The Girl You Left Behind

call.’
    ‘You wear whatever you’re
     comfortable in, Liv. Take no notice of him.’
    ‘You think I look
     masculine?’
    ‘Mind you, you said you met him in a
     gay bar. Perhaps he likes women who look a bit … boyish.’
    ‘You are such an old fool,’ says
     Caroline, and departs the room bearing her mug of tea aloft.
    ‘So I look like a butch
     lesbian.’
    ‘I’m just saying I think you
     could play up your best features a little more. A wave in your hair, perhaps. A belt to
     show off your waist …’
    Caroline puts her head back around the door.
     ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear, darling. Just make surethe underwear is good. Lingerie is ultimately all that matters.’
    Her father watches Caroline disappear and
     blows a mute kiss. ‘Lingerie!’ he says reverently.
    Liv looks down at her clothes. ‘Well,
     thanks, Dad. I feel great now. Just … great.’
    ‘Pleasure. Any time.’ He bangs
     the flat of his hand down on the pine table. ‘And let me know how it goes! A date!
     Exciting!’
    Liv stares at herself in the mirror. It is
     three years since a man saw her body, and four since a man saw her body while she was
     sober enough to care. She has done what Mo suggested: depilated all but the neatest
     amounts of body hair, scrubbed her face, put a conditioning treatment on her hair. She
     has sorted through her underwear drawer until she found something that might qualify as
     vaguely seductive and not greyed with old age. She has painted her toenails and filed
     her fingernails rather than just attacking them with clippers.
    David never cared about this stuff. But
     David isn’t here any more.
    She has gone through her wardrobe, sorting
     through rails of black and grey, of unobtrusive black trousers and jumpers. It is, she
     has to admit, utilitarian. She finally settles on a black pencil skirt and a V-necked
     jumper. She teams these with a pair of red high heels with butterflies on the toes that
     she bought and wore once to a wedding but has never thrown out. They may not be exactly
     on trend, but they could not be mistaken for the footwear of a butch lesbian.
    ‘Whoa! Look at you!’ Mo stands
     in the doorway, herjacket on, a rucksack over her shoulder, ready to
     head off for her shift.
    ‘Is it too much?’ She holds out
     an ankle doubtfully.
    ‘You look great. You’re not
     wearing granny knickers, right?’
    Liv takes a breath. ‘No, I am not
     wearing granny knickers. Not that I really feel obliged to keep everyone in the postcode
     up to speed with my underwear choices.’
    ‘Then go forth and try not to
     multiply. I’ve left you the chicken thing I promised, and there’s a salad
     bowl in the fridge. Just add the dressing. I’ll be staying at Ranic’s
     tonight, so I’m not under your feet. It’s all yours.’ She grins
     meaningfully at Liv, then heads down the stairs.
    Liv turns back to the mirror. An over
     made-up woman in a skirt stares back at her. She walks around the room, a little
     unsteady in the unfamiliar shoes, trying to work out what is making her feel so
     unbalanced. The skirt fits perfectly. Running has given her legs an attractive, sculpted
     outline. The shoes are a good dash of colour against the rest of the outfit. The
     underwear is pretty without being tarty. She crosses her arms and sits on the side of
     the bed. He is due here in an hour.
    She looks up at
The Girl You Left
     Behind
. I want to look how you look, she tells her silently.
    For once, that smile offers her nothing. It
     seems almost to mock her.
    It says,
Not a chance
.
    Liv shuts her eyes for some time. Then she
     reaches for her phone and texts Paul.
Change of plan. Would you mind if we met
    somewhere for a drink instead?
    ‘So … sick of cooking?
     Because I would have brought a takeaway.’
    Paul leans back in his chair, his eyes
     darting to a group of shrieking office workers, who seem to have been there all
     afternoon, judging by the general air of drunken flirtatiousness. He has been quietly
     amused by them, by the lurching women, the dozing accountant in the corner.
    ‘I … just needed to get out
     of the house.’
    ‘Ah, yeah. The working-from-home
     thing. I forget how that can drive you crazy. When my brother first moved over here he
     spent weeks at mine writing job applications, and when I used to get in from work he
     would literally talk at me non-stop for an hour.’
    ‘You came over from America
     together?’
    ‘He came to support me