Chapter Twenty-One
“See?” Petra told Ross as they washed up the mugs. “You’re not as recognizable as you think you are.”
“Yup, ego only a little bit dented,” Ross acknowledged ruefully. “Five years is a long time.”
“How will you sell it—this lull—when you get back out there with this one?” asked Petra. “Are you going to admit to writers’
block or something? I think there’s an important message about mental health support and managing expectations. You could
be the poster boy for change . . . if you wanted?” Petra added, as Ross declined to respond.
“Or on the other hand—you could just say it was all a massive publicity ploy,” Petra proposed. “Like Agatha Christie.”
“I think she only disappeared for a few days,” Ross told her. “And wasn’t it about escaping a failing marriage? Which is understandable . . .
I didn’t think it was generally thought of as a ruse. You’re too cynical for a woman your age,” he teased.
“But people will ask . . . You’ll need to be ready,” Petra insisted.
“Not yet . . .” said Ross quietly, hanging up his tea towel to dry.
And Petra left it at that. For now.
Ross didn’t reply to Henrietta’s text, or to the email that followed. What could he possibly say? He mulled over whether to
block her, but that seemed childish and cowardly. Plus, she wouldn’t even recognize that she was blocked, and—for all he knew—she
would carry on messaging without him even seeing them. Somehow, rendering your enemy invisible didn’t make things better,
it made things worse.
“I’m just so nervous that Jules is going to come back and be disappointed,” admitted Jess when she and Petra were poring over
the festival plans, fortified by multiple cups of tea and a lemon drizzle cake that Freya had dropped off for them both earlier.
“How would she be disappointed?” Petra demanded. Jess had already done an amazing job of compiling speakers, workshops, signing
events, and media interviews. Petra was hugely impressed and frequently said so. “You know what?” she said. “I can see one
of the London publishing houses wanting to snap you up for their publicity department when they see what you are capable of.”
“Really?” Jess blushed, clearly abashed. “Although obviously I would hate to work in London,” she added hastily. “I want to
stay here with Aiden and Maisie—Maisie has GCSE mock exams this autumn, so there’s no way . . .” she mused, squashing all
her remaining cake crumbs onto the end of her finger. “Really, though?”
“Definitely,” said Petra firmly.
“Although I’ve had zero interest from the London publishing scene for this festival,” Jess went on, frustrated. “We’ve got
a local crime writer—he’s a big cheese—and it’s like getting blood out of a stone, persuading the marketing team to produce
some collateral for him.”
“I suppose they’re waiting to see whether we are worth the bother,” soothed Petra. “This is the guy doing the crime-writing
workshop?”
“Yes. I’m really worried no one will sign up to take part. Poor man.”
“Write Club will probably all come,” Petra said, but Jess was beyond reassurance.
“And book signings!” she went on, as if Petra hadn’t spoken. “I hate them. I get so stressed that the writer won’t sell any
books. Jules is used to all this stuff, with the publishing job she had before she came down here to live.”
Petra thought again how lovely it was going to be to meet Jules and compare notes, but then her stomach lurched in its now
too familiar sign of anxiety. Jules and Roman appearing back in Portneath signaled the end of her time at Capelthorne’s. What
she was going to do next was becoming an extremely vexing question.
“You should get involved,” Petra told Ross when she was reporting back about her meeting with Jess. “It’s going to be great.
Quite low-key, local, gentle stuff . . . brilliant for getting your feet back under the table.”
Ross was opening a bottle of wine and delayed his reply until he had dispensed with the cork and poured for them both.
“I’m actually seriously thinking about it,” he said as he handed Petra her glass. “Jess lobbied me when we met for drinks the other day.”
“She didn’t tell me!” said Petra, oddly put out.
“Well, it wasn’t like she was putting her case to ‘award-winning debut writer Ross McCloud,’” he reminded her. “I know you
told them I was a writer,” he said, “but Jess seemed to think I was—what was it?—a UX writer for a US tech firm . . . ? Don’t
even know what that is,” he admitted.
“I have no idea why she said that,” fibbed Petra, who had admittedly told them all something vague about Ross being a website copywriter.
It wasn’t a complete lie. “But you’ve written website copy, no?”
“Years ago,” Ross insisted. “When I was a starving writer in a garret.”
“Ah yes, then,” said Petra ironically. “Aren’t you still one of them?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “I might not have been completely straight with you,” he went on. “I’m actually still getting quite
a decent income from royalties, and rights sales are still popping up too.”
