Chapter Twenty-Three
“You’re all fired up,” observed Ross, looking pleased as they had a late supper after the meeting.
“I am,” admitted Petra. “I’ve just done the orders, and I’ve had so many helpful recommendations and requests from customers,
I’m starting to feel like I might actually know what I’m doing.”
She was acutely aware that Jules and Roman’s money needed to buy books that would actually sell. It was a responsibility.
And, as she repeatedly reminded herself, Capelthorne’s wasn’t her plaything—it was Jules and Roman’s livelihood. Whatever
she personally thought about any individual book, it was sales that mattered in the end.
“I’m so proud of you,” said Ross quietly, putting down his fork and smiling across the little supper table at her.
“Why?” said Petra.
“Fishing,” he teased, laughing at her perplexed expression.
“Don’t look at me like that! I’m allowed to be proud of you!
You’re smashing the whole running-a-bookshop thing, you’re doing the almost impossible job of giving me the emotional support to keep me writing, you’re making good friends locally—everybody loves you .
. .” He shook his head, clearly struggling to think of more.
“What? Running out of compliments so soon?” said Petra, pretending to be offended. “What about my stunning talent for always
saying the exact right thing at all times?”
But Ross refused to rise to it. “Do you think that you might just be able to be a tiny bit proud of yourself?” he asked her
quietly, serious now.
Petra sighed. “Mmm . . . maybe,” she said. And, as Ross continued to gaze at her steadily, “Look, I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” Ross told her. “Because I might not always be there to remind you to be.”
And the expression on his face when he said it was so wistful, and so forlorn, Petra didn’t dare to ask him what he meant.
The shop was busy that weekend. Being Saturday, it was market day and also changeover day for most of the tourists. Flo and
Petra were busy from the moment they opened, selling to the crowd who were leaving—mainly last-minute children’s books to
help distract on the journey home—and also to the crowd who were arriving, blissed out at the thought of long days ahead to
read and daydream on the beach.
The weather was expected to be fair for the whole week, although today there was a brisk wind coming in from the sea. Flo,
usually a paragon of efficiency, was distracted. She was, Petra discovered, fixated about her sweet peas.
“I planted two enormous lots from seed,” she told Petra.
“Way back at Christmastime—they were all over the kitchen windowsills—but they’ve all made the transition from the greenhouse to the garden now.
The trouble is, the second lot might have gotten put out a bit late.
I’m worried they won’t be in full bloom in time for the wedding, although this lovely sunshine will help. ”
“Sweet peas don’t last long, once they’re picked, do they?” said Petra, realizing just as the words came out of her mouth
that she had inadvertently made Flo’s anxiety even worse.
“Absolutely right,” she fretted. “They have to be picked on the day, and we need tons for the tent with tables. Roman’s mother
is calling it a small wedding—I’d love to see what she thinks is a large one—but it’s still ten round tables for ten, so that’s
ten big glass jarfuls for the centerpieces. And then there are going to be these silver ice buckets on stands at the entrance
with loads more, plus a few of my roses too, if a rainstorm hasn’t wiped them out just before.”
Petra made a sympathetic face at Flo, but she also faced her own anxiety about the party. She loved those regular pub evening
drinks with the Portneath crowd—they had been so welcoming to her, and now to Ross—but this event of Jules and Roman’s was
daunting. A hundred people they mostly didn’t know, but who knew each other really well? It seemed a nerve-wracking prospect.
It shouldn’t be, though, she told herself sternly. She had routinely attended all those professional receptions in the London
publishing scene, book launches and industry shindigs. Of course, that was before her massive faux pas . . . She was becoming
insular.
“We must get your dress sorted,” said Flo suddenly, in a brief lull. “It’s only a couple of weeks away now.”
“Gosh, so it is,” said Petra, with a wave of sadness.
Jules and Roman were returning in just a few days, making her departure significantly more imminent.
She had to find another job, but leaving Portneath—and all her new friends—potentially leaving Ross, felt like the most dispiriting thing in the world now.
