Chapter Eight #2
Petra followed Diana’s gaze, which was directed at a determined-looking, solid woman in her sixties, with a bowl haircut and
a slash of crimson lipstick on an otherwise unmade-up face.
“Yes,” said Beatrice. “I have—as some of you know—been writing a paper on the efficacy and relative environmental impact of
differing plastic waste sorting and recycling protocols, and I have found a marvelous source in this treatise on the subject.”
As she spoke, she rummaged in a capacious reusable shopping bag before brandishing a chunky ring-bound book. “It gathers together
hitherto uninterrogated data from no fewer than sixty-eight countries,” she declared excitedly.
Not just a pamphlet then, thought Petra, with a smile at the barely suppressed groans emanating from the other participants.
“Was there something?” Diana said, casting a sharp eye around the group.
There was a brief silence and then, bravely, Joan piped up. “Actually,” she said, “I just wanted to say that I love being in a book club, because it can make me aware of books that I enjoy; books that I wouldn’t have discovered if someone else hadn’t recommended them.”
“Yes . . . yes . . .” came the sibilant, whispered agreement of others.
“And,” Muriel picked up the thread her sister had commenced with, “I am sure we should all find out more about plastic waste
disposal, because I cannot deny”—she made a nod to Beatrice—“it is an important subject we positively have a duty to understand
better.”
Again, there were nods around the group, and slightly less enthusiastic yeses, but Muriel wasn’t done. “However,” she went
on, “I just feel—and I am not the only one—that I am being compelled to read things that are ‘good for me.’”
More whispered agreement.
“And I am just not prepared to do that anymore!”
Aha, thought Petra. There it was.
“Yes!” piped up another lady, seemingly empowered by Muriel’s and Joan’s bravery. “I saw the new Jill Mansell on the way in,”
she declared. “I want to read that! I want my reading to be a pleasure!”
“Hear, hear,” rumbled Mungo, before shooting an anxious glance at Diana. But now, Petra noticed, Diana was sitting back in
her chair, bright-eyed, clearly happy to see the insurrection play out.
“Hands up who wants to belong to a book club for happy books,” cried Flo. “I for one am perfectly prepared to say I adore writers like Jilly Cooper and Jenny Colgan. Always have, always will.”
“And Sue Moorcroft!” declared Joan.
“And Veronica Henry,” cried another lady.
“And crime,” suggested Muriel. “I love a bloody murder and a good mystery.”
“She does,” agreed Joan. “You like a police procedural, don’t you?” she told her sister.
“I’m devouring all the Kate Rhodes books at the moment; they’ve got horrific murders in them,” Muriel declared happily. “She’s a bit like that Shetlands crime writer.”
“Ann Cleeves! I love the Shetland books,” confided another lady. “I must try these ones—Kate who?”
“Rhodes,” supplied Muriel, leaning toward her.
“Beach reads,” suggested Mungo diffidently. “That’s what I call them. Something to enjoy on a sun lounger. My favorites are
Wilbur Smith and all the Jack Reacher books.”
“In that case,” suggested Muriel, “you might like Chris Ryan. My hubby loves a bit of SAS adventure.”
“Ooh, that does sound good,” Mungo enthused. “I already love the Andy McNab ones. Thank you.”
A swell of conversation filled the room.
Diana clapped her hands again. “Okay,” she said, looking around for silence. “So I propose that there will, henceforth, be
a Beach Reads Book Club. Who wants to join?”
Everyone except poor Beatrice, who was now the color of a beet, raised their hands.
“Good,” said Diana. “And who also wants to stay in the current book club.”
Again, everyone—except Joan and Muriel—raised their hands.
“Fine!” said Diana. “There we go, something for everyone. Joan and Muriel, I propose that you should both lead the new club.
Do I have a second?”
Mungo rumbled a response, and Diana gave him an affirmative nod.
“Settled!” she declared. “Now, someone pass me another one of those splendid chocolate biscuits.”
“Drinks at The Bell tonight?” Freya popped her head in the shop to propose, one morning a few days later. “Time for you to
meet the crowd, I think. All work and no play, et cetera.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I can make it,” Petra demurred. “I’ve got a date with my pajamas and a good book this evening.” It was
true; she and Flo had started the yearly inventory, and they had at least a couple of hours more to do after closing time.
