The Girl You Left Behind (56 page)
‘Hey.’ Paul rolls over sleepily
towards her. He reaches out an arm and pulls her to him. His skin is warm, his breath
sweet. ‘What you doing?’
‘Thinking.’
‘That sounds dangerous.’
Liv puts the letter down, and burrows under
the duvet until she is facing him.
‘Paul.’
‘Liv.’
She smiles. She smiles every time she looks
at him. And she takes a little breath. ‘You know how good you are at finding
stuff …’
This book owes a great deal to Helen
McPhail’s excellent book
The Long Silence: civilian life under the German
occupation of northern France, 1914–1918
, about a largely unrecorded (at least
in this country) corner of First World War history.
I would also like to thank Jeremy Scott,
partner at Lipman Karas, for his generous expert help on the issue of restitution, and
for answering my many questions with patience. I have had to tweak certain legal points
and procedures for the sake of the plot, and any errors or deviations from actual
practice are, of course, my own.
Thanks to my publishers, Penguin, especially
Louise Moore, Mari Evans, Clare Bowron, Katya Shipster, Elizabeth Smith, Celine Kelly,
Viviane Basset, Raewyn Davies, Rob Leyland and Hazel Orme. Thank you to Guy Sanders for
research help beyond the call of duty.
Thank you to all at Curtis Brown, most
especially my agent Sheila Crowley, but also including Jonny Geller, Katie McGowan,
Tally Garner, Sam Greenwood, Sven Van Damme, Alice Lutyens, Sophie Harris and Rebecca
Ritchie.
In no particular order, I also wish to thank
Steve Doherty, Drew Hazell, Damian Barr, Chris Luckley, my writing ‘family’
at Writersblock and the astonishingly supportive writers of Twitter. Too many to mention
here.
Most thanks, as ever, to Jim Moyes, and
Lizzie and Brian
Sanders, and to my family, Saskia, Harry and Lockie
– and to Charles Arthur, proofreader, plot-tweaker and long-suffering writers’
ear. Now you know what it’s like …
Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of
Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for
something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to
popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by
the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s
disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led
him to found a company – and change the world.
We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for
intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it’
Sir Allen Lane, 1902–1970, founder of Penguin Books
The quality paperback had arrived – and not just in bookshops. Lane was adamant
that his Penguins should appear in chain stores and tobacconists, and should cost no
more than a packet of cigarettes.
Reading habits (and cigarette prices) have changed since 1935, but Penguin still
believes in publishing the best books for everybody to enjoy. We still believe that
good design costs no more than bad design, and we still believe that quality books
published passionately and responsibly make the world a better place.
So wherever you see the little bird – whether it’s on a piece of
prize-winning literary fiction or a celebrity autobiography, political tour de force
or historical masterpiece, a serial-killer thriller, reference book, world classic
or a piece of pure escapism – you can bet that it represents the very best that the
genre has to offer.
Join the conversation:
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin
Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
Penguin Group (USA)
Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90
Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M4P 2Y3
(a
division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s
Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group
(Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of
Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,
Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts
Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80
Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
First published 2012
Copyright © Jojo Moyes, 2012
All rights
reserved
The moral right of the author has been
asserted
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire
ISBN: 978-0-141-96919-0
2007
When he emerges from the bathroom she is
awake, propped up against the pillows and flicking through the travel brochures that
were beside his bed. She is wearing one of his T-shirts, and her long hair is tousled in
a way that prompts reflexive thoughts of the previous night. He stands there, enjoying
the brief flashback, rubbing the water from his hair with a towel.
She looks up from a brochure and pouts. She
is probably slightly too old to pout, but they’ve been going out a short enough
time for it still to be cute.
‘Do we really
have
to do
something that involves trekking up mountains, or hanging over ravines? It’s our
first proper holiday together, and there is literally not one single trip in these that
doesn’t involve either throwing yourself off something or –’ she
pretends to shudder ‘– wearing
fleece
.’
She throws them down on the bed, stretches
her caramel-coloured arms above her head. Her voice is husky, testament to their missed
hours of sleep. ‘How about a luxury spa in Bali? We could lie around on the
sand … spend hours being pampered … long relaxing
nights … ’
‘I can’t do those sorts of
holidays. I need to be doing something.’
‘Like throwing yourself out of
aeroplanes.’
‘Don’t knock it till
you’ve tried it.’
She pulls a face. ‘If it’s all
the same to you, I think I’ll stick with knocking it.’
His shirt is faintly damp against his skin.
