The Girl You Left Behind (52 page)

You look like she does when you –

She remembers a day, in the early weeks
after his death, when she had raised her head dully from her damp pillow and Sophie had
seemed to be looking straight at her. This, too, is bearable, her expression had said.
You may not know it now. But you will survive.

Except Sophie hadn’t.

Liv fights the sudden lump in her throat.
‘I’m so sorry for what happened to you,’ she says, into the silent
room. ‘I wish it could have been different.’

Suddenly overwhelmed with sadness, she
stands, walks over to the painting and turns it round so that she can no longer see it.
Perhaps it’s a good thing she’s leaving this house: the space on the wall
would have been a constant reminder of her failure. It already feels oddly symbolic of
the way Sophie herself was effectively rubbed out.

And just as she is about to release it, she
stops.

The study, over these past weeks, has grown
messy and chaotic, piles of papers spilling over every surface. She moves around it with
new purpose, placing them in neat piles, in folders, securing each with an elastic band.
She doesn’t know what she will do with them once the case is over. Finally, she
seeks out the red folder that Philippe Bessette gave her. She flicks through the
delicate sheets of paper until she finds the two pieces she is looking for.

She checks them, then takes them into the
kitchen. She lights a candle, and holds the pieces, one at a time, over the flickering
flame, until there is nothing left but ashes.

‘There, Sophie,’ she says.
‘If nothing else, you can have that one on me.’

And now, she thinks, for David.

‘I thought you’d be headed off
by now. Jake’s asleep in front of
America’s Funniest Home
Videos
.’ Greg walks into the kitchen bare-foot and yawning. ‘You want
me to put up the camp bed? It’s kind of late to be dragging him home.’

‘That would be great.’ Paul
barely looks up from his files. His laptop is propped open in front of him.

‘What are you doing going over those
again? The verdict is due Monday, surely? And – um – didn’t you just quit your
job?’

‘There’s something I’ve
missed. I know it.’ Paul runs his finger down the page, flicking impatiently to
the next. ‘I have to check through the evidence.’

‘Paul.’ Greg pulls up a chair.
‘Paul,’ he says, a little louder

‘What?’

‘It’s done, bro. And it’s
okay. She’s forgiven you. You’ve made your big gesture. I think you should
just leave it now.’

Paul leans back, drags his hands over his
eyes. ‘You think so?’

‘Seriously? You look kind of
manic.’

Paul takes a swig of his coffee. It is cold.
‘It will destroy us.’

‘What?’

‘Liv loved that painting, Greg. And it
will eat away at
her, the fact that I’m … responsible
for taking it from her. Maybe not now, maybe not even in a year or two. But it will
happen.’

Greg leans back against the kitchen unit.
‘She could say the same about your job.’

‘I’m okay about the job. It was
time I got out of that place.’

‘And Liv said she was okay with the
painting.’

‘Yeah. But she’s backed into a
corner.’ When Greg shakes his head in frustration, he leans forward over his
files. ‘I know how things can change, Greg, how the things you swear won’t
bother you at the start can eat away at the good stuff.’

‘But –’

‘And I know how losing the things you
love can haunt people. I don’t want Liv to look at me one day and be fighting the
thought:
You’re the guy who ruined my life
.’

Greg pads across the kitchen and puts the
kettle on. He makes three cups of coffee, and hands one to Paul. He puts his hand on his
brother’s shoulder as he prepares to take the other two through to the living
room. ‘I know you like to fix stuff, big brother of mine. But honestly? In this
case you’re just going to have to hope to God it all works out.’

Paul doesn’t hear him. ‘List of
owners,’ he is muttering to himself. ‘List of current owners of
Lefèvre’s work.’

Eight hours later Greg wakes to find a
small boy’s face looming over him. ‘I’m hungry,’ it says, and
rubs its nose vigorously. ‘You said you had Coco Pops but I can’t find
them.’

‘Bottom cupboard,’ he says
groggily. There is no light between the curtains, he notes distantly.

‘And you don’t have any
milk.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Quarter to seven.’

‘Ugh.’ Greg burrows down under
the duvet. ‘Even the dogs don’t get up this early. Ask your dad to do
it.’

