had reached the door handle, because it was a small white-and-brown Jack Russell, standing barely twelve inches off the floor.
It trotted toward her, confident and bright-eyed, gracefully accepting a pat on the head, before wheeling away to do a circuit of the shop.
Petra watched it narrowly, alert to any attempts to lift a leg on the merchandise. Or worse.
She resisted the urge to ask if it was looking for anything in particular or just browsing, and was still sitting, nonplussed,
when the doorbell sounded again. This time, a tall, elegant older lady entered in a rush.
“Digger?” she called, as she closed the door. “I really do hope you’re in h—ah, there you are, you little monkey,” she went on, obvious relief in her voice as he scampered toward her before throwing himself
down on the floor and licking her ankle lovingly.
“When I require you to dribble on my foot, I will be sure to let you know,” the lady informed him as she gently moved her
foot away. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Petra. “I opened the door to come in, then saw someone I had to buttonhole about the
village jumble sale. I was chatting away when I suddenly noticed he wasn’t with me, and I wasn’t sure where he had gone. He gave me quite a fright.”
“Me too,” Petra admitted. “At least—I was a bit confused . . . although dogs are very welcome,” she added, so as not to seem unfriendly.
“Oh, I know that,” the lady said. “We even let children in, sometimes. I’m Flo,” she went on, extending an elegant hand, bony
and frail with advanced age.
“Aha!” said Petra, remembering Freya’s information dump the previous evening. “Bookshop Flo?”
“Indeed,” Flo inclined her head. “You are very well briefed. I’m flattered Jules took the time to mention me . . . she was
in such a fluster before they left.”
Jules in fact had not, although Petra decided to let her take the credit anyway; she was sure Freya wouldn’t mind.
“So you worked here when you were—well—younger?” she probed and then clamped her hand over her mouth in a too-often-used gesture.
Lesson one: Don’t mention a person’s age.
Especially in expressions of awe. But then, to be fair, surely this lady was ancient?
In her eighties, perhaps, but Freya had given her the impression that Flo’s retirement was only recent. She must have misunderstood.
“It would be nice to be regarded with awe for reasons other than my antiquity,” Flo chuckled. “Fair enough, I must seem ancient to you, but I retired, just a couple of months ago, as
it happens. I’ve been sitting on my hands,” she confessed. “Important not to interfere, to let the young ones get on with
things, fresh ideas and all that.”
“Well, this young one would be better off not being left to get on with things,” admitted Petra.
Flo seemed to be trying—and failing—to hide her delight. “Of course, I would be more than happy to assist,” she said, with a courtly nod of the head. “Jules kindly let me get the flat ready for you, at least.”
“Did you leave those heavenly snowdrops and”—Petra faltered—“whatever those other flowers were, by the bed?”
“Hellebores. All from my garden at Nightingale Cottage. There isn’t much blooming in January, but the previous occupant was
a gardening genius. I can’t take credit. I haven’t been there long.”
“They’re beautiful though, thank you,” said Petra. “And the delicious food too? Such a lovely welcome.”
“We are all very grateful to you, my dear,” Flo demurred.
“And—as I say—I’m more than happy to give you a few hours a week—if you’re sure that would be helpful?
—but not too much longer than that, because I have Digger to care for now.
” She gave Digger a fond look. It was wasted on him, because he had, in just the few minutes they had been talking, draped himself devotedly across Flo’s feet and fallen sound asleep.
“But you could bring him!” said Petra, her heart melting at the sight of the dozing little dog. She had always longed for
a dog of her own.
“Of course, I could bring him, how silly of me,” Flo berated herself. “Well, that’s decided then. He can be the official shop
dog, as long as he behaves himself.”
The two women agreed that Flo would come in to help just on Saturdays, at least at first, because that was the busiest day.
From Easter onward she might need to help out a little more—Flo suggested—as the summer season would generally get very busy.
Petra didn’t like to admit that with her recent record, she was likely to have single-handedly tanked the business by then.
But if Petra’s presence was a bad omen, it seemed Flo’s visit might have been a good one. After she left, promising to be
back on Saturday at nine o’clock sharp, Petra found herself quite respectably busy.
By day two, Petra had begun to pride herself on predicting what people might buy as they walked through the door.
Wiry-looking older couples with walking boots and matching rain jackets were after ordnance survey maps and more information about the castle at the top of the hill.
There were grandmothers keen to buy picture books for grandchildren, stout purple-nosed older men looking for history books and biographies, and frazzled young women drawn to the rom-coms about sweary mothers of young children who rely a little too heavily on wine—the mothers, not the young children.
“My goodness, Roald Dahl wrote so many more books when I wasn’t looking!” exclaimed a plump, sweet-faced grandmother who was
stocking up for a much-anticipated grandchild visit. “And the Just William books too! Heaven, I used to be in stitches, reading
these as a child.”
“Gosh, really?” blurted Petra. “Surely they must have been old, even then?”
“Even then,” agreed the lady, with a wry smile.
Petra consciously repressed the instinct to smack herself on the forehead. She had been doing that so much today she was giving
herself a headache. Maybe she could style it out. “I mean, the Just William books are really, really old,” she added, before she realized she wasn’t sure where she was going with it.
Luckily, the lady just laughed. “Help me find some authors I don’t know about too,” she invited Petra. “How about these David Walliams ones? I’ve heard of him . . . but I’m not sure how I
feel about his comedy, if I’m honest.”
Finishing up with the grandmother and then helping a lady who was going on a winter cruise and who bought a whole stack of books about the places she was visiting, Petra was surprised to see it was ten minutes past closing time.
The day had not dragged at all. In fact, she had enjoyed it more than she thought she would, and the time had flown.
Of course, books were still a painful reminder of everything that was bad in her life, but dealing with the public had been quite fun, if you discounted all her usual inadvertent insults.
It made her realize how few people she encountered in an average literary agency day.
The majority of her time had been spent alone, reading unsolicited submissions that were mostly rather bad and trying to find nice things to say to the people who had written them.
She had become isolated. She saw that now.