Chapter Thirty
Ross got up stiffly to chuck another log on the fire. It was a mild August night, but he couldn’t get warm. Of course, he
could always go upstairs to crawl under the duvet, but being in bed alone made Petra’s absence feel even worse. He was desperate
to speak to her but had no idea what he would say and didn’t think he was entitled to contact her, not even to reply to her
email. What would he tell her? I just thought I would wake you up in the middle of the night to ask your advice as a friend,
about the utter mess I’m making of my relationship with the woman I love, who is—incidentally—also you.
God knows what she thought about Henrietta coming back so obviously to claim him.
He wished he knew what he thought about her turning up, this woman whose presence was indivisible from those heady days when his first novel was published.
There wasn’t a memory of those giddy months that didn’t have her in it.
She was like a metastasizing cancer, strangling the life force from his body while pretending that this parasitic relationship was actually symbiosis.
But was that even abnormal? Surely all writers realized that—on some level—the publisher and the writer formed an uneasy alliance.
Introducing emotions—romance—into the mix had made it even more toxic.
And then, when it ended—when he ended it, that evening—she had been incredulous at first, and then angry. Very angry. He had sat on the emerald green velvet
sofa in her flat—their flat—sinking into a dark abyss in his head as he listened to her tell him that without her he would not survive one week—that
his writing, his sales, his place at the epicenter of the literary firmament were all entirely due to her gifts. And that
she would destroy him just as quickly as she had made him, elevating him above all the other talented writers. The chosen
one.
He had believed her.
And now, desperate to explain to Petra but unable to even begin to articulate his own thoughts, he stayed silent.
“You look appalling,” remarked Flo to Petra, when she came to open the shop the next morning. Jules, Petra, and Flo had all
agreed Flo would run the shop for the duration of the festival. “How’s it going?”
“Festival? Great,” replied Petra. “Life? Terrible.”
Flo sighed, looking at her appraisingly. “He’s a good man,” she told Petra. “You are good together.”
“Were,” remarked Petra, frustrated at the tears that immediately flooded her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. She rubbed
them away impatiently, sniffing.
“I don’t believe that,” said Flo, handing Petra a tissue. “Now dry your eyes, my darling, and be brave. All will be well.
Speaking of which, how goes it with the man-child’s book sale anyhow?”
“Best and final bids came in last night,” said Petra, blowing out a breath noisily, in an attempt to calm her nervous system. How could it be that she was so exhausted and so jittery at the same time?
“Big?” queried Flo, her intelligent dark eyes inquisitive.
“Very,” confirmed Petra, her heart sinking at remembering, again, that Henrietta’s was the biggest. It was no contest. As
his agent, her advice should be nothing but a formality. Apart from anything else, out of her loyalty to Alistair and the
agency she should be advising him to take it. The agent’s commission from a deal that big would be the bonus of the year.
It covered the salary Alistair paid her and more besides.
“Well done, you. So,” Flo continued briskly, “you and Ross will have to talk. Get through today. And then . . . ?” she made Petra meet her eye.
Petra nodded. Flo was right. When all else failed, keep going, Alistair would always say. If you stay with it for long enough,
something will change. And at least she would perhaps be seeing him this evening. They could talk.
Then she received his text. Just sent you an email, it said, with a kiss. Just one. Fingers trembling, Petra fumbled to her emails. There it was.
Thank you, it said. You have done a stunning job. I could not have asked for more, and I don’t deserve you (as my agent, or in any other sense).
Please tell Jemima she’s got the gig, it went on.
Petra sagged with relief, but there was more.
Events of the last two days show me I need to go away and think.
Cliché alert, it’s not you, it’s me, he went on.
Henrietta returning to my life is stirring up complicated feelings, and I need to get my head straight once and for all.
I know I’m hurting you, and I’m sorry. This is about me trying to find a way not to hurt you any more than I already have
because you mean the world to me. Of course, I will be available for professional stuff, but would ask this is kept to a minimum
and limited to email?
