Chapter Twenty-Two
Petra brought it up with Ross that evening as they ate and, although he seemed a little distracted, his response was robust:
“What you’re really asking is whether bookshops should be selling commercial fiction or just literary,” he proposed.
“No, I’m not,” protested Petra. “Of course they should sell both. I mean, we’re selling the latest Costa winner, sure, but if we weren’t pushing the books the Beach
Reads group recommended, our last three months’ turnover wouldn’t look anything like as rosy as it does.”
“Exactly,” said Ross. “So the question is not whether romances are serious books—whatever that even means—but if there’s another
reason why bookshops don’t generally stock them.” He waited patiently for Petra to catch up, but she was puzzled.
“Okay, who reads the most romance, men or women?” he postulated.
“I want to say both, but . . .”
“Yeah, but you can’t because it’s primarily women, isn’t it?” Ross went on.
Petra nodded, annoyed, but she started to see Ross’s point. “So it’s misogyny,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Pure misogyny,” said Ross, topping up Petra’s glass. “And, before you ask,” he went on, “I like reading a good romance myself.
I am the exception that proves the rule.”
“I would expect nothing less,” said Petra.
“So how are we going to change the world?” prompted Ross, smiling in expectation.
“How are you going to change the world first?” said Petra, buying time.
“How about I write a romance?”
“Done.”
“Good, because I already am,” said Ross, delighted that Petra had fallen for his little trap.
“You are?” said Petra, flushing with pleasure at the thought. But of course he was! Caliban and Miranda . . . it was the greatest
love story never told . . . “That Shakespeare was a sappy old thing, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Although he didn’t always deliver on the happy endings.”
At that, his expression darkened.
“This is nicer than holing up in the used books section,” said Petra quickly to divert him, cuddling up for warmth. Even in
early summer, the evenings could be cool, and the stone cottage was a little damp, if Petra was honest.
This was how they spent their evenings now, she mused happily, curled up together on the sofa in the cottage, drinking endless
cups of tea, sometimes watching a film on Ross’s laptop, but—as often as not—just chatting about work and life.
“Doesn’t four months ago feel like forever,” said Ross, gazing into the flames, his dark thoughts apparently forgotten again as he idly stroked Petra’s cheek.
“Yeah, time’s been kind of dragging since I met you,” Petra joked.
They both sat in contented silence for a minute or two, and then: “About the festival—” they both said in unison and then
laughed.
“You go,” said Petra.
“Okay, so I’m thinking it’s a bit silly to do that workshop incognito,” Ross told her. “And I’m going to look like a total
weirdo if people find out later.”
Petra stiffened. He was right, of course, but the last thing she wanted to do was push him.
“Plus, you and Jess are doing an amazing job, and I know bandying my stupid name around will help, which is ridiculous, but . . .”
He trailed away.
“If you’re sure?” ventured Petra.
He nodded firmly.
“Okay,” said Petra, looking at him anxiously, but she was reassured by what she saw. “I’ll get Jess to draft an announcement
that you’re our keynote speaker for the launch then,” she said. “And we’ll need a publicity photo . . . This is the kind of
thing you should be talking to your agent about, really,” she said, biting her lip.
“Who needs an agent when I’ve got you as my . . . ‘unagent.’”
“Kind of like the ‘undead’ with fringe benefits?” queried Petra.
“Oh yes,” said Ross. “Aaaall sorts of fringe benefits. Like, I would never do this with my agent,” he said, pulling her onto his lap and kissing her on the neck, just behind her ear, where he knew it would
drive her wild.
“Yup, that would be seriously unprofessional behavior,” she sighed, slipping her hand inside his shirt and leaning in for more.
Petra was anxious. She was glad to be in the shop alone today because Flo would definitely weasel it out of her, but the truth
was, she was out of her depth. She was well aware how incredibly brave Ross was to agree to be part of the festival. He was,
she knew, doing it out of loyalty to her—and to Jess and the gang who had sweetly taken him into their friend group as one
of their own.
But this unease was making her feel isolated, because none of the crowd in Portneath would understand what was causing it.
Not even Ross. She wasn’t the most experienced literary agent in the world, but she wasn’t totally green. Once Ross broke
cover, it would be a complete fracas, especially if they got wind that there was a manuscript too. Not only would the trade
media be all over it, she was fully expecting a flock of influencers to descend. And social media was powerful but fickle . . .
His TikTok fans might have helped to make Ross, but they could break him just as easily. If they didn’t buy his story—his
reasons for disappearing (and even she didn’t really understand what they were)—then the condemnation could be personally and professionally crushing.
