The Girl You Left Behind

by Jojo Moyes

  She is finally walking back alongside Somerset House when her phone signals a text message. She stops and pulls it from her pocket, wiping away the sweat that stings her eyes.

  Liv. Call me.

  Liv half walks, half runs to the edge of the water, and then, before she can think about it, she swings her arm in a fluid motion and hurls her phone into the Thames. It is gone without sound, without anybody even noticing, into the slate-grey swirling waters that rush towards the centre.

  20

  February 1917

  Dearest sister

  It is three weeks and four days since you left. I don't know if this letter will find you or, indeed, if the others did; the mayor has set up a new line of communication and promises he will send this on once he gets word that it is secure. So I wait, and I pray.

  It has rained for fourteen days, turning what remained of the roads to mud that sucks at our legs and pulls the horses' shoes from their hoofs. We have rarely ventured out beyond the square: it is too cold and too difficult, and in truth I no longer wish to leave the children, even if just for a few minutes. Edith sat by the window for three days after you left, refusing to move, until I feared she would be ill and physically forced her to come to the table and, later, to bed. She no longer speaks, her face set in hollow-eyed watchfulness, her hands permanently attached to my skirts as if she is fully expecting someone to come and snatch me away too. I'm afraid I have barely had time to comfort her. There are fewer Germans coming in the evenings now, but enough that I have to work every night until midnight just to feed and clear up after them.

  Aurelien disappeared. He left shortly after you did. I hear from Madame Louvier that he is still in St Peronne, staying with Jacques Arriege above the tabac, but in truth I have no appetite to see him. He is no better than Kommandant Hencken in his betrayal of you. For all your faith in people's goodness, I cannot believe that if Herr Kommandant genuinely wished you well he would have torn you from our embrace in such a manner, so that the whole town might become aware of your alleged sins. I cannot see any evidence of humanity in either of their actions. I simply cannot.

  I pray for you, Sophie. I see your face when I wake in the morning, and when I turn over some part of me startles that you are not there on the other pillow, your hair tied in a fat plait, making me laugh and conjuring food from your imagination. I turn to call for you at the bar and there is just a silence where you should be. Mimi climbs up to your bedroom and peers in as if she, too, expects to find you, seated before your bureau, writing or gazing into the middle distance, your head full of dreams. Do you remember when we used to stand at that window and imagine what lay beyond it? When we dreamed of fairies and princesses and those noblemen who might come to rescue us? I wonder what our childish selves would have made of this place now, with its pocked roads, its men like wraiths in rags, and its starving children.

  The town has been so quiet since you left. It is as if its very spirit left with you. Madame Louvier comes in, perverse to the last, and insists that your name must still be heard. She harangues anyone who will listen. Herr Kommandant is not among the handful of Germans who arrive for their meal in the evening. I truly believe he cannot meet my gaze. Or perhaps he knows I should like to run him through with my good paring knife and has decided to stay away.

  Little snippets of information still find their way through: a scrap of paper under my door told of another outbreak of influenza near Lille, a convoy of Allied soldiers captured near Douai, horses killed for meat on the Belgian border. No word from Jean-Michel. No word from you.

  Some days I feel as if I am buried in a mine and can hear only the echoes of voices at some distance. All those I love, aside from the children, have been taken away from me and I no longer know whether any of you are alive or dead. Sometimes my fear for you grows so great that I find myself paralysed, and I will be in the middle of stirring some soup or laying a table and I have to force myself to breathe, to tell myself I must be strong for the children. Most of all, I must have faith. What would Sophie do? I ask myself firmly, and the answer is always clear.

  Please, beloved sister, take care. Do not inflame the Germans further, even if they are your captors. Do not take risks, no matter how great the impulse. All that matters is that you return to us safely; you and Jean-Michel and your beloved Edouard. I tell myself that this letter will reach you. I tell myself that perhaps, just perhaps, the two of you are together, and not in the way that I fear most. I tell myself God must be just, however He chooses to toy with our futures this dark day.

