Chapter Six
It had been a good day’s trade, and Petra felt much better about running the shop after Flo’s briefing but—alone again in
the flat—cooking her supper, the anxious swirl of negativity infected her brain again.
As she peeled the garlic and chopped the mushrooms for her carefully planned omelet supper, Petra’s mind played an endless
cine-reel of all her most recent and abject failures for her own delectation and entertainment.
The vaporizing of her career was up there, of course.
As the inciting incident in the story of her life—a tragedy, obviously—it was an absolute banger.
Since then, the narrative seemed to be spooling out as a series of opportunities to mess up any chance of a friendship with Ross.
And that really hurt, she admitted to herself as she dropped the butter into the hot pan with a sizzle.
Six months was going to be a long time without companionship.
Although it wasn’t that people hadn’t been friendly.
They had. Freya was a sweetheart but far too busy with the restaurant to entertain her, and Flo was fabulous, but Petra was wary of taking up time in her precious retirement, which was obviously full and delightful.
Flo didn’t need Petra hanging around, being a burden.
Ross would have been the most likely contender for chief companion, but each and every one of their interactions so far had
been a disaster. If he hadn’t been put off by her accusing him of being an alcoholic drug addict, no emerging friendship was
going to survive her turning into a fawning, giggling imbecile at the sight of his freshly revealed good looks. And then there
had been the luring of him in with a promised book bargain and then giving him the handsome discount of one penny. Petra groaned
at the thought. And the whole “I know you from somewhere” thing must have sounded like a ploy.
Although she totally did know him from somewhere . . .
“Anyhow,” she said aloud, as she poured in the eggs, dragging the edges into the center as they set—if she knew nothing else,
she knew how to make an omelet—she was going to be in Portneath for six months, and she needed not to spend the whole time
alone, letting her thoughts and memories drive her mad. Tomorrow the shop was closed, and she needed to find something to
do. The weather was set to be dry but fiercely cold. She would take the opportunity to explore the area, starting with the
countryside just inland. The beach could wait. Flo had been telling her there were multiple footpaths on the hills she could
see from the flat’s sitting room window: gentle, conical slopes, the closest of which was the hill just behind the castle
at the top of the main street. She would put on her walking boots and see how far she got.
Feeling slightly better after having made a plan, Petra wolfed down her omelet, which was—if she said so herself—absolutely delicious.
Then she filled the bathtub and wallowed until her fingertips went white and were as wrinkly as prunes.
By the time she climbed into bed, she was yawning.
She used to read herself to sleep, but that habit had irreversibly slipped it seemed.
Thanks to topping up her cell phone data, she had been able to download TikTok again, probably ill-advisedly.
Ten minutes in to scrolling videos of dogs that “talked like humans”—only they didn’t really, it turned out—Petra fell fast
asleep with her phone still in her hand.
A high, pale blue sky and a hard frost greeted her on Sunday morning. She shivered as she dressed, layering on a thermal vest,
two sweaters, and thick, fleecy leggings under her jeans. Porridge with cream and golden syrup warmed her from within, and
by the time she had drained her mug of tea, Petra was raring to go.
A minute later, she was marching up the near-deserted main street, discovering the gate to the network of public footpaths
just where Flo had said, on the far side of the graveyard at the top of the hill. The gate led directly to a crossroads of
three paths, each marked with a finger post pointing roughly north, east, and west. The northerly path looked as if it would
take Petra most directly through the valley to the funny little conical hill that was nearest, so she strode off confidently
in that direction.
Soon she was panting, her breath turning to clouds of mist in the frosty air.
By the time she stood at the foot of the hill, contemplating the climb, she was ready to peel off some layers.
She looked around her, catching her breath.
Lower down in the valley, she had passed a little cluster of stone cottages, but here there was no sign of human habitation, just some rabbit tracks and burrows, with a brave robin singing to frighten her away while perched in a bare thorn bush by the path.
Her oxygen levels restored, Petra set off up the path at a brisk pace, looking forward to seeing the view from the peak. The
sky was so clear today she was sure she would be able to see for miles.
It was when it was too late to turn back that Petra spotted two things on the peak. The first was a bench, and the second
was its occupant, a man—judging by the broad shoulders. He was facing away from her toward the view she was so desperate to
see herself. Making polite conversation with a stranger had not been on the agenda. But she mustn’t be rude, she told herself.
