Liv to Tell

By Mish Mockovic Martin

Liv once expected her life to be quiet and unremarkable, epecially as a resident of a small country town in rural Australia. She was wrong. Following a failed relationship and the loss of her father, Liv’s decision to travel is easy. She seeks adventure and finds it, extending across four continents.

She lives life to the edge and ends up meeting Margaret Thatcher in London and being detained against her will in Namibia. With a story worth telling, her lifelong friend agrees to turn Liv’s words into a thrilling narrative, but he might have an ulterior motive as Liv finds more trouble than she wants in the form of romance.

Liv uncovers a world of betrayal, shrouded in lies that change her life and jeopardize her future. Her adventures continue, but is the man at her side destined to be her lover, or is there more to him than meets the eye?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Mar 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781504320641

Mish Mockovic Martin

Mish Mockovic Martin finds inspiration through travel. She is a yoga teacher and author of Insights of a Yogi: Understanding Karma through Life’s Experiences. Currently at work on her next yoga book, she lives in Australia with her husband, three children, and three dogs. This is her debut novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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I always wanted to write. I am quoting her words, of course. They say you don’t really know someone until you walk in their shoes. To the casual observer, walking in Liv’s shoes would appear an easy task, but look deeper, and you learn this is far from the truth.

I wish I could be so brave, she confessed.

I do have a story to tell but don’t know how to tell it.

Liv definitely has a story to tell.

This is where I fit in. Liv is not the type to typically divulge her past or secrets; in fact, she is more likely to be the listener in any given conversation.

Having good manners, she would exclaim, is more important than talking incessantly about yourself. To talk about yourself is the lowest form of intelligent conversation, which sounds like an oxymoron, but I knew what she meant.

People and places were always of interest, something quite clear in the topics she discussed, debated, and deliberated; the way she could transform a boring moment into an adventurous episode was impressive. When sharing, her mannerisms would change and become more animated, her eyes would glisten with excitement, and her voice would quaver with expression. Her eagerness sometimes meant she stumbled over her sentences as the words came forth, gathering speed as the story raced to its conclusion. Her audience would be silenced by curiosity, delighted with pleasure, and truly entertained through the whole performance. It was hard not to be transfixed by her passion, excited by her enthusiasm and dedication for the art of storytelling.

She believed that everyone had a story, and that each story was etched into the face like delicate brushstrokes on a great painting. The deep furrow of lines on the forehead, the grooves engraved between the eyebrows suggest a face lined with experience and wisdom. Wrinkled skin and drooping eyelids imply a life of sorrow, filtered with pain and hardship, whereas twinkling eyes amid laughter lines are features that bring to mind a joyful person, one who has experienced many happy times with friends and family.

Needless to say, nobody goes unscathed. In her words, life with all its drama presents the perfect opportunity to narrate a bestseller. Every detail, from beginning to end. Trying not to take things too seriously, she would often quote Gloucester from Shakespeare’s King Lear: As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport. Another contradiction in terms, but somehow, I felt there was some truth behind the quote.

Do we have the ability to create our own path, or is our destiny dictated by fate?

Liv was a believer in free will. She would say, Anything is possible, if you really want it. And if you looked at her track record, you would know this to be true. However, I often wondered if the tough exterior was simply a facade to convince herself and others that everything was fine. For at times, and mostly after a few Pinot Gris, these walls would start to crumble, revealing the cracks and disintegration. It was here I discovered what lay beneath, someone intrinsically beautiful but surprisingly fragile.

CHAPTER 2

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We met in the summer she turned fifteen. I was five years her senior and visiting my mate’s family in the country. I simply found her beautiful. It was her eyes that caught my attention, an ocean blue that I had never seen before or since. They penetrated deeply into my soul. Breathtakingly lovely, and in that loveliness laid her inner beauty.

Instantly attracted. Her electric golden hair, long and thick, fell softly to the small of her back, framing her heart-shaped face and emphasising angular cheekbones and rich red lips. I walked up to her and apologised for staring. Her first words were unusual but memorable. She asked who the Richard Gere in the room was. I wasn’t sure if it was a rhetorical question; when no one answered, I turned to leave. The question bothered me some, and it lingered longer than it should have. What did she mean? Was one of our group particularly handsome, or potentially famous, or was it the opposite? However, she stopped me, asked my name, and thanked me for the compliment. Now I was even more confused. Was my staring considered a compliment, bad manners, or just the behaviour of an awkward man in the presence of her beauty?

The visit was brief and the time spent uncomfortable. Apparently, my arrival had interrupted an argument between Liv and her mother, Sophie. A typical mother-and-daughter conflict, one however that would change Liv’s life forever.

CHAPTER 3

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After that afternoon, I didn’t hear or see Liv for some time. Not that there was any worry or concern on my part. Back at university, I finished my degree and dated several girls, but nothing lasting.

My family lived on the upper north shore of Sydney; both my parents were doctors in their own practice. My older sister was studying journalism and was soon to be married, but I preferred to spend my time playing in my band, and sadly, this was reflected in my results. Needless to say, I was considered the disappointment of my family.

