Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
It wasn’t the junior staff members who were calling Petra either, even though these were usually the ones Petra liaised with.
Instead, it was the great silverbacks in the top five publishers, the publishing directors in charge of multiple imprints
and serious money. If they felt that they were lowering themselves by calling little old Petra, they were polite enough not
to show it.
Relating stories of her day to Ross later, she was hyperaware of his body language. Where he would normally lounge on the
sofa beside her, idly stroking her hair as she lay with her head on his lap, this evening he sat bolt upright, hand clutching
the sofa arm like a claw, determined—it seemed—to keep an inch of distance between them.
“So, who else?” he kept saying, as she ran him through the names—big names—although he seemed sweetly unaware of just exactly how much of a big deal these people were.
“Anyone else?” he said, as she reached the end of her litany.
“Um . . . I don’t think so. I mean—I’m pretty sure it’s everyone who’s anyone—”
“Are you sure?”
This was getting weird. “Was there someone in particular . . . ?” she queried gently, but Ross looked away.
“Nope,” he said. “No one at all . . .” As if she had reminded him of something, he reached for his phone and switched it to
silent before staring, apparently unseeing, into the middle distance. And then he seemed to snap back into gear. “Bloody well
done,” he said. “I knew you’d be brilliant at this. And Petra?”
She looked at him enquiringly.
“Thank you. I mean it.” He reached out his hand and captured her own, bringing it up to his lips for a kiss. “Whatever happens . . .”
he added vaguely.
“Mixing business and pleasure?” she teased and then wished she had kept her mouth shut.
His eyes went dull, just for a moment, and then he summoned a smile with visible effort. “Your pleasure is my business,” he said, pulling her over onto his lap.
“But his first publisher is the one best placed to build on his existing readership,” Alistair made his point. “You know that.”
“They have to offer the best package too, though,” Petra replied. “And she’s not even called so far. Plus, I happen to know
Ross is keen for a fresh start.”
“Of course,” said Alistair, “I get that. But, like it or not, Henrietta is one of the key players in the industry, even more so than she was when she worked with Ross the first time. Are you sure he wouldn’t work with her again?”
Petra wasn’t. How could she be?
“He has to be allowed to choose for himself,” she told Alistair firmly. She knew already there would be plenty of contenders.
“Plus, I just think it’s important to go to all the players equally,” she told Alistair. “It’s been a long gap, you know how
it is . . .”
“I do,” said Alistair, “but—don’t forget—it’s your job to advise him on where you feel his best option lies, when the proposals are in, so I hope you won’t shy away from recommending his previous team, if
they represent the best deal.”
“I’ll tell it like it is,” Petra promised her mentor. And she would. She wanted the best for Ross, whatever that looked like.
Over the next couple of days, she and Jess were frantically busy racing around Portneath. Not to say it was just them, though;
they were directing their brilliant team of volunteers, who consisted of most of the Beach Reads Book Club and Write Club.
There were several venues, each with their own logistical challenges. The main stage, which was where Ross’s Q & A was happening,
was in the beautiful town hall, a stunning Regency building with a colonnaded front. This, Flo had told Petra, was where Freya
and Finn had had their wedding breakfast.
Used to the venue being hired out for functions, the events organizer there was not remotely fazed by Petra wanting a raised stage area, microphones, a decent sound system, whiteboard, and projector.
Petra was terribly nervous that something fundamental would go wrong, and the event would go down in bookish history as the worst festival ever.
Not that she was going to be doing any more of them.
Jules’s baby would be born, and her maternity leave would be over before autumn next year.
If she tanked the Portneath Literary Festival at its first outing, at least she would not be here to explain its absence the following year.
She would be long gone by then.
Whether it was late-onset nerves or something deeper and more mysterious, Petra and Ross were unnaturally polite to each other
as they moved around the kitchen in the cottage making supper, apologizing if they bumped, and having ridiculous “you first,
no you first” interchanges over everything.
Later, sitting in front of the fire with bowls on their knees, Petra could barely swallow her vegetable chili. It was usually
her favorite, and Ross had even taken the trouble to make fresh guacamole, which was even better than the stuff from Finn’s
deli.
“Is it okay?” Ross asked her anxiously, as she put down her bowl only half eaten.
“Great, thanks,” said Petra, making the effort to smile. “The guac’s amazing. I’m just not that hungry tonight.”
Ross sighed. “Me either,” he said, picking up Petra’s bowl and getting up to take them both into the kitchen.
Listening to him loading the dishwasher, hearing the regular domestic chores that she usually found so comforting, Petra found herself biting back tears.
What on earth was the matter with her? The submission concept had gone to editors, and she had invited them to express interest. Tomorrow, the full submission package would go out to those who had requested it, and they would have a further couple of days to prepare their bids.
She was poised to launch into the most spectacular submission round of her entire career.
The man she adored was about to achieve a deal on a stunning new novel, and she was going to help him do it.
She had work in Portneath for at least the next few months, with time off for the Frankfurt Book
Fair already agreed upon. She ought to be happier than she had ever been in her life! Sure, she thought, the next few days
were going to be stressful, but in a hugely exciting and productive way. This depression she was feeling? It was a projection.
From Ross.
“You have to tell me,” she demanded when he sat back down after handing her a mug of tea she hadn’t asked for. She hadn’t needed to,
he knew her so well.
“Don’t know what you mean,” he tried unconvincingly.
“Yes. You do,” she insisted. “What’s wrong?”
“You haven’t told me whether any of the other imprints on the submission list contacted you today,” he said, apparently changing
the subject.
“Yes, I have,” she insisted firmly. “I sent you the spreadsheet, with all the up-to-date notes. And you opened it. I got a
read receipt.”
“So you did,” he said quietly. “So you did,” he said again, more loudly. “And it was good, right?”
“It was great!” Petra said. “And the festival is going to go great too. Right? Right,” she answered herself. She waited for him to respond,
but there was nothing.
“Now, let’s go to bed,” she said. “We need to be wide awake and on it tomorrow.”