The Girl You Left Behind

by Jojo Moyes

  'Liv!'

  She jumps as the man steps out from her doorway. But it's her father, a black beret rammed on his head, a rainbow scarf around his neck, and his old tweed coat down to his knees. His face glows gold under the sodium light. He holds open his arms to hug her, revealing a faded Sex Pistols T-shirt underneath. 'There you are! We didn't hear back from you after the Great Hot Date. I thought I'd pop by and see how it went!'

  19

  'Would you like some coffee?'

  Liv glances up at the secretary. 'Thank you.' She sits very still in the plush leather seat, gazing unseeing at the newspaper she has pretended to read for the last fifteen minutes.

  She is wearing a suit, the only one she owns. It is probably an unfashionable cut, but she needed to feel held in today; structured. She has felt out of her depth since her first visit to the lawyers' offices. Now she needs to feel that something more than her nerve is holding her up.

  'Henry's gone down to wait for them in Reception. Won't be long now.' With a professional smile, the woman turns on her high heels and walks away.

  It's proper coffee. So it should be, given the amount she's paying per hour. There was no point in her fighting this case, Sven had insisted, without the proper firepower. He had consulted his friends at the auction houses, his contacts at the bar, as to who might best see off the restitution claim. Unfortunately, he added, big guns cost big money. Whenever she looks at Henry Phillips, at his good haircut, his beautiful handmade shoes, the expensive-holiday sheen on his plump face, all she can think is, You are rich because of people like me.

  She hears footsteps and voices outside the lobby. She stands, straightening her skirt, composing her face. And there he is, wearing the blue wool scarf, a folder under his arm, just visible behind Henry, and two people she does not recognize. He catches her eye, and she turns away swiftly, feeling the small hairs on her neck prickle.

  'Liv? We're all here. Would you like to come through to the boardroom? I'll arrange for your coffee to be brought in.'

  She gazes fixedly at Henry, who passes her and holds open the door for the other woman to enter. She feels Paul's presence, as if he actually gives off heat. He is there, beside her. He is wearing jeans, as if this sort of meeting is of so little consequence to him that he might as well be out for a walk.

  'Conned any other women out of their valuables lately?' she says quietly, so quietly that only he will hear it.

  'Nope. I've been too busy stealing handbags and seducing the vulnerable.'

  Her head shoots up and his eyes lock on hers. He is, she sees with some shock, as furious as she is.

  The boardroom is wood-panelled, its seats heavy and covered with leather. One wall is lined with leather-bound books. It suggests years of reasonable legal accommodation, is infused with stately wisdom. She follows Henry, and within seconds they are seated, lined up on each side of the table. She looks at her pad of paper, her hands, her coffee, anything but Paul.

  'So.' Henry waits for coffee to be poured, then places his fingertips together. 'We are here to discuss, without prejudice, the claim made against Mrs Halston through the organization TARP, and to try to identify whether there is any way we might reach some kind of accommodation without recourse to legal measures.'

  She gazes at the people sitting opposite. The woman is in her mid-thirties. She has dark hair that falls in corkscrews around her face and an intense expression. She is scribbling something on a notepad. The man beside her is French and bears the heavy features of a middle-aged Serge Gainsbourg. Liv often thought it was possible to tell the faces of different nationalities, even without hearing them speak. This man is so Gallic he might as well have been smoking a Gauloise and wearing a string of onions.

  And then there is Paul.

  'I think it would be a good idea if first we made some introductions. My name is Henry Phillips, and I'm acting for Mrs Halston. This is Sean Flaherty, acting for TARP, Paul McCafferty and Janey Dickinson, its directors. This is Monsieur Andre Lefevre, of the Lefevre family, who is making the claim in conjunction with TARP. Mrs Halston, TARP is an organization that specializes in the seeking out and recovery of -'

  'I know what it is,' she says.

  Oh, but he's so close to her. Directly across the table, she can see the individual veins on his hands, the way his cuffs slide from within his sleeves. He is wearing the shirt he wore the night they met. If she stretched out her feet under the table, they would touch his. She folds them neatly under her chair and reaches for her coffee.

  'Paul, perhaps you would like to explain to Mrs Halston how this claim has come about.'

