Digging In: A Novel(65)

“Can I get you something?” I asked. “Coffee? There’s a café next door.”

Petra stood and stretched. She leaned over the table, and I had to bend my knees to make eye contact. “These people are fucking awful,” she said, in the broadest, cockneyist Oliver Twist accent. “There’s a guy earlier, right? My number one fan? Scared the fucking bejesus out of me.” She gestured to the lethargic bookstore employees. “None of these twats’ll save my ass if he’s waiting outside, and I don’t want to wait for a cab with creepers like him around. Have you got a car? I’m staying at some hellhole right outside of town. Can I get a lift?”

Sometimes, when in shock, the brain takes a while to catch up with the mouth. “Sure,” I said after a beat. “I’ll pull around the back.”





CHAPTER 27

I had to remind Petra to use her seat belt. She frowned and clicked it with a huff, then immediately dug through her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“You don’t mind if I smoke, right? I’ll blow it out the window. There won’t be a trace.”

She lit up before I could answer.

Petra sat in what my grandmother would call an “unladylike” fashion. She stuck one foot on the dash, like Trey often did, and hunched toward the passenger door.

“Where am I going?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t feel like sitting in that hotel room, that’s for sure. It’s all beige. Everything—carpet, bed, furniture. It’s like a doctor’s waiting room for the NHS.”

“So you really are from England . . .”

“Do ya think?”

I let that comment pass. I drove through town slowly, figuring I should let her finish smoking before I brought up stopping at Guh. Would they still be there? I regretted not texting Jackie when I got the car. Since I hadn’t shown up yet, maybe they thought I was still convincing Petra? I had to try.

“So that man who was talking to you?”

She snorted. “There’s one in every city. This one was going off about helping me advertise my business. What kind of idiot presents a business plan at an author signing?”

“He’s my boss.”

“Really?” She cackled. “Lucky you.”

On impulse, I decided to go with honesty. “I was also on a mission to talk to you. I’m supposed to convince you to come back to our offices for a presentation of our services.”

“That’s weird.”

“You got that right.”

I cruised past the municipal building, McAllister’s Café, and O’Malley’s Pub.

“God, I just want to get soused,” Petra said, her voice growing sad.

“We can stop at the bar if you want.” And I can text Jackie from the bathroom. Maybe the crew could move all the posters to O’Malley’s. We could wow Petra after she’d had a few American beers . . .

“I’m in recovery. Been to rehab twice. I’ll always want to get soused, but I don’t think I’ll actually ever do it again. I’m fucking twenty-nine years old. Could be a long life, you know? That’s just a pisser.” She tossed the cigarette butt out the window, which made me wince.

“Your book made it to the New York Times bestseller list. That is an incredible accomplishment. You’ve managed to persevere.”

“Fuck yeah,” she said, ear-piercingly loud.

That was the response of the woman who wrote so eloquently about the emotional life of an idea? I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. She held another cig in one hand while she chomped on the nails of the other.

“Where do you live?” she asked. “Are you close?”

“Not too far.”

“Let’s go to your house.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Why not stop by our offices and see what we have to offer? It’ll only take ten minutes.”

She put one small hand on my arm, lightly, so as not to affect my driving. “What’s your name?”

“Paige.”

“Paige, I don’t know how to say this without sounding mad, but Petra Polly doesn’t really speak to people. I don’t match my own image. People don’t want to hear someone like me give advice. And it’s fucking exhausting to be silent. For some reason I like you—you’ve got a face that tells me you’ve been through some shit. Let’s go sit on your sofa and watch the telly.”

“Okay,” I said, against my better judgment.



“You did all this yourself? It’s brilliant! Messy as all hell, but brilliant!”

Petra walked the haphazard rows of my garden. She couldn’t see much under the light of the moon, but she touched everything, gently, reverently.

“You’re growing a miracle here! You know that, right?”

Petra’s hair had come out of its braid and stuck out in all directions. Her silk dress had rumpled, and she’d peeled off the knee socks the minute we got to my house. She seemed lighter. Happier.

“I guess it is a miracle I’ve managed to grow something,” I said. “The tomatoes are almost ready. I feel like they’re my children, in a way. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Not if you cared for them.” She looked at me cockeyedly. “Have you read my book? I gave human qualities to corporations! I’m not going to question your feelings for your tomatoes.”