The Girl You Left Behind

until she can speak again.
    ‘I thought the world had actually
     ended. I thought nothing good could ever happen again. I thought anything might happen
     if I wasn’t vigilant. I didn’t eat. I didn’t go out. I didn’t
     want to see anyone. But I survived, Paul. Much to my own surprise, I got through it. And
     life … well, life gradually became liveable again.’
    She leans closer to him. ‘So
     this … the painting, the house … It hit me when I heard what
     happened to Sophie. It’s just
stuff
. They could take all of it, frankly.
     The only thing that matters is people.’ She looks down at his hands, and her voice
     cracks. ‘All that really matters is who you love.’
    He doesn’t speak, but dips his head so
     that it comes to rest against hers. They sit there in the wintry garden, breathing in
     the inky air, listening to the muffled sound of his son’s laughter coming from the
     house. Down the street she can hear the acoustics of early evening in the city, the
     clatter of pans in distant kitchens, televisions firing up, a car door slamming, a dog
     barking at some unseen outrage. Life in its messy, vital entirety.
    ‘I’ll make it up to you,’
     he says quietly.
    ‘You already have.’
    ‘No. I will.’
    There are tears on her cheeks. She has no
     idea how they got there. His blue eyes are suddenly calm. He takes her face in his hands
     and kisses her, kisses the tears away, his lips soft against her skin, promising a
     future. He kisses her until they are both smiling and she has lost all feeling in her
     feet.
    ‘I should go home. The buyers are
     coming tomorrow,’ she says, reluctantly unwinding from him.
    Across town the Glass House stands empty.
     The thought of returning to it is still unappealing. She half waits for him to protest.
     ‘Do you … do you want to come with me? Jake could sleep in the spare
     room. I could open and shut the roof for him. Might win me a few points.’
    He looks away. ‘I can’t,’
     he says baldly. And then: ‘I mean I’d love to. But
     it’s …’
    ‘Will I see you over the
     weekend?’
    ‘I’ve got Jake,
     but … sure. We’ll work something out.’
    He seems oddly distracted. She sees the
     doubt that shadows his face. Will we really be able to forgive what we have cost each
     other? she thinks, fleetingly, and feels a chill that has nothing to do with the
     cold.
    ‘I’ll drive you home,’ he
     says. And the moment passes.
    The house is silent when she lets herself
     in. She locks the door, puts her keys on the side and walks into the kitchen, her
     footsteps echoing across the limestone floor. She finds it hard to believe she only left
     here this morning: it feels as if a whole lifetime has passed.
    She presses the button on her answer-phone.
     A message from the estate agent, puffed with self-importance, announcing that the buyers
     are to send in their architect the following day. He hopes she is well.
    A feature writer from an obscure arts
     magazine, wanting an interview about the Lefèvre case.
    The bank manager. Reassuringly oblivious to
     the media frenzy. Please can she call at her earliest convenience to discuss her
     overdraft situation? This is his third attempt to contact her, he adds pointedly.
    One from her father, sending big kisses.
Caroline says fuck the lot of them.
    Liv can just make out a distant thumping
     bass from the apartment below, the slamming front doors and laughter that are the
     acoustics of an ordinary Friday night out. It is a reminder that elsewhere the world
     turnsregardless; that there is life beyond this strange hiatus.
    The evening stretches. She puts on the
     television, but there is nothing she wants to watch, so instead she showers and washes
     her hair. She lays out clothes for the next day, and eats some crackers and cheese.
    But her emotions do not settle: they jangle,
     like a rail of empty coat hangers. She is exhausted, but paces the house, unable to sit
     still. She keeps tasting Paul on her lips, his words in her ears. She considers calling
     him, briefly, but when she pulls out her phone, her fingers stall on the buttons. What
     would she say, after all?
I just wanted to hear your voice.
    She walks through to the spare room, which
     is immaculate, empty, as if nobody had ever stayed there. She walks around it, lightly
     touching the tops of the chair, the chest of drawers as she passes. She no longer feels
     comforted by silence and emptiness. She pictures Mo, curled