“Well, I do not know him. Men usually kept Essie entertained for one night, maybe two, and then...” He snapped his fingers. “I remember her dancing once at a party and everyone’s eyes were upon her. She told me there was only ever one man who could hold her attention, who she really loved. Then, a few weeks later, she announced she was moving to LA with Hank Milligan.” He raised both eyebrows.

“Was he the man?” Liv said.

“I don’t know. Hank is a super fun guy to be around. Maybe a little too fun. He has lots of energy, you know? And a predilection for serial killers.” Sven stopped talking and finished his coffee. “What I thought would be a fling turned into a ten-year marriage.

“Hank was gorgeous, a real party guy,” he continued. “He took Essie to some great parties. They both loved the lifestyle in the sun, you know, the cars, and the houses. I stayed with them sometimes...”

Liv heard a downturn in his words. “What happened?” she said.

Sven let out a sigh. “Hank drank a lot. And Essie joined him more and more. It began to affect her work. Writing Georgia Rory became a necessity, you know, a chore. I suspected there were things going on in her personal life that I didn’t know about.”

Liv wondered what they were. She was about to ask Sven when he waved for more coffee.

He waited until a waiter brought over their cups before he spoke again. “When Essie sobered up, her writing picked up and she won the Constellation. Hank was by her side. And then, after that night...” He gave an exaggerated shrug and did his shooting motion again. “Pow. Nothing. I don’t know what happened, but she would no longer meet me. She turned down invitations to festivals. I thought I had done something wrong. It went on for several years.”

“Until she left you for Marlon?” Liv said.

He nodded. “One day I spoke to Essie on the phone. I reminded her she was a golden goose. Except, this time, she went crazy, calling me names. I think I hit a nerve. And then I heard she signed with Marlon.” He looked down at the table. “It was like a divorce, and it stung.”

Liv had always thought writing was a glamorous career. But for all Essie’s parties and clothes, cars, houses and fancy hotel rooms, had the author felt like a commodity in the publishing world? Moving to Marlon appeared to give Essie a little more freedom.

She finished her coffee and looked out to sea.

“Did you tell me what your job is?” Sven said. “I can’t remember.”

“I’m Essie’s assistant,” Liv said. “She thinks I might be able to write, too.”

“She wouldn’t say that if you weren’t any good.” He smiled.

“I’m not qualified at all. Not that it stopped Essie doing so well...”