Chapter Twenty-Seven
The afternoon wore on with high spirits, inconsequential chatter, and delicious food. As coffee and petit fours were dispensed
by the smiling but nigh invisible serving team, all eyes were turned to the head table. It might not be Jules and Roman’s
actual wedding day, but it seemed the tradition of speeches was going to be observed.
Roman’s father stood first, declaring he was going to be brief and then droning on interminably. Standing in for Jules’s father,
he declared himself delighted with his new daughter-in-law and approving of his son’s choices in this, at least, although
jovial comments about being in competition with his son over business matters sounded more heartfelt than Petra thought he
meant them to.
Petra was pretty sure he eventually wrapped up hurriedly because his pretty brunette wife with the kind brown eyes had given
him a look. She warmed to him then. He may be full of bluster and self-importance, but it was touchingly clear that—actually—his
gentle, sweet wife was the boss of him.
Roman was next and—even with Ross sitting beside her so handsome in his kilt—Petra’s heart gave a little flutter at the sight of him: handsome, assured, and clearly deeply in love with Jules, who beamed up at him all the while.
And then Jules indicated that she would like to speak, and Roman helped her to her feet, holding her protectively against
him. He handed her the microphone, pretending to be alarmed at what she might say, eliciting nervous giggles from the crowd.
“Like all my favorite romances,” Jules began, “our story was a classic ‘enemies to lovers’—my favorite trope. Much has been
made of our names and our families—the whole Romeo and Juliet thang . . .” She paused for a comic beat. “Hilarious.”
There was a wave of gentle laughter.
“But!” she continued more briskly, “I would like to think Roman and I took that tragic tale and turned it on its head—I mean,
thank goodness, right?” she asked the crowd. “Double teen suicide versus happily ever after? It’s time to change the narrative.
So? Roman isn’t my Romeo, he’s my Mr. Rochester. He’s my decent, principled, brave, sometimes grumpy storybook hero . . .”
she made a face at him, “and I love him. And he loves me. So maybe Capelthorne’s is our own Thornfield Hall? You know what?
There was even a fire in our story too, now that I think about it—” She scratched her chin, in a parody of thought.
“But hardly any mad wives in the attic, honest,” Roman quipped into the microphone.
“Nope, no mad ex-partners lurking,” Jules agreed, joining in the laughter, “but maybe that’s just because you don’t know me
well enough—yet . . .” she quipped in sepulchral tones.
And then Jules was serious, turning back to Roman and taking his hand. “I know you, Roman Montbeau. You are a good, kind, loyal man, who I am certain Charlotte Bronte—a supremely gifted writer of romantic
heroes—would approve of.” She turned to the crowd, “And this story definitely has a happy ending because,” she paused for a beat, “reader, I married him.”
The crowd good-naturedly cheered again, even though most of them had been denied the chance to see it for themselves.
“Yeah, and she definitely did the marrying bit first,” interjected Roman over the last of the cheers. “I just want to get
that in, before this other thing . . .”
And then Jules, with her hand on her gently swollen belly, broke the news about the baby, sounding a little nervous, Petra
thought. But the noisy cheering, applause, and outbreak of joyous chatter must have reassured her that the guests were nearly
as excited as she and Roman about the wonderful things next year held in store.
How lovely, thought Petra, wiping away a tear. Seeing it, Ross handed her his napkin and squeezed her waist as she dried her
eyes, laughing at herself.
Happily ever after . . . wasn’t that what everyone longed for? For the first time in her life, it even occurred to her that
she might have found hers at last, here in this beautiful place, with these wonderful people.
Maybe next summer this would be her and Ross.
Maybe.
Next morning, Petra woke in the gray light of dawn with a lurch of panic.
She consciously calmed herself, settling back into Ross’s arms and matching her breathing to his, slow and steady .
. . Ross was nothing if not a sound sleeper.
He could certainly sleep for them both, which was great because Petra’s sleep could be ruined by the tiniest thing.
She had decided Ross’s propensity for near coma-level sleep—even if there was a battle raging all around him—was admirable. Impressive even.
But also, deeply annoying.
She put her hand over her racing heart, stifling a groan of frustration. She tried to tell herself it was excitement, but
the fear over her return to the literary scene was unconfined now that the distraction of Jules and Roman’s party was over.
Now all that was done. And the inaugural festival was kicking off with the big “Ross reveal” in just four days.