‘He’s not here.’

Greg’s eyes open slowly, fix on the
curtains. ‘What do you mean he’s not here?’

‘He’s gone. The
sleeping-bag’s still rolled up so I don’t think he slept on the sofa. Can we
get croissants from that place down the road? The chocolate ones?’

‘I’m getting up. I’m
getting up. I’m up.’ He hauls himself into an upright position, rubs his
head.

‘And Pirate has weed on the
floor.’

‘Oh. Good. Saturday’s off to a
flying start.’

Paul is indeed not there but he has left a
note on the kitchen table: it is scribbled on the back of a list of court evidence, and
placed on top of a scattered pile of papers.

Had to go. Pls can you hang on to Jake. Will call.

‘Is everything okay?’ Jake says,
studying his face.

The mug on the table is ringed with black
coffee. The remaining papers look as if they have suffered a small explosion.

‘It’s all fine, Small
Fry,’ Greg says, ruffling his hair. He folds the note, puts it into his pocket,
and begins dragging the files and papers into some sort of order. ‘I tell you
what, I vote we make pancakes for breakfast. What do you say we pull
our coats on over these pyjamas and head down to the corner shop for some
eggs?’

When Jake leaves the room, he grabs his
mobile phone and stabs out a text.

If you are over there getting laid
right this minute,
you owe me BIG TIME.

He waits a few minutes before stuffing it
into his pocket, but there is no reply.

Saturday is, thankfully, busy. Liv waits in
for the buyers to come and measure up, then for their builders and architect to examine
the apparently endless work that needs doing. She moves around these strangers in her
home, trying to strike the right balance between accommodating and friendly, as befits
the seller of the house, and not reflecting her true feelings, which would involve
shouting, ‘GO AWAY,’ and making childish hand gestures at them. She
distracts herself by packing and cleaning, deploys the consolations of small domestic
tasks. She throws out two bin-bags of old clothes. She rings several rental agents, and
when she tells them the amount she can afford there is a lengthy, scornful silence.

‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere
before?’ says the architect, as she places the phone back in its cradle.

‘No,’ she says hurriedly.
‘I don’t think so.’

Paul does not call.

That afternoon she heads over to her
father’s. ‘Caroline has thrown you
the
most spectacular pot for
Christmas,’ he announces. ‘You’re going to love it.’

‘Oh, good,’ she says.

They eat salad and a Mexican dish for lunch.
Caroline hums to herself while eating. Liv’s father is up for a car-insurance
advert. ‘Apparently I have to imitate a chicken. A chicken with a no-claims
bonus.’

She tries to focus on what he is saying, but
she keeps thinking about Paul, replaying the previous day in her head. She is secretly
surprised that he hasn’t rung. Oh, God. I’m turning into one of those clingy
girlfriends. And we’ve not even been officially together for twenty-four hours.
She has to laugh at ‘officially’.

Reluctant to go back to the Glass House, she
stays at her father’s for much longer than usual. He seems delighted, drinks too
much, pulls out black-and-white pictures of her that he found while sorting through a
drawer. There is something oddly grounding about going through them: the reminder that
there was a whole life before this case, before Sophie Lefèvre and a house she
cannot afford and an awful, final day looming in court.

‘Such a beautiful child.’

The open, smiling face in the picture makes
her want to cry. Her father puts his arm around her. ‘Don’t be too upset on
Monday. I know it’s been tough. But we’re terribly proud of you, you
know.’

‘For what?’ she says, blowing
her nose. ‘I failed, Dad. Most people think I shouldn’t have even
tried.’

Her father pulls her to him. He smells of
red wine and a part of her life that seems a million years ago. ‘Just for carrying
on, really. Sometimes, my darling girl, that’s heroic in itself.’

It’s almost four thirty when she calls
him. It’s been almost twenty-four hours, she rationalizes. And surely the normal
rules for dating don’t apply if someone has just given up half their life for you.
Her heart quickens a little as she dials: she’s already anticipating the sound of
his voice. She pictures them, later that evening, curled up on his sofa in the crowded
little flat, maybe playing cards with Jake on the rug. But the answer-phone cuts in
after three rings. Liv hangs up quickly, oddly unsettled, then curses herself for being
childish.

