The Girl You Left Behind (26 page)

It’s a small thing, this charity. A
chance to make her feel as if David’s life was not wasted; that his ideas
continue. Sometimes a really bright kid emerges – one who immediately locks on to
David’s ideas – and she tries to help them in some way, to talk to their teachers
or organize scholarships. A couple of times she has even met their parents. One of
David’s early
protégés
is now doing an architecture degree, his
fees paid by the foundation.

But for most of them it’s just a brief
window on to a different world, an hour or two in which to practise their
parkour
skills on someone else’s stairs and rails and marble foyers,
a chance to see inside Mammon, albeit under the bemused eye of the rich people she has
persuaded to let them in.

‘There was a study done a few years
back, which showed that if you reduce the amount of space per child from twenty-five to
fifteen square feet, they become more aggressive and less inclined to interact with each
other. What do you think of that?’

Cam is swinging around an end rail. ‘I
have to share a bedroom with my brother and I want to batter him half the time.
He’s always putting his stuff over my side.’

‘So what places make you feel good?
Does this place make you feel good?’

‘It makes me feel like I got no
worries.’

‘I like the plants. Them with the big
leaves.’

‘Oh, man. I’d just sit here and
stare at the fish. This place is restful.’

There is a murmur of agreement.

‘And then I’d catch one and make
my mum cook some chips for it, innit?’

They all laugh. Liv looks at Abiola and,
despite herself, she starts to laugh too.

‘Did it go well?’ Sven rises
from his desk to meet her. She kisses his cheek, puts down her bag and sits in the white
leather Eames chair opposite. It is routine now that she will come to Solberg Halston
Associates after each outing, to drink coffee and report back. She is always more tired
than she expects.

‘Great. Once Mr Conaghy realized they
weren’t about to dive into his atrium pools, he was quite inspired, I think. He
stuck around to speak to them. I think I might even be able to persuade him to provide
some sponsorship.’

‘Good. That’s good news. Sit
down, and I’ll get some coffee. How are you? How’s your dangerously ill
relative?’

She looks blankly at him.

‘Your aunt?’

The blush creeps above her collar.
‘Oh. Oh, yes, not too bad, thanks. Better.’

Sven hands her a coffee and his eyes rest on
hers just a moment too long. His chair squeaks softly as he sits down.
‘You’ll have to forgive Kristen. She just gets carried away. I did tell her
I thought that man was an idiot.’

‘Oh.’ She winces. ‘Was it
that transparent?’

‘Not to Kristen. She doesn’t
know that Ebola isn’t generally fixed by surgery.’ And then, as Liv groans,
he smiles. ‘Don’t give it a thought. Roger Folds is an ass. And, if nothing
else, it was just nice to see you out and about again.’ He takes off his glasses.
‘Really. You should do it more often.’

‘Well, um, I have a bit
lately.’

She blushes, thinking of her night with Paul
McCafferty. She has found herself returning to it relentlessly over the days since,
worrying at the night’s events, like a tongue at a loose tooth. What had made her
behave in that way? What had he thought of her? And then, the mercurial shiver, the
imprint of that kiss. She is cold with embarrassment, yet burns gently, the residue of
it on her lips. She feels as if some long-distant part of her has been sparked back to
life. It’s a little disconcerting.

‘So, how’s Goldstein?’

‘Not far off now. We had some problems
with the new building regs, but we’re nearly there. The Goldsteins are happy,
anyway.’

‘Do you have any pictures?’

The Goldstein Building had been
David’s dream commission: a vast organic glass structure stretching halfway around
a square on the edge of the City. He had been working on it for two years of their
marriage, persuading the wealthy Goldstein brothers to share his bold vision, to create
something far from the angular concrete castles
around them, and he
had still been working on it when he died. Sven had taken over the blueprint and
overseen it through the planning stages, and was now managing its actual construction.
It had been a problematic build, the materials delayed in their shipping from China, the
wrong glass, the foundations proving inadequate in London’s clay. But now,
finally, it is rising exactly as planned, each glass panel shining like the scales of
some giant serpent.

Sven rifles through some documents on his
desk, picks out a photograph and hands it over. She gazes at the vast structure,
surrounded by blue hoardings, but somehow, indefinably, David’s work.
‘It’s going to be glorious.’ She can’t help but smile.

