The Girl You Left Behind

looks at his strong, freckled hands, the way his
     collar meets his neck, and her mind becomes blank. She puts down her glass, leans
     forward and, before he can say anything, she does the only thing she can think of and
     places her lips against his. There is the brief shock of physical contact, then she
     feels his breath on her skin, a hand rising to meet her waist and heis kissing her back, his lips soft and warm and tasting faintly of tannin. She lets
     herself melt into him, her breath quickening, floating up on alcohol and sensation and
     the sweetness of simply being held. Oh, God, but
this man
. Her eyes are closed,
     her head spinning, his kisses soft and delicious.
    And then he pulls back. It takes her a
     second to realize. She pulls back too, just a few inches, her breath stalled in her
     chest.
Who are you?
    He looks straight into her eyes. Blinks.
     ‘You know … I think you’re absolutely lovely. But I have rules
     about this sort of thing.’
    Her lips feel swollen. ‘Are
     you … with someone?’
    ‘No. I just …’ He runs a
     hand over his hair. Clenches his jaw. ‘Liv, you don’t seem …’
    ‘I’m drunk.’
    ‘Yes, yes, you are.’
    She sighs. ‘I used to have great drunk
     sex.’
    ‘You need to stop talking now.
     I’m trying to be really, really good here.’
    She throws herself back against the sofa
     cushions. ‘Really. Some women are rubbish when they’re drunk. I
     wasn’t.’
    ‘Liv –’
    ‘And you
     are … delicious.’
    His chin is stubbled, as if already alerting
     them to the fact that morning is approaching. She wants to run her fingers along those
     tiny bristles, to feel them rough against her skin. She reaches out a hand and he shifts
     away from her.
    ‘
Aaand
I’m gone. Okay,
     yup, I’m gone.’ He stands, takesa breath. He does not
     look at her. ‘Uh, that’s my son’s bedroom there. If you need a drink
     of water or anything, there’s a tap. It, uh, it does water.’
    He picks up a magazine and puts it down
     again. And then does the same with a second. ‘And there are magazines. If you want
     something to read. Lots of …’
    It cannot stop here. She wants him so badly
     it’s as if her whole body radiates it. She could actually beg, right now. She can
     still feel the heat of his hand on her waist, the taste of his lips. They stare at each
     other for a moment.
Can’t you feel this?
Don’t walk away
, she wills him silently.
Please don’t walk away
     from me.
    ‘Good night, Liv,’ he says.
    He gazes at her for a moment longer, then
     pads down the corridor and closes his bedroom door silently behind him.
    Four hours later Liv wakes in a box room
     with an Arsenal duvet cover and a head that thumps so hard she has to reach up a hand to
     check she isn’t being assaulted. She blinks, stares blearily at the little
     Japanese cartoon creatures on the wall opposite and lets her mind slowly bring together
     the pieces of information from the previous night.
    Stolen bag
. She closes her eyes.
     Oh, no.
    Strange bed.
She has no keys. Oh,
     God, she has no keys. And no money. She attempts to move, and pain slices through her
     head so that she almost yelps.
    And then she remembers the man.
Pete?
     Paul?
She sees herself walking through deserted streets in the early hours. And
     then she sees herself lurching forward to kisshim, his own polite
     retreat.
You are … delicious.
‘Oh, no,’ she says softly,
     then puts her hands over her eyes. ‘Oh, I didn’t …’
    She sits up and moves to the side of the
     bed, noticing a small yellow plastic car near her right foot. Then, when she hears the
     sound of a door opening, the shower starting up next door, Liv grabs her shoes and her
     jacket and lets herself out of the flat into the cacophonous daylight.

15
    ‘It feels a little like we’ve
     been invaded.’ The CEO stands back, his shirt-sleeved arms across his chest, and
     laughs nervously. ‘Does … everyone feel like that?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ she says. It is not
     an unusual response.
    Around her, fifteen or so teenagers move
     swiftly through the vast foyer of Conaghy Securities. Two – Edun and Cam – are vaulting
     over the rails that run alongside the glass wall, backwards and forwards, their broad
     hands expertly propelling their weight, their glowing white trainers squeaking as they
     lift from the limestone floor. A handful of others have already shot through into the
     central atrium, teetering and shrieking