Page 101 of The Girl You Left Behind
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?” Her face is immobile, but her legs cross elegantly, a sling back 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 toward 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 exclaims. Her expensive handbag is tucked under her left arm, and he is thrusting her folder of letters at her as he shepherds her toward 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 ofThe Girl You Left Behind.
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 upward. 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. “Don’t think we’ll leave it open too long, eh?” The young real 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.
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 nauseated, so guilty about these people trailing through, inspecting her belongings with unfeeling, acquisitive eyes. “All the appliances are top of the range and included with the sale,” the real 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 covers the Comfort Lodge Care Home tunic.
The real estate agent is a little startled.
“I’m Mrs. Halston’s personal assistant,” she says. “You’ll have to excuse us. It’s almost time for her meds.”
The real estate agent smiles awkwardly and hurries the couple toward 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 dueling barristers, its suggestions and refutations, its wars and lootingKommandants. Her old life and her own routines have been replaced by a kind of house arrest, her new world centered 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.
