by Jojo Moyes
'What?'
'I know loads of crappy, mendacious people. He's not one of them.' She picks at a piece of skin on her thumb, then says, 'I think Fate just decided to play a really sick joke and dump you both on opposing sides.'
'But he didn't have to come after my painting.'
Mo lifts an eyebrow. 'Really?'
Liv stares out of the window as the train rolls towards London, fighting a new lump in her throat.
Across the table, the couple bedecked in tinsel are leaning against each other. They have fallen asleep, their hands entwined.
Later she is not entirely sure what makes her do it. Mo announces at St Pancras that she is heading over to Ranic's house, leaving Liv with instructions not to stay on the Internet all night looking up obscure restitution cases, and to please stick that Camembert in the fridge before it escapes and poisons the whole house. Liv stands in the teeming concourse, holding a plastic bag of stinking cheese and watching the little dark figure as she heads towards the Underground, a bag slung nonchalantly over her shoulder. There is something both jaunty and solid in the way Mo talks about Ranic; a sense that something has shifted for both of them.
She waits until Mo has vanished into the crowd. The commuters wash around and past her, a stepping-stone in a stream of people. They are all in pairs, arms linked, chatting, casting fond, excited looks at each other, or if alone, head down, determinedly heading home to the person they love. She sees wedding bands, engagement rings, hears snatches of murmured conversations about train times, last-minute pints of milk, and Can you pick me up from the station? Afterwards she will think sensibly about the many people who dread the partner they return to, look for excuses not to board the train, hide in bars. But for now the bored people, the miserable people, the other lonely people are invisible. She reads the crowd as if it can only be an affront to her single state. I was one of you once, she thinks, and can't quite imagine what it would be like to be one of them again.
I never knew real happiness until you.
The departure board flickers its new destinations, the glass-fronted shops packed with late Christmas shoppers. Is it ever possible to be the person you once were? she wonders. And before she can be completely paralysed by the answer, Liv takes hold of her suitcase and half walks, half runs to the Underground station.
There is a peculiar quality to the silence in the flat when Jake has gone back to his mother. It is a solid, weighty thing, entirely different from the quiet that occurs when he goes to a friend's for a few hours. The acute stillness of his home in those hours is, he sometimes thinks, tinged with guilt; a sense of failure. It is weighed down by the knowledge that there is no chance his son will come back for at least four days. Paul finishes clearing up the kitchen (Jake had been making chocolate Krispie cakes - puffed rice is scattered under every kitchen appliance) - then sits, staring at the Sunday paper he picks up each week out of habit and invariably fails to read.
In the early days after Leonie left, he dreaded the early mornings most. He hadn't known how much he loved the irregular pad of little Jake's bare feet and the sight of him, his hair standing on end, his eyes half closed, appearing in their bedroom to demand to climb in between them. The exquisite icy chill of his feet; the warm, yeasty scent of his skin. That visceral sense, once his son had burrowed into the middle of their bed, that all was well with the world. And then, after they'd gone, those early months of waking up alone, feeling as if each morning simply heralded another day he would miss of his son's life. Another series of little adventures or accidents, the mosaic of unremarkable events that would help turn him into who he would become - and that Paul would have no part of.
Paul was better at mornings now (not least because, at nine, Jake rarely woke up before he did) but the first few hours after he'd gone back to Leonie still had the power to disarm.
He'll iron some shirts. Maybe go to the gym, then take a shower and eat. Those few things will give the evening a shape. A couple of hours of television, maybe a flick through his files, just to make sure everything's shipshape for the case, and then he'll sleep.
He's just finishing the shirts when the telephone rings.
'Hey,' says Janey.
'Who is this?' he says, even though he knows exactly who it is.
'It's me,' she says, trying to keep the slight affront from her voice. 'Janey. Just thought I'd check in and see how we're fixed for tomorrow.'
'We're good,' he says. 'Sean has been through all the paperwork. The barrister is prepped. We're as good as we can be.'
'Did we get any more on the initial disappearance?'