  Stay safe, Sophie.

  Your loving sister

  Helene

  21

  Paul puts down the letter, obtained from a cache of correspondence stockpiled by resistance operatives during the First World War. It is the only piece of evidence he has found of Sophie Lefevre's family and it, like the others, appears not to have reached her.

  The Girl You Left Behind is now Paul's priority case. He ploughs through his usual sources: museums, archivists, auction houses, experts in international art cases. Off the record, he speaks to less benign sources: old acquaintances at Scotland Yard, contacts from the world of art crime, a Romanian known for recording almost mathematically the underground movement of a whole swathe of stolen European art.

  He discovers these facts: that Edouard Lefevre had, until recently, been the least famous artist of the Academie Matisse. There are only two academics who specialize in his work, and neither of them knows any more than he does about The Girl You Left Behind.

  A photograph and some written journals obtained by the Lefevre family have turned up the fact that the painting hung in full view in the hotel known as Le Coq Rouge in St Peronne, a town occupied by Germans during the First World War. It disappeared without trace some time after Sophie Lefevre was arrested.

  And then there is a gap of some thirty years before the painting reappears, in the possession of one Louanne Baker, who kept it in her home in the US for thirty years until she moved to Spain, where she died, and David Halston bought it.

  What happened to it between those dates? If it really was looted, where was it taken? What happened to Sophie Lefevre, who seems to have simply vanished from history? The facts exist, like the dots in a join-the-dots puzzle but one in which the picture never becomes clear. There is more written about Sophie Lefevre's painting than there is about her.

  During the Second World War, looted treasures were kept in secure vaults in Germany, underground, protected. These artworks, millions of them, had been targeted with military efficiency, aided by unscrupulous dealers and experts. This was not the random plunder of soldiers in battle: this looting was systematic, controlled, regulated and documented.

  But there is little surviving documentation from the First World War, regarding looted property, especially in northern France. It means, Janey says, that this is something of a test case. She says it with some pride. For the truth is, this case is vital to their company. There are increasing numbers of organizations like theirs springing up, all sourcing provenance, listing works that relatives of the dead have spent decades trying to trace. Now there are no-win no-fee firms undercutting them, promising the earth to people who are willing to believe anything to get their beloved object back.

  Sean reports that Liv's lawyer has tried various legal means to get the case struck out. He claims that it falls beyond the statute of limitations, that the sale to David from Marianne Baker had been 'innocent'. For a variety of complicated reasons, these have all failed. They are, says Sean, cheerfully, headed to court. 'Looks like next week. We have Justice Berger. He's only ever found for the claimant in these cases. Looking good!'

  'Great,' says Paul.

  There is an A4 photocopy of The Girl You Left Behind pinned up in his office, among other paintings missing or subject to restitution requests. Paul looks up periodically and wishes that every time he did so Liv Halston wasn't looking back at him. Paul switches his attention to the papers in front of him. 'T
his image is such as one would not expect to find in a humble provincial hotel,' the Kommandant writes to his wife at one point. 'In truth I cannot take my eyes from it.'

  It? Paul wonders. Or her?

  Several miles away, Liv is also working. She rises at seven, pulls on her running shoes and heads off, sprinting alongside the river, music in her ears, her heartbeat thumping along with her footsteps. She gets home after Mo leaves for work, showers, makes herself breakfast, drops a tea in with Fran, but now she leaves the Glass House, spending her days in specialist art libraries, in the fuggy archives of galleries, on the Internet, chasing leads. She is in daily contact with Henry, popping in whenever he asks to hold a conference, explaining the importance of French legal testimony, the difficulty of finding expert witnesses. 'So basically,' she says, 'you want me to come up with concrete evidence on a painting about which nothing has been recorded of a woman who doesn't seem to exist.'

  Henry smiles nervously at her. He does this a lot.

