by Jojo Moyes
'Well, it's a piece-of-string question. Some we can resolve fairly swiftly, if we have the documented history and provenance. Others can take years. I'm sure you've heard that the legal process itself can be quite expensive. It's not something I would urge you to embark upon lightly.'
'And you work on commission?'
'It varies, but we take a small percentage of the final settlement, yes. And we have an in-house legal department here.' He flicks through the folder. There is nothing in it other than a few pictures of the painting, a signed affidavit from Anton Perovsky saying that Kandinsky had given him a painting in 1938. They were driven from their home in 1941 and never saw it again. There is a letter from the German government acknowledging the claim. There is a letter from the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam gently denying that it's in its possession. It's a pretty thin skeleton to hang a claim on.
He is trying to calculate whether it has any merit at all when she speaks again: 'I went to see the new firm. Brigg and Sawston's? They said they'd charge one per cent less than you.'
Paul's hand stills on the paper. 'I'm sorry?'
'Commission. They said they'd charge one per cent less than you to recover the painting.'
Paul waits a moment before he speaks. 'Miss Harcourt, we operate a reputable business. If you want us to use our years of skill, experience and contacts to trace and potentially recover your family's beloved work of art, I will certainly consider that and give you my best advice as to whether it will be possible. But I'm not going to sit here and haggle with you.'
'Well, it's a lot of money. If this Kandinsky is worth millions, it's in our interests to get the best deal possible.'
Paul feels a tightening in his jaw. 'I think, given that you didn't even know you had a link to this painting eighteen months ago, if we do recover it, you're likely to get a very good deal indeed.'
'Is this your way of saying you won't consider a more ... competitive fee?' She looks at him blankly. Her face is immobile, but her legs cross elegantly, a slingback dangling from her foot. A woman used to getting what she wants, and doing so without engaging a shred of feeling or emotion.
Paul puts down his pen. He closes the file and pushes it towards her. 'Miss Harcourt. It was nice to meet you. But I think we're done here.'
There is a pause. She blinks. 'I'm sorry?'
'I don't think you and I have anything more to say to each other.'
Janey is crossing the office, holding up a box of Christmas chocolates when she stops at the commotion.
'You are the rudest man I have ever met,' Miss Harcourt is hissing at him. Her expensive handbag is tucked under her left arm, and he is thrusting her folder of letters at her as he shepherds her towards the door.
'I very much doubt that.'
'If you think this is any way to run a business then you're more of a fool than I thought you were.'
'Then it's just as well you're not entrusting me with the epic search for the painting you clearly love so much,' he says tonelessly. He pulls open the door, and in a cloud of expensive perfume, Miss Harcourt is gone, shouting something unintelligible as she reaches the stairs.
'What the hell was that?' says Janey, as he strides past her on his way back to his office.
'Don't. Just don't, okay?' he says. He slams his door behind him and sits down at his desk. When he finally lifts his head from his hands, the first thing he sees is the portrait of The Girl You Left Behind.
He dials her number standing on the corner of Goodge Street, outside the Underground station. He has walked all the way up Marylebone Road thinking about what he will say, and when she answers, it all falls away.
'Liv?'
The faint pause before she answers tells him she knows who it is. 'What do you want, Paul?' Her tone is clipped, wary. 'Because if this is about Sophie -'
'No. It's nothing to do with ... I just -' He lifts a hand to his head, gazes around him at the bustling street. 'I just wanted to know ... if you were okay.'
Another long pause. 'Well. I'm still here.'
'I was thinking ... maybe when this is over, that we ... could meet ...' He hears his voice, tepid and feeble, unlike himself. His words, he realizes suddenly, are inadequate, no match for the chaos he has unleashed in her life. What had she done to deserve this, after all?
So her answer, when it finally comes, is not really a surprise.
'I - I can't really think beyond the next court date right now. This is just ... too complicated.'
There is another silence. A bus roars past, squealing and accelerating in an impotent rage, drowning sound, and he presses the phone to his ear. He closes his eyes. She does not attempt to fill the silence. 'So ... are you going away for Christmas?'
