The Girl You Left Behind

unmissable meeting in London on the Friday. And of those five days, only two had passed before another apparently unmissable meeting had popped up.
    And now Liv stands, shivering ‒ in the summer dress she had bought because it was the exact shade of her eyes and she’d thought he would notice ‒ as the skies grow grey and a fine spit starts. And she wonders whether her schoolgirl French is up to hailing a taxi back to the hotel, or whether, in her current mood, she may as well trudge home in the rain. She joins the queue for the lift.
    ‘Are you leaving yours up here too?’
    ‘My what?’
    The American woman is beside her. She smiles, nods towards Liv’s shiny wedding band. ‘Your husband.’
    ‘He – he’s not here. He’s … busy today.’
    ‘Oh, are you here on business? How gorgeous for you. He gets to do the work, and you get to have a lovely time seeing the sights.’ She laughs. ‘You worked that out right, honey.’
    Liv takes a last look out at the Champs-Élysées and something settles in the pit of her stomach. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Aren’t I the lucky one?’
    ‘Marry in haste …’ her friends had warned her. They had said it jokingly but, given that she and David had known each other for all of three months and eleven days when he’d proposed, she could detect the faint edge of truth in it.
    She hadn’t wanted a big wedding: her mother’s absence would have hung over it, colouring it a darker shade. So she and David had fled to Italy, to Rome, where she’d bought a white dress off the peg from an understated and terrifyingly expensive designer in the via Condotti and had understood almost none of the church ceremony until David slid a ring onto her finger.
    David’s friend Carlo, who had helped organize it and acted as one of their witnesses, had kidded her afterwards that she had just agreed to honour, obey, and accept any further wives that David might wish to add to the collection. She had laughed for a solid twenty-four hours.
    She had known it was right. She had known it from the moment she’d met him. She’d known it even when her father had looked downcast at the news, and masked it immediately with hearty congratulations, and she had realized guiltily that, while she had never particularly dreamt about her wedding, her surviving parent might have done. She’d known it when she’d moved her few belongings to David’s house – the glass structure on top of a sugar factory by the Thames had been one of the first things he’d designed and built. Every morning in the six weeks between her wedding and her honeymoon she had woken up in the Glass House, surrounded by sky, gazed at her sleeping husband and known that they were right together. Some passions were too great not to act upon.
    ‘Don’t you feel … I don’t know … a bit young?’ Jasmine had been waxing her legs over her kitchen sink. Liv had sat at the table and watched her, smoking a contraband cigarette. David didn’t like smoking. She had told him she’d stopped a year ago. ‘I mean, I’m not being funny, Liv, but you do tend to do things on impulse. Like the whole cutting-your-hair-off-for-a-bet thing. And the jacking-in-your-job-and-going-round-the-world thing.’
    ‘Like I’m the only person ever to do that.’
    ‘You’re the only person I know who did the two things on the same day. I don’t know, Liv. It just … it all seems so fast.’
    ‘But it feels right. We’re so happy together. And I can’t imagine him doing anything that makes me angry or sad. He’s …’ Liv blew a smoke ring towards the strip light ‘… perfect.’
    ‘Well, he’s definitely lovely. I just can’t believe you of all people are getting married. You were the one of us who always swore you wouldn’t.’
    ‘I know.’
    Jasmine pulled up a sheet of wax and grimaced at its grim residue. ‘Ouch. Fuck, that hurt … He’s bloody fit, though. And that house sounds amazing. Better than this hole.’
    ‘When I wake up with him I feel like I’m in the pages of some glossy magazine. Everything is just so grown-up. I didn’t bother bringing hardly any of my stuff. He has linen bed sheets, for God’s sake. Actual linen sheets.’ She blew another smoke ring. ‘Made of linen.’
    ‘Yeah. And who’s going to end up ironing those linen sheets?’
    ‘Not me. He has a cleaner. He says he doesn’t need me to do that stuff. He’s worked out I’m a rubbish housekeeper. In fact, he wants me to think about doing