The Girl You Left Behind (25 page)

He is so busy digesting the word
‘husband’ that he barely hears the rest. ‘Well, I can offer you a
bed.’

That wary glance again.

‘My son’s bed. It’s not
the world’s most comfortable. I mean, my brother slept in it on and off when he
broke up with his last boyfriend, and he says he’s had to see an osteopath ever
since, but it’s a bed.’

He pauses. ‘It’s probably better
than cardboard boxes.’

She looks sideways at him.

‘Okay. Marginally better.’

She smiles wryly into her glass. ‘I
couldn’t ask Fran anyway. She never bloody invites me in.’

‘Well, that’s just rude. I
wouldn’t want to go to her house anyway. Stay there. I’ll sort you out a
toothbrush.’

Sometimes, Liv thinks, it is possible to
fall into a parallel universe. You think you know what you’re in for – a bad
night in front of the television, drinking in a bar, hiding from
your history – and suddenly you veer off the track to a whole destination you never even
knew was there. It is all, on the surface, a disaster: the stolen bag, the lost cash,
the dead husband, the life gone awry. And then you’re sitting in the tiny flat of
an American with bright blue eyes and hair like a grizzled pelt, and it’s almost
three o’clock in the morning and he’s making you laugh, properly laugh, as
if you have nothing to worry about in the whole world.

She has drunk a lot. There have been at
least three glasses since she got here, and there were many more back at the bar. But
she has reached that rare, pleasant state of alcoholic equilibrium. She is not drunk
enough to feel sick or woozy. She is just merry enough to be suspended, floating in this
pleasurable moment, with the man and the laughter, and the crowded little flat that
carries no memories. They have talked and talked and talked, their voices getting louder
and more insistent. And she has told him everything, liberated by shock and alcohol, and
the fact that he is a stranger and she will probably never see him again. He has told
her of the horrors of divorce, the politics of policing and why he was unsuited to them,
and why he misses New York but cannot return until his son is grown-up. She wants to
tell him everything, because he seems to understand everything. She has told him of her
grief and her anger, and how she looks at other couples and simply cannot see the point
in trying again. Because none of them seem really, properly, happy. Not one.

‘Okay. Devil’s advocate
here.’ Paul puts down his glass. ‘And this comes from one who totally fucked
up his own relationship. But you were married four years, right?’

‘Right.’

‘I don’t want to sound cynical
or anything, but don’t you think that one of the reasons it’s all perfect in
your head is that he died? Things are always more perfect if they’re cut short. An
industry of dead movie icons proves that.’

‘So you’re saying that if he had
lived we would have got as grumpy and fed up with each other as everyone
else?’

‘Not necessarily. But familiarity and
having kids, work and the stresses of everyday life can take the edge off romance, for
sure.’

‘The voice of experience.’

‘Yeah. Probably.’

‘Well, it didn’t.’ She
shakes her head emphatically. The room spins a little.

‘Oh, come on, you must have had times
when you got a bit fed up with him. Everyone does. You know – when he moaned about you
spending money or farted in bed or left the toothbrush cap off …’

Liv shakes her head again. ‘Why does
everyone do this? Why is everyone so determined to diminish what we had? You know what?
We were just happy. We didn’t fight. Not about toothpaste or farting or anything.
We just liked each other. We really liked each other. We were … happy.’
She is biting back tears and turns her head towards the window, forcing them away. She
will not cry tonight. She will not.

There is a long silence.
Bugger
,
she thinks.

‘Then you were one of the lucky
ones,’ says the voice behind her.

She turns and Paul McCafferty is offering
the last of the bottle.

‘Lucky?’

‘Not many people get that. Even four
years of it. You should be grateful.’

Grateful.
It makes perfect sense
when he says it like that. ‘Yes,’ she says, after a moment. ‘Yes, I
should.’

‘Actually, stories like yours give me
hope.’

She smiles. ‘That’s a lovely
thing to say.’

‘Well, it’s true.
To … What’s his name?’ Paul holds up a glass.

‘David.’

‘To David. One of the good
guys.’

She is smiling – wide and unexpected. She
notes his vague look of surprise. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘To
David.’

