Page 62 of The Girl You Left Behind
Mo snorts. “He issogetting laid this week.”
But she has not invited him into the Glass House. Mo senses her hesitation. “Okay, Rapunzel. If you’re going to stick around in this tower of yours, you’re going to have to let the odd prince run his fingers through your hair.”
“I don’t know....”
“So I’ve been thinking,” says Mo. “We should move your room around. Change the house a bit. Otherwise you’re always going to feel like you’re bringing someone back to David’s house.”
Liv suspects it will feel like that however the furniture is arranged. But on Tuesday afternoon, when Mo is off work, they move the bed to the other side of the room, pushing it against the alabaster-colored concrete wall that runs like an architectural backbone through the center of the house. It is not a natural place for it, if you were going to be really picky, but she has to admit there is something invigorating about it all looking so different.
“Now,” says Mo, gazing up atThe Girl You Left Behind.“You want to hang that painting somewhere else.”
“No. It stays.”
“But you said David bought it for you. And that means—”
“I don’t care. She stays. Besides...” Liv narrows her eyes at the woman within the frame. “I think she’d look odd in a living room. She’s too... intimate.”
“Intimate?”
“She’s... sexy. Don’t you think?”
Mo squints at the portrait. “Can’t see it myself. Personally, if it were my room I’d have a massive flat-screen telly there.”
Mo leaves, and Liv keeps gazing at the painting, and just for once she doesn’t feel the clench of grief. She has told him her surname is Worthing, her maiden name. It seems symbolic.What do you think?she asks the girl.Is it finally time to move on?
•••
Liv stares at herself in the mirror. It is three years since a man saw her body, and four since a man saw her body while she was sober enough to care. She has done what Mo suggested: depilated all but the neatest amounts of body hair, scrubbed her face, put a conditioning treatment on her hair. She has sorted through her underwear drawer until she found something that might qualify as vaguely seductive and not grayed with age. She has painted her toenails and filed her fingernails rather than just attacking them with clippers.
David never cared about this stuff. But David isn’t here anymore.
She has gone through her wardrobe, sorting through rails of black and gray, of unobtrusive black trousers and jumpers. It is, she has to admit, utilitarian. She finally settles on a black pencil skirt and a V-necked jumper. She teams these with a pair of red high heels with butterflies on the toes that she bought and wore once to a wedding but has never thrown out.
“Whoa! Look at you!” Mo stands in the doorway, her jacket on, a rucksack over her shoulder, ready to head off for her shift.
“Is it too much?” She holds out an ankle doubtfully.
“You look great. You’re not wearing granny knickers, right?”
Liv takes a breath. “No, I am not wearing granny knickers. Not that I really feel obliged to keep everyone in the postcode up to speed with my underwear choices.”
“Then go forth and try not to multiply. I’ve left you the chicken thing I promised, and there’s a salad bowl in the fridge. Just add the dressing. I’ll be staying at Ranic’s tonight, so I’m not under your feet. It’s all yours.” She grins meaningfully at Liv, then heads down the stairs.
Liv turns back to the mirror. An overly made-up woman in a skirt stares back at her. She walks around the room, a little unsteady in the unfamiliar shoes, trying to work out what is making her feel so discomfited. The skirt fits perfectly. Running has given her legs an attractive, sculpted outline. The shoes are a good dash of color against the rest of the outfit. The underwear is pretty without being tarty. She crosses her arms and sits on the side of the bed. He is due here in an hour.
She looks up atThe Girl You Left Behind.I want to look how you look, she tells her silently.
For once, that smile offers her nothing. It seems almost to mock her.
It says,Not a chance.
Liv shuts her eyes for some time. She kicks off the shoes. Then she reaches for her phone and texts Paul.
Change of plan. Would you mind if we met somewhere for a drink instead?
•••
“So... sick of cooking? Because I would have brought a takeaway.”
