She was about to ask him how long he’d known the author, but Anthony started to explain how Pentecost and Wilde sponsored the museum financially and that he sat on the governing board. His manner was assured, polite and a little tense. Liv could see why Essie entrusted him with her instructions, but found it tricky to imagine any romance between them. Could the cuff links she’d found under Essie’s pillow really belong to him? At this moment, it felt too forward to ask.

When she looked around the museum for anything to do with Essie, she was disappointed to find it lacking.

Anthony seemed to read her mind. “There are hundreds of thousands of writers in the world, so the museum can’t possibly feature them all,” he said. “The board has discussed implementing a contemporary writers’ room for some time. Securing funding is the issue.”

Liv turned around on the spot. “I’d love to see Jojo Moyes’s notes, or a photo of Marian Keyes’s writing desk. I’m sure others would, too.”

“Correct, though I suppose Shakespeare offers better costume opportunities.” His smile had a hint of warmth.

They found a blue velvet sofa in front of a portrait of Lord Byron. When Liv looked up at the painting, it felt strange to be sitting here with a man who wasn’t her husband.

When she and Jake had first started dating, they used to love spending their weekends hanging out at museums and art galleries, perusing the exhibitions and sharing cake in the café. When Mack and Johnny arrived, they moved into the children’s zone instead where they all donned wigs to dress like Charles Dickens, or made up limericks.

She loved the adult versions of Mack and Johnny with all her heart, but there was something special about having small children. All the shoelace tying, and nose wiping, and remembering to carry snacks had been exhausting, yet she missed the feeling of being the center of someone else’s world.

“My wife, Harriet, is a little in love with this portrait of Byron,” Anthony said. “I suppose I should be jealous.”

So, Anthony’s married and unlikely to be romantically involved with Essie, Liv thought to herself. It made things even more confusing. She wrinkled her nose at the flamboyant poet. “I prefer Neil Gaiman, or Khaled Hosseini.”

Shakespeare appeared and handed pencils and sheets of blank paper to them. “For you to scribe sonnets,” he said.

Liv took the opportunity to move along her conversation with Anthony. “I still don’t know exactly what happened to Essie,” she said. “Why did she go into hospital?”

Anthony pressed a finger against the point of his pencil and thought for a moment. “Are you aware she’d had chronic pancreatitis, for some time?” he said.

Liv shook her head. “I’m not sure what it is.”