‘I wanted to tell you – they’ve
agreed to put a little plaque in the foyer in his memory.’

‘Really?’ Her throat
constricts.

‘Yes. Jerry Goldstein told me last
week – they thought it would be nice to commemorate David in some way. They were very
fond of him.’

She lets this thought settle.
‘That’s … that’s great.’

‘I thought so. You’ll be coming
to the opening?’

‘I’d love to.’

‘Good. And how’s the other
stuff?’

She sips her coffee. She always feels
faintly self-conscious talking about her life to Sven. It is as if the lack of
dimensions in it cannot help but disappoint. ‘Well, I seem to have acquired a
housemate. Which is … interesting. I’m still running. Work is a bit
quiet.’

‘How bad is it?’

She tries to smile. ‘Honestly?
I’d probably be earning more in a Bangladeshi sweatshop.’

Sven looks down at his hands.
‘You … haven’t thought it might be time to start doing something
else?’

‘I’m not really equipped for
anything else.’ She has long known that it had not been the wisest move to give up
work and follow David around during their marriage. As her friends built careers, put in
twelve-hour days at the office, she had simply travelled with him, to Paris, Sydney,
Barcelona. He hadn’t needed her to work. It seemed stupid, being away from him all
the time. And afterwards she hadn’t been good for much at all. Not for a long
time.

‘I had to take out a mortgage on the
house last year. And now I can’t keep up with the payments.’ She blurts out
this last bit, like a sinner at confession.

But Sven looks unsurprised. ‘You
know … if you ever wanted to sell it, I could easily find you a
buyer.’

‘Sell?’

‘It’s a big house to be rattling
around in. And … I don’t know. You’re so isolated up there, Liv.
It was a marvellous thing for David to cut his teeth on, and a lovely retreat for the
two of you, but don’t you think you should be in the thick of things again?
Somewhere a bit livelier? A nice flat in the middle of Notting Hill or Clerkenwell,
maybe?’

‘I can’t sell David’s
house.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would just be
wrong.’

He doesn’t say the obvious. He
doesn’t have to: it’s there in the way he leans back in his chair, closes
his mouth over his words.

‘Well,’ he says, leaning
forwards over his desk. ‘I’m just putting the thought out there.’

Behind him a huge crane is moving, iron
girders slicing
through the sky as they travel towards a cavernous
roof space on the other side of the road. When Solberg Halston Architects had moved
here, five years previously, the view had been a row of dilapidated shops – bookmaker,
launderette, second-hand clothes – their bricks sludge brown, their windows obscured by
years of accumulated lead and dirt. Now there is just a hole. It is possible that the
next time she comes here she will not recognize the view at all.

‘How are the kids?’ she says
abruptly. And Sven, with the tact of someone who has known her for years, changes the
subject.

It is halfway through the monthly meeting
when Paul notices that Miriam, his and Janey’s shared secretary, is perched not on
a chair but on two large boxes of files. She sits awkwardly, her legs angled in an
attempt to keep her skirt at a modest length, her back propped against more boxes.

At some point in the mid-nineties, the
recovery of stolen artwork had become big business. Nobody at the Trace and Return
Partnership seemed to have anticipated this, so, fifteen years on, meetings are held in
Janey’s increasingly cramped office, elbows brushing against the teetering piles
of folders, or boxes of faxes and photocopies, or, if clients are involved, downstairs
in the local coffee shop. He has said often that they should look at new premises. Each
time Janey looks at him as if it’s the first time she has heard this, and says,
yes, yes, good idea. And then does nothing about it.

‘Miriam?’ Paul stands, offers
her his chair, but she refuses.

‘Really,’ she says.
‘I’m fine.’ She keeps nodding, as if to confirm this to herself.

‘You’re falling into Unresolved
Disputes 1996,’ he says. He wants to add:
And I can see halfway up your
skirt.

‘Really, I’m quite
comfortable.’

‘Miriam. Honestly, I can just
–’

‘Miriam’s fine, Paul.
Really.’ Janey adjusts her spectacles on her nose.

‘Oh, yes. I’m very comfortable
here.’ She keeps nodding until he looks away. It makes him feel bad.

