The Messy Lives of Book People, page 1
Praise for Phaedra Patrick
“Witty and delightful...this story is a salve to the soul.”
—Colleen Oakley, bestselling author of The Invisible Husband of Frick Island
“Phaedra Patrick has a knack for creating memorable and touching characters.”
—Sarah Haywood, New York Times bestselling author of The Cactus
“The perfect book if you need a lift, or to feel better about the world. It’s a read-in-one-sitting-while-smiling kind of a story.”
—Clare Pooley, bestselling author of The Authenticity Project
Phaedra Patrick studied art and marketing and has worked as a stained glass artist, film festival organizer and communications manager. Her books have been translated into twenty-five languages worldwide and her first three novels were all USA TODAY bestsellers. Her second novel, Rise and Shine, Benedict Stone, has been made into a Hallmark movie. Phaedra lives with her family in Saddleworth, where she writes full-time.
The Messy Lives of Book People
Phaedra Patrick
To Pat, Dave, Mark and Oliver.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
THE BOOK AHEAD BLOG
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
HOW I WRITE
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
THE CONSTELLATION AFTER-PARTY
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
BESTSELLER ESSIE STARLING HAS DIED
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
Questions for Discussion
1
THE APARTMENT 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 gray 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 stories 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 apartment’s white walls were lined with shelves populated with framed photographs and a rainbow of books—contemporary novels, battered tomes, childhood favorites 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 for the Essie 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 favorite 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 apartment, 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 bookstores 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 favorites, 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 toward 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 was thawing toward 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 color. 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 after-party, Essie vanished.
Post-award interviews were canceled, 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? Now that would 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 traveled 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 on earth are you doing?” a woman’s voice said.
Liv’s bookish world snapped away and her cheeks flooded with color. 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 toward Essie’s beige Tory Burch pumps, up her slim black trousers and silk
Essie’s glasses slipped down her nose, so Liv could see her steely gray 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.
Liv’s palms were clammy as she tried to return the manuscript pages to their correct order. Essie employed a revolving door of personal assistants. As one exited, another one showed up. Liv had overheard her firing her last one, Matilda, and was never sure why she was the only employee left standing.
She couldn’t afford to lose this job. Her husband, Jake, was fighting to stop his family business from going under, and her son Johnny was joining his older brother, Mack, at university this summer. He needed enough stuff to fill a small truck. Liv’s wages were on the modest side, but every penny counted in the Green household. If she was going to be dismissed, she hoped it would be quick, like ripping a plaster off a hairy knee.
Returning the manuscript to its shelf, Liv’s eyes narrowed when she saw something glinting behind a trophy. She carefully reached up and plucked out a small label-less glass bottle. As she lifted it to her nose, the sweet smell of juniper made her stomach churn.
It was the fifth miniature gin bottle she’d found that week, not to mention the full-size vodka beside Essie’s bed. Liv sighed and pushed the bottle into the back pocket of her jeans. Really, where did Essie think they disappeared to when she left them around the place? She wondered if the author had been drinking while reading her own manuscript, and why.
Her pulse performed a quickstep as she padded along the hallway toward the writing room. She said a mental goodbye to the designer side table, books and huge display of lilies.
Before she entered the writing room, Liv clenched her fists. You’ve been through worse, she told herself, trying not to think back to her childhood when she was scared and alone in a strange bedroom clutching her Georgia Rory books for comfort.
Think. What would Georgia do?
Essie’s writing room looked like it had been transported from a cottagey holiday home, a contrast to the starkness of the rest of her apartment. Her desk was made of old oak, and there was a wall of dark wooden bookshelves displaying more editions of her books.
“Be seated,” Essie said, without looking up from her notepad. Her cut glass English accent had a slight American twang, which made Liv feel very ordinary. Essie was only ten years older than her yet their age difference felt like a generation.
Essie turned and steepled her long, slim fingers. “So?” she said.
Blood thumped in Liv’s ears, but she had a touch of Georgia’s bravery running through her veins. “I only read a few pages of your manuscript.”
Essie’s face was still and unreadable. “You know my work is off-limits.”
“It wasn’t in your writing room, and I couldn’t help myself.” All of her emotions felt on edge. “Are you going to fire me, or not?”
Essie’s mouth twitched into a brief smile, then settled back just as quickly. As she stroked the handle of her vintage teacup, her stare seemed to laser through Liv’s skin. “No, I’m not going to dismiss you.”