Responding to Flo’s comments with an effort, Petra allowed Flo to arrange for her to come and rummage in Flo’s wardrobe one
evening that week.
“And don’t let me forget to give you the morning coat for Ross when I see you,” Flo reminded her.
I’ll be a bit late, Petra texted Ross as she and Flo closed up the shop that Tuesday. I’ve got to go back to Flo’s to find a dress. She had told him this that very morning, but he was so vague these days, his story of Miranda and Caliban filling his head.
Surprisingly, he had politely declined Flo’s offer of a morning coat, telling Petra he already had something to wear for the
wedding party.
The evening air was warm and sweet as Petra and Flo drove, windows wide open, through the narrow country lanes to Flo’s cottage
in Middlemass, a pretty little village a few miles inland from Portneath. It was also, Petra learned, where Roman and Jules
lived, and where the party would be in a couple of weeks’ time.
“What is it?” said Flo perceptively as she drove.
Petra sighed. There was no hiding anything from her friend. “Jess wants to go ahead and announce that Ross will be headlining
the literary festival.”
“And . . . ?”
“I mean, it’s fine that he’s going to be there. Actually, I think it’s good. He’s in such a great place now,” gabbled Petra.
“He’s writing . . . the book’s nearly finished, as a matter of fact . . .”
“It’s good?”
“Outstanding,” breathed Petra. “Truly . . . No, I mean, it needs to find an audience.”
“So . . . ?” prompted Flo.
“So when we make the announcement, everything is going to explode. It’s going to feel like I’m trying to suppress nuclear
fission.”
“Sure?” probed Flo.
“Yes,” said Petra with conviction. And that was not just because she thought it, hadn’t Alistair said as much himself? And he would know, with his wisdom and experience.
“I fail to see a problem,” said Flo. “You want to make a splash, presumably?”
“No, I mean, yes, it’s all good! It’s all good,” declared Petra.
“But . . .” nudged Flo.
“He says he wants me to represent him, and he refuses to go with my old boss Alistair instead,” Petra burst out.
She gazed unseeing out of the car window, breathing in the straw scent of the sun-warmed meadows they were driving past as
they entered the outskirts of Middlemass, over the stone bridge and past an old stone church, with its square Norman bell
tower.
“But he wants you,” said Flo at last. It was a statement, not a question. “So do it,” she added with finality, pulling into
the driveway of an exquisite little stone cottage with towering hollyhocks in the tiny front garden. “Good talk,” Flo continued,
switching off the engine. “Now, on to other matters.”
Nightingale Cottage was a study in cozy cottage perfection. Flo opened the back of the car and Digger popped out, trotting
to the front door and looking at the two women expectantly.
“He’s settled so well,” said Flo fondly. “You would think he’s been here since he was a pup.”
“Has he not?” asked Petra.
“Rescue,” said Flo succinctly. “Bless him. Not saying we didn’t have our teething problems, but they were understandable really.”
“He landed on his feet, coming to you,” said Petra, following Flo into the little house.
“He knows when he’s home,” said Flo simply. “You do too, don’t you?”
“How do you mean?”
“Dear girl,” said Flo, “I think you know. I’ve seen you settle and change so much since you arrived . . . your confidence,
self-belief—apart from this silly wobble about representing Ross—your happiness . . .” Flo gave her a sweet, wistful smile,
quite different from her normal brisk manner. “Don’t tell me you aren’t happy here,” she challenged. “I can see you positively
glowing with it these days. This is home for you now, don’t you both see?”
“Home is where the heart is,” said Petra. “I suppose. That’s just a saying, though . . .”
Flo laughed. “Sayings tend to become sayings because they’re true. Now, gin and tonic or wardrobe dive?”
“Both?” said Petra.
“—is the correct answer,” said Flo, beaming.
When the women were both furnished with large glasses of icily delicious gin and tonic, so strong the first sip made Petra
wince a little, they went up the narrow stairs together.
There was little more than a cast-iron bed and a huge brown wooden wardrobe in Flo’s guest room, the low casement window casting golden summer evening light across the bare waxed floorboards.