  'Yes,' she says, and her voice is icy. 'I'd like to hear.'

  She slowly lifts her face, and Paul is looking straight at her. She wonders if he can detect how hard she is vibrating. She feels it must be obvious to everyone; her every breath betrays her.

  'Well ... I'd like to start with an apology,' he says. 'I am conscious that this will have come as a shock. That is unfortunate. The sad fact is that there is no way of going about these things nicely.'

  He is looking directly at her. She can feel him waiting for her to acknowledge him, some sign. Under the desk, she grips her knees, digging her fingernails into the skin to give her something to focus on.

  'Nobody wants to take something that legitimately belongs to someone else. And that is not what we're about. But the fact exists that, way back during wartime, a wrong was done. A painting, The Girl You Left Behind, by Edouard Lefevre, owned and loved by his wife, was taken and passed into German possession.'

  'You don't know that,' she says.

  'Liv.' Henry's voice contains a warning.

  'We have obtained documentary evidence, a diary owned by a neighbour of Madame Lefevre, that suggests a portrait of the artist's wife was stolen or obtained coercively by a German Kommandant living in the area at the time. Now, this case is unusual in that most of the work we do is based on losses suffered in the Second World War, and we believe the initial theft took place during the First World War. But the Hague Convention still applies.'

  'So why now?' she says. 'Nearly a hundred years after you say it was stolen. Convenient that Monsieur Lefevre just happens to be worth a whole lot more money now, wouldn't you say?'

  'The value is immaterial.'

  'Fine. if the value is immaterial, I'll compensate you. Right now. You want me to give you what we paid for it? Because I still have the receipt. Will you take that amount and leave me alone?'

  The room falls silent.

  Henry reaches across and touches her arm. Her knuckles are white where they clutch her pen. 'If I may interject,' he says smoothly. 'The purpose of this meeting is to offer a number of solutions to the issue, and see whether any of them may be acceptable.'

  Janey Dickinson exchanges a few whispered words with Andre Lefevre. She wears the studied calm of the primary-school teacher. 'I have to say here that as far as the Lefevre family are concerned, the only thing that would be acceptable is the return of their painting,' she says.

  'Except it's not their painting,' says Liv.

  'Under the Hague Convention it is,' she says calmly.

  'That's bullshit.'

  'It's the law.'

  Liv glances up and Paul is staring at her. His expression doesn't change, but in his eyes there is the hint of an apology. For what? This yelling across a varnished mahogany table? A stolen night? A stolen painting? She is not sure. Don't look at me, she tells him silently.

  'Perhaps ...' Sean Flaherty says. 'Perhaps, as Henry says, we could at least outline some of the possible solutions.'

  'Oh, you can outline them,' says Liv.

  'There are a number of precedents in such cases. One is that Mrs Halston is free to extinguish the claim. This means, Mrs Halston, that you would pay the Lefevre family the value of the painting and retain it.'

  Janey Dickinson doesn't look up from her pad. 'As I have already stated, the family is not interested in money. They want the painting.'


  'Oh, right,' says Liv. 'You think I've never negotiated anything before? That I don't know an opening salvo?'

  'Liv,' Henry says again, 'if we could ...'

  'I know what's going on here. "Oh, no, we don't want money." Until we reach a figure that equals a lottery win. Then, somehow, everyone manages to get over their hurt feelings.'

  'Liv ...' Henry says, quietly.

  She lets out a breath. Under the table her hands are shaking.

  'There are occasions on which an agreement has been reached to share the painting. In the case of what we call indivisible assets, such as this, it is, admittedly, complicated. But there have been cases where parties have agreed to, if you like, timeshare a work of art, or have agreed that they will own it jointly but allow it to be shown in a major gallery. This would, of course, be accompanied by notices informing visitors both of its looted past and the generosity of its previous owners.'

  Liv shakes her head mutely.

  'There is the possibility of sale and division, where we -'

  'No,' say Liv and Lefevre in unison.

  'Ms Halston.'

  'Mrs Halston,' she says.

  'Mrs Halston.' Paul's tone has hardened. 'I am obliged to inform you that our case is very strong. We have a good deal of evidence supporting restitution, and a body of precedent that lends weight to our cause. In your own interests, I suggest you think quite carefully about the issue of settlement.'