'No.'
Because this court case has eaten all my money, he hears her silent response. Because you did this to me.
'Me neither. Well, I'll go over to Greg's. But it's -'
'Like you said before, Paul, we probably shouldn't even be speaking to each other.'
'Right. Well, I'm - I'm glad you're okay. I guess that's all I wanted to say.'
'I'm fine.'
This time the silence is excruciating.
''Bye, then.'
'Goodbye, Paul.' She hangs up.
Paul stands at the junction of Tottenham Court Road, the phone limp in his hand, the tinny sound of Christmas carols in his ears, then shoves it into his pocket and walks slowly back towards the office.
28
'So this is the kitchen. As you can see, there are spectacular views on three sides over the river and the city itself. To the right you can see Tower Bridge, down there is the London Eye, and on sunny days you can press a button here - is that right, Mrs Halston? - and simply open the roof.'
Liv watches as the couple gaze upwards. The man, a businessman in his fifties, wears the kind of spectacles that broadcast his designer individuality. Poker-faced since he arrived, it's possible he assumes that any faint expression of enthusiasm might disadvantage him should he decide to make an offer.
But even he cannot hide his surprise at the receding glass ceiling. With a barely audible hum the roof slides back and they gaze up into the infinite blue. Wintry air sinks gently into the kitchen, lifting the top sheets from the pile of paperwork on the table.
'Don't think we'll leave it open too long, eh?' The young estate agent, who has not tired of this mechanism in the three viewings so far this morning, shivers theatrically, then watches with barely concealed satisfaction as the roof closes neatly. The woman, petite and Japanese, her neck secured by an intricately knotted scarf, nudges her husband and murmurs something into his ear. He nods and looks up again.
'And the roof, as with much of the house, is made of special glass, which retains heat to the same degree as your average insulated wall. It's actually more eco-friendly than a normal terraced house.'
These two don't look as if they have ever set foot in a normal terraced house. The Japanese woman walks around the kitchen, opening and closing the drawers and cupboards, studying the interiors with the intensity of a surgeon about to dive into an open wound.
Liv, standing mute by the fridge, finds she is chewing the inside of her cheek. She had known this would never be easy, but she had not realized she would feel quite so uncomfortable, so guilty about these people trailing through, inspecting her belongings with unfeeling, acquisitive eyes. She watches them touching the glass surfaces, running their fingers along the shelving, talking in low voices about putting pictures up and 'softening it all a bit', and wants to push them out of the front door.
'All the appliances are top of the range and included with the sale,' the estate agent says, opening her fridge door.
'The oven, in particular, is almost unused,' a voice adds, from the doorway. Mo is wearing glittery purple eye-shadow, and her parka over the Comfort Lodge Care Home tunic.
The estate agent is a little startled.
'I'm Mrs Halston's personal assistant,' she says. 'You'll have to excuse us. It's almos
t time for her meds.'
The estate agent smiles awkwardly, and hurries the couple towards the atrium. Mo pulls Liv to one side. 'Let's get a coffee,' she says.
'I need to be here.'
'No, you don't. This is masochism. Come on, grab your coat.'
It's the first time she has seen Mo in days. Liv feels unexpected relief at her presence. She realizes she has craved the vague impression of normality that now comes with a five-foot Goth in purple eye-shadow and a wipe-clean tunic. Her life has become strange and dislocated, fixated on a courtroom with its two duelling barristers, its suggestions and refutations, its wars and looting Kommandants. Her old life and her own routines have been replaced by a kind of house arrest, her new world centred around the water fountain on the second floor of the High Court, the unforgiving bench seats, the judge's peculiar habit of stroking his nose before he speaks. The image of her portrait on its stand.
Paul. A million miles away on the claimants' bench.
'You really okay about selling up?' Mo nods in the direction of the house.
