The Girl You Left Behind

by Jojo Moyes

They climb out of the taxi and go into the warehouse. The air is crisp with the approach of autumn; it seems to bite her skin. They hurry into the fuggy warmth of the foyer. She feels a bit silly now. Somehow she can see that in the previous forty-eight hours Paul McCafferty had stopped being a person and started to become an idea, a thing. The symbol of her moving-on. It was too much weight for something so new.

  She hears Mo's voice in her ear: Whoa, missus. You think too much.

  And then, as he tugs the lift door shut behind them, they fall silent. It ascends slowly, rattling and echoing, the lights flickering, as they always do. It heads past the first floor, and they can hear the distant concrete echo of someone taking the stairs, a few bars of cello music from another apartment.

  Liv is acutely conscious of him in the enclosed space, the citrus tang of his aftershave, the imprint of his arm around her shoulders. She looks down and wishes, suddenly, that she had not changed into this frumpy skirt, the flat heels. She wishes she had worn the butterfly shoes.

  She looks up and he is watching her. He is not laughing. He holds out his hand, and as she takes it, he draws her slowly the two steps across the lift, and lowers his face to hers so that they are inches apart. But he does not kiss her.

  His blue eyes travel slowly over her face: eyes, eyelashes, brows, lips, until she feels curiously exposed. She can feel his breath on her skin, his mouth so close to hers that she could tip forwards and bite it gently.

  Still he does not kiss her.

  It makes her shiver with longing.

  'I can't stop thinking about you,' he murmurs.

  'Good.'

  He rests his nose against hers. The very tops of their lips are touching. She can feel the weight of him against her. She thinks her legs may have begun to tremble. 'Yes, it's fine. I mean, no, I'm terrified. But in a good way. I - I think I ...'

  'Stop talking,' he murmurs. She feels his words against her lips, his fingertips tracing the side of her neck, and she cannot speak.

  And then they are at the top floor, kissing. He wrenches open the lift door and they stumble out, still pressed against each other, need spiralling between them. She has one hand inside the back of his shirt, absorbing the heat of his skin. She reaches behind her with the other, fumbling until she opens the door.

  They fall into the house. She does not turn on the light. She staggers backwards, dazed now by his mouth on hers, his hands on her waist. She wants him so badly her legs turn liquid. She crashes against the wall, hears him swear under his breath.

  'Here,' she whispers. 'Now.'

  His body, solid against hers. They are in the kitchen. The moon hangs above the skylight, casting the room in a cold blue light. Something dangerous has entered the room, something dark and alive and delicious. She hesitates, just a moment, and pulls her jumper over her head. She is someone she knew a long time ago, unafraid, greedy. She reaches up, her eyes locked on his, and unbuttons her shirt. One, two, three, the buttons fall away. The shirt slides from her shoulders, so that she is exposed to her waist. Her bare skin tightens in the cool air. His eyes travel down her torso and her breath quickens. Everything stops.

  The room is silent apart from their breathing. She feels magnetized. She leans forward, something building, intense and gorgeous in this brief hiatus, and they are kissing, a kiss she feels she has waited years to complete, a kiss that does not already have a full stop in mind. She breathes in his aftershave, her mind spins, goes blank. She forgets where they are. He pulls away gently, and he is smiling.

  'What?' She is glazed, breathless.

  'You.' He's lost for words. Her smile spreads across her face, then she kisses him through it until she is lost, dizzy, until reason seeps out through her ears and she can hear only the growing, insistent hum of her own need. Here. Now. His arms tighten around her, his lips on her collarbone. She reaches for him, her breath coming in shallow bursts, her heart racing, over-sensitized so that she shivers as his fingers trail her skin. She wants to laugh with the joy of it. He tears his shirt over his head. Their kisses deepen, become punishing. He lifts her clumsily on to the worktop and she wraps her legs around him. He stoops, pushing her skirt up around her waist, and she arches back, lets her skin meet the cold granite so that she is gazing up at the glass ceiling, her hands entwined in his hair. Around her the shutters are open, the glass walls a window to the night sky. She stares up into the punctured darkness and thinks, almost triumphantly, with some still functioning part of her: I am still alive.