He runs a comb through his hair and switches on his mobile phone, wincing at the list of
messages that immediately pushes its way through on to the little screen.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Got to
go. Help yourself to breakfast.’ He leans over the bed to kiss her. She smells
warm and perfumed and deeply sexy. He inhales the scent from the back of her hair, and
briefly loses his train of thought as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him
down towards the bed.
‘Are we still going away this
weekend?’
He extricates himself reluctantly.
‘Depends what happens on this deal. It’s all a bit up in the air at the
moment. There’s still a possibility I might have to be in New York. Nice dinner
somewhere Thursday, either way? Your choice of restaurant.’ His motorbike leathers
are on the back of the door, and he reaches for them.
She narrows her eyes. ‘Dinner. With or
without Mr BlackBerry?’
‘What?’
‘Mr BlackBerry makes me feel like Miss
Gooseberry.’ The pout again. ‘I feel like there’s always a third
person vying for your attention.’
‘I’ll turn it on to
silent.’
‘Will Traynor!’ she scolds.
‘You must have some time when you can switch off.’
‘I turned it off last night,
didn’t I?’
‘Only under extreme duress.’
He grins. ‘Is that what we’re
calling it now?’ He pulls on his leathers. And Lissa’s hold on his
imagination is finally broken. He throws his motorbike jacket over his arm, and blows
her a kiss as he leaves.
There are twenty-two messages on his
BlackBerry, the first of which came in from New York at 3.42am. Some legal problem. He
takes the lift down to the underground car park, trying to update himself with the
night’s events.
‘Morning, Mr Traynor.’
The security guard steps out of his cubicle.
It’s weatherproof, even though down here there is no weather to be protected from.
Will sometimes wonders what he does down here in the small hours, staring at the
closed-circuit television and the glossy bumpers of £60,000 cars that never get
dirty.
He shoulders his way into his leather
jacket. ‘What’s it like out there, Mick?’
‘Terrible. Raining cats and
dogs.’
Will stops. ‘Really? Not weather for
the bike?’
Mick shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Not
unless you’ve got an inflatable attachment. Or a death wish.’
Will stares at his bike, then peels himself
out of his leathers. No matter what Lissa thinks, he is not a man who believes in taking
unnecessary risks. He unlocks the top box of his bike and places the leathers inside,
locking it and throwing the keys at Mick, who catches them neatly with one hand.
‘Stick those through my door, will you?’
‘No problem. You want me to call a
taxi for you?’
‘No. No point both of us getting
wet.’
Mick presses the button to open the
automatic grille
and Will steps out, lifting a hand in thanks. The early
morning is dark and thunderous around him, the Central London traffic already dense and
slow despite the fact that it is barely half past seven. He pulls his collar up around
his neck and strides down the street towards the junction, from where he is most likely
to hail a taxi. The roads are slick with water, the grey light shining on the mirrored
pavement.
He curses inwardly as he spies the other
suited people standing on the edge of the kerb. Since when did the whole of London begin
getting up so early? Everyone has had the same idea.
He is wondering where best to position
himself when his phone rings. It is Rupert.
‘I’m on my way in. Just trying
to get a cab.’ He catches sight of a taxi with an orange light approaching on the
other side of the road, and begins to stride towards it, hoping nobody else has seen. A
bus roars past, followed by a lorry whose brakes squeal, deafening him to Rupert’s
words. ‘Can’t hear you, Rupe,’ he yells against the noise of the
traffic. ‘You’ll have to say that again.’ Briefly marooned on the
island, the traffic flowing past him like a current, he can see the orange light
glowing, holds up his free hand, hoping that the driver can see him through the heavy
rain.
‘You need to call Jeff in New York.
He’s still up, waiting for you. We were trying to get you last night.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Legal hitch. Two clauses
they’re stalling on under
section … signature … papers … ’ His voice is
drowned out by a passing car, its tyres hissing in the wet.
‘I didn’t catch that.’
The taxi has seen him. It is slowing, sending a
fine spray of water as it slows on the opposite side of the road. He spies the man
further along whose brief sprint slows in disappointment as he sees Will must get there
before him. He feels a sneaking sense of triumph. ‘Look, get Cally to have the
paperwork on my desk,’ he yells. ‘I’ll be there in ten
minutes.’
He glances both ways then ducks his head as
he runs the last few steps across the road towards the cab, the word
‘Blackfriars’ already on his lips. The rain is seeping down the gap between
his collar and his shirt. He will be soaked by the time he reaches the office, even
walking this short distance. He may have to send his secretary out for another
shirt.