“Why not be honest?” said Petra, puzzled, as she had—frankly—been wondering how Ross was making the rent.
He sighed. “It’s going to sound silly, but I’m kind of embarrassed to be making so much more than most. Do you even know how little the average writer makes a year in the UK?”
“There was a survey,” said Petra. “It’s something absurd like seven thousand pounds. Which is crazy, obviously. How can anyone live on that? And how are we going to have diverse voices in writing if no normal person can afford to do it? But you’re not average, thankfully.”
“No,” said Ross. “I’m not. I’m incredibly lucky.”
“So,” said Petra, pressing her advantage, “going back to Jess and the festival, why don’t you pay forward some of your luck
and get involved?”
“You’re right,” said Ross. “I’ll lead that writing workshop Jess was hitting me up for, why not? I’ll have to google whatever
the hell a UX writer is before then if that’s what I am.”
“That would be amazing,” Petra told him. Okay, so he wasn’t breaking cover with who he really was, but it was something. She was dying to let Jess
know right away.
Alone again, after Petra left to speak to Jess, Ross tried—and failed—to unclench his jaw a little. He was so tense, he was
giving himself a headache. It was such a joy sharing everything in his head with Petra these days, but she could do without
knowing about these messages from Henrietta. This little complication he would bear alone for as long as he could. He knew
the woman too well to think she might give up. And—he had already had the thought—if she was going to hunt him down anyway
then he might as well beat her to the punch and come out into the open. Maybe the festival would be the time and place? That
way, he could help his new friends at the same time, which was a bonus. But it was a grim thought all the same.
Jess and Petra were sitting in the little office at the back of the shop, cramming in a bit of work on the festival pre-publicity
while the shop was quiet.
Jess, when Petra admitted Ross’s true identity, was staggered.
“You mean, I’ve been in the pub having a pint with Ross McCloud, and I didn’t even put two and two together,” she wondered
in awe. “You said he was a UX writer,” she accused Petra.
“Actually, you said that,” corrected Petra. “I said he wrote website copy.”
“Which is basically the same thing and also not true,” Jess protested. And then the six-million-dollar-question occurred to
her. “Is he writing something now?” she demanded, but Petra wasn’t to be drawn. All he had agreed to was hosting a workshop
as Ross the website copywriter. It was a start.
“We definitely do need some sort of attention-grabber, though,” Petra said, scratching her head anxiously. “We need a big
announcement.”
“I’ve been following some of the talks and workshops on our Insta feed,” Jess agreed, “but the only one that gained any traction
was the illustration workshop with Imo. I mean, obviously, Imogen Crawley is such a big name around here . . .”
“Around everywhere,” observed Petra.
“Right. And her publisher and agency kindly added it to their stories, which was cool. We got a surge of new followers from
that.”
“And how is our lineup looking?”
“Not bad,” said Jess, “but we’re a long way from London. It’s seriously hard to attract big publishing names to do presentations
or even just to attend. Actually, Imo’s agent is very sweetly coming down to present a seminar on getting representation,
which is proving really popular . . . it’s nearly fully booked up! Goes to show how many people secretly want to write a book—”
“—or already have,” Petra chipped in.
“Plus, she’s going to do some one-on-ones, which is so kind,” said Jess, looking relieved at the thought.
“That’s amazing,” Petra told her. Jess was doing an incredible job. Whereas, her . . . ?
She felt like she ought to be able to hook in some big names from the London publishing scene, but really? She had only ever
been a bottom-feeder in the publishing world. And what sway she used to hold with the bigger writers on her list was nonexistent
now.
Petra caught Jess stealing a look at her and then vaguely looking away, for all the world as if last year’s planner, up on
the wall, was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“I could ask,” she said.
“Ooh, would you?” Jess replied, far too quickly. “I mean clearly he doesn’t like being in the limelight. But it would be amazing.
Honestly? He could totally be the keynote speaker. And he can talk about whatever he likes: being a successful debut author,
the writing process, his experiences in the publishing world as a big seller . . . whatever. And even if he does have something
written, he doesn’t have to say so, does he?”
Although the expression on Jess’s face told Petra everything she needed to know about how much Jess hoped he would.
Ross was collared by Flo as soon as he had finished hugely enjoying himself reading The Gruffalo in the children’s reading corner that Saturday.
“A little bird tells me you’re writing a beautiful book, Ross,” was her opener. “Or should I say ‘award-winning debut author