The Girl You Left Behind

who will stare at a woman alone in a pub as a mullah would
     at a woman taking a stroll in a bikini.
Any of the new cheerfully packed drinking places
     near the river that are packed with people younger than you, mostly groups of
     laughing friends with Apple Mac satchels and thick black glasses, all of whom will
     make you feel more lonely than if you had just sat indoors.
    Liv toys with the idea of buying a bottle of
     wine and taking it home. But every time she pictures sitting in that empty white space
     alone, she is filled with an unusual dread. She does not want to watch television: the
     last three years have shown her that this is the evening of cosmic jokes, where normally
     mundane comedy dramas will suddenly, poignantly, kill off a husband, or substitute a
     wildlife programme with another about sudden death. She doesn’t want to find
     herself standing in front of
The Girl You Left Behind
, recalling the day they
     had bought it together, seeing in that woman’s expression the love and fulfilment
     she used to feel. She doesn’t want to find herself digging out the photographs of
     her and David together, knowing with weary certainty that she will never love anybody
     like that again, and that while she can recall the exact way his eyes crinkled, or his
     fingers held a mug, she can no longer bring to mind how these elements fitted
     together.
    She does not want to feel even the faintest
     temptation to call his mobile number, as she had done obsessively for the first year
     after his death so she could hear his voice on the answering service. Most days now his
     loss is a part of her, an awkward weight she carries around, invisible to everyone else,
     subtly altering the way she moves through the day. But today, the anniversary of the day
     he died, is a day when all bets are off.
    And then she remembers something one of the
     women had said at dinner the previous night.
When my sister wants to go out without
     being hassled, she heads for a gay bar. So funny.
There is a gay bar not ten
     minutes’ walk from here. She has passed it a hundred times without ever wondering
     what lies behind the protective wire grilles on the windows. Nobody will hassle her in a
     gay bar. Liv reaches for her jacket, bag and keys. If nothing else, she has a plan.
    ‘Well, that’s
     awkward.’
    ‘It was once. Months ago. But I get
     the feeling she’s never quite forgotten it.’
    ‘Because you are SO GOOD.’ Greg
     wipes another pint glass, grinning, and puts it on the shelf.
    ‘No … Well, okay,
     obviously,’ Paul says. ‘Seriously, Greg, I just feel guilty whenever she
     looks at me. Like … like I promised something I can’t
     deliver.’
    ‘What’s the golden rule, bro?
     Never shit on your own doorstep.’
    ‘I was drunk. It was the night Leonie
     told me she and Jake were moving in with Mitch. I was …’
    ‘You let your defences down.’
     Greg does his daytime-television voice. ‘Your boss got you when you were
     vulnerable. Plied you with drink. And now you just feel used. Hang on …’ He
     disappears to serve a customer. The bar is busy for a Thursday night, all the tables
     taken, a steady stream of people at the bar, a low hum of cheerful conversation rising
     above the music. He had meant to go home after he finished at the office, but he rarely
     gets a chance to catch up with his brother, and it’s good to get a few drinks in
     now and then. Even if you do have tospend your time avoiding eye
     contact with 70 per cent of the customers.
    Greg rings up some money and arrives back in
     front of Paul.
    ‘Look, I know how it sounds. But
     she’s a nice woman. And it’s just horrible having to fend her off all the
     time.’
    ‘Sucks to be you.’
    ‘Like you’d
     understand.’
    ‘Because nobody ever hits on you when
     you’re with someone. Not in a gay bar. Oh, no.’ Greg puts another glass on
     the shelf. ‘Look, why don’t you just sit her down, tell her that she’s
     a really lovely person,
yada yada yada
, but you’re not interested in her
     that way?’
    ‘Because it’s awkward. Us
     working so closely together and all.’
    ‘And this isn’t? The whole
     “Oh, well, if you ever fancy a quickie when you’ve finished this case,
     Paul” thing.’ Greg’s attention shifts to the other end of the bar.
     ‘Uh-oh. I think we’ve got a live one.’
    Paul has been dimly aware of the girl all
     evening. She had arrived looking perfectly composed and he had