The Girl You Left Behind, Page 20

  'Never heard of that happening before. Still, it'll help, eh? One less thing to worry about.'

  He is smiling. Not a sympathetic oh-you-poor-drunken-woman-who-made-a-pass-at-me kind of smile, but the smile of someone who is just really pleased about something.

  She finds she is smiling back. 'This is just ... amazing.'

  'So do I get my four-pound reward?' She blinks at him. 'Mo told me. Joke. Really.' He laughs. 'But ...' He studies his feet for a moment. 'Liv - would you like to go out some time?' When she doesn't respond immediately, he adds, 'It doesn't have to be a big deal. We could not get drunk. And not go to a gay bar. We could even just walk around holding our own door-keys and not letting our bags get stolen.'

  'Okay,' she says slowly, and finds she is smiling again. 'I'd like that.'

  Paul McCafferty whistles to himself the whole way down in the noisy, juddering lift. When he gets to the bottom he takes the cashpoint receipt from his pocket, crumples it into a little ball, and throws it into the nearest bin.

  16

  They go out four times. The first time they have a pizza and she sticks to mineral water until she's sure he doesn't really think she's a soak, at which point she allows herself one gin and tonic. It's the most delicious gin and tonic she has ever had. He walks her back to her house and looks like he's about to leave, then after a slightly awkward moment he kisses her cheek and they both laugh as if they know this is all a bit embarrassing. Without thinking, she leans forward and kisses him properly, a short one, but with intent. One that suggests something of herself. It leaves her a bit breathless. He walks into the lift backwards and is still grinning as the doors close on him.

  She likes him.

  The second time they go to see a live band his brother recommended and it's awful. After twenty minutes, she realizes, with some relief, that he thinks it's awful too, and when he says does she want to leave, they find themselves holding hands so they don't lose each other as they fight their way out through the crowded bar. Somehow they don't let go until they reach his flat. There they talk about their childhoods and bands they like and types of dog and the horror of courgettes, then kiss on the sofa until her legs go a bit weak. Her chin stays bright pink for two whole days afterwards.

  A couple of days after this he rings her at lunchtime to say he happens to be passing a nearby cafe and does she fancy a quick coffee? 'Were you really passing by?' she says, after they have stretched their coffee and cake as far as his lunch hour can reasonably allow.

  'Sure,' he says, and then, to her delight, his ears go pink. He sees her looking and reaches a hand up to his left lobe. 'Ah. Man. I'm a really bad liar.'

  The fourth time they go to a restaurant. Her father calls just before pudding arrives to say that Caroline has left him again. He wails so loudly down the telephone that Paul actually jumps at the other side of the table. 'I have to go,' she says, and declines his offer of help. She is not ready for the two men to meet, especially where the possibility exists that her father may not be wearing trousers.

  When she arrives at his house half an hour later, Caroline is already home.

  'I forgot it was her night for life drawing,' he says sheepishly.

  Paul does not attempt to push things further. She wonders briefly if she talks too much about David; whether somehow she has made herself off limits. But then she thinks it might just be him being gentlemanly. Other times she thinks, almost indignantly, that David is part of who she is, and if Paul wants to be with her, well, he'll have to accept that. She has several imaginary conversations with him and two imaginary arguments.

  She wakes up thinking about him, about the way he leans forward when he listens, as if determined not to miss a single thing she says, the way his hair has greyed prematurely at the temples, his blue, blue eyes. She has forgotten what it's like to wake up thinking about someone, to want to be physically close to them, to feel a little giddy at the remembered scent of their skin. She still doesn't have enough work but it bothers her less. Sometimes he sends her a text message in the middle of the day and she hears it spoken in an American accent.

  She is afraid of showing Paul McCafferty how much she likes him. She is afraid of getting it wrong: the rules seem to have changed in the nine years since she last dated. She listens to Mo and her dispassionate observations about Internet dating, of 'friends with benefits', of the dos and don'ts of sex - how she should wax and trim and have 'techniques' - and it's as if she's listening to someone speaking Polish.

  She finds it hard to tally Paul McCafferty with Mo's assertions about men: sleazy, chancing, self-serving, porn-obsessed slackers. He is quietly straightforward, a seemingly open book. It was why climbing the ranks of his specialist unit in the NYPD didn't suit him, he says. 'All the blacks and whites get pretty grey the higher up you get.' The only time he looks even remotely uncertain, his speech becoming hesitant, is when discussing his son. 'It's crap, divorce,' he says. 'We all tell ourselves the kids are fine, that it's better this way than two unhappy people shouting at each other, but we never dare ask them the truth.'

  'The truth?'