  And then she closes her eyes and refuses to think at all.

  His voice rumbles through her. 'Liv?'

  He is holding her. She can hear her own breath.

  'Liv?'

  A residual shudder escapes her.

  'Are you okay?'

  'Sorry. Yes. It's ... it's been a long time.'

  His arms tighten around her, a silent answer. Another silence.

  'Are you cold?'

  She steadies her breathing before she answers. 'Freezing.'

  He lifts her down and reaches for his shirt on the floor, wrapping it around her slowly. They gaze at each other in the near-dark.

  'Well ... that was ...' She wants to say something witty, carefree. But she can't speak. She feels numbed. She is afraid to let go of him, as if only he is anchoring her to the earth.

  The real world is encroaching. She is aware of the sound of the traffic downstairs, somehow too loud, the feel of the cold limestone floor under her bare foot. She seems to have lost a shoe. 'I think we left the front door open,' she says, glancing down the corridor.

  'Um ... forget the shoe. Did you know that your roof is missing?'

  She glances up. She cannot remember opening it. She must have hit the button accidentally as they fell into the kitchen. Autumnal air sinks around them, raising goose-bumps across her bare skin, as if it, too, had only just realized what had happened. Mo's black sweater hangs over the back of a chair, like the open wings of a settling vulture.

  'Hold on,' she says. She pads across the kitchen and presses the button, listening to the hum as the roof closes over. Paul stares up at the oversized skylight, then back down at her, and then he turns slowly, 360 degrees, as his eyes adjust to the dim light, taking in his surroundings. 'Well, this - It's not what I was expecting.'

  'Why? What were you expecting?'

  'I don't know ... The whole thing about your council tax ...' He glances back up at the open ceiling. 'Some chaotic little place. Somewhere like mine. This is ...'

  'David's house. He built it.'

  His expression flickers.

  'Oh. Too much?'

  'No.' Paul peers around into the living room and blows out his cheeks. 'You're allowed. He ... uh ... sounds like quite a guy.'

  She pours them both a glass of water, tries not to feel self-conscious as they dress. He holds out her shirt for her to slide into. They look at each other and half laugh, suddenly perversely shy in clothes.

  'So ... what happens now? You need some space?' He adds, 'I have to warn you - if you want me to leave I may need to wait until my legs stop shaking.'

  She looks at Paul McCafferty, at the shape of him, already familiar to her very bones. She does not want him to leave. She wants to lie down beside him, his arms around her, her head nestled into his chest. She wants to wake without the instant, terrible urge to run away from her own thoughts. She is conscious of an echoing doubt - David - but she pushes it away. It is time to live in the present. She is more than the girl David left behind.

  She does not turn on the light. She reaches for Paul's hand and leads him through the dark house, up the stairs and to her bed.

  They do not sleep. The hours become a glorious, hazy miasma of tangled limbs and murmured voices. She has forgotten the utter joy of being wrapped around a body you can't leave alone. She feels as if she has been recharged, as if she occupies a new space in the atmosphere.

  It is six a.m. when the cold electric spark of dawn finally begins to leach into the room.
/>   'This place is amazing,' he murmurs, gazing out through the window. Their legs are entwined, his kisses imprinted all over her skin. She feels drugged with happiness.

  'It is. I can't really afford to stay here, though.' She peers at him through the half-dark. 'I'm in a bit of a mess, financially. I've been told I should sell.'

  'But you don't want to.'

  'It feels ... like a betrayal.'

  'Well, I can see why you wouldn't want to leave,' he says. 'It's beautiful. So quiet.' He looks up again. 'Wow. Just to be able to peel your roof off whenever you feel like it ...' She wriggles out of his arms a little, so that she can turn towards the long window, her head in the crook of his arm. 'Some mornings I like to watch the barges head up towards Tower Bridge. Look. If the light is right it turns the river into a trickle of gold.'

  'A trickle of gold, huh?'

  They fall silent, and as they watch, the room begins to glow obligingly. She gazes down at the river, watching it illuminate by degrees, like a thread to her future. Is this okay? she asks. Am I allowed to be this happy again?