'Not much. But we have enough third-party correspondence to hang a pretty large question mark over it.'
There is a short silence at the other end of the line.
'Brigg and Sawston's are setting up their own tracing agency,' she says.
'Who?'
'The auction house. Another string to their bow, apparently. They have big backers too.'
'Damn.' Paul gazes at the pile of paperwork on his desk.
'They've already started speaking to other agencies about staff. They're picking off ex-members of the Art and Antiques Squad apparently.' He hears the hidden question. 'Anyone with a background in detective work.'
'Well, they haven't approached me.'
There is a brief silence. He wonders if she believes him.
'We have to win this case, Paul. We need to make sure we're out there in front. That we're the go-to people for finding and returning lost treasures.'
'I get it,' he says.
'I just ... I want you to know how important you are. To the company, I mean.'
'Like I said, Janey, nobody's approached me.'
Another brief silence.
'Okay.' She talks on for a bit, telling him about her weekend, the trip to her parents', a wedding she's been invited to in Devon. She talks about the wedding for so long that he wonders if she's plucking up the courage to invite him, and he changes the subject firmly. Finally she rings off.
Paul puts on some music, turns up the volume in an attempt to drown the noise of the street below. He has always loved the buzz, the vitality of living in the West End, but he has learned over the years that, if he's not in the right frame of mind, its in-your-face revelry serves only to heighten the inherent melancholy of Sunday night. He presses the volume button. He knows why it is, but he won't acknowledge it. There's little point in thinking about something you can't change.
He has just finished washing his hair when he becomes dimly aware of the door buzzer. He swears, fumbles for a towel and wipes his face. He would go downstairs in a towel but he has a feeling it's Janey. He doesn't want her to think this is an invitation.
He is already rehearsing his excuses as he heads down the stairs, his T-shirt sticking to his damp skin.
Sorry, Janey, I'm just on my way out.
Yeah. We must discuss this at work. We should call a meeting, get everyone involved.
Janey. I think you're great. But this really isn't a good idea. I'm sorry.
He opens the front door with this last one almost on his lips. But it isn't Janey.
Liv Halston stands in the middle of the pavement, clutching a weekend bag. Above her, strings of festive lights bejewel the night sky. She drops her holdall at her feet, and her pale, serious face gazes up at him as if she has briefly forgotten what she had wanted to say.
'The case starts tomorrow,' he says, when she still doesn't speak. He can't stop looking at her.
'I know.'
'We're not meant to talk to each other.'
'No.'
'We could both get in a lot of trouble.'
He stands there, waiting. Her expression is so tense, framed by the collar of her thick black coat, her eyes flickering as if a million conversations are taking place inside her that he cannot know. He begins an apology. But she speaks first.
'Look. I know this probably doesn't make any sense, but could we possibly forget about the case? Just for one
evening?' Her voice is too vulnerable. 'Could we just be two people again?'
It is the slight catch in her voice that breaks him. Paul McCafferty makes as if to speak, then leans forward and picks up her suitcase, dragging it into the hallway. Before either of them can change their mind, he pulls her to him, wraps his arms tightly around her and stays there until the outside world goes away.
'Hey, sleepyhead.'
She pushes herself upright, slowly registering where she is. Paul is sitting on the bed, pouring coffee into a mug. He hands it to her. He seems astonishingly awake. The clock says 6:32 a.m. 'I brought you some toast too. I thought you might want time to go home before ...'
Before ...
The case. She takes a moment to let this thought penetrate. He waits while she rubs her eyes, then leans over and kisses her lightly. He has brushed his teeth, she notes, and feels briefly self-conscious that she hasn't.
'I didn't know what you wanted on your toast. I hope jam's okay.' He picks it off the tray. 'Jake's choice. Ninety-eight per cent sugar or something.'
'Thank you.' She blinks at the plate on her lap. She cannot remember the last time anybody brought her breakfast in bed.