Petra carefully disentangled herself from Ross and the bedclothes and sat up, looking down anxiously to check that she had
not woken him. But, of course, she hadn’t.
It may be Sunday, and she dearly hoped Jules and Roman were having a well-deserved lie-in, but she knew that Jess would be
absolutely losing it fretting about what needed to be done to put the final arrangements into place.
Petra would call her and suggest breakfast.
If nothing else, she and Jess could stress about it all together.
Ross was lying in bed awake looking tousled and extremely desirable when Petra came back out of the bathroom after a hasty
shower.
“It’s the weekend,” he drawled. “Come back to bed?” He held up the covers enticingly, but Petra refused to engage.
“You stay in bed all day, sleepyhead,” she chided. “I’ve got breakfast with Jess at our café. She needs a morale-boosting
bacon sandwich.”
“The festival?”
Petra nodded. “You nervous?”
“Nope,” said Ross instantly. “I would be, but I’ve got this fab agent handling everything for me.”
“So I hear,” said Petra. “Why get a dog then bark yourself?” But she was smiling when she left the cottage, promising to bring
him back one of the café’s breakfast buns—essentially a full English breakfast stuffed into a brioche, a heart-stopping concoction,
but with a legendary status as Portneath’s best hangover cure.
“I think I should have made that last one a decaf,” admitted Petra, setting her third mug of strong coffee back on the table
with a tremor that set it reverberating onto the Formica table of the greasy spoon like a kettle drum. She was wide awake
now, so at least there was that.
Jess, spearing the final bit of her eggs Benedict muffin and using it to mop up the last of her hollandaise sauce, seemed
irritatingly calm by comparison, Petra thought.
“It’s all basically fine,” she told Petra. “We’ve sold a good number of tickets for all the events now—I’m glad we kept it
smallish this year—and all our participants have their accommodation lined up. I’m so glad Candida Bertolli is bunking up
with Flo. I know she’ll be spoiled rotten, which she seems to need, if my friend who did a book tour with her is anyone to
go by.”
“Is she a monster?” asked Petra understandingly.
“Wouldn’t go that far—actually, scrap that—yes, she’s a monster. And how about our launch panel mystery guest, how is he this morning? Not that he’s a monster,” she added, apparently hearing how the juxtaposition had sounded.
“Still in bed, having a lovely lie-in,” reported Petra. “I think he’s okay. I’d be terrified. Actually, I think I am terrified, on his behalf.”
“When are you going to set off the fireworks?” asked Jess.
Petra knew Jess was keen to get the story out there. It was the jewel in the crown of the whole festival, having Ross come
out of the shadows as its star turn.
“Soon,” she reassured Jess. “Timing is critical, our publicist says. You’ve had the draft release from her?”
“From that Louise lady?” replied Jess. “Yes. It looks fine to me. I’ve signed off on it.”
“Me too. First thing tomorrow, The Bookseller, Society of Authors, and all the national newspaper literary editors are informed and given an invitation to the launch,”
said Petra, with a confidence she didn’t feel.
Once it was out, it was out, and then her real job—supporting and protecting Ross from the fierce, overwhelming interest—would
begin. It was her job to harness that interest and turn it into a stunning offer. It was going to be like reaping the whirlwind.
Or harnessing an earthquake.
Petra hadn’t even read it all herself yet because there was still no final chapter. Most evenings, she had been casting an
eye over the pages Ross had edited that day. The ending—the final fate of Miranda and Caliban—was still missing, but that
didn’t matter. It was brilliant. She reckoned she could sell it on Ross’s reputation plus a concept written on the back of
a cigarette packet alone, just like Alistair said.
So why did she have this vile sense of unease?
Louise, the publicist, messaged Petra almost as soon as the release went out, but she needn’t have bothered, because Petra’s phone had already started to ring.
First, it was The Bookseller, the trade magazine for UK publishing. Publishers Marketplace in the US called too, which didn’t surprise her, knowing Ross’s first book had sold more in the US and Canada than in any
other market worldwide.
In fact, her phone rang all day. All these conversations were brief as Petra politely and regretfully explained. Yes, Ross
was going to be headlining the Portneath Literary Festival, yes, there would be a chance for press to ask questions. No, they
would not be offering an exclusive. Blanket coverage was the aim. Yes, there was a manuscript—well, there was a sample of
a manuscript, at this stage—yes, she would be inviting offers, naturally . . .
And, of course, the acquisition editors had been emailed too. It was no time at all before individual editors started to call.