Love, Ross. xx
So that was it, Petra thought. Ross had chosen Jemima’s team over Henrietta’s, and she was so pleased and relieved for him.
Jemima was in it, heart and soul. If anyone could take Ross’s book to stellar success, it would be her. But had he done it
so he could be with Henrietta without breaking his life/love cardinal rule? It looked like it to Petra. The wording was so
careful. “You mean the world to me.” Not “I love you.” She felt numb, and yet she slowly became aware tears were trickling
down her cheeks. Tears that were making Flo’s face crumple in concern. “Bad news?” she asked.
“No,” replied Petra, despising the wobble in her voice. “He’s made the right choice, I’m glad for him.”
“But what about you and him?” Flo insisted, affronted.
“I suppose maybe it was just one of those summer things,” Petra said, making it clear to Flo that this was the end of the
conversation on the matter.
Thankfully, Petra and Ross had few real reasons to communicate directly in the coming weeks. Petra chased through the Jemima
contract and made sure everything was as it should be. Then it took just one email to let Ross know that he needed to sign.
By mutual unspoken consent, Ross did not divulge where he went, but Petra knew he was no longer in the cottage at the top
of the hill. A crushing fatigue had largely prevented her from going on her usual walks, but—just occasionally—Jules and Flo
chucked her out of the shop, instructing her to go and get some fresh air. The only walk that seemed remotely attractive was
the one that took her to their bench at the summit of the hill. On the days she could summon the energy, she would climb up
and sit there for hours, staring out across Portneath to the sea, wondering what Ross was doing. Was he editing? Chatting
with Jemima? Doing one of the many interviews the book media were determined to extract from him?
Perhaps he was even writing his final chapter?
The publication date was set far enough into the future, at Petra’s behest, that he was not under intense pressure, but Caliban
and Miranda were going to have to have their finale eventually, and much was made of how Shakespeare had left ends untied.
It was down to Ross now.
That early October morning, the Indian summer seemed as if it would go on and on. Starting at dawn, Petra had taken a thermos
of coffee to the bench and was sitting there checking email on her phone and tapping out a couple of brief replies. She and
Alistair had been working hard to set up meetings in Frankfurt to sell translation rights. The weeks between finishing the
festival and the Frankfurt Book Fair in October had seemed interminable.
Now that it was just days away, Petra was panicking. She checked her watch. Just after eight. Her mind made up, she phoned
Alistair, who picked up straightaway.
“Alistair, I really think you should go to Frankfurt to do the rights,” she told him briskly. As she talked, she was watching a low gray cloud chasing the sunshine away. She was going to get caught in the rain if she didn’t go back to the shop soon.
“Why ever would I do that?” he replied patiently. “Everyone’s expecting you. Our favorites from Sweden and Lithuania have
just confirmed that they want to meet. You’re Ross’s agent, and they know it. They won’t settle for anyone else.”
“Nonsense, they won’t care one bit,” protested Petra. “And”—she took a deep breath before she could get the next words out—“has
Ross confirmed he will attend? It can make such a difference . . .”
“He says he’s all yours. Oh, and he’s had tickets for his onstage interview in the main arena couriered over. He especially
wants you to be there for that. I’m making sure everyone you are meeting knows about it, just in case they don’t get a chance
to ask their own questions if he bails on the meetings.”
“Will he?” asked Petra anxiously. She honestly didn’t know whether the thought of seeing him was worse than the thought of
not seeing him.
“I don’t think he will,” Alistair reassured her. “Ross is one of the good ones. He delivers what he promises.”
The morning arrived, and Petra was anxiously packing. In reality, all she needed was comfortable shoes, a few changes of underwear,
and her laptop with charger. She wasn’t even going to attempt “glamorous.” Frankfurt was an intense experience, made even
more so by having to pretend to be calm and businesslike around Ross when she felt anything but.
She came down from the flat with her backpack to find Flo and Jules already bustling around getting ready to open.