  The room falls silent. 'Is that meant to frighten me?' Liv asks.

  'No,' he says slowly. 'But it is, I would remind you, in everyone's best interests for this to be settled amicably. It's not going to go away. I - we are not going to go away.'

  She sees him suddenly, his arm slung across her naked waist, his mop of brown hair resting against her left breast. She sees his eyes, smiling, in the half-light.

  She lifts her chin a little. 'She's not yours to take,' she says. 'I'll see you in court.'

  They are in Henry's office. She has drunk a large whisky. She has never in her life drunk whisky in daytime, but Henry has poured her one, as if it is totally expected. He waits a few minutes as she takes a couple of sips.

  'I should warn you, it will be an expensive case,' he says, leaning back in his chair.

  'How expensive?'

  'Well, in many cases the artwork has had to be sold after the case simply to pay the legal fees. There was a claimant in Connecticut recently who recovered stolen works worth twenty-two million dollars. But they owed more than ten million in legal fees to one lawyer alone. We will need to pay experts, especially French legal experts, given the painting's history. And these cases can drag on, Liv.'

  'But they have to pay our costs if we win, yes?'

  'Not necessarily.'

  She digests this. 'Well, what are we talking - five figures?'

  'I would bank on six. It depends on their firepower. But they do have precedent on their side.' Henry shrugs. 'We can prove that you have good title. But there do seem to be gaps in this painting's history, as it stands, and if they have evidence that it was removed in wartime, then ...'

  'Six figures?' she says, standing and pacing around the room. 'I can't believe this. I can't believe someone can just walk into my life and demand to take something that belongs to me. Something I've owned for ever.'

  'Their case is far from watertight. But I have to point out that the political climate is in favour of claimants at the moment. Sotheby's sold thirty-eight such works last year. It sold none a decade earlier.'

  She feels electrified, her nerve endings still jangling from the encounter. 'He's - they're not having her,' she says.

  'But the money. You implied you were stretched already.'

  'I'll remortgage,' she says. 'Is there anything I can do to keep the costs down?'

  Henry leans over his desk. 'If you choose to fight this, there's a lot you can do. Most importantly, the more you can find out about the painting's provenance, the stronger position we'll be in. Otherwise I have to put someone here on to it, and charge you an hourly rate, and that's without the cost of expert witnesses once we go to court. I suggest that if you can do that we'll see where we are and I'll look into instructing a barrister.'

  'I'll start the search.'

  She keeps hearing the certainty of their voices. Our case is very strong. We have a body of precedent that lends weight to our cause. She sees Paul's face, his fake concern: It is in everybody's interests for this to be settled amicably.

  She sips the whisky, and deflates a little. She feels suddenly very alone. 'Henry, what would you do? If it were you, I mean.'

  He presses his fingertips together and rests them against his nose. 'I think this is a terribly unfair situation. But, Liv, I would personally be cautious about proceeding to court. These cases can get ... ugly. It might be worth your while just thinking further about whether there is any way you could settle.'

  She keeps seeing Paul's face. 'No,' she says baldly. 'He is not having her.'

  'Even if -'

  'No.'

  She feels his eyes on her as she gathers up her things and leaves the room.

  Paul dials the number for the fourth time, rests his finger above the dial button, then changes his mind and sticks his telephone in his back pocket. Across the road a man in a suit is arguing with a traffic warden, gesticulating wildly as the warden gazes at him impassively.

  'Are you coming for lunch?' Janey appears at the door. 'The table is booked for one thirty.'

  She must have just applied perfume. It punctures the air, even on his side of his desk. 'You really need me there?' He is not in the mood for small talk. He doesn't want to be charming, to detail the company's astonishing track record in recovery. He doesn't want to find himself seated beside Janey, to feel her leaning against him as she laughs, her knee gravitating towards his. More pertinently, he does not like Andre Lefevre, with his suspicious eyes and his downturned mouth. He has rarely taken such an instant dislike to a client.

  'Can I ask when you first realized the painting was missing?' he had asked.

  'We discover it through an audit.'

  'So you didn't miss it personally?'

