Page 102 of The Girl You Left Behind
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. There are pieces about the case in the newspapers every day, her name is 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 no longer runs: A man had waited outside on the block just to spit at 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 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 would want 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 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.”
“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. But Mo 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.”
