The Girl You Left Behind

Mo places a pile of glossy magazines and some chocolate infront of them. ‘And the chord changes of “We’re
     Going To Hang Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line” hold no surprises for me. So
     who’s this man we’re going to meet, and how does he relate to your
     case?’
    Philippe Bessette is the son of
     Aurélien Bessette, younger brother of Sophie Lefèvre. It was Aurélien,
     Liv explains, who lived in Le Coq Rouge during the years of the occupation. He had been
     there when Sophie was taken away, and had stayed in the town for several years
     afterwards. ‘He of all people might know how the painting disappeared. I spoke to
     the matron of the care home where he lives, and she said he should be up to a
     conversation as he’s still quite sharp, but that I had to come in person as
     he’s pretty deaf and can’t do it by phone.’
    ‘Well, glad to help.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘But you do know I don’t really
     speak French.’
    Liv’s head whips round. Mo is pouring
     a small bottle of red wine into two plastic glasses. ‘What?’
    ‘I don’t speak French. I’m
     good at understanding general old person’s babble, though. I might be able to get
     something.’
    Liv slumps in her seat.
    ‘I’m
joking.
Jesus,
     you’re gullible.’ Mo hands her the wine, and takes a long sip. ‘I
     worry about you sometimes. I really do.’
    Afterwards she remembers little of the
     actual train journey. They drink the wine, and two more little bottles, and they talk.
     It’s the closest thing she’s had to a night out for weeks. Mo talks about
     her alienation from her parents, who cannot understand her lack of ambition or the carehome, which she loves. ‘Oh, I know we’re the lowest
     of the low, care assistants, but the olds are good. Some of them are really smart, and
     others are funny. I like them more than most people our age.’ Liv waits for
     ‘present company excepted’ and tries not to take offence when it
     doesn’t come.
    She tells Mo, finally, about Paul. And Mo is
     temporarily silenced. ‘You slept with him without Googling him?’ she says,
     when she recovers the power of speech. ‘Oh, my God, when you said you were out of
     the dating loop I never thought for a minute … You don’t sleep with
     someone without doing
background
. Jesus.’
    She sits back and refills her glass. Just
     briefly, she looks oddly cheerful. ‘Whoa. I just realized something: you, Liv
     Halston, may actually turn out to have had the Most Expensive Shag In
     History.’
    They spend the night in a budget hotel in a
     Paris suburb, where the bathroom is moulded from one piece of yellow plastic and the
     shampoo is the exact colour and scent of washing-up liquid. After a stiff, greasy
     croissant and a cup of coffee, they call the residential home. Liv packs their stuff,
     her stomach already a knot of nervous anticipation.
    ‘Well, that’s torn it,’
     says Mo, when she puts down the phone.
    ‘What?’
    ‘He’s not well. He’s not
     seeing visitors today.’
    Liv, putting on her makeup, stares at her in
     shock. ‘Did you tell them we’d come all the way from London?’
    ‘I told her we’d come from
     Sydney. But the woman said he was weak and he’d only be asleep if we came.
     I’ve givenher my mobile number and she’s promised to
     ring if he picks up.’
    ‘What if he dies?’
    ‘It’s a cold, Liv.’
    ‘But he’s old.’
    ‘Come on. Let’s go drink in bars
     and stare at clothes we can’t afford. If she rings we can be in a taxi before you
     can say Gérard Depardieu.’
    They spend the morning wandering around the
     endless departments at Galeries Lafayette, which are festooned with baubles and packed
     with Christmas shoppers. Liv tries to distract herself, to enjoy the change, but she is
     acutely conscious of the price of everything. Since when had two hundred pounds become
     an acceptable price for a pair of jeans? Did a hundred-pound moisturizer really
     eradicate wrinkles? She finds herself dropping hangers as quickly as she picks them
     up.
    ‘Are things really that
     bad?’
    ‘The barrister is five hundred quid an
     hour.’
    Mo waits a minute for a punchline that
     doesn’t come. ‘Ouch. I hope this painting’s worth it.’
    ‘Henry seems to think we’ve got
     a good defence. He says they talk the talk.’
    ‘Then stop worrying, Liv, for
     God’s sake. Enjoy yourself a little. Come on – this is the weekend you’re
     going to turn it all around.’
    But