Chapter Twenty #2
a literary agent anymore. And then, when I went up the mountain and got stuck, I realized that I had to say yes, because—caring about him so much—I would never forgive myself if I didn’t help him. He refuses to contemplate
working with anyone else.”
“Okay, so now you will be his agent?” asked Flo, frowning.
“No,” said Petra. “Because by the time I said yes, he decided he didn’t want me to be his agent after all.”
“Good grief, I wish you would both make up your minds,” said Flo.
“I know, sorry,” said Petra.
“So he still needs an agent?”
“Yes. Very much so,” said Petra fervently, remembering her extraordinary excitement at reading the Caliban story.
“What are you going to do?”
“I think,” said Petra, “the only thing I can do is very gently persuade him to find other representation.”
Flo put her hands up to hold her head as if it was hurting. Which it probably was, thought Petra. Her own head was hurting
while pondering these difficulties too.
“On to other matters,” Flo said, understandably giving up. “I was wondering if it would be too awful of me not to come in
on Tuesday next week?”
“Of course it wouldn’t, that’s totally fine,” said Petra immediately, although inwardly she gave a groan. Flo had taken to
coming in twice a week since Easter, and Petra had been grateful for the extra help.
“I wouldn’t ask,” said Flo, “but I must get my sweet peas in if they are going to have any chance of being in full bloom for
Jules and Roman’s party. I’ve got a couple of hundred plants on the go. She wants them everywhere. On the tables, on the pew
ends in church, mixed colors . . .”
“Oh, for the wedding party,” said Petra, catching on. “Church? I thought they were already married.”
“They are, but the church in Middlemass is very special to them both. They’re having a blessing there, and then back to Roman’s
house for a tented wedding breakfast with a ceilidh in the evening.”
“That’ll be fun!” said Petra, thinking it sounded anything but.
She was sure that everyone else attending—the people she was now proud to call her friends—would have a much better idea how to behave, and dress, and what sort of gift to bring.
She knew Roman’s family was wealthy. What could she possibly give the couple who either had everything or could go out and buy anything they wanted themselves?
“I don’t suppose you’ve brought anything suitable to wear,” Flo guessed. “I would love for you to come and have a rummage
through my wardrobe? I’ve practically got a whole room full of pretty frocks I don’t wear anymore. And we are about the same
size, I would say . . .”
“That would be really kind,” said Petra gratefully.
One problem solved at least. She loved vintage.
“And I do believe my father’s morning coat would fit Ross,” Flo went on. “It’s ancient, but fantastic quality. I’m assuming
Ross is going to be your plus one—” she broke off enquiringly.
“Who knows?” admitted Petra. “It’s a long time between May and August . . . Anything could happen.” She felt like saying it
out loud kept her safer. If anything happened to their new relationship, she didn’t know how she would survive it—that was
the truth.
“Might be smelling a bit mothbally,” Flo mused, tactfully ignoring Petra’s gloomy outlook on her romantic affairs. “I’ll dig
it out and drop it off at the dry cleaners.”
“I can do that,” Petra said quickly. “Thank you, that’s so sweet of you.”
Maybe this thing will be fun after all, Petra thought.
“What if they figure out who I am?” said Ross anxiously.
Petra had him putting the chocolate biscuits on the plate while she boiled the kettle. They were expecting the other members
of Write Club any minute.
“Hardly anyone recognizes writers,” she reminded him. “Even the really high-profile ones. Also, what if they do?” she reasoned
with him, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Okay, well,” Ross looked at the ceiling and counted off his points on his fingers. “The worst that can happen is that they
hate it and they’ll be too nice to say so, and then I’ll get falsely confident, and publish, and then the critics will hate it, and then the public will hate it .
. . Actually—I say that—they won’t even buy it, and then the publisher will make me pay back the advance, because it was so terrible it literally contravened the contract . . . and
then—”
“You are talking such—” protested Petra, and then she saw the expression on his face. He was just teasing her. Again.
She was secretly relieved that his mood was more level these days, most of the time at least. He had seemed painfully anxious
the last few days though, twitchily checking his phone and jumping whenever a notification came through. It was strange, she
pondered, as he had cut himself off from the world so completely, she couldn’t even think who he could be in touch with.
As pre-agreed, Petra introduced Ross just by his first name and not a pseudonym. The whole group greeted him warmly, without an impertinent level of curiosity. There was no lack of insight when it came to feeding back on his writing, though.
“Well done, lad,” said Simon gruffly. “Stunning opening. I wish I could write half as well as you.”
“Yes, stunning,” said Alison, the romance writer, fanning herself at the memory. “Such a strong opening—the whole premise
of the novel laid out in the first soliloquy. Clever stuff.”
After this initial praise, Ross seemed to relax a little, and the whole group was soon having a lively discussion about Ross’s
decision to write in the first person, and the various pros and cons of the approach. They toyed with the idea that Ross should
alternate with Miranda’s point of view, before deciding that Ross would probably do better to show Miranda’s autonomy through
the lens of Caliban’s twisted understanding of the world. Ross, the group mused, had to have sufficient faith that the reader
could be trusted to intuit, something it could be hard for a writer to allow.
“How does it end?” asked Alison. “I hope the boy gets the girl. I don’t like books that don’t have a happy ending,” she admitted.
“I hope the boy gets the girl too,” said Ross, casting a darting glance at Petra. “I actually don’t know yet . . . it could
go either way.”
“I’m frankly astonished you don’t have an agent, lad,” said Simon. “You seem like a very assured writer to me.”
Petra and Ross exchanged a look, but Ross just shrugged and Simon—thankfully—let it go.
Although he was right, thought Petra. Ross didn’t have an agent.
She was touched to see that Ross had somehow—despite his intense writing schedule—also had made time to read and offer feedback thoughts on the work of the rest of the group.
They were so generous and kind with each other, she mused, not for the first time.
How sad that group members who were seriously seeking representation and a publisher would learn soon enough that the rest of the writing universe was not always as delightful.