Chapter Sixteen #2
he looked more like she had proposed the final hearing of a death sentence appeal.
“‘Snacks are not mandatory’? Are you quite well, sir?” she enquired. It was one of their shticks, lapsing into Austen-speak.
This time, it barely raised a glimmer.
“Five o’clock then,” he merely said in reply, sketching a salute and turning away.
Watching him leave, she saw that even his back view radiated depression. What could it be? Perhaps his writing was not going
well. Yes, that was it. She would find a way to restore his confidence, she told herself, as she flitted around the shop,
tidying a stack of books here and straightening a shelf label there. There was always a point in writing a novel where the
writer felt like they were wading through quicksand. She knew nothing if she didn’t know that. One thing her literary agent
experience had taught her was how and when to give a mired writer a boost to their confidence. And also to know when they
just required a swift boot up the backside.
She would decide later which one Ross needed.
“Right,” Petra said, when they were both sitting in their usual places, she on the sofa and he on the little chair. There were open bottles of beer and a generous array of snacks on the coffee table, and the fire was blazing cheerily. “How goes it, noble scribe?”
“Writing-wise?” he said, sighing. “Well. Very well, in fact.”
“Yeah? So that totally explains why you’ve got a face like a slapped arse,” declared Petra with a performative sigh of relief. “Always a bit shitty
when writing is going ‘very well,’ I’ve found. I don’t know how you stand it. Imagine how much worse everything would be if
it was going amazingly . . .” Frankly, Petra could have carried on riffing on this vein indefinitely, and Ross seemed to know
it, because he leaned forward to silence her, his expression still unrelentingly grave.
“I’ve nearly finished my first draft,” he told her.
“Oh no! Boo . . .” she countered.
“Yeah! Actually, it is ‘boo’ because you know what this means?”
“Um, that you might—actually, probably will—have a stunningly successful novel on your hands? Nice problem to have, I’d have
thought.” But he was not to be jollied along.
“No,” he replied. “It means I need you to read it—soon—and then decide whether you will represent me.”
“Ohhh!” said Petra, throwing up her hands, as if that explained everything. “Well, that’s easy,” she said. “I won’t.”
“Read it? Or represent me?”
Petra wavered. She was craving to read more, in a sickly way that made her think about crack addicts.
“I’ll read it,” she said, more gently. “Of course I will. But represent you? No. I’m not going to do that.”
At this, Ross looked even more dejected, which was ridiculous, Petra thought. He was dodging a bullet. He should be pleased.
“Why won’t you?” he said.
Because I’m terrified, thought Petra. Because this particular book, written by this particular writer, matters too much. Because
I’m scared that I’ll fail and damage his career, she thought, gazing at him and picking up her beer with a shaking hand.
Because hurting this man in any way at all would be totally unthinkable.
“Because I’m not a literary agent,” she said at last. “Not anymore.”
“Coward.”
“Ouch, not fair,” she protested, stung. “You weren’t there. It was grim.”
“It was a TYPO!” he shouted, waving a tortilla chip loaded with guacamole in a way that put the hearth rug in significant
danger. “You literally threw away your entire career because something awkward and embarrassing happened. Have you any idea
how awkward and embarrassing it is being me?” he demanded. “To have to go crawling back to the publishers, the reviewers,
the readers, and explain why I absented myself for the last five years?”
“Sure, it’s gotta be pretty bad,” said Petra, her voice laced with sarcasm, “being a devilishly handsome debut novelist with
a first novel achieving stellar success, the darling of the literati, and now being ready to come back to them with more of
the same? They’re going to hate you . . . I mean I’d be embarrassed if I were you,” she told him. “Anyway, it wasn’t just the typo thingy—although it was genuinely bad,” she
went on, hearing and hating the self-pity in her voice, “I was disillusioned by then anyhow.”
She declared, “I’ve lost my mojo, and my clients deserved better than that. So do you.”
“Read it,” said Ross, handing over a folder he had just pulled out of his coat. “Just read it. If you hate it, fine. If you
love it, then you tell me why you’re not the best person to represent my work. Deal?”
Despite almost every fiber in her body begging her not to, Petra reached forward and took it. Then she sighed performatively,
flopping back on the sofa cushion in capitulation. “Fine,” she said, clutching the folder to her chest.
“And there’s something else I need to tell you,” Ross said quietly.
“Oh, goodie,” replied Petra. Jeez, the fun was just going on and on this evening.
“This bit’s difficult,” he muttered, hanging his head before raising it again and looking her right in the eye, his entire
body tense, as if he was bracing himself. “I need you to be my agent, but—if you decide you are prepared help me, and I hope
you will—there is a price to pay.”
“Now he tells me,” joked Petra, furious to be unable to suppress the tremble in her voice.
“You and me. Being . . . friends,” he said. “Or whatever this—thing—is, between us?”
Petra nodded, an icy trickle running down her back. She had been here before. She knew what being dumped looked like. And—hell—this
wasn’t even a romance. Being dumped before a romantic relationship even began had to be a new low.