Chapter Twelve
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, coming around to open the car door for her when they arrived. Petra wasn’t used to the whole
gallant behavior thing and found it disconcerting. Were they on a date? She sure as hell wasn’t going to ask again. There was only so much crushing casual rejection a girl could
take.
“This is soooo gorgeous!” she exclaimed delightedly as he ushered her in.
A low oak door with a heavy black wrought-iron knocker opened directly into a sitting room only perhaps twelve feet square,
with a stone inglenook fireplace taking up the majority of one wall. On the hearth crouched a squat black woodburning stove,
a fire already at its heart. The glow from the fire was matched by low light from two fat table lamps on either side of a
squishy dark-blue velvet sofa, liberally scattered with cinnamon and orange silk cushions.
“I’m renting it for the winter,” said Ross, helping her out of her damp coat and hanging it on the back of the door. “It’s
damp as hell, and dark too, but—with the stove going—it’s cozy, I suppose.”
“For you,” said Petra, handing him the chocolate. “I didn’t know what to bring.”
“Totally unnecessary, but—thank you—it looks beautiful . . . chocolate?”
Emily nodded.
“We can have some later, if you’ve got room,” he said.
“Something smells delicious,” Petra said, sitting as instructed on the sofa. It was so wonderfully enveloping with its deep,
squashy feather cushions, she wasn’t at all sure she was going to be able to get out of it.
“Wine?”
Petra nodded.
“White? Red? Pink?”
The transaction agreed, settled in front of the fire, clasping red wine in a glass the size of a goldfish bowl, Petra was
instantly relaxed.
This was nice. Really nice.
Ross disappeared into a warmly lit kitchen just through a doorway in the middle of a wall of bookshelves. After a few minutes
of clattering and banging, he poked his head out. “Forks and bowls in front of the fire, or plates, knives, and forks at the
table in the kitchen?”
“Bowls, please,” said Petra. Anything that delayed having to move.
“. . . which is the correct answer. Bear with me . . .” called Ross.
A minute later he appeared again, balancing two laden wide white china bowls on his hand and forearm, with a pair of forks
and an open bottle of red wine clutched in the other fist.
After popping the two bowls on the ottoman in front of the fire, he deftly topped up Petra’s glass, put the bottle of wine down on the hearth, and handed her a bowl with napkin and fork. Meaty steam rose from it, which smelled absolutely delicious.
“Shepherd’s pie,” Ross explained. “Honeyed, roasted carrots and—well—peas, as you can see,” he waved dismissively as he chucked
another log into the stove and then flumped down beside her.
“Oh. My. God,” Petra groaned with her mouth full. The ground lamb was rich, soft, and intensely savory, redolent with wine
and herbs; the mashed potato was golden and browned into crispy peaks on the top; and the carrots were the best she had ever
tasted, intensely honeyed and roasted to a caramel perfection at the edges. “This is amazing! You are a fantastic cook! You are going to be cooking for me a lot from now on . . .” To think he had sat eating her baked potatoes with beans when he was capable of this.
“Fluke,” insisted Ross, although he was also tucking in with relish. “Actually, I say fluke—if I’m honest—I’ve been on a WhatsApp
video call with my mum half the afternoon.”
Petra giggled. Somehow, she couldn’t picture Ross with his mum. “Tell her thank you from me,” she said.
“Yeeeaah, maybe not,” he admitted. “My mum gets ridiculously excited if I give her the slightest hint there’s a woman in my
life.”
“Oops, don’t then, ’cause it’s definitely not . . .” said Petra, because it seemed required and Ross’s emphatic nod of agreement
confirmed it.
In profile, as he sat next to her, with that lick of dark brown hair falling across his forehead, she was reminded—yet again—how handsome he was.
Given this, why were the women not swarming like flies?
And then it occurred to her they possibly were.
She only saw him for a few hours a week after all.
Lots of time to make his mum happy, if he chose to.
“I cheated with the dessert,” Ross admitted, bringing out small plates and cake forks, then returning with a large chunk of
Freya’s raspberry gateau, the one Petra had rejected because it was too Valentiney. And that was without her having even noticed
that Freya had decorated the top with little fresh raspberry jelly hearts.
Ross seemed oblivious, though, cutting them each a generous slice and digging enthusiastically into his. Petra didn’t even
think she was still hungry but found it irresistible and surprisingly light. The fire was burning down to glowing embers now,
and the little sitting room, shrouded in shadows, was cozy and warm.
“So—you were saying—you’ve not been here long?” she asked.
