The Girl You Left Behind

black-and-white pictures of her that he found while sorting through a
     drawer. There is something oddly grounding about going through them: the reminder that
     there was a whole life before this case, before Sophie Lefèvre and a house she
     cannot afford and an awful, final day looming in court.
    ‘Such a beautiful child.’
    The open, smiling face in the picture makes
     her want to cry. Her father puts his arm around her. ‘Don’t be too upset on
     Monday. I know it’s been tough. But we’re terribly proud of you, you
     know.’
    ‘For what?’ she says, blowing
     her nose. ‘I failed, Dad. Most people think I shouldn’t have even
     tried.’
    Her father pulls her to him. He smells of
     red wine and a part of her life that seems a million years ago. ‘Just for carrying
     on, really. Sometimes, my darling girl, that’s heroic in itself.’
    It’s almost four thirty when she calls
     him. It’s been almost twenty-four hours, she rationalizes. And surely the normal
     rules for dating don’t apply if someone has just given up half their life for you.
     Her heart quickens a little as she dials: she’s already anticipating the sound of
     his voice. She pictures them, later that evening, curled up on his sofa in the crowded
     little flat, maybe playing cards with Jake on the rug. But the answer-phone cuts in
     after three rings. Liv hangs up quickly, oddly unsettled, then curses herself for being
     childish.
    She goes for a run, showers, makes tea for
     Fran (‘The last one only had two sugars’), sits by the phone and finally
     dials his number again at six thirty. Again it goes straight to the answer-phone. She
     doesn’t have a landline number for his flat. Should she just go there? He could be
     at Greg’s. But, she realizes, she doesn’t have a number for Greg’s
     either. She had been so disoriented by Friday’s events when they had arrived there
     that she’s not even sure of the exact address.
    This is ridiculous, she tells herself.
     He’ll call.
    He doesn’t.
    At eight thirty, knowing she can’t
     face spending the rest of the evening in the house, she gets up, pulls on her coat and
     grabs her keys.
    It’s a short walk to Greg’s
     bar, even shorter if you half run in your trainers. She pushes open the door and is hit
     by a wall of noise. On the small stage to the left a man dressed as a woman is singing
     raucously to a disco beat, accompanied by loud catcalls from a rapt crowd. At the other
     end, the tables are packed, the spaces between them thick with taut, tightly clad
     bodies.
    It takes her a few minutes to spot him,
     moving swiftly along the bar, a tea-towel slung over his shoulder. She squeezes through
     to the front, half wedged under somebody’s armpit, and shouts his name.
    It takes several goes for him to hear her.
     Then he turns. Her smile freezes: his expression is oddly unwelcoming.
    ‘Well, this is a fine time to turn
     up.’
    She blinks. ‘I’m
     sorry?’
    ‘Nearly nine o’clock? Are you
     guys kidding me?’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re
     talking about.’
    ‘I’ve had him all day. Andy was
     meant to go out tonight. Instead he’s had to cancel just to stay home and babysit.
     I can tell you he’s not happy.’
    Liv struggles to hear him over the noise in
     the bar. Greg holds up a hand, and leans forward to take someone’s order.
    ‘I mean, you know we love him,
     right?’ he says, when he returns. ‘We love him to death. But treating us
     like some kind of default babysitter is –’
    ‘I’m looking for Paul,’
     she says.
    ‘He’s not with you?’
    ‘No. And he’s not answering his
     phone.’
    ‘I know he’s not answering his
     phone. I thought that was because he was with – Oh, this is crazy. Come through the
     bar.’ He lifts the hatch so that she can squeeze in, holds his hands up to the
     roar of complaint from those waiting. ‘Two minutes, guys. Two minutes.’
    In the tiny corridor to the kitchen, the
     beat thumps through the walls, making Liv’s feet vibrate. ‘But where has he
     gone?’ she says.
    ‘I don’t know.’
     Greg’s anger has evaporated. ‘We wokeup to a note this
     morning saying he’d had to go. That was it. He was kind of weird last night after
     you left.’
    ‘What do you mean, weird?’
    He looks shifty, as if he’s already
     said too much.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Not himself. He takes this stuff
     pretty seriously.’ He bites his lip.
    ‘What?’
    Greg looks awkward. ‘Well, he – he
     said