The Girl You Left Behind

she can’t enjoy herself.
     She’s here to pick the brains of an eighty-year-old man, who may or may not be up
     to speaking to her. The court case is due to start on Monday and she needs greater
     firepower to go in with than she already has.
    ‘Mo.’
    ‘Mm?’ Mo is holding up a black
     silk dress. She keeps looking up at the security cameras in a faintly unnerving
     manner.
    ‘Can I suggest somewhere
     else?’
    ‘Sure. Where do you want to go? Palais
     Royale? Le Marais? We could probably find a bar for you to dance on, if you’re
     doing the whole finding-yourself-again thing.’
    She pulls the road map from her handbag and
     begins to unfold it. ‘No. I want to go to St Péronne.’
    They hire a car and drive north from Paris.
     Mo does not drive, so Liv takes the wheel, forcing herself to remember to stay on the
     right-hand side of the road. It is years since she drove. She feels the approach of St
     Péronne like the beat of a distant drum. The suburbs give way to farmland, huge
     industrial estates, and then, finally, almost two hours later, the flatlands of the
     north-east. They follow signs, get briefly lost, double back on themselves and then,
     shortly before four o’clock, they are driving slowly down the town’s high
     street. It is quiet, the few market stalls already packing up and only a few people in
     the grey stone square.
    ‘I’m gasping. Do you know where
     the nearest bar is?’
    They pull over, glancing up at the hotel on
     the square. Liv lowers the window and stares up at the brick frontage.
     ‘That’s it.’
    ‘That’s what?’
    ‘Le Coq Rouge. That’s the hotel
     where they all lived.’
    She climbs out of the car slowly, squinting
     up at the sign. It looks as it might have done back in the early partof the last century. The windows are brightly painted, the flower boxes full of
     Christmas cyclamen. A sign swings from a wrought-iron bracket. Through an archway into a
     gravelled courtyard, she sees several expensive cars. Something inside her tightens with
     nerves or anticipation, she is not sure which.
    ‘It’s Michelin-starred.
     Excellent.’
    Liv stares at her.
    ‘Duh. Everyone knows Michelin-starred
     restaurants have the best-looking staff.’
    ‘And … Ranic?’
    ‘Foreign rules. Everyone knows it
     doesn’t count if you’re in another country.’
    Mo is through the door and standing at the
     bar. A young, impossibly handsome man in a starched apron greets her. Liv stands to the
     side as Mo chats away to him in French.
    Liv breathes in the scents of food cooking,
     beeswax, perfumed roses in vases, and gazes at the walls. Her painting lived here.
     Almost a hundred years ago
The Girl You Left Behind
lived here, along with its
     subject. Some strange part of her half expects the painting to appear on a wall as if it
     belongs here.
    She turns to Mo. ‘Ask him if the
     Bessettes still own this place.’
    ‘Bessette?
Non
.’
    ‘No. It belongs to a Latvian,
     apparently. He has a chain of hotels.’
    She’s disappointed. She pictures this
     bar, full of Germans, the red-haired girl busying herself behind the bar, her eyes
     flashing resentment.
    ‘Does he know about the bar’s
     history?’ She pulls the photocopied picture from her bag, unrolls it. Mo repeats
     this, in rapid French. The barman leans over, shrugs. ‘He’s only worked here
     since August. He says he knows nothing about it.’
    The barman speaks again, and Mo adds:
     ‘He says she’s a pretty girl.’ She raises her eyes to heaven.
    ‘And he says you’re the second
     person to ask these questions.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That’s what he said.’
    ‘Ask him what the man looked
     like?’
    He barely needed to say. Late thirties or
     so, about six foot tall, sprinkling of early grey in his short hair. ‘
Comme un
     gendarme
. He leave his card,’ the waiter says, and hands it to Liv.
Paul McCafferty

Director, TARP
    It is as if she has combusted internally.
Again?
You even got
here
before me? She feels as if he is taunting
     her. ‘Can I keep this?’ she says.
    ‘
Mais bien sûr
.’ The
     waiter shrugs. ‘Shall I find you a table,
Mesdames
?’
    Liv flushes.
We can’t afford
     it
.
    But Mo nods, studying the menu. ‘Yeah.
     It’s Christmas. Let’s have one amazing meal.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘My treat. I spend my life serving
     food to other people. If I’m going to have one blow-out, I’m going to have
     ithere, in a Michelin-starred restaurant, surrounded by