They gaze at each other. Oh, my, she thinks, remembering the previous night. All other thoughts disappear. And, as if he can read her mind, Paul's eyes crinkle at the corners.
'Are you ... coming back in?' she says.
He shifts over to her, so that his legs, warm and solid, are entwined in hers. She moves so that he can place his arm around her shoulders, then leans into him and closes her eyes, just relishing the feel of it. He smells warm and sleepy. She just wants to rest her face against his skin and stay there, breathing him in until her lungs are entirely full of tiny molecules of Paul. She has a sudden recollection of a boy she dated as a teenager; she had adored him. When they had finally kissed, she had been shocked to find that his skin, his hair, all of him, had smelt wrong. It was as if some fundamental part of him was chemically composed to repel her. Paul's skin - she could just lie there and inhale it, like really good scent.
'You okay?'
'Better than okay,' she says. She takes a sip of coffee.
'I have a new love for Sunday evenings. I can't imagine why.'
'Sunday evenings are definitely underrated.'
'As are unexpected visitors. I was a little worried you were Jehovah's Witnesses.' He thinks. 'Although if Jehovah's Witnesses did what you did last night I'm guessing they'd get a lot better reception.'
'You should tell them.'
'I may just do that.'
There is a long silence. They listen to the dustcart reversing outside, the muffled clash of the bins, eating toast in companionable silence.
'I missed you, Liv,' he says.
She tilts her head and rests against him. Outside, two people are talking loudly in Italian. Her muscles ache pleasurably, as if she has let go of some long-held tension that she had barely been aware of. She feels like someone she had forgotten. She wonders what Mo would say about this, then smiles when she realizes she knows the answer.
And then Paul's voice breaks into the silence: 'Liv - I'm afraid this case is going to bankrupt you.'
She stares at her mug of coffee.
'Liv?'
'I don't want to talk about the case.'
'I'm not going to talk about it in any ... detail. I just have to tell you I'm worried.'
She tries to smile. 'Well, don't be. You haven't won yet.'
'Even if you win. It's a lot of money on legal fees. I've been here a few times so I have a good idea what it's costing you.' He puts down his mug, takes her hand in his. 'Look. Last week I talked to the Lefevre family in private. My fellow director, Janey, doesn't even know about it. I explained a little of your situation, told them how much you love the painting, how unwilling you are to let her go. And I got them to agree to offer you a proper settlement. A serious settlement, a good six figures. It would cover your legal fees so far and then some.'
Liv stares at their hands, her own enfolded in his. Her mood evaporates. 'Are you ... trying to persuade me to back down?'
'Not for the reasons you think.'
'What does that mean?'
He gazes ahead of him. 'I found stuff.'
Some part of her grows very still. 'In France?'
He compresses his mouth as if trying to work out how much to tell her. 'I found an old newspaper article, written by the American journalist who owned your painting. She talks about how she was given your painting from a store of stolen artwork near Dachau.'
'So?'
'So these works were all stolen. Which would lend weight to our case that the painting was obtained illegally and taken into German possession.'
'That's a big assumption.'
'It taints any later acquisition.'
'So you say.'
'I'm good at my job, Liv. We're halfway there. And if there's further evidence, you know I'm going to find it.'
She feels herself growing rigid. 'I think the important word there is "if".' She removes her hand from his.
He shifts round to face her. 'Okay. This is what I don't get. Aside from what is morally right and wrong here, I don't get why a really smart woman who is in possession of a painting that cost almost nothing, and now knows that it has a dubious past, wouldn't agree to hand it back in return for a lot of money. A hell of a lot more money than she paid for it.'
'It's not about the money.'
'Oh, come on, Liv. I'm pointing out the obvious, here. Which is that if you go ahead with this case and you lose, you stand to lose hundreds of thousands of pounds. Maybe even your home. All your security. For a painting? Really?'
'Sophie doesn't belong with them. They don't ... they don't care about her.'
'Sophie Lefevre has been dead for eighty-odd years. I'm pretty sure it's not going to make any difference to her one way or the other.'