“Only since the autumn,” said Ross. “I’ve moved around a fair bit over the last few years.”
“Like the Incredible Hulk?”
“Um, yeees . . .” he said doubtfully, apparently failing to see why Petra would align him with a massive green creature prone
to violence.
“I mean, because he moved around a lot. To avoid people finding out who he is.”
“Ah yes,” said Ross, “I see your point. So—now you know who I am—I suppose I should—”
“You know I’m not going to tell anyone,” Petra said rapidly. “Don’t go. You’re my only friend. At least wait until I leave in August?”
Ross thought for a moment. “I do really like Portneath actually,” he admitted. “And I like this,” he added, indicating himself and Petra. “I didn’t think I wanted to actually ‘know’ people, but—well—we have a lot in common.”
“Yeah, we’re both failures,” Petra agreed ruefully. “Misery loves company. Although actually,” she added hastily, “I’m surprisingly
unmiserable here, aren’t you?”
“Same,” agreed Ross.
“So,” Petra went on, tentatively, “are you writing? At all? Even a little bit?”
Ross stiffened, and Petra’s heart sank. She had upset him. She should have kept her mouth shut. It had all been going so well.
He stood, and she wondered if he was going to invite her to leave, but instead he took down the box of nutty chocolate she
had brought and sat back down with it, looking thoughtful as he carefully untied the knot and offered her the opened box.
“Just give me the first line,” Petra implored, taking a piece, thinking she had probably blown it anyhow. The first line of
a second novel from the legendary Ross McCloud? How jealous her London contemporaries would be. But he wouldn’t do it, would
he? And even if he did, she wouldn’t tell them.
“Okay then,” said Ross.
It was so unexpected, Petra sat bolt upright. “Go on,” she implored. “Give.”
“So let me just . . .” Ross handed her the chocolate and stood up in front of the fire, facing her. He squared his shoulders
and cleared his throat. “‘It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man’—” he intoned in a posh, high-pitched
voice.
“Oi,” shouted Petra, chucking a bit of chocolate at him in remonstration. “You’re such a windup artist.”
“Me?” he protested. “Whadayamean? That could be my first line. For all you know, it’s a brave and innovative Jane Austen ‘homage.’” He was laughing at her now, dodging the blows as she followed up the chocolate with a barrage of sofa cushions.
“Yeah, but it isn’t though,” Petra laughed ruefully. He had really got her then.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said, sitting back down and taking the chocolate box away before it occurred to her to throw any more
of it at him. “Here’s how it works. I give you first lines of famous novels. For each one you identify correctly, I’ll honestly
answer a yes/no question about my own writing, agreed?”
Petra sighed happily. He must know she would agree. Which right-minded book-loving person would turn down any opportunity like this? “Go on then,” she said, trying to sound sulky, but unable to hide her fierce anticipation and delight.
This was going to be the best game ever. He would quickly discover she was a demon for first-line recognition.
“Last night I dreamed—”
“—I went to Manderley again,” Petra cut in. “Du Maurier’s Rebecca. Too easy. Right. First question: What went wrong?”
“Yes/no answers,” he reminded her. “That’s a Bible-length reply.”
“Okay, fine,” said Petra, humming as she thought, with her finger over her mouth. Tactics were required. “Are you writing?” she asked slowly.
“Yyyy . . . no,” said Ross.
“Liar!” Petra declared.
“All right, yes,” admitted Ross.
“I knew it! So come on,” she pleaded, “can I read it?”
“Not so fast. You have to earn it, okay . . .” Ross tapped his lip reflectively. “All right, this one: ‘It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.’”
Petra groaned in frustration. “Hang on, hang on . . . I know this. Ha! Orwell. Nineteen Eighty-Four.”
“Finally!” declared Ross. “Okay, next one—”
“Wait! What about my question?”
“Go on then.”
“Um . . . Didn’t you have a two-book deal with Encore?”
“Yes.”
“Damn! I meant to ask, ‘Are you still under contract?’”
“Ah, but you didn’t,” Ross observed infuriatingly. “Okay, this one’s easy. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of
times . . .’”
“Tale of Two Cities!” crowed Petra triumphantly. “God, I love that book. ‘It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done . . .’”
“‘And a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known,’” finished Ross, momentarily reflective, flumping down on the
sofa beside her, their thighs nearly touching.
“God, I bloody love that book,” Petra quavered, her chin wobbling. What? Just thinking about Sidney Carton made her want to
cry? She had to get a grip.
