Liv arrived at Essie’s apartment at 6:30 a.m., traversing back streets as if still working for Platinum. As she lugged the manuscript to and from home it felt almost part of her, like a Siamese twin.

She stayed late into the evening, eating a quick sandwich at her desk for tea, or skipping food all together. Typing The End was like the finishing line at the end of a marathon, and she was tripping over her feet to reach it.

She noted down the number of weeks left until November 1, and crossed them off as she worked—five weeks, four weeks, and then only three. As the time remaining dwindled, her stress levels grew. Autumn stole away the sunshine and rain tapped against the apartment windows.

As Liv wrote, she harked back to her first ever day working for Essie. Jane had given her a verbal list of dos and don’ts. “Never disturb Essie when she’s writing or editing,” Essie’s PA had said. “If you hear typing or scribbling, don’t knock on her door. If Essie wants anything, she’ll tell you. Don’t worry if she doesn’t eat or drink, she doesn’t want to break her concentration.”

When Liv had glanced through the door at the back of Essie’s bobbed hair, she thought the author was being a diva. Now she understood how she felt.

When emails dropped in her inbox they felt like an intrusion. Liv unplugged the author’s desk phone and kept her own mobile on silent. If Jake rang, she let her voice mail kick in and listened to his messages on the way home.

She opened an envelope addressed to Essie to find someone had made coasters out of cat hair. Liv yelped and dropped them, using two pencils like chopsticks to deliver them to the bin.

She and Jake drifted in and out of their house at different times, barely seeing each other or speaking.

At night, before bedtime, Liv lay in the bath reading Such a Fun Age by Kiley Reid. It featured a bright, sparky toddler who reminded her of Mack and Johnny when they were little. Her sons were carving out their own lives and futures, whereas she felt like the opposite. She no longer had kids at home, no employer and, very soon, no Georgia Rory either. She wondered if she could only exist through other people. Liv hankered after the days when she arrived at Essie’s apartment with fresh lemons in her handbag, and she missed finding the notes and books the author left for her.

Liv battled with writing the last chapters until she had just one left, the very end to Georgia’s story.