Relief flooded Liv’s body. Before she could say anything, Essie continued, “I’d like your opinion on something.”
Liv’s stomach jittered, and she wasn’t sure if it was with fear or excitement. “Oh, okay.”
Essie opened her top drawer and took out a magazine, the Chicago Globe Literary Review. She tossed it toward Liv and folded her arms. “My agent sent this recent review to me, for Few and Far Between,” she said. “It’s dated April Fools’ Day. I assume it’s not a hoax.”
Liv gulped. She wasn’t good with dates, always forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, but the author was highly superstitious about them. She read a section of the critique, for the novel she’d just been listening to. It was a fair summary, albeit with a weary tone of voice.
April 1, 2019
The complexities and delicate emotion of Starling’s earlier work are missing in this flat novel. The writing is uncomplicated, and the story unoriginal. Georgia Rory’s feistiness has been replaced with a dithering reticence and lack of direction. Once a writer of considerable promise, Ms. Starling continues to let her once considerable talent fly south. It is therefore no surprise she avoids the public eye. Nevertheless, her devoted fans will undoubtedly buy the book in their millions, guaranteeing her yet another bestseller.
Liv quickly considered what she should say. Forget about being caught reading during work hours—saying the wrong thing about the review would surely cost her this job. Did she try to flatter Essie? Should she use a conciliatory tone, or a firm, resolute one? Whatever she said would be judged.
“The truth, please, Olivia.” Essie tapped a fingernail on her desk. “And get straight to the point.”
Liv ran her tongue around her mouth to get rid of a metallic taste. She tapped into Georgia’s mindset once more and tried not to falter. “I think your earlier books had a warm, easy charm, like you really enjoyed writing them. However, if I’m honest, like you’re asking me to be—” She hesitated. “I...sometimes feel you’ve lost your true passion for Georgia.”
Essie raised a palm, as if stopping traffic. “And the pages of the manuscript you read?”
Liv lowered her eyes. “Kind of the same thing.”
“I see,” Essie said through gritted teeth.
“You asked for my opinion...”
“And you gave it to me. Thank you very much, Olivia.”
Liv fidgeted in her seat, already regretting her frankness. An electronic blast of “Paperback Writer” by The Beatles sounded from her phone, vibrating loudly between her backside and the chair.
Essie’s neck stiffened like a cobra. “You should answer that.”
“Yes, sorry.” Liv tugged the phone out of her pocket and saw Jake was calling. She tucked her chin into her neck. “Hi, yes I’m still at work,” she whispered. “I’ll be half an hour or so... Okay, I hadn’t forgotten... Bye.” Liv turned off her phone. “Sorry, my son’s bringing a new girlfriend home and I said I’d make a cake for tea. I’ll get one from Aldi instead.”
“Really? I do recommend Bentley and White. Their patisserie is divine.”
“Oh? Thanks.” Liv had no intention of visiting the extortionately priced shop. “The window displays are gorgeous.”
An awkward silence fell between them.
Liv had an urge to apologize, but Essie waved her hand. “That is all,” she said.
Liv’s legs shook as she left the room. Thank goodness she still had her job, at least for the moment. She took a few minutes to gather together her cloths and cleaning solutions, then tugged the vacuum cleaner back into the store cupboard. When she’d finished, she pulled on her scuffed yellow Converse. “Have a good evening,” she shouted out to Essie.
Strangely, the writing door was wide-open. There was no reply.
Liv padded toward it to say goodbye properly, but Essie’s chair was vacant and pushed up to her desk.
“Essie,” she called out, frowning as she moved from room to room. She wanted to feel the air was clear between them before she left for the weekend. However, all the rooms were unoccupied. The author was nowhere to be seen.
“Essie?” Liv whispered, as she pirouetted alone in the empty writing room. “Where the hell are you?”
But it was no use. The author was gone.
2
CAKE IN THE BATH
Liv hurriedly bought a cake from Aldi and listened to the end of Few and Far Between as she jogged across the city, but her mind was firmly set on Essie. The author had pulled that vanishing trick a few times before. One minute she sat in her writing room scribbling away, and the next she disappeared like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. It was at odds with her reclusive behavior, and Liv wondered if she went to visit a neighbor or run an errand. She felt like it wasn’t her place to ask.
By the time she reached home her knuckles glowed cherry red from carrying the cake in the chilly late April weather. Liv inhaled a few last seconds of calm before opening her front door.