“Need a minute?” said Ross gently, turning his body to face her. He rested his hand on her knee, ducking his head so his beautiful
green eyes, with their thick, dark lashes, could meet her own. For a long moment, they gazed at each other, neither apparently
able to break the connection. Next thing Petra knew, her hand was covering his. By instinct, their fingers interlinked, and
electricity coursed up Petra’s arm, straight to her core. She wondered what it would be like to reach up and stroke her fingers
along his strong jawline, to press her mouth against his—whoa!
“Absolutely not,” Petra blurted aloud, shaking her head to dispel the moment, forcing her mind to return to Sidney Carton, doing the noble thing. And that was what she had to do. Never mind her own increasingly disturbing feelings toward this man, their friendship was far too precious to
risk ruining it with a casual fling.
With difficulty, she gathered her scattered wits. “Now, spill. Are you still under contract?” she demanded briskly.
Ross hesitated. “No,” he said at last, apparently reluctantly taking back his hand and turning around to face the fire.
Silence fell.
Seriously, this was huge, thought Petra, unable to think up a response. Being released from a contract was top level “bad.”
It basically never happened, except when things had gone really, really wrong.
“Did you have to pay back the advance?” Petra asked at last, her face screwed up in sympathy.
“Rudely personal,” Ross observed mildly. “I actually didn’t, which was nice. My agent did a very good job. She had ammunition
because the breakdown between me and—the publisher,” he said carefully, “was . . . complicated. We sort of had a special relationship.”
“Like the US and UK ‘special relationship,’” probed Petra impertinently. “Or seriously inappropriate, don’t tell anyone, X-rated
‘special relationship’?” she asked.
If she recalled correctly, the editor who acquired Ross’s debut was well-known in the industry as a ball-breaking, fast-tracking wrecking machine, currently editorial director in one of the big five publishing houses, an ascent that meant the woman had serious cojones.
Plus, conceded Petra, the woman—Cassandra, was she called?
—was one of those shiny, leggy, perfectly manicured women other women loved to hate.
Which was fine if you liked that sort of thing. And why wouldn’t he?
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning,” she said, keen to pry further revelations from him now that he was in the mood to talk.
“Tell me about your agent?”
“Did I have a special relationship with her too?” he said, deliberately misunderstanding. “No, as it happens. I’m kind of
a one-woman guy. One woman at a time, I mean, I’m not saying that I’ve only been with one woman,” he added hastily. “’Cause,
you know, I’m thirty-four, so that would be borderline weird—”
“Yeah, all right, all right, I don’t need to know about your entire romantic history,” said Petra, finding that she very much didn’t want to hear about any of it, for some reason. “Are you still with your agent at least? It’s Veronica Bampton, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Was. I mean, it still is, of course. She’s not changed her name. But no, I’m not signed to her anymore.”
“So basically,” said Petra, struggling to get to grips with this monumental car crash Ross was describing, “you’re a major
international prize-winning debut novelist and you’ve now lost your publishing deal, your editor, and your agent. Correct?”
“To put it bluntly,” he agreed. “But this we know,” he protested. “We’ve talked about this, remember?”
“Yeah, but I just didn’t . . .” Petra whistled through her teeth, shaking her head. Ross had clearly had a very, very bad
time of it. “Oh Ross,” she said, “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“Thank you,” said Ross, selecting a large piece of chocolate from the fast-diminishing stash in the box. “Catch,” he said, aiming it at her mouth.
She did. “I’m not a performing monkey,” she protested with her mouth full, well aware this was a diversionary tactic. Or at
least an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Yeah, I’m not a performing monkey either,” he said. “And that’s kind of why the whole thing with book two happened.”
Petra gave him a sympathetic look. “We ask a lot of our writers,” she admitted. “People who don’t know the publishing industry
tend to ask us whether we are all actually frustrated writers ourselves . . . Maybe some of us are but—in all honesty—I can’t
imagine anything worse.”
“You put your trust in your editor, for sure,” he mused, not looking at her. “You have to. It should never have gotten messy,
like it did.”
He looked so abject, Petra felt bad for grilling him. Time for a change of focus.
“So,” she said, “going back to current writing that you are—or possibly are not—doing . . . ?”
Ross sighed, staring into the fire for a long moment. “I actually really am,” he admitted, squaring his shoulders. “Just recently,
I started again. Since we met, as a matter of fact. First time in a long time, and it feels . . . well, it feels surprisingly
okay.”
“So, can I read it?”
“No.”
“Oh, go on,” Petra wheedled. “I’m a professional, remember?”
“No,” he said again, but he was smiling.