The Girl You Left Behind

evening, the kind where the whole of London looks
     like the backdrop to some romantic movie. Her breath is visible in the still air, and
     she has pulled a woollen beanie low over her head, which she will shed some time before
     Waterloo Bridge. In the distance the lights of the Square Mile glint across the skyline;
     the buses crawl along the Embankment; the streets hum. She plugs in her iPod earphones,
     closes the door of the block, rams her keys into the pocket of her shorts, and sets off
     at a pace. She lets her mind flood with the deafening thumping beat, dance music so
     relentless that it leaves no room for thought.
    ‘Liv.’
    He steps into her path and she stumbles,
     thrusting out a hand and withdrawing it, as if she’s been burned, when she
     realizes who it is.
    ‘Liv – we have to talk.’
    He is wearing the brown jacket, his collar
     turned up against the cold, a folder of papers under his arm. Their eyes lock, and she
     whips round before she can register any kind of feeling and sets off, her heart
     racing.
    He is behind her. She does not look round
     but she can just make out his voice above the volume of her music.She turns it up louder, can almost feel the vibration of his footsteps on the paving
     behind her.
    ‘
Liv
.’ His hand reaches
     for her arm and, almost instinctively, she launches her right hand round and whacks him,
     ferociously, in the face. The shock of impact is so great that they both stumble
     backwards, his palm pressed against his nose.
    She pulls out her earphones. ‘Leave me
     alone!’ she yells, recovering her balance. ‘Just
piss
     off
.’
    ‘I want to talk to you.’ Blood
     trickles through his fingers. He glances down and sees it. ‘Jesus.’ He drops
     his files, struggles to get his spare hand into his pocket, pulling out a large cotton
     handkerchief, which he presses to his nose. The other hand he holds up in a gesture of
     peace. ‘Liv, I know you’re mad at me right now but you –’
    ‘Mad at you? Mad at you? That
     doesn’t
begin
to cover what I feel about you right now. You trick your
     way into my home, give me some bullshit about finding my bag, smooth-talk your way into
     my bed, and then – oh, wow, what a surprise – there is the painting you just happen to
     be employed to recover for a great big fat commission.’
    ‘What?’ His voice is muffled
     through the handkerchief. ‘What? You think I stole your bag? You think I
made
this thing happen? Are you crazy?’
    ‘Stay away from me.’ Her voice
     is shaking, her ears ringing. She is walking backwards down the road away from him.
     People have stopped to watch them.
    He starts after her. ‘
No.
You
     listen. For one minute. I am an ex-cop. I’m not in the business of stealing bags,
     or even, frankly, returning them. I met you and I liked you and then I discovered that,
     by some shitty twist of Fate,you happen to hold the painting that
     I’m employed to recover. If I could have given that particular job to anyone else,
     believe me, I would have done. I’m sorry. But you have to listen.’
    He pulls the handkerchief away from his
     face. There is blood on his lip.
    ‘That painting was stolen, Liv.
     I’ve been through the paperwork a million times. It’s a picture of Sophie
     Lefèvre, the artist’s wife. She was taken by the Germans, and the painting
     disappeared straight afterwards. It was stolen.’
    ‘That was
a hundred years
     ago
.’
    ‘You think that makes it right? You
     know what it’s like to have the thing you love ripped away from you?’
    ‘Funnily enough,’ she spits,
     ‘I do.’
    ‘Liv – I know you’re a good
     person. I know this has come as a shock, but if you think about it you’ll do the
     right thing. Time doesn’t make a wrong right. And your painting was stolen from
     the family of that poor girl. It was the last they had of her and it belongs with them.
     The right thing is for it to go back.’ His voice is soft, almost convincing.
     ‘When you know the truth about what happened to her I think you’re going to
     look at Sophie Lefevre quite differently.’
    ‘Oh, save me your sanctimonious
     bullshit.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You think I don’t know what
     it’s worth?’
    He stares at her.
    ‘You think I didn’t check out
     you and your company? How you operate? I know what this is about, Paul, and it’s
     got nothing to do with your rights and wrongs.’ She grimaces. ‘God, you must
     think I’m such a pushover. Thestupid