‘So that’s where we are, as far
as the staffing and office issues stand. Where are we all at?’

Sean, the lawyer, begins to run through his
upcoming schedule; an approach to the Spanish government to return a looted Velázquez to
a private collector, two outstanding sculpture recoveries, a possible legal change to
restitution claims. Paul leans back in his chair and rests his ballpoint against his
pad.

And she’s there again, smiling
ruefully. Her burst of unexpected laughter. The sadness in tiny lines around her eyes.
I was great at drunk sex. Really. I was.

He doesn’t want to admit to himself
how disappointed he had been when he emerged from the bathroom that morning to find
she’d simply let herself out. His son’s duvet had been straightened, and
there was just an absence where the girl had been. No scribbled message. No phone
number. Nothing.

‘Is she a regular?’ he had asked
Greg, casually, on the phone that evening.

‘Nope. Not seen her before. Sorry to
land you with her like that, bro.’

‘No problem,’ he had said. He
hadn’t bothered to tell Greg to watch out in case she came back. Something told
him she wouldn’t.

‘Paul?’

He drags his thoughts back to the A4 pad in
front of him. ‘Um … Well, as you know, we got the Nowicki painting
returned. That’s headed for auction. Which is obviously – um – rewarding.’
He ignores Janey’s warning glance. ‘And coming up this month I’ve got
a meeting about the statuette collection from Bonhams, a trace on a Lowry that’s
been stolen from a stately home in Ayrshire and …’ He leafs through his
papers. ‘This French work that was looted in the First World War and turned up in
some architect’s house in London. I’m guessing, given the value, they
won’t give it up without a bit of a fight. But it looks fairly clear cut, if we
can establish it really was stolen initially. Sean, you might want to dig out any legal
precedent on First World War stuff, just in case.’

Sean scribbles a note.

‘Apart from that, I’ve just got
the other cases from last month that I’m carrying forward, and I’m talking
to some insurers about whether we want to get involved with a new fine art
register.’

‘Another?’ says Janey.

‘It’s the scaling down of the
Art and Antiques Squad,’ Paul said. ‘The insurers are getting
nervous.’

‘Might be good news for us, though.
Where are we on the Stubbs?’

He clicks the end of his pen.
‘Deadlock.’

‘Sean?’

‘It’s a tricky one. I’ve
been looking up precedent, but it may well go to trial.’

Janey nods, then glances up as Paul’s
mobile phone rings. ‘Sorry,’ he says, and wrenches it from his pocket. He
stares at the name. ‘Actually, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should take
this. Sherrie. Hi.’

He feels Janey’s eyes burning into his
back as he steps carefully over his colleagues’ legs and into his office. He
closes the door behind him. ‘You did? … Her name? Liv. Nope,
that’s all I got … There is? Can you describe it? … Yup – that
sounds like her. Mid-brown hair, maybe blonde, shoulder length. Wearing it in a
ponytail? … Phone, wallet – don’t know what else. No
address? … No, I don’t. Sure – Sherrie, do me a favour? Can I pick it
up?’

He stares out of the window.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. I just realized – I
think I’ve worked out how to get it back to her.’

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Liv?’

‘No.’

He pauses. ‘Um … is she
there?’

‘Are you a bailiff?’

‘No.’

‘Well, she’s not
here.’

‘Do you know when she’ll be
back?’

‘Are you sure you’re not a
bailiff?’

‘I am definitely not a bailiff. I have
her handbag.’

‘Are you a bag thief? Because if
you’re trying to blackmail her, you’re wasting your time.’

‘I am not a bag thief. Or a bailiff. I
am a man who has
found her bag and is trying to get it back to
her.’ He pulls at his collar.

There is a long pause.

‘How did you get this
number?’

‘It’s on my phone. She borrowed
it when she tried to ring home.’

‘You were with her?’

He feels a little germ of pleasure. He
hesitates, tries not to sound too keen. ‘Why? Did she mention me?’

‘No.’ The sound of a kettle
boiling. ‘I was just being nosy. Look – she’s just on her annual trip out of
the house. If you drop by around four-ish she should be back by then. If not I’ll
take it for her.’

‘And you are?’

A long, suspicious pause.