Plus, she was halfway through her umpteenth reading of Jane Eyre and the getting-to-know-Rochester scenes were her favorites. Somehow, she had discovered, reading a deeply familiar book
didn’t trigger her anxiety the way a new book did.
“Nonsense,” Flo said unhelpfully. “It’ll do you good to get out. I’m fine on my own.”
“What? You, going up and down that stepladder? I don’t think so . . .” insisted Petra.
“I’ll leave you two ladies to your row,” laughed Freya. “Eight o’clock sharp!” she declared, pointing at Petra. Then she ducked
out of the shop rapidly before Petra had a chance to reply.
“Going up and down the steps on your own does add a lot to the time it takes,” admitted Flo.
“Not the reason why,” muttered Petra. But, fine, make Flo think it was a time and motion thing, not the ridiculousness of
letting a woman in her eighties climb a ladder. While alone in the shop. Although—to be fair—she was the fittest woman in
her eighties Petra had ever met.
“Why don’t I come in on Tuesday to finish inventory instead,” Flo was continuing.
“Ah no, hang on, this Tuesday is WI, now let me see.” She thumbed through a little lilac diary, murmuring to herself.
“Wednesday? No . . . Thursday? No . . . Friday? Mm . . . No, I have to bake that evening for the coffee morning . . .”
“Look, call me out for insurrection, but can’t the inventory wait a couple of weeks?” proposed Petra. “It doesn’t have to
be done in February, does it?”
“Fair comment,” admitted Flo. “I’ve always done it at this time of year, but I’m sure Jules and Roman won’t mind. As long
as it gets done by the financial year-end.”
“There you go! Loads of time,” said Petra.
Secretly, working with Flo the last two nights after closing—doing deathly dull work—she had been missing her time normally
spent with Ross. They had fallen into a pattern where he would sneak into the shop and settle himself on the second floor
toward the end of the day. Then when Petra closed the shop, they would sit together and shoot the breeze. At the beginning,
she would bring up coffee from the little kitchen by the office, but then they both agreed the caffeine wasn’t the best idea
at that time of day. Instead, Ross would bring beer, and—when they got chilly in the shop once the heating was off for the
day—they would retire to the fireside in the sitting room upstairs.
That evening, Petra, accepting her fate, tried to persuade Ross to come with her to the pub. She was sure Freya’s friends
were lovely, but she was still a little shy, plus—as she pointed out—Ross could maybe make some new friends too.
“I don’t need friends,” he declared.
“Everyone needs friends,” Petra replied.
“You’re my friend. I’m all friended up, thanks.”
“Not a verb. Anyhow you need to get out more.”
“Says who?”
“Me.”
“But people always want to know what people ‘do.’ What do I say?”
“Tell them you’re a spy,” suggested Petra. “A secret agent. It’s almost true. You’re incommunicado. They don’t have to know
why.”
“Actually, I’m incognito,” corrected Ross.
“You’re both,” Petra appeased.
“And I’m pretty sure being incognito doesn’t include going around declaring you’re incognito,” Ross went on. “Or a spy.”
“You could perfectly well tell them you’re a writer,” Petra reasoned. “They don’t have to know what sort of writing. Or what
you’ve done before. Lots of people are writers. It can be loads of things.”
Ross suddenly looked bleak. “Not even a writer anymore, though, remember?” he reminded her.
Petra looked at him sympathetically, her head on one side. “Why don’t you want people to know? If it was me who’d written
that amazing book, I’d be proud.”
“Okay, well . . . I mean, I’m not not proud, but talking about it’s something else. Also, maybe I still think like a writer: I feel like I need to be invisible,” Ross admitted. “It’s freeing not having to join in. I like to be in the corner, watching . . . listening . . .
God, it sounds really creepy when I say it like that. I just need to know that people are reading my words, not watching my
life.”
“I get that,” said Petra softly. “So . . . you are writing?”
In reply, Ross stood up abruptly, ruffling his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots as if he would like to tear it all out.
It had grown since his dramatic makeover, with a wave appearing that just made him look even more like Lord Byron, or a brooding hero in one of Petra’s favorite romances.
“Maybe,” he said shortly. “Now, don’t you have somewhere to be? ”