The Girl You Left Behind

front of the television, drinking in a bar, hiding from
     your history – and suddenly you veer off the track to a whole destination you never even
     knew was there. It is all, on the surface, a disaster: the stolen bag, the lost cash,
     the dead husband, the life gone awry. And then you’re sitting in the tiny flat of
     an American with bright blue eyes and hair like a grizzled pelt, and it’s almost
     three o’clock in the morning and he’s making you laugh, properly laugh, as
     if you have nothing to worry about in the whole world.
    She has drunk a lot. There have been at
     least three glasses since she got here, and there were many more back at the bar. But
     she has reached that rare, pleasant state of alcoholic equilibrium. She is not drunk
     enough to feel sick or woozy. She is just merry enough to be suspended, floating in this
     pleasurable moment, with the man and the laughter, and the crowded little flat that
     carries no memories. They have talked and talked and talked, their voices getting louder
     and more insistent. And she has told him everything, liberated by shock and alcohol, and
     the fact that he is a stranger and she will probably never see him again. He has told
     her of the horrors of divorce, the politics of policing and why he was unsuited to them,
     and why he misses New York but cannot return until his son is grown-up. She wants to
     tell him everything, because he seems to understand everything. She has told him of her
     grief and her anger, and how she looks at other couples and simply cannot see the point
     in trying again. Because none of them seem really, properly, happy. Not one.
    ‘Okay. Devil’s advocate
     here.’ Paul puts down his glass. ‘And this comes from one who totally fucked
     up his own relationship. But you were married four years, right?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘I don’t want to sound cynical
     or anything, but don’t you think that one of the reasons it’s all perfect in
     your head is that he died? Things are always more perfect if they’re cut short. An
     industry of dead movie icons proves that.’
    ‘So you’re saying that if he had
     lived we would have got as grumpy and fed up with each other as everyone
     else?’
    ‘Not necessarily. But familiarity and
     having kids, work and the stresses of everyday life can take the edge off romance, for
     sure.’
    ‘The voice of experience.’
    ‘Yeah. Probably.’
    ‘Well, it didn’t.’ She
     shakes her head emphatically. The room spins a little.
    ‘Oh, come on, you must have had times
     when you got a bit fed up with him. Everyone does. You know – when he moaned about you
     spending money or farted in bed or left the toothbrush cap off …’
    Liv shakes her head again. ‘Why does
     everyone do this? Why is everyone so determined to diminish what we had? You know what?
     We were just happy. We didn’t fight. Not about toothpaste or farting or anything.
     We just liked each other. We really liked each other. We were … happy.’
     She is biting back tears and turns her head towards the window, forcing them away. She
     will not cry tonight. She will not.
    There is a long silence.
Bugger
,
     she thinks.
    ‘Then you were one of the lucky
     ones,’ says the voice behind her.
    She turns and Paul McCafferty is offering
     the last of the bottle.
    ‘Lucky?’
    ‘Not many people get that. Even four
     years of it. You should be grateful.’
    Grateful.
It makes perfect sense
     when he says it like that. ‘Yes,’ she says, after a moment. ‘Yes, I
     should.’
    ‘Actually, stories like yours give me
     hope.’
    She smiles. ‘That’s a lovely
     thing to say.’
    ‘Well, it’s true.
     To … What’s his name?’ Paul holds up a glass.
    ‘David.’
    ‘To David. One of the good
     guys.’
    She is smiling – wide and unexpected. She
     notes his vague look of surprise. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘To
     David.’
    Paul takes a sip of his drink. ‘You
     know, this is the first time I’ve invited a girl back to my place and ended up
     toasting her husband.’
    And there it is again: laughter, bubbling up
     inside her, an unexpected visitor.
    He turns to her. ‘You know, I’ve
     been wanting to do this all night.’ He leans forward and, before she has time to
     freeze, he reaches out a thumb and wipes gently under her left eye. ‘Your
     makeup,’ he says, holding his thumb aloft. ‘I wasn’t sure you
     knew.’
    Liv stares at him, and something unexpected
     and electric jolts through her. She