The Girl You Left Behind

assumed she was waiting
     for someone. Now she is trying to climb back on to her bar stool. She makes two
     attempts, the second sending her stumbling clumsily backwards. She pushes her hair out
     of her eyes and peers at the bar as if it’s the summit of Everest. She propels
     herself upwards. When she lands on the stool she reaches out both hands to steady
     herself and blinks hard, as if it takes her a couple of seconds to believe she has
     actually made it. She lifts her face towards Greg. ‘Excuse me? Can I have another
     wine?’ She holds up an empty glass.
    Greg’s gaze, amused and weary, travels
     to Paul and away. ‘We’re closing in ten minutes,’ he says, flicking
     his tea-towel over his shoulder. He’s good with drunks. Paul has never seen Greg
     lose his cool. They were, their mother would remark, chalk and cheese like that.
    ‘So that leaves me ten minutes to
     drink it?’ she says, her smile wavering slightly.
    She doesn’t look like a lesbian. But,
     then, few of them do, these days. He doesn’t say this to his brother, who would
     laugh at him and tell him he had spent too much time in the police.
    ‘Sweetheart, I mean this in the nicest
     way, but if you have another drink I’ll worry about you. And I really, really hate
     ending my shift worrying about customers.’
    ‘A small one,’ she says. Her
     smile is heartbreaking. ‘I don’t even usually drink.’
    ‘Yeah. You’re the ones I worry
     about.’
    ‘This …’ Her eyes are
     strained. ‘This is a difficult day. A really difficult day. Please can I just have
     one more drink? And then you can call me a nice respectable taxi from a nice respectable
     firm and I’ll go home and pass out and you can go home without worrying about
     me.’
    He looks back at Paul and sighs.
See
     what I have to put up with?
‘A small one,’ he says. ‘A very
     small one.’
    Her smile falls away, her eyes half close,
     and she reaches down to her feet, swaying, for her bag. Paul turns back to the bar,
     checking his phone for messages. It is his turn to have Jake tomorrow night, and
     although the thing with him and Leonie is now amicable, some part of him still worries
     that she will find a reason to cancel.
    ‘My bag!’
    He glances up.
    ‘My bag’s gone!’ The woman
     has slid from the stool and is gazing around at the floor, one hand clutching the bar.
     When she looks up, her face is leached of colour.
    ‘Did you take it to the Ladies?’
     Greg leans across the bar.
    ‘No,’ she says, her gaze darting
     around the bar. ‘It was tucked under my stool.’
    ‘You left your bag under the
     stool?’ Greg tuts. ‘Didn’t you read the signs?’
    There are signs all over the bar.
Do not
     leave your bag unattended: pickpockets operate in this area
. Paul can count
     three of them just from where he sits.
    She has not read them.
    ‘I’m really sorry. But
     it’s not good around here.’ The woman’s gaze flickers between them
     and, drunk as she is, he can see that she guesses what they’re thinking.
Silly
     drunk girl.
    Paul reaches for his phone.
     ‘I’ll call the cops.’
    ‘And tell them I was stupid enough to
     leave my bag under a stool?’ She puts her face into her hands. ‘Oh, God.
     I’d just withdrawn two hundred pounds for the council tax. I don’t believe
     it. Two. Hundred. Pounds.’
    ‘We’ve had two already this
     week,’ says Greg. ‘We’re waiting for CCTV to be installed. But
     it’s an epidemic. I’m really sorry.’
    She looks up and wipes her face. She lets
     out a long, unsteady breath. She is plainly trying not to burst into tears. The glass of
     wine sits untouched on the bar. ‘I’m really sorry. But I don’t think
     I’m going to be able to pay for that.’
    ‘Don’t give it a thought,’
     says Greg. ‘Here, Paul, you callthe cops. I’ll go get
     her a coffee. Right. Time, ladies and gentlemen, please …’
    The police around here do not come out for
     vanished handbags. They give the woman, whose name is Liv, a crime number and promise a
     letter about victim support, and tell her they’ll be in touch if they find
     anything. It’s clear to everyone that they do not expect to be in touch.
    By the time she’s off the phone the
     bar is long empty. Greg unlocks the door to let them out, and Liv reaches for her
     jacket. ‘I’ve a guest staying. She’s got a spare key.’
    ‘You want to call her?’ Paul
     proffers his phone.
    She looks blankly at him. ‘I