A few remarks about the weather were all she needed to summon up. Being polite to strangers was an important life skill, she
reminded herself. Not a biggie.
Only it wasn’t a stranger. By the time he had stood and turned to see who was approaching him, she had already recognized
the khaki jacket, and her heart sank as she remembered her behavior the previous day.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, eyebrows raised in what looked like genuine pleasure. “Join me?” He waved gallantly at
the narrow wooden bench.
“I wasn’t following you,” Petra said, and then realized she had made it sound like that was exactly what she was doing.
Thankfully, he didn’t hear, or at least pretended not to, instead busying himself wiping the frost off the other end of the
bench for her with his scarf.
Sitting down with a decorous distance between them, Petra was glad to be excused from eye contact by sitting side by side.
It was eye contact with this man that had made her behave like an idiot the day before.
Instead, there was the view she had longed for, and it did not disappoint. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
Below them was a patchwork of farmland, harvest-striped fields, and copses of trees checkered with neat hedgerows. In the
clear winter sunshine, the river gleamed silver-blue as it widened toward the harbor below them.
“Do you come here often?” she blurted and then giggled. “Oops, world’s worst chat-up line ever,” she added, hoping he would
put her pink cheeks down to the bracing cold. “Not that I was chatting you up, obviously,” she went on, resisting the urge to slap herself on the forehead.
“In answer to . . . whatever that was,” he replied patiently, “I do come here often. My cottage is that one down there.” He pointed to a red-clay tiled roof down below.
“Practically your back garden, then,” Petra said. “Such a funny little hill. Like a child’s drawing almost.”
“It’s volcanic apparently,” observed Ross.
“No way!”
“Way.”
“Kind of makes sense, though,” said Petra. “Actually, I can imagine it like a big zit on the landscape back when mankind wasn’t
invented.” Dear God! What an allusion, she chided herself silently. What was the matter with her? There they were, enjoying
the amazing view on a beautiful winter’s day, and she starts talking about pus. What was it her dad used to say? Sometimes
it’s better to stay silent and have people think you are an idiot, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.
“Nicely put,” Ross observed, nodding politely.
She stole a glance, sensitive to any suggestion of mockery. Although it wasn’t even the stupidest thing she had ever said to him—not by a long way, unfortunately. He had the most ridiculously handsome profile, she observed, even in his slightly dodgy maroon beanie hat. And—still—familiar . . .
“We have met,” she insisted.
“Yup. Station. Bookshop. Market. Bookshop again,” he reeled off, counting on his fingers.
“No, I mean . . .” hazarded Petra. But of course, he must be right. She had lived in London for years, and now here she was,
hundreds of miles away, in self-imposed exile. It was ridiculous to think she was going to bump into someone she knew. Wasn’t
that the entire point of coming here?
“I get it all the time,” he said. “I guess I’ve just got that kind of face. Here. Coffee?” He reached around and produced
a thermos flask with a flourish.
“I can’t drink your coffee.”
“It’s not that bad,” he retorted, deliberately misunderstanding. He was opening it now, releasing a plume of steam as the hot liquid interacted
with the freezing air. He handed the cup to Petra, and she sniffed it appreciatively.
“Black, no sugar, I’m afraid,” he said.
“What about you?” said Petra. “You haven’t got a cup.”
“I’ll have some when you’ve finished,” he said.
They sat, companionably, as Petra admired the view and sipped rapidly at the coffee, not wanting to keep him waiting.
“How long have you worked at the bookshop?” he asked.
Petra told him.
“You’re a blow-in, like me then,” he said. “I’ve been here since the autumn.”
“I could tell you’re not a local,” Petra remarked.
“The accent? Yeah, I’m not from round here,” he admitted.
“So, what brings you here?” asked Petra, her curiosity getting the better of her, although she instantly regretted it. Let’s
not get into a conversation about why I’m here, she thought. But it seemed Ross was as reluctant as her to exchange information.
“I just tend to move around a lot,” he said repressively. The mood had instantly changed, but it didn’t stop Petra from plowing
on regardless.
“What about family, though . . . friends?” she enquired.