Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
most of her face. Petra observed her curiously. She looked forbiddingly perfect, with her endless legs, a clearly expensive
black-and-white-striped trouser suit worn with a cropped leather jacket, and a slash of perfectly applied scarlet lipstick.
Against the background of breezy, informal Portneath, she looked predatory and sophisticated, with her short dark hair swept
back to reveal impressively jutting cheekbones.
Jess had mentioned managing to line up a powerful editorial director, plus a literary agent—who Petra knew vaguely—for their
panel discussion with Ross tomorrow. The idea was that they—an author, an agent, and a publisher—would talk about the state
of the publishing industry.
The agent, who Petra recognized walking alongside Jess, was a kind, serious man in his sixties, longtime friends with Alistair, Petra knew.
The woman must therefore be the editor, Petra thought, chastising herself that she should really know the woman’s name.
She had been so distracted by all the other arrangements .
. . the whole opening session of the festival had been firmly on Jess’s “to do” list, not Petra’s.
No matter, Jess would introduce them all soon enough. Clearly Jess was doing a fine job, Petra thought, as she and her party
came into reception, chatting happily.
Reassured that all was going well, Petra ducked her head down and turned away. Perhaps she and Ross could just pop over to
Jess’s table for coffee after everyone had eaten, she decided. That would be friendly and supportive without having to give
up her quiet, intimate dinner, which was something she thought they both needed.
Jess and Aiden ushered their two guests straight into the restaurant as Petra watched. They had disappeared by the time Ross
walked back to her with a dirty martini in each hand, but Petra briefed him on her coffee after dinner plan.
Ross nodded. “We could do that,” he agreed. “I suppose we mustn’t have too much fun.”
“Busy, busy,” admitted Petra. “Once the festival’s done, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
“Good,” said Ross, holding up his glass in salute. “To us!” he declared.
“And to the book,” added Petra. “God bless her, and all who sail in her.”
By the time they were ushered through to the restaurant, Petra was feeling liquid limbed with the deep relaxation brought on by sun, sea air, and a decent slug of neat vodka.
Wine with dinner was going to totally tip her over the edge, she thought, as the waitress led them to their table.
Ross pulled out her chair and, as she sat, Petra caught Jess’s eye across the room and smiled, giving her a discreet thumbs-up.
She was just turning away to find her napkin, when there was a cry, cutting through the polite chatter and clinking cutlery.
There was a surge of movement from Jess’s table, catching Petra’s eye.
“Rossie!” hailed the scary woman with the scarlet lipstick, as she reared to her full height.
Oh God, thought Petra, she was coming over. Damn it! So much for her quiet dinner with Ross. And another thing, why the hell
was this woman—this stranger—calling him “Rossie”? Hadn’t Ross told her that nobody called him that?
Petra glanced up toward the still-standing Ross, but her hoped-for explanation would not be forthcoming. Instead, her heart
froze in her chest to see his face had gone pale beneath his tan and was entirely without expression except for a tiny muscle
beating in his jaw.
By now, scarlet lips had reached them and was performatively kissing Ross squarely on the mouth, before running her finger
suggestively down his chest.
Ross reached up, still dead-eyed, and wiped a smear of scarlet lipstick off his face. “Hello, Henrietta,” he said quietly.
“Seriously? Hello?” Henrietta pouted, wagging her finger at him coquettishly. “You disappear off the face the earth, you don’t answer my messages,
and—after all that—you just say Hello?” she chided. And then she put her head on one side, like a raptor regarding its prey. “You know what, Rossie?” she said.
“I’m not even angry with you. You’re a creative. You’re special. I’ll forgive you everything, because now we’re both here
together again, and that’s all that matters . . .”
“What do you want, Henrietta?” said Ross, seemingly calm, although Petra thought she could discern a tiny tremble in the hand nearest her face as she sat beside him.
Something stopped her from reaching up and grasping it.
Instead, she glanced across at Jess, who was still sitting at the table with Aiden and the literary agent, all three of them staring over at the scene with curiosity but no apparent alarm.
“What do I want?” Henrietta cooed, echoing Ross’s question. “Well, a little bird told me you would be here, and so I just
thought you and I should—perhaps—have a little catch-up, shall we say?”
“It wasn’t a little bird,” said Ross evenly, “it was a press announcement, but I am here to talk to the public and to the
media. I’m not ready to talk to editors yet, and—even if I was—I would expect all communications of that nature to be managed
through my agent.”
“But, darling,” Henrietta seemed stupefied, “this is me. This is us,” but then she gave a mirthless laugh. “You want to play with—how would you put it, with your funny little sports analogies—with
‘a straight bat’?”
Ross gave a curt nod.
“How very you.” Henrietta chuckled, as if Ross had said something extraordinarily endearing. “Well, of course, I would fully expect your
agent to be consulted in these matters, but—if you have something to sell . . .”
Here, Petra saw Henrietta lick her lips, clearly salivating at the thought. It was a nearly reptilian flick of the tongue,
accompanied by a shrewd hardening of her expression. Immediately Petra knew who Henrietta reminded her of. It was like watching
Cruella de Vil drooling at the sight of puppies.
“. . . and, in any case,” Henrietta was continuing, “you can’t deny our special relationship transcends any silly business issues like agents and contracts. Plus, darling,” she went on, running her finger down his cheek, “I am given to believe you no longer have any recognizable representation,
which is a situation easily remedied. I happen to have an in with Henry Atherstone, no less . . .”
Henrietta gave Ross a moment to express his awe and amazement at this. Which he did not.
Petra—on the other hand—was more daunted than offended at being dismissed as unrecognizable. Henry Atherstone dealt with the
biggest writer names in the business. His acumen and heft were legendary, and she had lost clients to him before. Ross would