Chapter 1
The Flat in the Clouds
Liv Green wore her polishing cloth draped over her arm in the same proud way a maître d’ might wear a napkin. She’d already cleaned Essie Starling’s two bathrooms, each bigger than her own bedroom, polished the white marble kitchen worktops, and left uniform vacuum cleaner tracks on the dove grey carpets, just how the bestselling author liked them. She wore one earbud while she worked, listening to the audiobook of Essie’s nineteenth novel for the second time and leaving her other ear free in case the author called out any commands.
As Liv carried her cleaning box into the third bedroom, she averted her eyes from the floor-to-ceiling windows. After three years of working here, the panoramic view still made her dizzy. If she were Rapunzel, she’d need a plait thirty-two storeys long to reach down to the pavement. Not that many forty-two-year-old mums, wearing bleach-specked jeans and an ancient Rolling Stones T-shirt, ever appeared in fairy tales.
Outside, cars were beeping in the Friday evening traffic. Liv really should be home by now, but there was always something about Essie that made her want to stay.
The flat’s white walls were lined with shelves populated with framed photographs and a rainbow of books – contemporary novels,battered tomes, childhood favourites and copies of Essie’s own novels in forty languages. Liv loved to gently wipe their covers and admire how various countries depicted Essie’s famous heroine, Georgia Rory.
If she ever told anyone she cleaned for the author, the common reaction was wide eyes and a dropped jaw. ‘You really work fortheEssie Starling?’ people would ask. ‘What is she like? Why is she so reclusive?’ Liv couldn’t blame their fascination. She could still hardly believe she worked for her favourite writer, and, out of her three cleaning jobs, she relished this one the most. In response to eager questions about Essie, she gave a slight smile and a shrug, adding to the author’s enigma.
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 flat, 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 bookshops 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 favourites, 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 towards 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 wasthawingtowards 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?
She nervously glanced at a photo on the shelf of the author. Essie wore a blue evening gown with embroidered birds on the shoulder. Her round glasses had lenses as dark as licorice, and her trademark patterned silk scarf was tied around her sharp black bob. Tangerine orange was her preferred lip colour. She once attended all the best parties and award ceremonies, and her fans voted in droves for her to win the global Constellation Writing Prize ten years ago.
And then, on the eve of the Constellation afterparty, Essie vanished.
Post-award interviews were cancelled, and journalists were left hanging. Speculation raged – was she ill, what had happened, where was she? As the months ticked by, her fans clung to the hope she might emerge from hiding to grace a local bookshop or appear on TV. But Essie hadn’t been seen in public for a decade.
Liv always wondered how and why things changed so dramatically for the author. Why would someone with the world at their feet cut themselves off from society? Nowthatwould make a great story.
Unable to resist the lure of the manuscript, Liv sat down cross-legged on the carpet and began to read the first chapter. She’d always had a vivid imagination, allowing her to slip into books and become one with the characters. The room and the photographs faded away.
Aware of nothing else but the story, Liv kept on turning the pages.
Georgia swallowed her worries away as she strode into the airport. Old-fashioned fans rattled on the ceiling and did little to circulate the stifling heat. It was a tiny place with a dusty track for a runway and two propeller planes on standby.She gripped the handle of her battered leather suitcase, full of trepidation. She’d travelled the world, and been on many adventures, but this time her throat was scratchy and her anxiety was rising. ‘I’m not sure where I’m going, or what I need to do,’ she said aloud. ‘Is there anyone who can help me?’
‘Olivia.What onearthare you doing?’ a woman’s voice said.
Liv’s bookish world snapped away and her cheeks flooded with colour. Essie was the only person who used her full name. How long had she been standing in the doorway?
Liv frantically gathered the pages of the manuscript together before realizing they weren’t numbered. Questions rumbled in her head about what she’d just read. Where was the warmth and fun in the story? Where was Georgia’s usual quick wit and confidence?
Her eyes crept fearfully towards Essie’s beige Tory Burch pumps, up her slim black trousers and silk blouse, before reaching the patterned Hermès scarf in her hair and her narrowed eyes. ‘Essie, I’msosorry,’ she spluttered. ‘I started to read and couldn’t stop.’
Essie’s glasses slipped down her nose, so Liv could see her steely grey irises. ‘My writing room in ten minutes, please,’ she snapped. She turned on her heels and left the room with the grace of a prima ballerina.
