Liv froze with her cloth in her hand at this unexpected query. They’d never really had a proper conversation before, other than discussing Essie’s cleaning preferences. Why would the author ask her? Was it some kind of trick question?

Anything sensible flew out of Liv’s head and she garbled the first thing she thought of. “I’d say it’s a bit like wading through mud without wearing Wellington boots,” she said.

Essie tilted her head and considered this for a while.

Liv wished she could take it back. She was horrified Essie might take her silly comment seriously.

“I agree, somewhat,” Essie said. “Personally, I think it’s more like being on board a small yacht on the ocean, looking over the side and glimpsing something shiny on the seabed. It shimmers and then vanishes again, so you don’t know if it’s a precious ring, or just the tab pulled off a drink can.

“Others around you might tell you it’s a piece of rubbish and to ignore it. But you can’t stop thinking what it might be. You drop into the water and kick your feet to stay afloat. Touching and holding the shiny thing takes precedence over anything else.

“You dive down until your fingertips brush against it, pushing it farther away. Wet sand blooms and obscures your view. You rush back to the surface spluttering for breath with salt water running down the back of your throat. Yet, you keep on diving until you finally wrap your fingers around the shiny thing. It’s finally yours, and you clench it in your fist and hold it to your heart.”

Liv had never heard Essie talk so much before and her cheeks felt fiery at her own flippant answer. She’d had a unique opportunity to impress Essie and had messed it up. “So, are you holding something precious, or is it just rubbish?” she asked.

Essie smiled enigmatically. “I have no idea. And that’s the thing, Olivia. You never know if the thing glinting on the seabed is something special or not, until you force yourself under water and hold it in your hand. And that’s what writing is like.”

Liv had no idea what to say. She clutched her cleaning cloth and when her words didn’t emerge, Essie turned away. The moment was lost between them.

As she relived her own disappointment in herself, Liv’s backbone stiffened. If she had the opportunity to answer the question again, she would say something smarter to Essie. “Writing is like a life belt keeping me afloat right now, when everything else seems to be pulling me under. I don’t want to dive and search around on the bottom of the sea bed. I want to swim to a beautiful shore.”

This time she pictured the author smiling and nodding.

And if Essie believed in her, Liv had to find belief in herself, too.