Liv opens her mouth to speak, then decides that if she begins to talk about how she really feels she'll never stop. She'll be here, burbling and railing, until next Christmas. She wants to tell Mo that there are pieces about the case in the newspapers every day, her name bandied about within them until it has become almost meaningless to see it. The words theft and fairness and crime appear in them all. She wants to tell her that she no longer runs: a man had waited outside the block just to spit at her. She wants to tell her the doctor has given her sleeping pills that she's afraid to use. When she explained her situation in his consultation room she wondered if she saw disapproval in his expression too.
'I'm fine,' she says.
Mo's eyes narrow.
'Really. It's just bricks and mortar, after all. Well, glass and concrete.'
'I had a flat once,' Mo says, still stirring her coffee. 'The day I sold it, I sat on the floor and cried like a baby.'
Liv's mug stills halfway to her lips.
'I was married. It didn't work out.' Mo shrugs. And begins to talk about the weather.
There is something different about Mo. It's not that her manner is evasive exactly, but there is some kind of invisible barrier, a glass wall, between them. Perhaps it's my fault, Liv thinks. I've been so preoccupied with money and the court case that I've hardly asked anything about Mo's life.
'You know, I was thinking about Christmas,' she begins, after a pause. 'I was wondering if Ranic wanted to stay over the night before. Selfish reasons, really.' She smiles. 'I thought you two might help me with the food. I've never actually cooked a Christmas dinner before, and Dad and Caroline are actually pretty good cooks so I don't want to mess it up.' She hears herself babbling. I just need something to look forward to, she wants to say. I just want to smile without having to think about which muscles to use.
Mo looks down at her hand. A telephone number in blue biro trawls its way along her left thumb. 'Yeah. About that ...'
'I know what you said about it being crowded at his place. So if he wants to stay Christmas night too it's totally fine. It'll be a nightmare trying to get a taxi home.' She forces a bright smile. 'I think it'll be fun. I think ... I think we all could do with some fun.'
'Liv, he's not coming.'
'What?'
'He's not coming.' Mo purses her lips.
'I don't understand.'
When Mo speaks, the words emerge carefully, as if she's considering the ramifications of each one. 'Ranic is Bosnian. His parents lost everything in the Balkans. Your court case - this shit is real to him. He - he doesn't want to come and celebrate in your house. I'm sorry.'
Liv stares at her, then snorts, and pushes the sugar bowl across the table. 'Yeah. Right. You forget, Mo. I've lived with you too long.'
'What?'
'Mrs Gullible. Well, you're not getting me this time.'
But Mo doesn't laugh. She doesn't even meet her eyes. As Liv waits, she adds, 'Okay, well, if we're doing this ...' she takes a breath '... I'm not saying I agree with Ranic but I do sort of think you should hand the painting back too.'
'What?'
'Look, I couldn't give a monkey's who it belongs to, but you're going to lose, Liv. Everyone else can see it, even if you can't.'
Liv stares at her.
'I read the papers. The evidence is stacking up against you. If you keep fighting you're going to lose everything. And for what? Some old blobs of oil on canvas?'
'I can't just hand her over.'
'Why the hell not?'
'Those people don't care about Sophie. They just see pound signs.'
'For Chrissakes, Liv, it's a painting.'
'It's not just a painting! She was betrayed by everyone around her. She had nobody at the end! And she's ... she's all I've got left.'
Mo looks at her steadily. 'Really? I'd like a whole heap of your nothing then.'
Their eyes lock, and slide away. A rush of blood prickles around Liv's neck.
Mo takes a long breath, leans forward. 'I get that you have trust issues right now because of the whole Paul thing, but you need to take a step back from it all. And honestly? It's not like there's anyone else around who's going to say this to you.'
'Well, thanks. I'll remember that the next time I'm opening up the morning bundle of hate mail, or showing another stranger around my home.'
The look that passes between the two women is unexpectedly cold. It settles into the silence between them. Mo's mouth compresses, holding back a burst dam of words.