Paul takes a sip of his drink. ‘You
know, this is the first time I’ve invited a girl back to my place and ended up
toasting her husband.’

And there it is again: laughter, bubbling up
inside her, an unexpected visitor.

He turns to her. ‘You know, I’ve
been wanting to do this all night.’ He leans forward and, before she has time to
freeze, he reaches out a thumb and wipes gently under her left eye. ‘Your
makeup,’ he says, holding his thumb aloft. ‘I wasn’t sure you
knew.’

Liv stares at him, and something unexpected
and electric jolts through her. She looks at his strong, freckled hands, the way his
collar meets his neck, and her mind becomes blank. She puts down her glass, leans
forward and, before he can say anything, she does the only thing she can think of and
places her lips against his. There is the brief shock of physical contact, then she
feels his breath on her skin, a hand rising to meet her waist and he
is kissing her back, his lips soft and warm and tasting faintly of tannin. She lets
herself melt into him, her breath quickening, floating up on alcohol and sensation and
the sweetness of simply being held. Oh, God, but
this man
. Her eyes are closed,
her head spinning, his kisses soft and delicious.

And then he pulls back. It takes her a
second to realize. She pulls back too, just a few inches, her breath stalled in her
chest.
Who are you?

He looks straight into her eyes. Blinks.
‘You know … I think you’re absolutely lovely. But I have rules
about this sort of thing.’

Her lips feel swollen. ‘Are
you … with someone?’

‘No. I just …’ He runs a
hand over his hair. Clenches his jaw. ‘Liv, you don’t seem …’

‘I’m drunk.’

‘Yes, yes, you are.’

She sighs. ‘I used to have great drunk
sex.’

‘You need to stop talking now.
I’m trying to be really, really good here.’

She throws herself back against the sofa
cushions. ‘Really. Some women are rubbish when they’re drunk. I
wasn’t.’

‘Liv –’

‘And you
are … delicious.’

His chin is stubbled, as if already alerting
them to the fact that morning is approaching. She wants to run her fingers along those
tiny bristles, to feel them rough against her skin. She reaches out a hand and he shifts
away from her.

‘
Aaand
I’m gone. Okay,
yup, I’m gone.’ He stands, takes
a breath. He does not
look at her. ‘Uh, that’s my son’s bedroom there. If you need a drink
of water or anything, there’s a tap. It, uh, it does water.’

He picks up a magazine and puts it down
again. And then does the same with a second. ‘And there are magazines. If you want
something to read. Lots of …’

It cannot stop here. She wants him so badly
it’s as if her whole body radiates it. She could actually beg, right now. She can
still feel the heat of his hand on her waist, the taste of his lips. They stare at each
other for a moment.
Can’t you feel this?
Don’t walk away
, she wills him silently.
Please don’t walk away
from me.

‘Good night, Liv,’ he says.

He gazes at her for a moment longer, then
pads down the corridor and closes his bedroom door silently behind him.

Four hours later Liv wakes in a box room
with an Arsenal duvet cover and a head that thumps so hard she has to reach up a hand to
check she isn’t being assaulted. She blinks, stares blearily at the little
Japanese cartoon creatures on the wall opposite and lets her mind slowly bring together
the pieces of information from the previous night.

Stolen bag
. She closes her eyes.
Oh, no.

Strange bed.
She has no keys. Oh,
God, she has no keys. And no money. She attempts to move, and pain slices through her
head so that she almost yelps.

And then she remembers the man.
Pete?
Paul?
She sees herself walking through deserted streets in the early hours. And
then she sees herself lurching forward to kiss
him, his own polite
retreat.
You are … delicious.
‘Oh, no,’ she says softly,
then puts her hands over her eyes. ‘Oh, I didn’t …’

She sits up and moves to the side of the
bed, noticing a small yellow plastic car near her right foot. Then, when she hears the
sound of a door opening, the shower starting up next door, Liv grabs her shoes and her
jacket and lets herself out of the flat into the cacophonous daylight.

‘It feels a little like we’ve
been invaded.’ The CEO stands back, his shirt-sleeved arms across his chest, and
laughs nervously. ‘Does … everyone feel like that?’

‘Oh, yes.’ she says. It is not
an unusual response.

