As she hung up, Liv’s dad’s voice appeared in her head.‘Just keep turning the page until you reach the next chapter, sweet pea,’Grant Cooper said.
‘Okay, Dad, I’m going to try,’ she whispered.
Chapter 9
Shakespeare
The night before meeting Anthony, Liv dreamed she was surrounded by book pages swirling around her. They stuck to her body and coated her face until she couldn’t breathe. Essie had died three weeks ago, but it felt like only yesterday.
‘Stop wriggling,’ Jake huffed and pulled the bedcovers around him. ‘You’re keeping me awake.’
Liv couldn’t stop moving, twitching and staring into the darkness. She was determined to carry out Essie’s last wish to the best of her abilities, but the worry of hoodwinking millions of Georgia Rory fans crept over her skin like soldier ants.
She tried telling herself that author James Patterson openly employed co-writers to help craft his many bestsellers, writing outlines that others then drafted out. Was it so bad if she worked on Essie’s novel and no one knew about it? Authors Stieg Larsson, Robert Ludlum and Agatha Christie had all had their characters and stories passed on to new authors, to continue telling them posthumously. Though, unlike the Essie situation, it was done candidly.
Liv’s self-assurances did little to quell her concerns.
She dressed in black trousers and a white blouse for her meeting with Anthony. She didn’t usually bother wearing make-up to work and made the effort with pink lip gloss and mascara. She called at the flat on the way to the Museum of Writing, where she added Essie’s green scarf around her neck for a splash of colour. The sun was out again, so she took a pair of Dior sunglasses off a bookshelf, popping them on before adding a squirt of Fracas to her collarbone.
As she passed the hallway mirror, Liv caught sight of herself and did a double take. Her Sheryl Crow vibe now had a touch of Emily Blunt classiness, and she liked it.
When she reached the foyer, she noticed a woman meandering on the pavement outside as if waiting for someone. She wore jeans so tight they looked sprayed on, and her long glossy hair was at least four shades of caramel. She looked like the kind of woman who’d sit on her kitchen worktop forOK!magazine, grinning over a slice of watermelon.
As Liv walked through the door, the woman darted inside and flashed her a megawatt smile. ‘Thanks, hon. Forgot my key.’
Liv smiled back. It was only afterwards she remembered entry was via an electronic fob, not a key. The thought was probably nothing, but it played on her mind as she walked to the museum.
The ornate orange brick building was wedged between the library and a discount clothes shop, so was often missed by shoppers. A portly man dressed as William Shakespeare, resplendent in black knickerbockers and a frilled collar, opened the door for her.
Liv wandered around looking at the exhibits while waiting for Anthony to arrive. She admired notes by Charles Dodgson forAlice’s Adventures Under Ground,and a copy of the book when it was later published asAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland, under his pen name Lewis Carroll. There was Tennessee Williams’s pen, and one of Evelyn Waugh’s diaries.
There weren’t many other visitors around and Shakespeare kept looking over at her, so Liv moved into a different room to escape his attention. She learned that Mary Shelley started to writeFrankensteinwhen she was only eighteen years old, and that J.R.R. Tolkien worked at theOxford English Dictionaryfor two years. Her favourite piece of information was that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Houdini were once friends.
When Anthony showed up, he was dressed in jeans and a blue linen shirt with a worn leather satchel across his body. There was a bee-shaped pin on the lapel of his jacket. He didn’t look entirely comfortable in casual clothes and still had a formal air about him. Liv wasn’t sure whether to shake his hand or not, so improvised with a smile and a hello.
As they walked around the museum together, Anthony’s nostrils flared. ‘Ah, you smell like Ess—’ he said before stopping himself.
Liv side-glanced at him, wondering how he knew. She had to remind Jake of her own favourite fragrance each time he asked for birthday ideas. She didn’t want to tell Anthony she’d used Essie’s perfume that morning. ‘I borrowed her scarf,’ she said. ‘Her scent’s probably still on it.’
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 cufflinks 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 centre 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.’