  She lives and breathes the painting. She is blind to the approach of Christmas, her father's plaintive calls. She cannot see beyond her determination that Paul should not take it. Henry has given her all the disclosure files from the other side - copies of letters between Sophie and her husband, references to the painting and the little town where they lived.

  She reads through hundreds of academic and political papers, newspaper reports about restitution: about families destroyed in Dachau, their surviving grandchildren borrowing money to recover a Titian; a Polish family, whose only surviving member died happy two months after the return of her father's little Rodin sculpture. Nearly all these articles are written from the point of view of the claimant, the family who lost everything and found the grandmother's painting against the odds. The reader is invited to rejoice with them when they win it back. The word 'injustice' appears in almost every paragraph. The articles rarely offer the opinion of the person who had bought it in good faith and lost it.

  And everywhere she goes she detects Paul's footprints, as if she is asking the wrong questions, looking in the wrong places, as if she is simply processing information that he has already acquired.

  She stands up and stretches, walking around the study. She has moved The Girl You Left Behind on to a bookshelf while she works, as if she might give her inspiration. She finds herself looking at her all the time now, as if she is conscious that their time together may be limited. And the court date draws ever closer, always there, like the drumbeat of a distant battle. Give me the answers, Sophie. At the bloody least, give me a clue.

  'Hey.'

  Mo appears at the door, eating a pot of yoghurt. Six weeks on, she is still living in the Glass House. Liv is grateful for her presence. She stretches and checks her watch. 'Is it three o'clock already? God. I've got almost nowhere today.'

  'You might want to take a look at this.' Mo pulls a copy of the London evening paper from under her arm and hands it over. 'Page three.'

  Liv opens it.

  Award-winning Architect's Widow In Million-pound Battle For Nazi-looted Art, the headline says. Underneath is a half-page picture of David and her at a charity event several years previously. She is wearing an electric blue dress and is holding up a champagne glass, as if toasting the camera. Nearby is a small inset picture of The Girl You Left Behind with a caption: 'Impressionist painting worth millions was "stolen by German".'

  'Nice dress,' says Mo.

  The blood drains from Liv's face. She does not recognize the smiling partygoer in the picture, a woman from a different life. 'Oh, my God ...' She feels as if someone has thrown open the doors of her house, her bedroom.

  'I guess it's in their interests to make you look like some kind of high-society witch. That way they can spin their poor-French-victim line.'

  Liv closes her eyes. If she keeps them closed, perhaps it will just go away.

  'It's historically wrong, obviously. I mean, there were no Nazis in the First World War. So I doubt if anyone will take any notice. I mean, I wouldn't worry or anything.' There is a long silence. 'And I don't think anyone will recognize you. You look quite different these days. Much ...' she struggles for words '... poorer. And kind of older.'

  Liv opens her eyes. There she is, standing beside David, like some wealthy, carefree version of herself.

  Mo pulls the spoon from her mouth and inspects it. 'Just don't look at the online version, okay? Some of the reader comments are a bit ... strong.'

  Liv looks up.

  'Oh, you know. Everyone has an opinion these days. It's all bullshit.' Mo puts the kettle on. 'Hey, are you okay if Ranic comes over this weekend? He shares his place with, like, fifteen other people. It's quite nice to be able to stick your legs out in front of the telly without accidentally kicking someone's arse.'

  Liv works all evening, trying to quell her growing anxiety. She keeps seeing that newspaper report: the headline, the society wife with her raised glass of champagne. She calls Henry, who tells her to ignore it, that it's par for the course. She finds herself listening almost forensically to his tone, trying to assess whether he is as confident as he sounds.

  'Listen, Liv. It's a big case. They're going to play dirty. You need to brace yourself.' He has briefed a barrister. He tells her the man's name as if she should have heard of him. She asks how much he costs and hears Henry shuffling papers. When he tells her the sum, she feels as if the air has been punched clean out of her lungs.

  The phone rings three times; once it is her father, telling her he has a job in a small touring production of Run for Your Wife. She tells him absently that she's pleased for him, urges him not to run after anyone else's. 'That is exactly what Caroline said!' he exclaims, and rings off.