Around her, fifteen or so teenagers move
swiftly through the vast foyer of Conaghy Securities. Two – Edun and Cam – are vaulting
over the rails that run alongside the glass wall, backwards and forwards, their broad
hands expertly propelling their weight, their glowing white trainers squeaking as they
lift from the limestone floor. A handful of others have already shot through into the
central atrium, teetering and shrieking with laughter on the edge of the perfectly
aligned walkways, pointing down as they see the huge koi carp that swim placidly among
the angular pools.

‘Are they always … this
noisy?’ the CEO asks.

Abiola, the youth worker, stands beside Liv.
‘Yup. We usually give them ten minutes just to adapt to the space. Then you find
they settle surprisingly quickly.’

‘And … nothing ever gets
damaged?’

‘Not once.’ Liv watches Cam run
lightly along a raised wooden rail, jumping on to his toes at the end of it. ‘Of
the list of previous companies I gave you, we’ve not had so much as a dislodged
carpet tile.’ She sees his disbelieving expression. ‘You have to remember
that the average
British child lives in a home with floor space less
than seventy-six square metres.’ She nods. ‘And these will probably have
grown up in far less than that. It’s inevitable that when they’re let loose
in a new place they get itchy feet for a bit. But you watch. The space will work around
them.’

Once a month the David Halston Foundation,
part of Solberg Halston Architects, organizes a trip for underprivileged kids to visit a
building of special architectural interest. David had believed that young people should
not just be taught about their built environment but let loose in it, to utilize the
space in their own way, to understand what it did. He had wanted them to enjoy it. She
still remembers the first time she had watched him talking it through with a group of
Bengali kids from Whitechapel. ‘What does this doorway say when you walk
in?’ he had asked, pointing up at the huge frame.

‘Money,’ says one, and they had
all laughed.

‘That,’ David had said, smiling,
‘is exactly what it’s supposed to say. This is a stockbroking firm. This
doorway, with its huge marble pillars and its gold lettering, is saying to you,
“Give us your money. And we will make you MORE MONEY.” It says, in the most
blatant way possible, “We Know About Money.”’

‘That’s why, Nikhil, your
doorway is three foot tall, man.’ One of the boys had shoved another and both had
fallen about laughing.

But it worked. She had seen even then that
it worked. David had made them think about the space around them, whether it made them
feel free or angry or sad. He had shown them how light and space moved, almost as if it
were alive, around the oddest buildings. ‘They’ve got to
see that there is an alternative to the little boxes they live in,’ he said.
‘They’ve got to understand that their environment affects how they
feel.’

Since he had died, she had, with
Sven’s blessing, taken over David’s role, meeting company directors,
persuading them of the benefits of the scheme and to let them in. It had helped get her
through the early months, when she had felt that there was little point in her
existence. Now it was the one thing she did each month that she actively looked forward
to.

‘Miss? Can we touch the
fish?’

‘No. No touching, I’m afraid.
Have we got everyone?’ She waited as Abiola did a quick head count.

‘Okay. We’ll start here. I just
want you all to stand still for ten seconds and tell me how this space makes you
feel.’

‘Peaceful,’ said one, after the
laughter stopped.

‘Why?’

‘Dunno. It’s the water. And the
sound of that waterfall thing. It’s peaceful.’

‘What else makes you feel
peaceful?’

‘The sky. It’s got no roof,
innit?’

‘That’s right. Why do you think
this bit has no roof?’

‘They run out of money.’ More
laughter.

‘And when you get outside,
what’s the first thing you do? No, Dean, I know what you’re about to say.
And not that.’

‘Take a deep breath.
Breathe.’

‘Except our air is full of shit. This
air they probably pump through a filter and stuff.’

‘It’s open. They can’t
filter this.’

‘I do breathe, though. Like a big
breath. I hate being shut in small places. My room’s got no windows and I have to
sleep with the door open or I feel like I’m in a coffin.’

‘My brother’s room’s got
no windows so my mum got him this poster with a window on it.’

They begin comparing bedrooms. She likes
them, these kids, and she fears for them, the casual deprivations they toss into her
path, the way they reveal that 99 per cent of their lives are spent within a square mile
or two, locked in by physical constraints or the genuine fear of rival gangs and illegal
trespass.