  Paul is so quiet she wonders if he has finally drifted off to sleep. But when she turns he is looking at the wall opposite the bed. He is staring at The Girl You Left Behind, now just visible in the dawn. She shifts on to her side and watches him. He is transfixed, his eyes not leaving the image as the light grows stronger. He gets her, she thinks. She feels a stab of something that might actually be pure joy.

  'You like her?'

  He doesn't seem to hear.

  She nestles back into him, rests her face on his shoulder. 'You'll see her colours more clearly in a few minutes. She's called The Girl You Left Behind. Or at least we - I - think she is. It's inked on the back of the frame. She's ... my favourite thing in this house. Actually, she's my favourite thing in the whole world.' She pauses. 'David gave her to me on our honeymoon.'

  Paul is silent. She trails a finger up his arm. 'I know it sounds daft, but after he died, I just didn't want to be part of anything. I sat up here for weeks. I - I didn't want to see other human beings. And even when it was really bad, there was something about her expression ... Hers was the only face I could cope with. She was like this reminder that I would survive.' She lets out a deep sigh. 'And then when you came along I realized she was reminding me of something else. Of the girl I used to be. Who didn't worry all the time. And knew how to have fun, who just ... did stuff. The girl I want to be again.'

  He is still silent.

  She has said too much. What she wants is for Paul to lower his face to hers, to feel his weight upon her.

  But he doesn't speak. She waits for a moment and then says, just to break the silence, 'I suppose it sounds silly ... to be so attached to a painting ...'

  When he turns to her his face looks odd: taut and drawn. Even in the half-light she can see it. He swallows. 'Liv ... what's your name?'

  She pulls a face.

  'Liv. You know th-'

  'No. Your surname.'

  She blinks. 'Halston. My surname is Halston. Oh. I suppose we never ...' She can't work out where this is going. She wants him to stop looking at the painting. She grasps suddenly that the relaxed mood has evaporated and something strange has taken its place. They lie there in an increasingly uncomfortable silence.

  He lifts a hand to his head. 'Um ... Liv? Do you mind if I head off? I'm ... I've got some work stuff to see to.'

  It's as if she has been winded. It takes her a moment to speak, and when she does her voice is too high, not her own. 'At six a.m.?'

  'Yeah. Sorry.'

  'Oh.' She blinks. 'Oh. Right.'

  He is out of bed and dressing. Dazed, she watches him hauling on and fastening his trousers, the fierce swiftness with which he pulls on his shirt. Dressed, he turns, hesitates, then leans forward and drops a kiss on her cheek. Unconsciously she pulls the duvet up to her chin.

  'Are you sure you don't want any breakfast?'

  'No. I ... I'm sorry.' He doesn't smile.

  'It's fine.'

  He cannot leave fast enough. Mortification begins to steal through her, like poison in her blood.

  By the time he reaches the bedroom door he can barely meet her eye. He shakes his head, like someone trying to dislodge a fly. 'Um ... Look. I'll - I'll call you.'

  'Okay.' She tries to sound light. 'Whatever.'

  As the door shuts behind him, she leans forward, 'Hope the work thing goes ...'

  Liv stares in disbelief at the space where he has been, her fake cheery words echoing around the silent house. Emptiness creeps into the space that Paul McCafferty has somehow opened inside her.

  17

  The office is empty, as he had known it would be. He launches himself through the door, the old fluorescent bulbs stuttering into life overhead, and makes straight for his office. Once inside, he rummages through the piles of files and folders on his desk, not caring as the papers spew out across the floor, until he finds what he is looking for. Then he flicks on his desk lamp, and lays the photocopied article in front of him, smoothing it with his palms.

  'Let me be wrong,' he mutters. 'Just let me have got this wrong.'

  The wall of the Glass House is only partly visible, as the image of the painting has been enlarged to fill the A4 space. But the painting is unmistakably The Girl You Left Behind. And to the right of her, the floor-to-ceiling window that Liv had shown him, the view that extended out towards Tilbury.

  He scans the extract of text.

  Halston designed this room so that its occupants would be woken by the morning sun. 'I originally set out to put some kind of screening system up for summer daylight hours,' he says. 'But actually you find that if you're woken naturally, you're less tired. So I never bothered putting them in.'