'Right,' she says finally. 'Well, then, I might as well tell you, seeing as this probably couldn't get any more awkward. I'm moving out.' She leans down and fiddles with her shoe so that her voice emerges, muffled, from near the tabletop. 'I'm going to stay with Ranic. It's not the court case. As you said, me staying at yours was never going to be a long-term thing.'
'That's what you want?'
'I think it's best.'
Liv is glued to her chair. Two men sit at the next table, not breaking off their conversation. One registers the atmosphere: his eyes slide over and away again.
'I'm, you know, grateful for the ... that you let me stay so long.'
Liv blinks hard, looks away. Her stomach hurts. The conversation at the next table dies to an awkward silence.
Mo takes a last swig of coffee and pushes her cup away. 'Well. I guess that's it, then.'
'Right.'
'I'll head off tomorrow, if that's okay. I've got a late shift tonight.'
'Fine.' She tries to keep her tone even. 'It's been ... enlightening.' She doesn't mean it to sound as sarcastic as it does.
Mo waits just a moment longer before she stands, hauls her jacket on and pulls the strap of her rucksack over her shoulder.
'Just a thought, Liv. And I know it's not like I even knew him or anything. But you talked so much about him. Here's the thing. I keep wondering: what would David have done?'
His name hits the silence like a small explosion.
'Seriously. If your David had still been alive, and this had all blown up then - all the stuff about the painting's history, where it might have come from, what that girl and her family might have suffered - what do you think he would have done?'
Leaving that thought suspended in the still air, Mo turns and walks out of the cafe.
Sven rings as she leaves the cafe. His voice is strained. 'Can you stop by the office?'
'It's not a great time, Sven.' She rubs at her eyes, gazes up at the Glass House. Her hands are still trembling.
'It's important.' He puts down the phone before she can say anything else.
Liv turns away from her home and heads towards the office. She walks everywhere now, her head down, a hat pulled low over her ears, avoiding the eyes of strangers. Twice on the way she has to wipe tears surreptitiously from the corners of her eyes.
There are only a couple of people left in the offices of Solberg Halston when she arrives: Nisha, a young woman with a
geometric bob, and a man whose name she cannot remember. They look preoccupied so Liv walks through the gleaming lobby to Sven's office without saying hello. The door is open, and as she goes in, he stands to close it behind her. He kisses her cheek but he doesn't offer her coffee.
'How's the case going?'
'Not great,' she says. She is irritated by the perfunctory way in which he has summoned her. Her mind still hums with Mo's final comment: what would David have done?
And then she notices how grey Sven looks, almost hollowed out, and the slightly fixed way in which he is staring at the notepad in front of him. 'Is everything okay?' she says. She has a moment of panic. Please say that Kristen is okay, that the children are all fine.
'Liv, I have a problem.'
She sits, her bag on her knee.
'The Goldstein brothers have pulled out.'
'What?'
'They've pulled the contract. Because of your case. Simon Goldstein rang me this morning. They've been following the newspapers. He says ... he says his family lost everything to the Nazis, and he and his brother can't be linked to someone who thinks that's okay.'
The world stills around them. She looks up at him. 'But - but he can't do that. I'm not - I'm not part of the company, surely?'
'You're still an honorary director, Liv, and David's name is very much part of your defence case. Simon is activating a clause in the small print. By fighting this case against all reasonable evidence, you are apparently bringing the company name into disrepute. I told him it was grossly unreasonable, and he says we can contest it, but he has very deep pockets. I quote: "You can fight me, Sven, but I will win." They're going to ask another team to finish the job.'
She is stunned. The Goldstein building had been the apotheosis of David's life's work: the thing that would commemorate him.
She stares at Sven's profile, so resolutely unmoving. He looks as if he has been carved from stone. 'He and his brother ... appear to have very strong views on the issue of restitution.'
'But - but this isn't fair. We don't even know the whole truth about the painting yet.'
'That's not the point.'
'But we -'
'Liv, I've been on this all day. The only way in which they are prepared to continue working with our company is if ...' he takes a breath '... is if the Halston name is no longer associated with it. That would mean you relinquishing your honorary directorship. And a change of name for the company.'
