For the past decade, Essie had refused most interviews and no longer took part in book tours. Invitations to give talks, attend literature festivals or go to parties were ignored. She didn’t even take calls from her agent and publisher, contacting them by email or via her latest personal assistant instead. On the rare occasion Essie left the apartment, Liv never knew where she disappeared to.

As she straightened up the books on the shelves, Liv spotted a chunk of A4 pages, stained and dog-eared as if handled many times. It looked like a manuscript and was obviously in the wrong place. She picked it up to return it to Essie’s writing room and recognized the author’s indigo scrawl on the front page.

Book Twenty, it read.

Liv let out a small gasp, her heart dancing in her chest. She was holding Essie’s latest story, the new Georgia Rory adventure.

The series of novels originated in the late eighties. Although literary critics were sniffy about Georgia’s clean-cut character, positivity and verve, readers across the world adored her. They camped outside bookstores on publication day, and copied Georgia’s eclectic outfits of floral tea dresses, school ties, a black blazer and battered biker boots. Young adults and grown-ups alike enjoyed the stories, passing the books on across generations. All the novels became book club favorites, and Liv was happy to label herself as Georgia’s biggest fan.

And here, finally in her hands, was a draft of Essie’s twentieth book. Other readers would kill for this moment.

Pulling out her earbud, Liv looked over her shoulder toward the closed writing room door. For a moment she wondered if Essie had intentionally left the manuscript for her to find, as she sometimes did with books by other writers. No, it’s not possible, she told herself. Mere mortals were never allowed to clap eyes on Essie’s work before it was published, except for her agent, Marlon, and editor, Meg.

For the first couple of years that Liv worked here, the author had been strictly out of bounds, and her writing door remained closed. But over the last twelve months, things had begun to change. Essie called out to Liv for reminders of plot points, and her characters’ likes and dislikes.

“Nobody knows Georgia Rory like you do,” Essie once said, making Liv feel like a child wrapped in a hot towel fresh off the radiator.

If she had to find one word to describe it, she’d say Essie was thawing toward her.

Warmth spread in Liv’s chest, the delicious yearning she felt whenever she held a new book. When she fingered the tatty edges of paper, anticipation shimmied down her spine. Was there any harm in peeking at a page or two?