The Girl You Left Behind

painting. She hears each footstep on the wooden floor,
     is acutely aware of all the eyes upon her. Henry, perhaps still fearful about the
     painting, stands a few feet from her.
    She takes a deep breath. ‘I would like
     to say a few words about
The Girl You Left Behind
.’ She pauses for a
     second, registering the surprise on the faces around her, and continues, her voice thin,
     wavering slightly in the silence. It seems to belong to someone else.
    ‘Sophie Lefèvre was a brave,
     honourable woman. I think – I hope this has become clear through what’s been heard
     in court.’ She is vaguely aware of Janey Dickinson’s face, scratching
     something in her notebook, the mutteredboredom of the barristers.
     She closes her fingers around the frame, and forces herself to keep going.
    ‘My late husband, David Halston, was
     also a good man. A really good man. I believe now that, had he known Sophie’s
     portrait, the painting he loved, had this – this history, he would have given it back
     long ago. My contesting this case has caused his good name to be removed from the
     building that was his life and his dream, and that is a source of immense regret to me,
     because that building – the Goldstein – should have been his memorial.’
    She sees the reporters look up, the ripple
     of interest that passes over their bench. Several of them consult, start scribbling.
    ‘This case – this painting – has
     pretty much destroyed what should have been his legacy, just as it destroyed
     Sophie’s. In this way they have both been wronged.’ Her voice begins to
     break. She glances around her. ‘For that reason I would like it on record that the
     decision to fight was mine alone. If I have been mistaken, I’m so very sorry.
     That’s all. Thank you.’
    She takes two awkward steps to the side. She
     sees the reporters scribbling furiously, one checking the spelling of
Goldstein
. Two solicitors on the bench are talking urgently. ‘Nice
     move,’ says Henry, softly, leaning in to her. ‘You’d have made a good
     lawyer.’
    I did it, she tells herself silently. David
     is publicly linked to his building now, whatever the Goldsteins do.
    The judge asks for silence. ‘Mrs
     Halston. Have you finished pre-empting my verdict?’ he says wearily.
    Liv nods. Her throat has dried. Janey is
     whispering to her lawyer.
    ‘And this is the painting in question,
     is it?’
    ‘Yes.’ She is still holding it
     tightly to her, like a shield.
    He turns to the court clerk. ‘Can
     someone arrange for it to be placed in safe custody? I’m not entirely sure it
     should be sitting out here. Mrs Halston?’
    Liv holds out the painting to the court
     clerk. Just for a moment her fingers seem oddly reluctant to release it, as if her inner
     self has decided to ignore the instruction. When she finally lets go, the clerk stands
     there, briefly frozen, as if she has handed him something radioactive.
    I’m sorry, Sophie
, she says,
     and, suddenly exposed, the girl’s image stares back at her.
    Liv walks unsteadily back to her seat, the
     empty blanket balled under her arm, barely hearing the growing commotion around her. The
     judge is in conversation with both barristers. Several people make for the doors,
     evening-paper reporters perhaps, and above them the public gallery is alive with
     discussion. Henry touches her arm, muttering something about how she has done a good
     thing.
    She sits, and gazes down at her lap, at the
     wedding ring she twists round and round her finger, and wonders how it is possible to
     feel so empty.
    And then she hears it.
    ‘Excuse me?’
    It is repeated twice before it can be heard
     over the mêlée. She looks up, following the swivelling gaze of the people around
     her, and there, in the doorway, is Paul McCafferty.
    He is wearing a blue shirt and his chin is
     grey with stubble, his expression unreadable. He wedges the door open,and slowly pulls a wheelchair into the courtroom. He looks around, seeking her out,
     and suddenly it is just the two of them.
You okay?
he mouths, and she nods,
     letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
    He calls again, just audible above the
     noise. ‘Excuse me? Your Honour?’
    The gavel cracks against the desk like a
     gunshot. The court falls silent. Janey Dickinson stands and turns to see what is
     happening. Paul is pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair down the central aisle of
     the court. She is impossibly ancient, hunched