The Girl You Left Behind

of
Run for Your
     Wife
. She tells him absently that she’s pleased for him, urges him not to
     run after anyone else’s. ‘That is
exactly
what Caroline
     said!’ he exclaims, and rings off.
    The second call is Kristen. ‘Oh, my
     God,’ she says, breaking in without even a hello. ‘I just saw the
     paper.’
    ‘Yes. Not the best afternoon’s
     reading.’
    She hears Kristen’s hand sliding over
     the receiver, a muffled conversation. ‘Sven says don’t speak to anyone
     again. Just don’t say a word.’
    ‘I didn’t.’
    ‘Then where did they get all that
     awful stuff?’
    ‘Henry says it probably came out of
     TARP. It’s in their interests to leak information that makes the case sound as bad
     as possible.’
    ‘Shall I come over? I’m not
     doing much at the moment.’
    ‘It’s sweet of you, Kristen, but
     I’m fine.’ She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.
    ‘Well, I can come to court with you,
     if you like. Or if you wanted me to put your side of it, I’m sure I have contacts.
     Perhaps something in
Hello!
?’
    ‘That – no. Thanks.’ Liv puts
     down the phone. It will be everywhere now. Kristen is a far more effective disseminator
     of information than the evening paper. Liv is anticipating having to explain herself to
     friends, acquaintances. The painting is already somehow no longer hers. It isa matter of public record, a focus for discussion, a symbol of a
     wrong.
    As she puts the phone down it rings
     immediately, making her jump.
    ‘Kristen, I –’
    ‘Is that Olivia Halston?’
    A man’s voice.
    She hesitates. ‘Yes?’
    ‘My name is Robert Schiller. I’m
     the arts correspondent for
The Times
. I’m sorry if I’m calling at
     an inopportune time, but I’m putting together a background piece on this painting
     of yours and I was wondering if you –’
    ‘No. No, thank you.’ She slams
     the phone down. She stares at it suspiciously, then removes the receiver from its
     cradle, afraid that it will ring again. Three times she places the receiver back on the
     telephone and each time it rings straight away. Journalists leave their names and
     numbers. They sound friendly, ingratiating. They promise fairness, apologize for taking
     up her time. She sits in the empty house, listening to her heart thumping.
    Mo arrives back shortly after one a.m. and
     finds her in front of the computer, the phone off the hook. She is emailing every living
     expert on French turn-of-the-twentieth-century art.
I was wondering if you knew
     anything about … ; I am trying to fill in the history
     of … ; … anything you have, or know – anything at
     all … century art.
    ‘You want tea?’ Mo says,
     shedding her coat.
    ‘Thanks.’ Liv doesn’t look
     up. Her eyes are sore. She knows she has reached the point where she is merely flicking
     blindly between websites, checking and rechecking heremail, but she
     can’t stop herself. Feeling as if she is doing something, no matter how pointless,
     is better than the alternative.
    Mo sits down opposite her in the kitchen and
     pushes a mug towards her. ‘You look terrible.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Mo watches her type listlessly, takes a sip
     of her tea, and then pulls her chair closer to Liv. ‘Okay. So let’s look at
     this with my History of Art, BA Hons, head on. You’ve been through the museum
     archives? Auction catalogues? Dealers?’
    Liv shuts her computer. ‘I’ve
     done them all.’
    ‘You said David got the painting from
     an American woman. Could you not ask her where her mother got it from?’
    She shuffles through the papers.
     ‘The … other side have already asked her. She doesn’t know.
     Louanne Baker had it, and then we bought it. That’s all she knows. That’s
     all she ever bloody needed to know.’
    She stares at the copy of the evening paper,
     its intimations that she and David were somehow wrong, somehow morally deficient to have
     owned the painting at all. She sees Paul’s face, his eyes on her at the
     lawyer’s office.
    Mo’s voice is uncharacteristically
     quiet. ‘You okay?’
    ‘Yes. No. I love this painting, Mo. I
     really love it. I know it sounds stupid, but the thought of losing her
     is … It’s like losing part of myself.’
    Mo’s eyebrows lift a quarter of an
     inch.
    ‘I’m sorry. It’s
     just … Finding yourself in the newspapers as public enemy number one,
     it’s … Oh, bloody hell, Mo, I don’t know what on earth I’m
     doing. I’m fighting aman