There was only one person she could turn to, and she knew she could trust him to keep a secret.
“Petra!” cried Alistair. “What a pleasure to hear from you. It’s been so long I thought you might have gone native down there
in Devon—forgotten all your London friends.”
“My London friend, singular,” she reminded him. “Pretty sure everyone else was happy to see me go.”
“Not at all,” he said gallantly. “If anything, people have been missing your entertainment value.”
“Ouch,” said Petra. That was mean! She had actually been making a real effort and insulting people less often, these days.
Although Alistair wouldn’t know that, of course.
“Sorry,” said Alistair, sounding genuinely contrite. “Still too soon?”
“Hmm . . . no, you’re fine,” Petra reassured him. “I fully accept my blurting problem is amusing for everyone. I am glad to
be of service. I am starting to like it down here, though. People live well. There’s a lot to love . . . the beach, the people, the shop! The
shop is amazing, I love the shop. Obviously I’m only temporary, though, but—yeah—I’m kind of envious of Jules, not going to
lie.”
“So, to what do I owe the considerable pleasure?” Alistair enquired gently.
She could picture him sitting at his huge walnut desk, perhaps fiddling with one of his bonsai trees, or casting his benign
gaze on the garden square that the offices overlooked. As London venues went, the agency’s offices were not bad. The silver
birch trees would be fully in leaf now, she thought, casting their delicate, dappled shade.
But Petra still didn’t miss it. Not one bit.
“So a quite exciting thing has happened,” she said slowly, choosing her words.
“Hmm?” He would have his gently bemused face on, Petra knew, the mild, bumbling, literary creature with a vagueness that was
entirely illusory. Alistair had a mind like a steel trap, Petra knew, and his judgment was rock solid. It was those attributes
she needed now.
“Um, do you remember a writer called Ross McCloud? He wrote a—”
“—of course I do,” Alistair broke in. “Who could forget? Debut author, stunning first novel, and crazy young too, makes me
wonder what I’ve been doing with my life. Didn’t he win the Booker too that year?”
“He did,” Petra confirmed.
“Haven’t heard of him for—what?—five years?” Alistair mused. “Strange . . . It’s like he dropped off the face of the earth,
now that I think about it. Why? What about him?”
“He’s here,” Petra said simply.
Alistair made a noise. She could picture him sitting bolt upright now, all pretense of dusty, vague establishment figure banished.
“What do you mean? You’ve seen him? Are you sure? Do you actually know him?”
“Yes, I actually know him quite . . . well,” said Petra carefully.
“Is he writing?” Alistair demanded, razor sharp now.
“He is.”
“Is there . . . is there a manuscript?”
“Nearly. Yes, there is. It’s not quite finished . . .”
“Doesn’t need to be. We could sell Ross McCloud if he just scribbled down his shopping list,” said Alistair rapidly. “But
wait a minute, does he have representation? He must have . . . Wasn’t it Eleanora Francis?”
“Veronica Bampton,” said Petra. “But—no—he doesn’t have representation currently.”
“He’s going to need it,” Alistair said curtly. “If anyone gets wind that there’s another manuscript going begging. This could
be the deal of the decade. Have you offered?”
“Yes and no,” admitted Petra. “It’s complicated. But here’s the thing—he’s been incommunicado for years, but he’s now agreed to front up the Portneath Literary Festival in a few weeks, his first public appearance since he disappeared, so . . . people are going to notice.”
“They most certainly are,” said Alistair, “and he’s going to need a team around him. A publicist, and an agent obviously,
and the publishers are going to be buzzing around like flies as soon as they get wind of it—when’s the festival?”
“End of August,” said Petra.
“Good,” said Alistair crisply. “Then there’s time. I envisage we’ll make the announcement, open the bidding, and tie up the
deal just in time for the winning publisher to have it as the jewel in their crown at Frankfurt. They’ll have sold translation
rights to the world and its wife by the end of the show. I hope very much you are telling me he would like our help?”
“I can persuade him,” said Petra, thinking she very much doubted that she could, actually. “It would be for you to represent
him, not me, of course.”
“Absolutely not,” said Alistair. “Listen, I’m happy to back you, happy to talk through every step you take, but you’re taking
the lead on this. It’s your win.”
“But—like you said—it’s huge . . .”
“Yup. It’s a career-maker,” Alistair agreed. “And it’s just what you need and deserve. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. You’re
an excellent agent, Petra. You can do this.”