Jules’s gently rounded tummy and rosy cheeks signaled that she had reached the “blooming” stage, to Jules’s relief after her early exhaustion.
Even so, Petra was fretting. Who was going to manage deliveries?
Flo was too elderly, and Jules was too pregnant.
“Are you sure you can do this?” she asked anxiously. “You and Flo? I wish I wasn’t away so long.”
“It’s three days,” said Jules. “We’ve been running Capelthorne’s for decades. We’ll cope. And Roman can step in if we need
muscle,” she added.
Jules had a point.
“Hang on, I’ve got something for you to take with you,” said Jules, remembering. She hurried into the office and came out
with a printed copy of The Bookseller, which was delivered to the shop weekly.
“Very pretty,” said Petra, seeing the front cover was entirely dedicated to a publicity shot of Ross, looking every inch the
successful young novelist. “Who is Miranda?” blazed the headline.
“Never mind the cover, it’s what’s inside that counts,” said Jules. “You can read it on the plane. I think you will find it
very interesting.”
“Thanks,” said Petra, rolling up the magazine with Ross’s face on the inside and stuffing it into the outer pocket of her
backpack. She didn’t tell Jules she generally read the online version on her phone. Except that now she wouldn’t bother. She
had no interest in reading a puff piece that rehashed the same old publicity anecdotes. She was going to have to cope with
the man himself soon, which was bad enough.
Predictably, the plane was delayed, and the airport was packed.
Petra, already exhausted by the long trip from Portneath to Heathrow Airport, had drunk too much coffee and eaten too many pastries.
Feeling wired and slightly sick, she found a wall and slid down it, plonking her backpack next to her on the floor.
The magazine was poking out of the side pocket, and, in a spirit of masochism, she thought she might as well make herself even more miserable by reading the article.
Maybe it would get the emotion out of the way so she could be cool and collected when she saw him.
The halls of Frankfurt are buzzing, and all the talk is of Ross McCloud’s long-awaited second novel, to be published as a
lead title by Darcy Press next year. With world English rights sold for a “significant sum” by six-way auction, translation
rights are set to be hotly contested at FBF this year. And all without publishers even having the final chapter of the manuscript.
As Ross McCloud explained, in an exclusive interview with The Bookseller, this deeply personal work is—as yet—unfinished. He credits the inspiration for his Shakespeare retelling with a real-world
Miranda who he says persuaded him to return to writing. The untitled novel tackles the relationship of Miranda and Caliban
from The Tempest, an oft-reworked Shakespeare play. Scholars frequently consider the Caliban character problematic as the manuscript suggests
that he molests Miranda, his childhood friend. However, Ross McCloud has a more sympathetic take on the story.
“Caliban is a troubled soul, as I am myself,” he admits. “But I believe he is transformed from this brutish character into
something more noble by Miranda, who he adores and idolizes.
My own Miranda came into my life when I was broken by my first foray into publishing, and I credit her with all the good things in my life since.
I don’t believe Shakespeare intended his audience to believe Caliban did what he was accused of.
To me it is obvious the accusation, which comes only from Prospero’s say-so, is simply a sign of the magician’s determination to control the agenda by gaslighting all who he seeks to control.
I have been in a controlling relationship myself and maybe that is partly why I have the zeal to redeem the reputation of Caliban in this way. ”
Then the interviewer returned to Ross’s first book and its extraordinary success, but Petra skipped down the page.
“My real-life Miranda showed me a brave new world. She inspired me to believe in myself, to write again, and—critically—to
show me how even a damaged character like Caliban could be brought into the light, through steadfast love.”
But who is this Miranda to whom the reading public will owe so much? There are rumors that McCloud declines to confirm. But,
whoever is his muse, the publishing world—and then the world of readers—await this book and its final chapter with breathless
anticipation.
Sitting on the hard stone floor, Petra was immune to the discomfort. She read the entire piece from top to bottom. And then she read it again. And then she carefully rolled up the magazine and placed it back in the pocket of her backpack.