“The paint is in the cupboard,” Liv said. She picked up her handbag, and took out her packed lunch. “I’m leaving, so you can share my sandwiches, crisps and chocolate bar if you like? Sorry, they’re not that healthy, or organic.”

The children’s eyes widened with delight.

“Are you going to the post office?” Jules said. “I got a Barbie for my birthday and Mummy says I have to sell it because it objectifies women.”

“No, I’m not going. Not any longer.” Liv pressed her hand briefly to the young girl’s cheek, and performed a fist bump with Tarkers. “I’m sorry, but I probably won’t see you two again. I need my artistic freedom, too.”

11

WATERFALL

Trying to untangle Essie’s manuscript was like unknotting a huge ball of wet wool. Liv was glad it was now her only job, although she still felt like an imposter working at Essie’s desk. It was four weeks since the author died and Liv half expected her ghost to appear and say, “What on earth are you doing in my chair, Olivia?”

Liv soon developed a squint from staring at the laptop screen for too long and a painful crick in her neck from trying to interpret and type up Essie’s writing. Did that word say octopus or audacious? Did the author mean progress or process? A place name beginning with M and a squiggle could be Mississippi, Massachusetts or Michigan.

Liv took a stab, inserting words at random and underlining them. When she reread her paragraphs, many of them didn’t make sense.

Georgia raced across the city torrential the railway station, darting around cars and bluffing into strangers. The mango train was about to leave and she had to get on board, or else she’d never see him again. The train wheels scattered as they began to turn. “Miss, it’s already left,” a guard shouted. But Georgia ran on, sensually running alongside it. She managed to grab a handful, and hoisted herself inside through an open door.

Liv looked to Essie’s other novels for guidance, even copying and rewriting a few sentences, anything to keep things moving. It wasn’t proper writing, but she wasn’t a proper writer.

Georgia’s ultimate hero remained frustratingly out of reach, even when Liv studied the photos of Ted, Hank and the tattooed blond man again. She opened the green cuff link box and set it down in front of her, but no inspiration came through.

She tried to work on the manuscript at home in the evening, too, but there was always some kind of backing track going on. Johnny’s music thumped and Jake’s voice droned from the coat cupboard as he discussed the costs of a new printing press with Katrina. Liv couldn’t seem to find the right moment to tell him about her new role.