The Girl You Left Behind

destroyed in
     Dachau, their surviving grandchildren borrowing money to recover a Titian; a Polish
     family, whose only surviving member died happy two months after the return of her
     father’s little Rodin sculpture. Nearly all these articles are written from the
     point of view of the claimant, the family who lost everything and found the
     grandmother’s painting against the odds. The reader is invited to rejoice with
     them when they win it back. The word ‘injustice’
appears in almost
     every paragraph. The articles rarely offer the opinion of the person who had bought it
     in good faith and lost it.
    And everywhere she goes she detects
     Paul’s footprints, as if she is asking the wrong questions, looking in the wrong
     places, as if she is simply processing information that he has already acquired.
    She stands up and stretches, walking around
     the study. She has moved
The Girl You Left Behind
on to a bookshelf while she
     works, as if she might give her inspiration. She finds herself looking at her all the
     time now, as if she isconscious that their time together may be
     limited. And the court date draws ever closer, always there, like the drumbeat of a
     distant battle.
Give me the answers, Sophie
.
At the bloody least, give me a
     clue.
    ‘Hey.’
    Mo appears at the door, eating a pot of
     yoghurt. Six weeks on, she is still living in the Glass House. Liv is grateful for her
     presence. She stretches and checks her watch. ‘Is it three o’clock already?
     God. I’ve got almost nowhere today.’
    ‘You might want to take a look at
     this.’ Mo pulls a copy of the London evening paper from under her arm and hands it
     over. ‘Page three.’
    Liv opens it.
    Award-winning Architect’s Widow In
     Million-pound Battle For Nazi-looted Art
, the headline says. Underneath is a
     half-page picture of David and her at a charity event several years previously. She is
     wearing an electric blue dress and is holding up a champagne glass, as if toasting the
     camera. Nearby is a small inset picture of
The Girl You Left Behind
with a
     caption: ‘Impressionist painting worth millions was “stolen by
     German”.’
    ‘Nice dress,’ says Mo.
    The blood drains from Liv’s face. She
     does not recognize the smiling partygoer in the picture, a woman from a different life.
     ‘Oh, my God …’ She feels as if someone has thrown open the doors of her
     house, her bedroom.
    ‘I guess it’s in their interests
     to make you look like some kind of high-society witch. That way they can spin their
     poor-French-victim line.’
    Liv closes her eyes. If she keeps them
     closed, perhaps it will just go away.
    ‘It’s historically wrong,
     obviously. I mean, there were no Nazis in the First World War. So I doubt if anyone will
     take any notice. I mean, I wouldn’t worry or anything.’ There is a long
     silence. ‘And I don’t think anyone will recognize you. You look quite
     different these days. Much …’ she struggles for words ‘… poorer.
     And kind of older.’
    Liv opens her eyes. There she is, standing
     beside David, like some wealthy, carefree version of herself.
    Mo pulls the spoon from her mouth and
     inspects it. ‘Just don’t look at the online version, okay? Some of the
     reader comments are a bit … strong.’
    Liv looks up.
    ‘Oh, you know. Everyone has an opinion
     these days. It’s all bullshit.’ Mo puts the kettle on. ‘Hey, are you
     okay if Ranic comes over this weekend? He shares his place with, like, fifteen other
     people. It’s quite nice to be able to stick your legs out in front of the telly
     without accidentally kicking someone’s arse.’
    Liv works all evening, trying to quell her
     growing anxiety. She keeps seeing that newspaper report: the headline, the society wife
     with her raised glass of champagne. She calls Henry, who tells her to ignore it, that
     it’s par for the course. She finds herself listening almost forensically to his
     tone, trying to assess whether he is as confident as he sounds.
    ‘Listen, Liv. It’s a big case.
     They’re going to play dirty. You need to brace yourself.’ He has briefed a
     barrister. Hetells her the man’s name as if she should have
     heard of him. She asks how much he costs and hears Henry shuffling papers. When he tells
     her the sum, she feels as if the air has been punched clean out of her lungs.
    The phone rings three times; once it is her
     father, telling her he has a job in a small touring production