Chapter Nine
Time always flew when Petra was with Ross. Now it was late, and she had precisely ten minutes to get ready and present herself
at the pub, or they would all think she was rudely not coming. Or—nearly as bad—they would think she was a diva who didn’t
think twice about showing up late. And she minded, very much, what they all thought, even if she was going to be gone by the end of the summer.
Half-crouching in front of the sink in the tiny bathroom, Petra tried hard to see herself in the tiny, age-spotted mirror.
It was just an evening in the pub, but the whole thing felt alien and ridiculously daunting. Even though she was “in public”
in the shop all day, being “in public” at the pub felt like a bigger effort was required. She gave up on mascara because her
hand was shaking too much and settled for just brushing her teeth and then sticking on a bit of lip gloss.
In the bedroom, as she pulled on a slightly dressier top and changed her shoes, Petra admitted to herself that she was out of the habit of socializing.
She had had a loose group of London friends once, but she was either out in the evening at work events, frantically networking, or she was too tired to meet up with people at all.
On weekends, she felt she should be reading for work, not out having what passed for fun when you had no money in London.
In the end, people had gradually stopped involving her, so that had been that.
It seemed the whole of Portneath was going out that Friday evening. All around her, as she walked up the steep main street,
she saw groups of young people, couples holding hands, families heading into the pizza restaurant or the posh burger bar that
served sweet potato fries and better-than-average cocktails.
Hardly anyone was alone.
Her heart pounding, Petra pushed open the pub door and was immediately assailed by a wall of noise and the pungent, yeasty
aroma of old spilled beer. The place was crammed already. With scrubbed floorboards and a long, wooden-topped bar all along
one side, the pub seemed mostly to be filled with people standing, although there were some little groups sitting at tables.
Petra’s heart sank. She couldn’t see Freya’s bright-blond hair anywhere, although that could easily be because her view was
blocked by the crowds. She desperately wished she were taller so she could see over heads. Should she just turn tail and tell
Freya she had developed a migraine and decided not to come? No. Apart from anything else, she knew Ross would ask, and she
would sound impossibly lame if she admitted she had bailed, especially as she was hoping to maintain the moral high ground
over his refusing to accompany her.
Starting to politely squeeze through the crowds, she quickly learned to gently barge with a hand on an elbow here, a dart through a narrow gap there.
She was broadly heading for the fireplace that she could glimpse at the far end.
When she got there, she sighed with relief to see Freya sitting in a group of five or six people on two sofas set on either side of the fire.
Freya was laughing and slipping her hand through the arm of a handsome man sitting next to her.
This was Finn, Petra presumed, Freya’s new husband of not even a year.
She was grateful that Flo had briefed her a little on who might be there.
Freya sprang to her feet and bounded over as soon as she saw Petra, enveloping her in a hug and then taking her arm to tug
her over to the little group. Shouted introductions were carried out, and Finn was dispatched to the bar to get Petra a drink.
She asked for a gin and tonic, as it was the first thing that popped into her head, but then felt like an idiot, as she saw
the rest of the group was drinking pints of something amber-colored and slightly cloudy.
“Scrumpy,” Freya told her, pointing at her own glass. “Local and lethal. You think you’re fine until you stand up and realize
your legs are drunk.”
Given the noise levels, conversation was almost impossible, and Petra was limited to nodding and smiling and trying to look
interested as the barely audible conversation bounced around the group. Still nervous, Petra drank far too quickly and then—realizing
she had emptied her glass—she indicated through hand signals and facial expressions that she would get the next round, but
Freya was having none of it. “New girls don’t buy, it’s the law,” she told her, getting up instead. Being so tiny, she was
immediately swallowed by the crowd as she elbowed her way to the bar.
At this, Petra sat with her knees together, feeling even more awkward. She was grateful when the woman with dark, curly hair sitting opposite came around and plonked herself next to her.
“I’m Jess,” she shouted, in Petra’s ear. “You likely didn’t hear the intros first time ’round. Want to come to the ladies’
room with me?”
Petra nodded and then instantly regretted it. Why on earth would she want to go to the loo? She didn’t need to pee. Oh God,
maybe it was Jess’s way of inviting her to take drugs or something? She didn’t seem to be the type, but there was no way of
knowing, was there?
Obediently, she followed Jess down the corridor to the back of the building, glimpsing a small deserted beer garden through
a glass door beyond the bathrooms.
“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Jess, as the door of the ladies’ loo clumped closed behind them, and the noise levels dropped.
“I didn’t really need a pee,” she confided. “I just thought it would be nice to be able to actually talk, rather than yell.”
“It’s a relief!” admitted Petra.
“We book lovers have to stick together.”
“What do you do?” asked Petra, before remembering that Ross clearly despised the question. Jess didn’t look as if she minded
being asked at all.
“Regional reading lead for local schools,” she told Petra. “It basically means I help with the libraries and reading programs.
It’s pretty broad, actually. I get stuck into World Book Day, competitions, sponsorship, reading schemes, grant-applications,
the whole thing.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“Not long,” admitted Jess. “I moved here only a couple of years ago. I put my grandmother’s books in the telephone box outside my house and it kind of took off.