  'Personally?' He had shrugged at the use of the word. 'Why should someone else benefit financially from a work that should be in our possession?'

  'You don't want to come? Why?' says Janey. 'What else have you got on?'

  'I thought I'd catch up with some paperwork.'

  Janey lets her gaze rest on him. She is wearing lipstick. And heels. She does have good legs, he thinks absently.

  'We need this case, Paul. And we need to give Andre the confidence that we're going to win.'

  'In that case I think my time would be better spent doing background than having lunch with him.' He doesn't look at her. His jaw seems to have set at a mulish angle. He's been sour with everyone all week. 'Take Miriam,' he says. 'She deserves a nice lunch.'

  'I don't think our budget stretches to treating secretaries as and when we feel like it.'

  'I don't see why not. And Lefevre might like her. Miriam? Miriam?' He keeps his gaze steadily on Janey's, leans back in his chair.

  She pokes her head around the door, her mouth half full of tuna sandwich. 'Yes?'

  'Would you like to take my place at a lunch with Monsieur Lefevre?'

  'Paul, we -' Janey's jaw clenches.

  Miriam glances between the two of them. She swallows her mouthful. 'That's very kind. But ...'

  'But Miriam has a sandwich. And contracts to type up. Thank you, Miriam.' She waits until the door closes, purses her lips in thought. 'Is everything all right, Paul?'

  'Everything's fine.'

  'Well.' She cannot keep the edge from her voice. 'I see I can't persuade you. I'll look forward to hearing what you've turned up on the case. I'm sure it'll be conclusive.'

  She stands there a moment longer and then she leaves. He can hear her talking in French with Lefevre as they head out of the office.

  Paul sits and stares ahead of him. 'He
y, Miriam?'

  She reappears, holding a piece of sandwich.

  'Sorry. That was -'

  'It's fine.' She smiles, pops a bit of escaping bread back into her mouth, and adds something he cannot decipher. It is not clear whether she heard anything of the previous conversation.

  'Any calls?'

  She swallows noisily. 'Only the head of the Museums Association, like I said before. Do you want me to call him back for you?'

  His smile is small and doesn't stretch as far as his eyes. 'No, don't worry.' He lets her close the door and his sigh, although soft and low, fills the silence.

  Liv takes the painting off the wall. She runs her fingers lightly over the oil surface, feeling the graduated whorls and strokes, wondering at the fact that they were placed there by the artist's own hand, and gazes at the woman on the canvas. The gilded frame is chipped in places, but she has always found it charming; has enjoyed the contrast between what was old and shabbily ornate, and the crisp, clean lines around her. She has liked the fact that The Girl You Left Behind is the only colourful thing in the room, antique and precious, glowing like a little jewel at the end of her bed.

  Except now she is not just The Girl, a shared piece of history, an intimate joke between husband and wife. She is now the wife of a famous artist, missing, possibly murdered. She is the last link to a husband in a concentration camp. She is a missing painting, the subject of a lawsuit, the future focus of investigations. She does not know how to feel about this new version: she only knows that she has lost some part of her already.

  The painting ... was taken and passed into German possession.

  Andre Lefevre, his face blankly belligerent, barely even bothering to glance at Sophie's image. And McCafferty. Every time she remembers Paul McCafferty in that meeting room her brain hums with anger. Sometimes she feels as if she is burning with it, as if she is permanently overheating. How can she just hand over Sophie?

  Liv pulls out her running shoes from the box under the bed, changes into sweatpants and, shoving her key and phone into her pocket, sets off at a run.

  She passes Fran, sitting on her upturned crate, watching silently as she heads off along the river, and lifts a hand in greeting. She doesn't want to talk.

  It is early afternoon, and the edges of the Thames are mottled with stray meandering office workers going back after long lunches, groups of schoolchildren, bossed and herded by harassed teachers, bored young mothers with ignored babies, texting distractedly as they push buggies. She runs, ducking in and out of them, slowed only by her own tight lungs and the occasional stitch, running until she is just another body in the crowd, invisible, indistinguishable. She pushes through it. She runs until her shins burn, until sweat forms a dark T across her back, until her face glistens. She runs until it hurts, until she can think of nothing but the simple, physical pain.