Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“Petra?” he said softly, reconnecting with her gaze as her eyes filled with tears for him.
“I would never, ever do that to you,” she choked, slipping her arms around him and resting her head on his chest. He enfolded her in his embrace,
his chin resting on the top of her head. This was their thing. Their “go-to” position. She sometimes felt she could spend
the rest of her life just being held like this, by him.
“I know you wouldn’t,” he said. “This thing we have is so different,” he went on with quiet intensity, squeezing her with a fierceness that made her want to groan. “We can’t break
this. Whatever happens with the book—good or bad—we will still have this. Right? Because,” he told her, leaning back so he
could fix her gaze with his own, “if we don’t have ‘us,’ then I don’t think I can do this.”
Long after Ross had fallen asleep, breathing deeply and evenly beside her, Petra lay awake, looking at the silver moon through the little cottage window. The cottage was so remote, they rarely bothered to draw the curtain at night.
She knew, without question, that what Ross had told her about Henrietta was true. There had been whispers for years: She had
a penchant for young, beautiful men; she got too close to her writers; she exerted a level of creative control that bordered
on coercive; she damaged the careers of anyone—writers, staff, agents—who dared to cross her.
You made an enemy of Henrietta at your peril. And Ross had done just that.
As well as pondering what Ross had told her about the reasons for his long absence from writing, Petra had been increasingly
nervous about Jules and Roman’s return. Grilling Freya and Flo for details—because she didn’t want to pester the couple by
texting them every five minutes—she was under the impression they were flying back into the country at the beginning of the
following week.
Flo had chatted to Petra often over the months about Roman and Jules, and how Roman was the details man, the hardheaded business
brain, fresh from a top-flight career in New York. What he brought to the table was an analytical mind and an iron grip on
the financials. By contrast, Jules was the creative one. Flo related fondly how Jules was a mass of energy and enthusiasm,
and an ex-London publishing editor herself, with a passion for books that had been all-consuming since she was a child.
Petra had thought, over the months, that she and Jules had much in common. But now that she was going to meet her properly, she felt hopelessly colorless and dull.
When a tall, handsome, black-haired man with piercing blue eyes, and a lithe, pretty young woman burst into the shop that
Saturday mid-morning to cries of delight from Flo, Petra assumed at first they were Flo’s favorite customers. Then the woman
wrapped Flo in a fierce and all-encompassing hug, to the accompaniment of much chatter and many exclamations.
Seconds later, the young woman released Flo, and the man replaced her in grabbing Flo for a tight squeeze.
The woman then turned to Petra and gave her a noisy air-kiss on the cheek, before holding out her hand.
“Jules,” she announced. “And you’re Petra, of course.”
Petra could not deny this, tempting though it was—for a nanosecond—to pretend she was nothing more than a passing tourist.
“We are so grateful to you for doing what you’ve done,” Jules declared.
Jules was glowing, Petra observed. She could only imagine this was what a person looked like when they had the love of a good
man, a stable career that no longer included schmoozing in the torrid London publishing scene, and the wherewithal to take
a six-month vacation on a whim. In fact, the pair of them were radiant, so in love, and so bright and shiny, in the way most
people in Portneath seemed to be, it must be the effect of happiness, Petra supposed . . .
“I love the window!” Jules went on. “You are so creative. I knew you’d be amazing.
Am I allowed to confess? I’ve had the most incredible feedback from Flo and everyone about how well you’ve been doing and .
. .” Jules leaned in conspiratorially, “you’re going out with Ross McCloud!
” Her sotto voce rose to a squeak, and then she stopped herself, glancing round to make sure they were alone. “I mean . . . oh my good God!”
she went on, slightly more quietly. “He’s my hero . . . I can’t wait to meet him. Now,” she went on, not giving Petra a chance
to draw breath, “tell me you’re both available for dinner tonight. Freya’s at six, yes or no?”
Dissent had not even been an option, mused Petra, carefully applying mascara in the little bathroom of the flat as she waited
for Ross to arrive. He had been of two minds when she told him the plan but—understanding that Petra was dying to make a good
impression—he agreed to come and was popping into the shop to pick her up a few minutes early.
It was nice to have a chance to dress up, Petra thought, smoothing her new navy blue dress with her slightly sweaty palms
and stepping back to judge her appearance. School mistress, she decided, with a subtle overlay of goth teenager. God, she
was going to look so colorless next to Jules with her bright, floaty scarves and expensive, globe-trotting tan.
Roman had—oh so politely—asked to see the spreadsheets when they met in the shop too. He spent an hour in the back office,
bringing himself up to speed, although Jules had excused herself, claiming jet lag and the need to nap before dinner. Petra
fiddled around on the shop floor, too nervous about possibly being interrogated to go into the office where he was. She knew
the figures weren’t bad. Flo had a good sense of the turnover they should be aiming for, even if Petra didn’t, and she had
raised no concerns over the last six months. But Petra was still nervous to hear what Roman had to say.
Petra’s phone pinged—just Ross letting her know he was outside—so she smoothed her straight black bob one more time and checked that none of her scarlet lipstick had transferred onto her teeth. It would have to do.
“Pretty!” exclaimed Ross instantly when Petra opened the door.