  Just off the master bedroom is a Japanese style

  It ends, cut short by the photocopy. Paul stares at it for a moment, then turns on his computer and types DAVID HALSTON into a search engine. His fingers thrum on the desk as he waits for it to load.

  Tributes were paid yesterday to the modernist architect David Halston, who has died suddenly in Lisbon at the age of 38. Initial reports suggest his death was as a result of undiagnosed heart failure. Local police are not said to be treating his death as suspicious.

  His wife of four years, Olivia Halston, 26, who was with him at the time, is being comforted by family members. A member of the British consulate in Lisbon appealed for the family to be allowed to grieve in private.

  Halston's death cuts short a stellar career, notable for its innovative use of glass, and fellow architects yesterday lined up to pay tribute to the

  Paul lowers himself slowly into his chair. He flicks through the rest of the paperwork, then re-reads the letter from the lawyers of the Lefevre family.

  a clear-cut case, which is unlikely to be time-barred given the circumstances ... stolen from an hotel in St Peronne circa 1917, shortly after the artist's wife was taken prisoner by the occupying German forces ...

  We hope that TARP can bring this case to a swift and satisfactory conclusion. There is some leeway in the budget for compensation to the current owners, but it is unlikely to be anything near the estimated auction value.

  He would put money on it that she has no idea who the painting is by. He hears her voice, shy and oddly proprietorial: 'She's my favourite thing in this house. Actually, she's my favourite thing in the whole world.'

  Paul lets his head drop into his hands. He stays there until the office phone starts ringing.

  The sun rises across the flatlands east of London, flooding the bedroom a pale gold. The walls glow briefly, the almost phosphorescent light bouncing off the white surfaces so that on another occasion Liv might have groaned, screwed her eyes shut and buried her head under her duvet. But she lies very still in the oversized bed, a large pillow behind her neck, and stares out at the morning, her eyes fixed blankly on the sky.

  She'd got it all wrong.

  She keeps seeing his face, hearing his scrupulously po
lite dismissal of her. Do you mind if I head off?

  She has lain there for almost two hours, her mobile phone in her hand, wondering whether to text him a small message.

  Are we okay? You seemed suddenly ...

  Sorry if I talked too much about David. It's hard for me to remember that not everyone ...

  Really lovely to see you last night. Hope your work eases up soon. If you're free on Sunday I'd ...

  What did I do wrong?

  She sends none of them. She traces and retraces the stages of the conversation, going over each phrase, each sentence, meticulously, like an archaeologist sifting through bones. Was it at this point that he had changed his mind? Was there something she had done? Some sexual foible she hadn't been aware of? Was it just being in the Glass House? A house that, while it had no longer held any of his belongings, was so palpably David that it might as well have had his image shot through it like lettering through a stick of rock? Had she misread Paul completely? Each time she considers these potential blunders, her stomach clenches with anxiety.

  I liked him, she thinks. I really liked him.

  Then, knowing sleep will not come, she climbs out of bed and pads downstairs to the kitchen. Her eyes are gritty with tiredness, the rest of her just hollowed out. She brews coffee and is sitting at the kitchen table, blowing on it, when the front door opens.

  'Forgot my security card. Can't get into the care home without it at this time. Sorry - I was going to creep in so that I wouldn't disturb you.' Mo stops and peers past her, as if looking for someone. 'So ... What? Did you eat him?'

  'He went home.'

  Mo reaches into the cupboard and starts fishing around in her spare jacket pocket. She finds her security card and pockets it.

  'You're going to have to get past this, you know. Four years is too long to not -'

  'I didn't want him to leave.' Liv swallows. 'He bolted.'

  Mo laughs and stops abruptly as she realizes that Liv is serious.

  'He actually ran out of the bedroom.' She doesn't care that she's making herself sound tragic: she couldn't feel any worse than she does already.

  'Before or after you jumped his bones?'

  Liv sips her coffee. 'Guess.'

  'Oh, ouch. Was it that bad?'

  'No, it was great. Well, I thought it was. Admittedly I haven't had much to go by recently.'