  The second call is Kristen. 'Oh, my God,' she says, breaking in without even a hello. 'I just saw the paper.'

  'Yes. Not the best afternoon's reading.'

  She hears Kristen's hand sliding over the receiver, a muffled conversation. 'Sven says don't speak to anyone again. Just don't say a word.'

  'I didn't.'

  'Then where did they get all that awful stuff?'

  'Henry says it probably came out of TARP. It's in their interests to leak information that makes the case sound as bad as possible.'

  'Shall I come over? I'm not doing much at the moment.'

  'It's sweet of you, Kristen, but I'm fine.' She doesn't want to talk to anyone.

  'Well, I can come to court with you, if you like. Or if you wanted me to put your side of it, I'm sure I have contacts. Perhaps something in Hello!?'

  'That - no. Thanks.' Liv puts down the phone. It will be everywhere now. Kristen is a far more effective disseminator of information than the evening paper. Liv is anticipating having to explain herself to friends, acquaintances. The painting is already somehow no longer hers. It is a matter of public record, a focus for discussion, a symbol of a wrong.

  As she puts the phone down it rings immediately, making her jump.

  'Kristen, I -'

  'Is that Olivia Halston?'

  A man's voice.

  She hesitates. 'Yes?'

  'My name is Robert Schiller. I'm the arts correspondent for The Times. I'm sorry if I'm calling at an inopportune time, but I'm putting together a background piece on this painting of yours and I was wondering if you -'

  'No. No, thank you.' She slams the phone down. She stares at it suspiciously, then removes the receiver from its cradle, afraid that it will ring again. Three times she places the receiver back on the telephone and each time it rings straight away. Journalists leave their names and numbers. They sound friendly, ingratiating. They promise fairness, apologize for taking up her time. She sits in the empty house, listening to her heart thumping.

  Mo arrives back shortly after one a.m. and finds her in front of the computer, the phone off the hook. She is emailing every living expert on French turn-of-the-twentieth-century art. I was wondering if you knew anything about ... ; I am trying to fill in the history of ... ; ... anything you have, or
know - anything at all ... century art.

  'You want tea?' Mo says, shedding her coat.

  'Thanks.' Liv doesn't look up. Her eyes are sore. She knows she has reached the point where she is merely flicking blindly between websites, checking and rechecking her email, but she can't stop herself. Feeling as if she is doing something, no matter how pointless, is better than the alternative.

  Mo sits down opposite her in the kitchen and pushes a mug towards her. 'You look terrible.'

  'Thanks.'

  Mo watches her type listlessly, takes a sip of her tea, and then pulls her chair closer to Liv. 'Okay. So let's look at this with my History of Art, BA Hons, head on. You've been through the museum archives? Auction catalogues? Dealers?'

  Liv shuts her computer. 'I've done them all.'

  'You said David got the painting from an American woman. Could you not ask her where her mother got it from?'

  She shuffles through the papers. 'The ... other side have already asked her. She doesn't know. Louanne Baker had it, and then we bought it. That's all she knows. That's all she ever bloody needed to know.'

  She stares at the copy of the evening paper, its intimations that she and David were somehow wrong, somehow morally deficient to have owned the painting at all. She sees Paul's face, his eyes on her at the lawyer's office.

  Mo's voice is uncharacteristically quiet. 'You okay?'

  'Yes. No. I love this painting, Mo. I really love it. I know it sounds stupid, but the thought of losing her is ... It's like losing part of myself.'

  Mo's eyebrows lift a quarter of an inch.

  'I'm sorry. It's just ... Finding yourself in the newspapers as public enemy number one, it's ... Oh, bloody hell, Mo, I don't know what on earth I'm doing. I'm fighting a man who does this for a living and I'm scrabbling around for scraps and I haven't a bloody clue.' She realizes, humiliated, that she is about to cry.