The Girl You Left Behind

and settles in one
     of the low-slung sofas. Through the window the sound of distant rush-hour traffic drifts
     in on the overheated air. A large cat that he had initially mistaken for a cushion
     unfurls itself and jumps into his lap, where it kneads his thighs in silent ecstasy.
    Marianne Andrews sits back and lights a
     cigarette. She takes a theatrical breath. ‘Is that accent Brooklyn?’
    ‘New Jersey.’
    ‘Hmph.’ She asks him his old
     address, nods as if to affirm her familiarity with it. ‘You been here
     long?’
    ‘Seven years.’
    ‘Six. Came over with my best husband,
     Donald. He passed over last July.’ And then, her voice softening slightly, she
     says, ‘Well, anyway, how can I help you? I’m not sure I have much more than
     what I said in court.’
    ‘I don’t know. I guess I’m
     just wondering if there’s anything, anything at all, we might have
     missed.’
    ‘Nope. Like I told Mr Flaherty, I have
     no idea where the painting came from. To be honest, when Mom reminisced about her
     reporting days she preferred to talk about the time she got locked in an aircraft
     lavatory with JFK. And, you know, Pop and I weren’t much interested. Believe me,
     you hear one old reporter’s tales, you’ve heard them all.’
    Paul glances around the apartment. When he
     looks back, her eyes are still on him. She regards him carefully, blows a smoke ring
     into the still air. ‘Mr McCafferty. Are your clients going to come after me for
     compensation if the court decides the painting was stolen?’
    ‘No. They just want the
     painting.’
    Marianne Andrews shakes her head. ‘I
     bet they do.’ She uncrosses her knees, wincing as if it causes her discomfort.
     ‘I think this whole case stinks. I don’t like the way my mom’s name is
     being dragged through the mud. Or Mr Halston’s. He loved that painting.’
    Paul looks down at the cat. ‘It is
     just possible Mr Halston had a good idea of what it was really worth.’
    ‘With respect, Mr McCafferty, you
     weren’t there. Ifyou’re trying to imply that I should
     feel cheated, you’re talking to the wrong woman.’
    ‘You really don’t care about its
     value?’
    ‘I suspect you and I have different
     definitions of the word “value”.’
    The cat looks up at him, its eyes greedy and
     faintly antagonistic at the same time.
    Marianne Andrews stubs out her cigarette.
     ‘And I feel plain sick about poor Olivia Halston.’
    He hesitates, and then he says softly,
     ‘Yeah. Me too.’
    She raises an eyebrow.
    He sighs. ‘This case
     is … tricky.’
    ‘Not too tricky to chase the poor girl
     to bankruptcy?’
    ‘Just doing my job, Ms
     Andrews.’
    ‘Yeah. I think Mom heard that phrase a
     few times too.’
    It is said gently, but it brings colour to
     his cheeks.
    She looks at him, for a minute, then
     suddenly lets out a great
hah!
, frightening the cat, which leaps off his lap.
     ‘Oh, for goodness’ sakes. Do you want something a bit stronger? Because I
     could do with a real drink. I’m sure that sun is somewhere near the
     yardarm.’ She gets up and walks over to a cocktail cabinet.
     ‘Bourbon?’
    ‘Thanks.’
    He tells her then, the bourbon in his hand,
     the accent of his homeland in his ears, his words coming out in fits and starts, as if
     they had not expected to break the silence. His story starts with a stolen handbag and
     ends with an all-too-abrupt goodbye outside a courtroom. New parts of it emerge, without
     his awareness. His unexpected happiness around her, his guilt, this permanent bad temper
     that seems to have grown around him, like bark. Hedoesn’t know
     why he should unburden himself to this woman. He doesn’t know why he expects her,
     of all people, to understand.
    But Marianne Andrews listens, her generous
     features grimacing in sympathy. ‘Well, that’s some mess you’ve got
     yourself into, Mr McCafferty.’
    ‘Yeah. I get that.’
    She lights another cigarette, scolds the
     cat, which is yowling plaintively for food in the open-plan kitchen. ‘Honey, I
     have no answers for you. Either you’re going to break her heart by taking that
     painting or she’s going to break yours by losing you your job.’
    ‘Or we forget the whole
     thing.’
    ‘And break both your
     hearts.’
    Her words lay it bare. They sit there in
     silence. Outside the air is thick with the sound of barely moving traffic.
    Paul sips his drink, thinking. ‘Ms
     Andrews, did your mother keep her