Liv slides out of the bed, casts around for her trousers. 'You really don't understand, do you?' She hauls them on, zipping them up furiously. 'God. You are so not the man I thought you were.'
'No. I'm a man who, surprisingly, doesn't want to see you lose your house for nothing.'
'Oh, no. I forgot. You're the man who brought this crap into my house in the first place.'
'You think someone else wouldn't have done this job? It's a straightforward case, Liv. There are organizations like ours all over the place who would have run with it.'
'Are we finished?' She fastens her bra, pulls her jumper over her head.
'Ah, hell. Look. I just want you to think about it. I - I just don't want you to lose everything on a matter of principle.'
'Oh. So all this is about looking out for me. Right.'
He rubs his forehead, as if he's trying to keep his temper. And then he shakes his head. 'You know what? I don't think this is about the painting at all. I think this is about your inability to move on. Giving up the painting means leaving David in the past. And you can't do that.'
'I've moved on! You know I moved on! What the hell do you think last night was about?'
He stares at her. 'You know what? I don't know. I really don't know.'
When she pushes past him to leave he doesn't try to stop her.
25
Two hours later, Liv sits in the taxi watching Henry demolish a coffee and a Danish pastry, her stomach in knots. 'Got to get the kids to school,' he says, spraying crumbs through his legs. 'Never have time for breakfast.'
She is in a dark grey tailored jacket, a flash of bright blue shirt underneath it. She wears these clothes like armour. She wants to say something but her jaw appears to have wired itself shut. She no longer has nerves: she is one giant nerve. If someone touched her she might twang.
'Guaranteed that just as you sit down with a mug of coffee one of them will come in demanding toast or porridge or whatnot.'
She nods mutely. She keeps hearing Paul's voice. These works were all stolen.
'I think for about a year I ate what
ever I could grab from the bread bin on the way out. Got quite fond of raw crumpets, actually.'
There are people outside the court. A small crowd is milling in front of the main steps. At first she thinks it must be a group of sightseers - but Henry reaches for her arm as she steps out of the taxi. 'Oh, Christ. Keep your head down,' he says.
'What?'
As her foot meets the pavement, the air is filled with blinding flashes. She is briefly paralysed. Then Henry's arm is propelling her forward, past the jostling men's elbows, her own name shouted in her ear. Someone thrusts a piece of paper into her free hand and she can hear Henry's voice, the faint tone of panic as the crowd seems to close around her. She is surrounded by a jumble of jackets, and the dark, fathomless reflection of huge lenses. 'Stand back, everybody, please. Stand back.' She glimpses the flash of brass on a policeman's uniform, shuts her eyes and feels herself shoved sideways, Henry's grip tightening on her arm.
Then they are in the silent courts, heading through Security, and she is on the other side, blinking at him in shock.
'What the hell was that?' She is breathing hard.
Henry smoothes his hair, and turns to peer out through the doors. 'The newspapers. I'm afraid the case seems to have attracted an awful lot of attention.'
She straightens her jacket, then looks round, just in time to see Paul striding in through the Security. He is wearing a pale blue shirt and dark trousers and looks utterly unruffled. Nobody has bothered him. As their eyes meet she gives him a look of mute fury. His stride slows, just a fraction, but his expression does not alter. He glances behind him, his papers tucked under his arm, and continues in the direction of Court Two.
It is then that she sees the piece of paper in her hand. She unfolds it carefully.
The possession of that which the Germans took is a CRIME. End the suffering of the Jewish people. Return what is rightfully theirs. Bring justice before it is TOO LATE.
'What's that?' Henry peers over her shoulder.
'Why did they give me this? The claimants aren't even Jewish!' she exclaims.
'I did warn you that wartime looting is a very inflammatory subject. I'm afraid you may find all sorts of interest groups latching on to it, whether they're directly affected or not.'
'But this is ridiculous. We didn't steal the damn painting. It's been ours for over a decade!'
'Come on, Liv. Let's head over to Court Two. I'll get someone to fetch you some water.'
