The Girl You Left Behind

she speaks first.
    ‘Look. I know this probably
     doesn’t make any sense, but could we possibly forget about the case? Just for one
     evening?’ Her voice is too vulnerable. ‘Could we just be two people
     again?’
    It is the slight catch in her voice that
     breaks him. Paul McCafferty makes as if to speak, then leans forward and picks up her
     suitcase, dragging it into the hallway. Before either of them can change their mind, he
     pulls her to him, wraps his arms tightly around her and stays there until the outside
     world goes away.
    ‘Hey, sleepyhead.’
    She pushes herself upright, slowly
     registering where she is. Paul is sitting on the bed, pouring coffee into a mug. He
     hands it to her. He seems astonishingly awake. The clock says 6:32 a.m. ‘I brought
     you some toast too. I thought you might want time to go home before …’
    Before …
    The case. She takes a moment to let this
     thought penetrate. He waits while she rubs her eyes, then leans over and kisses her
     lightly. He has brushed his teeth, she notes, and feels briefly self-conscious that she
     hasn’t.
    ‘I didn’t know what you wanted
     on your toast. I hope jam’s okay.’ He picks it off the tray.
     ‘Jake’s choice. Ninety-eight per cent sugar or something.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She blinks at the
     plate on her lap. She cannot remember the last time anybody brought her breakfast in
     bed.
    They gaze at each other. Oh, my, she thinks,
     remembering the previous night. All other thoughts disappear. And, as if he can read her
     mind, Paul’s eyes crinkle at the corners.
    ‘Are you … coming back
     in?’ she says.
    He shifts over to her, so that his legs,
     warm and solid, are entwined in hers. She moves so that he can place his arm around her
     shoulders, then leans into him and closes her eyes, just relishing the feel of it. He
     smells warm and sleepy. She just wants to rest her face against his skin and stay there,
     breathing him in until her lungs are entirely full of tiny molecules of Paul. She has a
     sudden recollection of a boy she dated as a teenager; she had adored him. When they had
     finally kissed, she had been shocked tofind that his skin, his hair,
     all of him, had smelt wrong. It was as if some fundamental part of him was chemically
     composed to repel her. Paul’s skin – she could just lie there and inhale it, like
     really good scent.
    ‘You okay?’
    ‘Better than okay,’ she says.
     She takes a sip of coffee.
    ‘I have a new love for Sunday
     evenings. I can’t imagine why.’
    ‘Sunday evenings are definitely
     underrated.’
    ‘As are unexpected visitors. I was a
     little worried you were Jehovah’s Witnesses.’ He thinks. ‘Although if
     Jehovah’s Witnesses did what you did last night I’m guessing they’d
     get a lot better reception.’
    ‘You should tell them.’
    ‘I may just do that.’
    There is a long silence. They listen to the
     dustcart reversing outside, the muffled clash of the bins, eating toast in companionable
     silence.
    ‘I missed you, Liv,’ he
     says.
    She tilts her head and rests against him.
     Outside, two people are talking loudly in Italian. Her muscles ache pleasurably, as if
     she has let go of some long-held tension that she had barely been aware of. She feels
     like someone she had forgotten. She wonders what Mo would say about this, then smiles
     when she realizes she knows the answer.
    And then Paul’s voice breaks into the
     silence: ‘Liv – I’m afraid this case is going to bankrupt you.’
    She stares at her mug of coffee.
    ‘Liv?’
    ‘I don’t want to talk about the
     case.’
    ‘I’m not going to talk about it
     in any … detail. I just have to tell you I’m worried.’
    She tries to smile. ‘Well, don’t
     be. You haven’t won yet.’
    ‘Even if you win. It’s a lot of
     money on legal fees. I’ve been here a few times so I have a good idea what
     it’s costing you.’ He puts down his mug, takes her hand in his. ‘Look.
     Last week I talked to the Lefèvre family in private. My fellow director, Janey,
     doesn’t even know about it. I explained a little of your situation, told them how
     much you love the painting, how unwilling you are to let her go. And I got them to agree
     to offer you a proper settlement. A serious settlement, a good six figures. It would
     cover your legal fees so far and then some.’
    Liv stares at their hands, her own enfolded
     in his. Her mood evaporates. ‘Are you … trying to persuade me