Inside the apartment, Liv took off her Converse in the hallway and neatened the lilies in a vase. She had to constantly wrap sticky tape around her fingers to pick up pollen off the silk table runners. She preferred it when Essie occasionally received extravagant bouquets of white roses, which only left dropped petals. When Liv trimmed the rose stems and arranged them, there was never a message attached. Perhaps a fan or admirer sent them. Or did Essie have a secret lover that no one knew about? When the author vanished, was it to a hush-hush rendezvous in a luxurious hotel room?

When she saw the writing room door was closed, Liv’s heart plunged. She listened for the sound of scribbling before knocking. “Essie, would you like a cup of tea?”

There was no reply. Liv dejectedly mixed a solution of water, lemon juice, baking soda and lavender oil to clean the kitchen. Her excitement about starting her new tasks began to slip away. She resumed listening to Garden Spells.

Everywhere looked just how she’d left it on Monday, except Essie’s suitcase had gone. There were no miniature bottles around, or notes attached to books, and she recalled a couple of recent favorites.

“To Olivia. An intriguing premise in this sumptuous tale of regret, ambition and forbidden love,” had been attached to The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid. “To Olivia. An unconventional heroine has to navigate a brave new world,” was adhered to Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. Liv had devoured and loved both books.

After a couple of hours, Liv’s fingers were wrinkled and she approached the writing room again. She knocked and quietly inched the door open, pressing an eye to the gap.

Essie’s chair was pushed up to her desk. A coiled green Hermès scarf and a bottle of Fracas perfume sat on top of it. The yellow notebook wasn’t there.

Liv frowned, her stomach sinking. She hoped Essie hadn’t performed a vanishing trick again. Not today.

In the kitchen, she drummed her fingers on the worktop and switched on the fancy coffee machine that looked like a robot. Perhaps Essie was staying at a retreat or spa for longer.

When it was time to go home, she chewed a strip of skin off her bottom lip as she packed away her things. She assured herself Essie would be back the next day.

But on Friday afternoon, Liv found the apartment to be empty again. It had a hollow feeling about it, like a concert hall after the audience had left.

She searched for notes again before glumly making a coffee. As she added extra milk, the landline phone rang on Essie’s desk. Liv rushed toward it and snatched up the receiver. “Essie?” she said.