Chapter Thirteen #3
as a result. Yes, feeling out of her depth, she had definitely said the wrong things, she decided. Same old Petra.
With friends like her, who needed enemies?
Understandably, Ross certainly seemed to be avoiding her now, texting to let her know he wouldn’t be dropping into the shop that day—or the next—or the next.
The texts were oblique and becoming less frequent: He “had a lot going on,” he “lost track of the time,” he “needed space to reflect . . .” The rejection—at least that was how it seemed—felt bruising.
But it wasn’t like they were “together,” she told herself.
He owed her nothing. And now she needed to get Ross out of her head, so she could concentrate on what Jess was so earnestly telling her about the literary festival.
“It’s daunting,” Jess admitted, straightening the already straight writing pad, several pens, a desk diary, and a packet of
Post-it notes she had brought to Freya’s to record their thoughts.
Petra admired the organization. Maybe one of the reasons she was a rubbish literary agent is because she had insufficient
stationery. “You’ll do great,” she told Jess as the other woman took a deep, steadying breath.
“Hmm. That’s what Aiden says, but . . . I mean, it wasn’t even my idea, to be honest.”
“Oh yeah, you were saying it was you and Jules?” Petra responded.
“Right! So I honestly don’t mind, but Jules made a public announcement there was going to be this new literary festival, but
right after that Roman insisted they were going to do their Grand Tour, so Jules wanted to cancel, but then she thought—well—everyone’s
going to be really unimpressed that she said it and then bailed . . .”
“So you picked it up instead?”
“Yes. And actually—you know what?—we are starting really small: something for the kids, a bit of fiction, memoir, a few industry professionals doing a couple of writing workshops or talks about publishing maybe. The challenge is getting people to come all this way. We’re kind of out in the sticks.
But then—when I heard you’re a literary agent—”
“Ex-literary agent,” Petra corrected her, but it was as if Jess hadn’t heard.
“So you know loads of people, right?”
“Actually, not as many as you probably think.” But then Petra caught herself. Everyone was being so lovely to her, they deserved
her support. And there was always Alistair. He would do something, wouldn’t he? “I might be able to pull some strings,” Petra
admitted, sparking a look of immense relief on Jess’s face. “Leave it to me.”
“And we’ve got Imo,” said Jess, sounding more confident. “She’s being amazing, of course. Did you get a chance to talk to
her the other day?”
Petra had no idea what Jess was talking about, so she made a hopefully noncommittal face, while watching and listening for
further clues.
“You know she’s the Imogen Crawley, don’t you?” persisted Jess.
Ah! Dauntingly perfect Imogen and Gabriel from the other night. “Carnegie-medal-winning children’s book author, Imogen Crawley?”
she said, nodding.
Imogen Crawley—like Ross—was one of those publishing unicorns whose debuts had soared to spectacular success right at the
start of their careers.
“Imo, as in Gabriel and Imo, yes,” said Jess. “She’s a superstar—tough for Gabriel being outshone by his wife. Lucky he’s
not a conceited snob. I mean, he easily could be, being lord of the manor, but he’s never been like that.”
“He’s a lord?” Now Petra felt even more that she was frantically playing catch-up in this conversation.
“Yeah, so anyway, Imo is kind of our headliner, in terms of the children’s stuff,” Jess went on, being clearly less interested in the whole “lord” thing than Petra was.
“She’s really generous with her time over my work in schools, and Jules gets on well with her too, so she’s always in Capelthorne’s doing stuff.
We’d thought of having a children’s story-writing workshop and maybe an art competition, drawing their favorite book character?
But, of course, the festival’s in early September, so whatever we do in the run-up, it’ll end up during the school vacation, which is where you come in,” Jess stopped and took a deep breath, throwing Petra an apologetic look.
“Sorry,” she said. “Listen to me gabbling on. On the subject of stories, do you intend to carry on doing the children’s story time on Saturdays this summer?
It could be a great recruitment hotbed for the festival stuff. ”
“Wha—? Oh, I don’t know,” said Petra, making a mental note to ask Flo when she got back to the shop. Mainly, she had been
in a daydream while Jess chattered, imagining Ross making his heroic comeback as a headliner in the festival. Sheesh, if he
did that it would put Portneath on the literary map for sure. But she would never persuade him. That is, if they ever saw
each other again. The others—Freya, Jess, Gabriel . . . the whole crowd, and Flo of course—had been very welcoming, but Ross?
Ross had become a close friend in those few short weeks.
At least, she thought he had.
She missed him.