She goes for a run, showers, makes tea for
Fran (‘The last one only had two sugars’), sits by the phone and finally
dials his number again at six thirty. Again it goes straight to the answer-phone. She
doesn’t have a landline number for his flat. Should she just go there? He could be
at Greg’s. But, she realizes, she doesn’t have a number for Greg’s
either. She had been so disoriented by Friday’s events when they had arrived there
that she’s not even sure of the exact address.

This is ridiculous, she tells herself.
He’ll call.

He doesn’t.

At eight thirty, knowing she can’t
face spending the rest of the evening in the house, she gets up, pulls on her coat and
grabs her keys.

It’s a short walk to Greg’s
bar, even shorter if you half run in your trainers. She pushes open the door and is hit
by a wall of noise. On the small stage to the left a man dressed as a woman is singing
raucously to a disco beat, accompanied by loud catcalls from a rapt crowd. At the other
end, the tables are packed, the spaces between them thick with taut, tightly clad
bodies.

It takes her a few minutes to spot him,
moving swiftly along the bar, a tea-towel slung over his shoulder. She squeezes through
to the front, half wedged under somebody’s armpit, and shouts his name.

It takes several goes for him to hear her.
Then he turns. Her smile freezes: his expression is oddly unwelcoming.

‘Well, this is a fine time to turn
up.’

She blinks. ‘I’m
sorry?’

‘Nearly nine o’clock? Are you
guys kidding me?’

‘I don’t know what you’re
talking about.’

‘I’ve had him all day. Andy was
meant to go out tonight. Instead he’s had to cancel just to stay home and babysit.
I can tell you he’s not happy.’

Liv struggles to hear him over the noise in
the bar. Greg holds up a hand, and leans forward to take someone’s order.

‘I mean, you know we love him,
right?’ he says, when he returns. ‘We love him to death. But treating us
like some kind of default babysitter is –’

‘I’m looking for Paul,’
she says.

‘He’s not with you?’

‘No. And he’s not answering his
phone.’

‘I know he’s not answering his
phone. I thought that was because he was with – Oh, this is crazy. Come through the
bar.’ He lifts the hatch so that she can squeeze in, holds his hands up to the
roar of complaint from those waiting. ‘Two minutes, guys. Two minutes.’

In the tiny corridor to the kitchen, the
beat thumps through the walls, making Liv’s feet vibrate. ‘But where has he
gone?’ she says.

‘I don’t know.’
Greg’s anger has evaporated. ‘We woke
up to a note this
morning saying he’d had to go. That was it. He was kind of weird last night after
you left.’

‘What do you mean, weird?’

He looks shifty, as if he’s already
said too much.

‘What?’

‘Not himself. He takes this stuff
pretty seriously.’ He bites his lip.

‘What?’

Greg looks awkward. ‘Well, he – he
said he thought this painting was going to ruin any chance the two of you had of having
a relationship.’

Liv stares at him. ‘You think
he’s …’

‘I’m sure he didn’t mean
–’

But Liv is already pushing her way out
through the bar.

Empty of anything, Sunday lasts for ever.
Liv sits in her still house, her phone silent, her thoughts spinning and humming, and
waits for the end of the world.

She rings his mobile number one more time,
then ends the call abruptly when the answer-phone kicks in.

He’s gone cold.

Of course he hasn’t.

He’s had time to think about
everything he’s throwing away by siding with me.

You have to trust him.

She wishes Mo were there.

The night creeps in, the skies thickening,
smothering the city in a dense fog. She fails to watch television, sleeps in weird,
disjointed snatches, and wakes at four with her thoughts congealing in a toxic tangle.
At half past five she gives up, runs a bath and lies in it for some
time, staring up through the skylight at the oblivious dark. She blow-dries her hair
carefully, and puts on a grey blouse and pinstriped skirt that David had once said he
loved on her. They made her look like a secretary, he’d observed, as if that might
be a good thing. She adds some fake pearls and her wedding ring. She does her makeup
carefully. She is grateful for the means to conceal the shadows under her eyes, her
sallow, exhausted skin.

He will come
, she tells
herself
. You have to have faith in something.