Chapter Fifteen #2
themselves at me. And men.”
“Must have been hell,” said Petra, feeling a pang of jealousy. “And did you manage to refrain from reciprocating?”
“Yeah, mostly,” he said. “I was kind of . . . ‘unavailable’ at the time.” He gave Petra a twisted smile.
“You were in a relationship?” she hazarded.
“Yeah,” he said, without elaboration.
“With Prospero?”
“Yeah, kind of . . . Dr. Frankenstein, Geppetto, choose your god/creator/whoever . . . Female in this case, if you were wondering.”
“When God made man, she was only joking,” Petra told him.
“Bumper sticker philosophizing. Profound stuff,” he told her, looking away and pretending to be very busy with the ketchup.
Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it, which—of course—meant that Petra very much did.
“So about Caliban’s happy ending,” she said tangentially. “What might that look like?”
Ross put down his knife and fork reflectively. “I think I always saw it that Caliban’s thing for Miranda was legitimate,”
he said. “And potentially reciprocated. I mean, why not?”
“Makes sense,” Petra nodded. She had kind of had a crush on Miranda herself, after seeing the play as a teenager.
“I mean, why wouldn’t he be in love with her?” Ross agreed. “Not just because she’s beautiful, but because of her courage,”
he went on. “Her open-mindedness and determination to find beauty in all things.”
“‘Brave new world . . .’” quoted Petra.
“‘ . . . that has such people in it,’” Ross quoted back, his eyes locked onto Petra’s. “Exactly. So there’s Caliban, in this
beautiful place, but lonely, angry, and hating everything, then there’s Miranda, his childhood friend. I think she’s so amazing,”
he said smiling, with a faraway look in his eyes.
“Because . . . ?” prompted Petra, her heart inexplicably pounding.
“She’s astounding,” he went on. “She’s ended up on the island because of someone else’s agenda, she’s endured the trauma of a shipwreck, and she’s got this seriously weird father.
Despite all that, there she is: embracing change, driving positivity, bringing life, joy, and a fresh perspective into Caliban’s world at exactly the time that he’s suffering from having lost his freedom to this manipulative Svengali figure, Prospero.
It’s intoxicating,” he said, his eyes ranging hungrily over Petra’s
face as he talked. “She’s . . .” He shook his head, locking eyes with Petra again, smiling. “She’s kind of my dream woman,
I suppose.”
Seconds passed, and they sat, opposite each other at the little table—knees touching—the hum and clatter of the café seemed
to fade into silence.
For an insane moment, Petra was convinced he was going to kiss her. She closed her eyes and leaned imperceptibly toward him,
but . . . nothing.
When she opened her eyes again, Ross had looked away. The moment was gone. He sat, gazing out of the condensation-streaked
window at the heaving green-gray sea beyond. His fingers were busy, fidgeting with his paper napkin, twisting it into a rope.
Suddenly he came to, looking back at her and simultaneously gesturing for the bill.
“We should go,” he announced briskly. “I have to write.”
Petra heard nothing from Ross the following day. Or the next.
On Wednesday, she received a text from him. Sorry, it said. Writing.
For someone who was all about language, sending just a two-word text felt like the brush-off Petra assumed was intended. Clearly,
if he felt half the intensity Petra had experienced during their last conversation, he had thought better of it.
Enough! She was like a silly, infatuated schoolgirl and needed to get a grip.
Plus, she needed to focus on herself and her real reason for being in Portneath.
Running the bookshop was now a pleasure—okay, maybe not completely unadulterated. Lugging boxes of books around was not an
unalloyed joy—but for the most part, the customers were great fun, and Petra was having the best time implementing some small
changes, with Flo’s approval. No, the sadness in not seeing him—she told herself—was only about not having the chance to download
the day’s experiences with him as a friend—a friend who was, like her, rediscovering the joy in books.
Once the shop was closed, though, Petra was alone with her thoughts.
Mostly, they were not jolly thoughts.
Like, what she was going to do with herself once Jules and Roman wanted their shop back, for example . . . Books were no longer
her enemy, but going back to London and taking up the reins of her literary-agent life still felt impossibly daunting. Plus,
she had a massive hole in her list where her most lucrative clients had been. Which was a problem.
It was impossible not to have a creeping thought that Ross—writing a new book at last—might be looking for representation,
but then she dismissed the idea as hubris. As if a major novelist like him would seriously consider asking her to be his agent.
She wondered if he would at least allow her to read more of the manuscript. In the meantime, inspired by his passion, she
pledged to herself that she would “be more Miranda” in all of her endeavors. She thought that Caliban—and perhaps even Ross—would
approve.
After such a strange day together, Petra had half assumed Ross would think better of allowing her to press-gang him into reading to the little ones on Saturday.
Which was why she was astonished—and delighted—when he slipped quietly into the shop that Saturday morning.
“Sorry,” he said, pecking her on the cheek—which was a new habit, Petra noted—“it’s been quite a week!”
“In a good way, I hope?”
“Yeah, definitely, but my brain hurts. It’s great to take a break.”
Flo, sharp-eyed and very obviously clocking the kiss, presented herself for an introduction.
“Flo, this is Ross—Ross, Flo—he’s doing our story-reading session for us? I’m sure I said . . . ?”
“You did!” exclaimed Flo. “You are a darling! Petra says you’re the master of silly voices.”
“Damned with faint praise,” said Ross, equably enough. “Hopefully not my only skill. What am I reading?”
“Have you heard of Jill Murphy? The Last Noo-noo?” asked Petra, riffling through a pile of books at the front desk for the one she wanted, with its picture of an adorable
baby monster looking extremely cross on the cover.
“Of course I’ve heard of Jill Murphy,” said Ross. “I’m not a complete philistine, but what, in the name of all that is holy, is a ‘noo-noo’?”
“Don’t panic, the noo-noo’s just a pacifier,” laughed Petra, handing him the book. “One of the mums popped in this week to
buy a copy. She wants her little boy to stop using a pacifier before he starts nursery school, and he’s struggling, poor little
thing. He’s called Archie. She’s probably bringing him in for the session, so I thought it would be a good one to start with.”
“Thanks,” said Ross, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “I think I assumed I’d be reading Tolkien or something.”
“That could work,” said Flo. “That’s providing you are planning on doing this every Saturday for the next hundred years.”
“I could be persuaded,” said Ross, glancing at Petra and then decidedly looking away. “I can think of worse things than spending
the next hundred years trapped in a bookshop.”
“Welded to a swarm of snotty children clamoring for more?”
“Yeah, maybe not that bit,” he admitted.
Flo settled Ross in the corner of the children’s section with an adult-sized chair and a fresh cup of tea and—within minutes—he
was off.
Who knew that a handsome man like Ross could appear even more attractive when he was putting on a bossy granny voice, thought
Petra, finding herself gazing at him between customers, something that she spotted Flo noticing too. She would be interrogated
later, that was for sure.
“So . . .” said Flo heavily, in a brief moment when Ross had left and they were in between flurries of customers. “Ross, eh?”
“Hmm?” Petra replied, noncommittal, but she was fooling no one.
“I, for one, feel much better knowing you have a nice young man looking out for you,” said Flo complacently.
“Don’t need a man looking out for me,” muttered Petra gracelessly.
“Didn’t say you did,” Flo retorted. “But life is much nicer with, than without. I would miss Graham if he wasn’t there . . .
and you would never have caught me saying that just a year ago,” she added, sounding astonished herself at the revelation.