” She smiled, remembering. “Also, I met Aiden—he’s the grumpy-looking guy I was sitting next to out there.
So—long story short—I decided to stay, and the job came along, so . . .” She shrugged.
“But what qualifies you for all that stuff you do? It sounds like you need to be an expert in—well—pretty much everything!”
Oops, rude, thought Petra. “What qualifies you . . . ?” Ouch. But Jess didn’t seem to have taken offense.
“Yup, jack of all trades,” admitted Jess. “But I just love books, that’s my main qualification. Plus, I used to be a librarian,
in another life. It’s just so lovely to meet another book lover.”
Petra didn’t like to put her straight that, actually, she wasn’t sure she was a book lover anymore.
“So, you’re running Capelthorne’s?”
“Just until the end of the summer,” said Petra.
“People who come here have a habit of staying.”
“Can’t see that happening,” said Petra. “What would I do?”
“We’ll see . . .” said Jess mysteriously. “Now, I was looking forward to meeting you for a specific reason. I have a cunning
plan to launch a little literary festival here at the end of the summer. Actually, it was supposed to be me and Jules, but
now she’s away. I didn’t want to wait another year, so I thought I’d just start small.”
“Because you haven’t got enough to do?”
“Yeah.” Jess grinned. “Anyhoo, you know about literary festivals.”
“I do?” Petra replied anxiously. “I mean, I’ve been to a few . . .”
“That’ll do nicely,” Jess piped up. “Will you help me?”
Petra looked at Jess blankly. Did this woman not know she was a walking disaster, the kiss of death to everything she touched?
Of course, she didn’t. Not yet. But then a tiny thought crept into her head.
Okay, several thoughts: The first was that Jess seemed delightful, and it would be nice to spend more time in her company.
The second was that she needed to broaden her skill set, seeing as she had failed as a literary agent.
She was going to have to find something to do to support herself in the future.
A book festival was distressingly “booky,” which wasn’t ideal, but she supposed she
needed to say yes to everything that fate presented.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t ask,” Jess said, anxiously, clearly watching the expressions flitting across Petra’s face as she sifted
through the issues, ending with—Petra was sure—a look of gloom. Because these days, thinking about her future did that to
her face.
“Actually, yes, why not,” Petra made herself say while trying to raise a smile. “I’m honestly not sure what good I can do,
but I’ll try.”
Jess beamed and did a little skip of pleasure. Mission accomplished, she then led Petra, arm in arm, back to the bar in triumph.
Petra was relieved to see the place had emptied out a little. Patrons who had arrived to have drinks after work had disappeared
off home, or on to somewhere where they could find food. It was a blessing, she decided, that the noise levels had dropped.
As a double bonus, the little group seemed to have now accepted her as part of the furniture, benignly ignoring her, which
suited Petra just fine; she was done having shouted conversations with each of them in turn, repeating her name, details of
her recent retreat from London—the less said about the circumstances the better—and her purpose in Portneath.
They all seemed delightful, if crazily, glamorously good-looking.
Freya’s partner, Finn, was one of the most handsome men Petra had ever met, and it was a high bar now that she knew Ross.
Finn seemed sweetly protective of Freya too, resting his arm casually over the back of the wooden bench they were sharing and absently stroking her bare shoulder with one finger as he chatted to Gabriel about cheese.
Could it really be cheese? Petra might have been mishearing.
Finn and Freya checked in on each other often, locking eyes as if choreographed, Finn’s slightly intense expression relaxing into a sweet smile each time as Freya silently reassured him she was okay.
Aiden and Jess were cute with each other too, Jess gently teasing her partner whenever he got too serious, to which he responded
by instantly playing the underdog for laughs.
Imogen and Gabriel were the most daunting of all, though. Jess had told her that Gabriel and Imogen lived in the manor house
in Middlemass, just up the road. Jess had briefly divulged that Imogen was none other than Imogen Crawley, the Carnegie-award-winning
children’s author and illustrator. Petra knew her agent slightly. The story of Imogen’s meteoric rise was approaching legendary
in publishing circles. Petra was too shy to disclose to Imogen that she was from the same world, and she was hoping it wouldn’t
come up. She had no impressive client names to bandy around, not anymore. In fact, she found herself too shy to speak to either
of them much. Maybe next time.
Overall, she thought, glancing at the clock behind the bar, it was clear that being in Devon, with a partner who adored you,
and a fulfilling job to do, made for a damned good life.
No wonder this Jules woman had defected from the London publishing scene.
It was nine o’clock already and Petra was stifling yawns.
When the group thrashed out a plan to return to Finn and Freya’s so that Freya could knock them up some pizzas, Petra tactfully declined.
They all put up enough resistance at this for her to feel wanted, but they walked her, en masse, to the shop door and allowed her to escape equitably enough.
Lying in bed with her eyes pinned open, staring at the ceiling, Petra smiled to herself. Having a group of friends to hang
out with was nice. She had been lonely in London, where friendships seemed harder to come by, let alone maintain. Maybe Jules
and Roman would want her to stay for longer? The thought of returning to London in August, the summer heat making it the very
worst time to be in the city, was starting to fill her with dismay, and it wasn’t even spring yet. A lot could change in six
months, she told herself, rolling onto her side and willing sleep to come.