The Girl You Left Behind

when David,
     brilliant, loving, generous, passionate David, had to die? How did hangdog Tim get to
     reproduce, to bring further generations of little unimaginative Tims into this world,
     when David’s unexpected mind, his kindness, his kisses, had been extinguished for
     ever?
    Liv can remember screaming silently in
     bathrooms, bolting without explanation from crowded rooms, conscious of her own apparent
     rudeness but unable to stop herself. It had been years before she could view anybody
     else’s happiness without mourning the loss of her own.
    These days, the anger has gone, but she
     prefers to view domestic satisfaction at a distance, and in people she doesn’t
     know well, as if happiness were a scientific concept that she is merely pleased to see
     proven.
    She no longer sees the friends she had back
     then, the Cherrys, the Jasmines. The women who would remember the girl she had been. It
     was too complicated to explain. And she didn’t particularly like what it said
     about her.
    ‘Well, I think you should meet her
     before she goes. I used to love watching the two of you head out together, pair of young
     goddesses that you were.’
    ‘When are you going to call
     Caroline?’ she says, wiping crumbs from the stripped-pine kitchen table and
     scrubbing at a ring of red wine.
    ‘She won’t talk to me. I left
     fourteen messages on her mobile phone last night.’
    ‘You need to stop sleeping with other
     people, Dad.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘And you need to earn some
     money.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘And you need to get dressed. If I
     were her and came home and saw you like this I’d turn around and walk straight out
     again.’
    ‘I’m wearing her
     dressing-gown.’
    ‘I guessed.’
    ‘It still carries her scent.’ He
     inhales Caroline’s sleeve, an expression of deep tragedy across his face, and his
     eyes fill with tears. ‘What am I supposed to do if she doesn’t come
     back?’
    Liv stills, her expression hardening
     momentarily. She wonders if her father has any idea what day it is today. Then she looks
     at the battered man in his women’s dressing-gown, the way his blue veins stand
     proud on his crêpy skin, and turns away to the washing-up. ‘You know what, Dad?
     I’m not really the person to ask.’

13
    The old man lowers himself gingerly into
     the chair and lets out a sigh, as if crossing the room has been some effort. His son,
     standing with his hand under his elbow, watches anxiously.
    Paul McCafferty waits, then glances at
     Miriam, his secretary. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ she asks.
    The old man gives a small shake of his head.
     ‘No, thank you.’ The way he looks up says,
Let’s just get on,
     shall we?
    ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
     Miriam backs out of the little office.
    Paul opens his folder. He lays his hands on
     the desk, feeling Mr Nowicki’s eyes on him. ‘Well, I asked you here today
     because I have some news. When you initially approached me I warned you that I thought
     this case would be tricky because of the lack of provenance on your side. As you know,
     many galleries are reluctant to hand over work without the most solid proof of
     –’
    ‘I remember the painting
     clearly.’ The old man lifts a hand.
    ‘I know. And you know that the gallery
     in question was very reluctant to engage with us, despite the holes in their own
     provenance. This case was complicated by the sharp increase in value of the work in
     question. And it was particularly hard, given that you had no image we could go
     on.’
    ‘How am I meant to describe such a
     drawing perfectly?I was ten when we were forced from our house – ten
     years old. Could you tell me what was on your parents’ walls when you were
     ten?’
    ‘No, Mr Nowicki, I
     couldn’t.’
    ‘Were we meant to know then we would
     never be allowed to go back to our own home? It is ridiculous, this system. Why should I
     have to prove that something was stolen from us? After all we have been
     through …’
    ‘Dad, we’ve been over
     this …’ The son, Jason, places a hand on his father’s forearm, and the
     old man’s lips press together reluctantly, as if he is used to being quelled.
    ‘This is what I wanted to talk to you
     about,’ Paul says. ‘I did warn you that we didn’t have the strongest
     case. When we had our meeting in January, you said something to me about your
     mother’s friendship with a neighbour, Artur Bohmann, who moved to
     America.’
    ‘Yes. They