On the stone windowsill, a day of sunlight had warmed the bowl of dried rose petals, which was releasing a heady scent.
Flo threw open the doors of the wardrobe with a flourish, releasing a waft of dust and lavender.
She began pulling out clothes and laying them reverently on the bed. Dress after dress materialized, each one neat, pressed,
and impeccable. The vibe was Audrey Hepburn, and it was clear Flo had bought—or at least kept—only the best.
“Can’t do black for a wedding party,” said Flo, regretfully disregarding an enchanting black minidress with a white collar
and cuffs. “I loved that one to bits.”
Then she disappeared back inside and reappeared holding a stunning dress covered in the most enchanting purple pansies, with
yellow buds and green leaves. The dress was a classic fifties shape, with a full skirt, neat waist, boatneck, and no sleeves.
“You would need a little cardigan with it,” said Flo doubtfully. “Even in August, it can get nippy in the evenings. I used
to have one specifically for this very frock . . . Why don’t you pop it on, while I go and see? Just a moment . . .”
The dress slipped off the hanger with a quiet swish. It was surprisingly heavy and—Petra quickly realized—pure silk. It was
hand-painted by the looks of it too. The label was for a fashion house Petra had never heard of, but it claimed to have outlets
in London, Paris, and New York. So—fancy.
She dropped her T-shirt and jeans on the bed and carefully stepped into the dress.
It was beautifully constructed. Petra had never worn anything like it and had never expected to, except perhaps on her wedding day.
If she ever had a wedding day.
Carefully pulling up the side zip and then opening the wardrobe door wider so she could see herself in the mirror, Petra gasped.
It was stunning. The boatneck and the full, flared skirt made her waist look tiny. Her neck, with the nape exposed, looked
long and delicate, but the front of the dress was high and surprisingly demure. She twisted her raven black hair up and held
it there while she turned one way and the other. Being an avowed lover of trousers, Petra rarely wore even a skirt, let alone
a dress, but in this she felt delicate, feminine, and—yes—pretty.
Normally barely glancing in the mirror except when she was brushing her teeth and hair, Petra was entranced by this new and
glamorous version of herself. It might have been the flattering evening light, but her skin—bare of makeup—had lost its gray
London pallor at last. Instead, perhaps from her regular walks on the beach and the hills with Ross, she was prettily flushed
and lightly freckled. Lugging boxes of books around had toned her arms and kept her fit too. Also, Ross was determined that
she should eat well and made sure she did by cooking for her most nights, so her body had lost all of the angular awkwardness
she was used to covering up with baggy clothes.
“You look gorgeous!” exclaimed Flo, as she came back into the room, holding a purple wisp of something.
“It’s a stunning dress,” Petra replied shyly, looking away from her reflection at last. “Are you sure? I promise to take the
best, best care of it.”
Flo made a dismissive noise. “It will be a pleasure to see it worn,” she said.
“I’m hardly going to parade myself in something like that these days.
It’s too good to be shut away in the dark, waiting for the moths to eat it for lunch.
Ross is going to adore you in it,” she added slyly.
“He won’t be able to keep his hands off you. ”
“Flo!” said Petra, blushing scarlet.
“Just saying,” replied Flo unrepentantly. “Now, it’s a shame to cover those elegant arms, but you’ll need this with our English
summers.” She held out the wisp, which turned out to be a sweet little cropped bolero cardigan with delicate beading along
the edges. It matched the purple of the hand-painted pansies perfectly.
Flo nodded her satisfaction when Petra slipped it on. From its lightness and softness, Petra realized it must be cashmere.
“Shoes?” Flo enquired.
“I’ve got big feet,” admitted Petra. “Bigger than yours anyhow, but there are some lovely summer sandals in that shoe shop
on the main street. Perhaps I’ll pop out when you’re in next Tuesday and see?”
“Splendid!” Flo exclaimed. “Now, bring your drink, and humor an old woman while I give you a tour of the garden.”