To be honest, I didn’t care what my parents thought. I enjoyed being in the moment, moving from day to day without too many responsibilities; there were some moments that I am not overly proud of and would never share with my parents. Proving a point can be costly, not so much financially but definitely on your soul.

Like Dermot Mulroney in My Best Friend’s Wedding, I was an escort, something one cannot confide to respectable parents. Unlike Richard Gere, not all my dates were as beautiful as Julia Roberts. Some of the wealthier clients made it tolerable, for those were the times I would eat well and wear designer labels. Being taken to parties and events as an escort, I would meet interesting, beautiful people; I was exposed to a lifestyle I could never otherwise afford, and I loved it.

The rich lead different lives. One of my clients owned racehorses. As such, I regularly attended carnival days, drinking Moet and Chandon, savouring every sip whilst delighting my taste buds with caviar and other gourmet delicacies, and then delighting her senses later that evening. Each week, I would study the form guide, follow the owners, breeders, jockeys, and their weight; look at the odds; and place my bet. I didn’t know this was the beginning of an unstoppable addiction, which ironically led to an ugly, urban existence years later. I was to learn the hard way about affordability.

Youth afforded me the energy to be an escort. It allowed me the opportunity to finance my lifestyle independently of my parents. What I didn’t know was that one day, I would fall insanely in love with someone who was not so forgiving about sharing my sexual freedoms, which ultimately determined my future.

CHAPTER 4

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To overcome cancer is a major feat, especially when the prognosis is unfavourable. Despite being treated aggressively with radiation and the surgical removal of one lung in an attempt to heal the body, it ended up being the power of a few words that healed the patient. It was an October afternoon that Dr West, head of radiation of Westmead Hospital, expressed what he regarded was inevitable: The horse has bolted. There is no need to pursue chemotherapy, as we have done all that we can. His words were carefully spoken, and it was with a warm handshake and the usual platitudes that the two men went their separate ways.

All in all, the patient received his news remarkably well. Those words The horse has bolted was understood by him to simply mean the cancer was gone, which of course meant no further treatment was required. Liv always loved telling how her father defied cancer. The horse has bolted, she would repeat time and time again. She would further explain that as her father came from a European background with English as a second language, he never understood good ol’ Aussie slang and thus the true meaning of the doctor’s words. Who knew idiomatic vernacular could be used for treating cancer?

After the colloquial statement, he believed a long and healthy life was to ensue. So it came as a huge surprise to see Liv at the site of her father’s grave. With the sudden death of her father, Liv lost her spark. Unknown to her, I was at the funeral. Standing behind a row of trees, I watched on helplessly as the tears wept from empty vessels, her once translucent, crystalline eyes now colourless and grey. The grief of her father’s passing consumed her whole body. Alone at the gravesite. Just her and the priest. No friend or foe to hold her hand. Just the shadow of death lurking behind her.

Extremely close to her father throughout her whole childhood, even after her parents were divorced, Liv was devastated by the suddenness of the parting. Wearing a simple black dress that followed her curves, it was her stillness that drew me in. All I could do was focus on her face, watching sadness carving its lines of grief under her eyes and down to her cheeks, the intense overwhelming emotion flooding forth.

I was told it was a massive heart attack. An alert neighbour had noticed the back door slightly ajar and called the police to her father’s address. Upon entering the lounge room, the sergeant expecting burglary but saw instead that the house was respectfully clean and tidy, for a single man in his seventies. Continuing into the bedroom, even here, there was no sign of malicious damage or theft; unsure if there was any foul play or evidence of a crime, the police were about to leave when they noticed damp carpet outside the bathroom door. It was here they found her father, lying between the bath and the wash basin, blood smeared over his right hand and bruising to one side of his face. No ambulance was needed; he had already passed from the land of the living.

Liv received the phone call soon after; already expecting to hear from him, she was delighted when she saw his number, but her happiness turned to surprise upon answering, to hear the voice of a stranger. The officer who discovered the body was given the difficult task of notifying Liv of her father’s unexpected death.

In cases of unexpected death, a coroner has to determine the cause of death before a funeral can take place. This he duly did, with the official verdict being acute myocardial infarction caused by cardiovascular disease and atherosclerosis of the arteries. In a nutshell, he was completely cancer free. Not one single cancer cell in his body. Perhaps the horse had really bolted. I for one would like to think positive thoughts can create positive outcomes. Or in his case, the power of words even in a delightful misunderstanding of slang, giving you another seven years of cancer-free living.

I did have my doubts, though, when it came to Liv’s father’s beliefs, on positive thinking and manifestation. More than often, he came across as a cynical man with a strong distrust of human sincerity, and this was clear in every comment or statement he made. He simply didn’t like people. Dealing with him, it was hard to know whether the context was an attempt of humour or if he actually meant what he was saying. Everyone is an idiot is one phrase that comes to mind; People are the worst is another popular one he used regularly. How do you reply to that? In light of this, most of our conversations were dry and factual, or so I perceived.

Liv’s dad often spoke of his childhood, growing up in Yugoslavia during the Second World War. His mother, from the Rhine region, was born to wealthy parents who produced wine. She met her future husband when