  'What they want. Because we know the answer. And it would break our hearts.' He had gazed off into the middle distance, and then, seconds later, recovered his smile. 'Still, Jake is good. He's really good. Better than we both deserve.'

  She likes his Americanness, the way it makes him slightly alien, and completely removed from David. He has an innate sense of courtesy, the kind of man who will instinctively open a door for a woman, not because he's making some kind of chivalrous gesture but because it wouldn't occur to him not to open the door if someone needed to go through it. He carries a kind of subtle authority: people actually move out of the way when he walks along the street. He does not seem to be aware of this.

  'Oh, my God, you've got it so bad,' says Mo.

  'What? I'm just saying. It's nice to spend time with someone who seems ...'

  Mo snorts. 'He is so getting laid this week.'

  But she has not invited him back to 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-coloured concrete wall that runs like an architectural backbone through the centre 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 at The 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. What do you think? she asks the girl. Is it finally time to move on?

  It starts to go wrong on Friday morning.

  'So, you have a hot date!' Her father steps forward and envelops her in a huge bear hug. He is full of joie de vivre, expansive and wise. He is, once again, speaking in exclamation marks. He is also dressed.

  'He's just ... I don't want to make a big deal of it, Dad.'

  'But it's wonderful! You're a beautiful young woman! This is as nature intended - you
should be out there, fluttering your feathers, strutting your stuff!'

  'I don't have feathers, Dad.' She sips her tea. 'And I'm not entirely convinced about the stuff.'

  'What are you going to wear? Something a bit brighter? Caroline, what should she wear?'

  Caroline walks into the kitchen, pinning up her long red hair. She has been working on her tapestries and smells vaguely of sheep. 'She's thirty years old, Michael. She can pick her own wardrobe.'

  'But look at the way she covers herself up! She's still got David's aesthetic - all blacks and greys and shapeless things. You should take a leaf out of Caroline's book, darling. Look at the colours she wears! A woman like that draws the eye ...'

  'A woman dressed as a yak would draw your eye,' says Caroline, plugging in the kettle. But it is said without rancour. Her father stands behind her and moulds himself around her back. His eyes close in ecstasy. 'We men ... we're primal creatures. Our eyes are inevitably drawn to the bright and the beautiful.' He opens one eye, studying Liv. 'Perhaps ... you could wear something a bit less masculine at least.'

  'Masculine?'

  He stands back. 'Big black pullover. Black jeans. No makeup. It's not exactly a siren call.'

  'You wear whatever you're comfortable in, Liv. Take no notice of him.'

  'You think I look masculine?'

  'Mind you, you said you met him in a gay bar. Perhaps he likes women who look a bit ... boyish.'

  'You are such an old fool,' says Caroline, and departs the room bearing her mug of tea aloft.

  'So I look like a butch lesbian.'

  'I'm just saying I think you could play up your best features a little more. A wave in your hair, perhaps. A belt to show off your waist ...'

  Caroline puts her head back around the door. 'It doesn't matter what you wear, darling. Just make sure the underwear is good. Lingerie is ultimately all that matters.'

  Her father watches Caroline disappear and blows a mute kiss. 'Lingerie!' he says reverently.

  Liv looks down at her clothes. 'Well, thanks, Dad. I feel great now. Just ... great.'

  'Pleasure. Any time.' He bangs the flat of his hand down on the pine table. 'And let me know how it goes! A date! Exciting!'

  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 greyed with old 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 any more.

  She has gone through her wardrobe, sorting through rails of black and grey, 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. They may not be exactly on trend, but they could not be mistaken for the footwear of a butch lesbian.

  '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 over 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 unbalanced. The skirt fits perfectly. Running has given her legs an attractive, sculpted outline. The shoes are a good dash of colour 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 at The 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. 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.'

  Paul leans back in his chair, his eyes darting to a group of shrieking office workers, who seem to have been there all afternoon, judging by the general air of drunken flirtatiousness. He has been quietly amused by them, by the lurching women, the dozing accountant in the corner.

  'I ... just needed to get out of the house.'

  'Ah, yeah. The working-from-home thing. I forget how that can drive you crazy. When my brother first moved over here he spent weeks at mine writing job applications, and when I used to get in from work he would literally talk at me non-stop for an hour.'

  'You came over from America together?'

  'He came to support me when I got divorced. I was a bit of a mess. And then he just never left.' Paul had come to England ten years ago. His English wife had been miserable, had missed home, especially when Jake was a baby, and he had left the NYPD to keep her happy.

  'When we got here we found it was us, not the location, that was all wrong. Hey, look. Blue Suit Man is going to make a move on the girl with the great hair.'

  Liv sips her drink. 'That's not real hair.'

  He squints. 'What? You're kidding me. It's a wig?'

  'Extensions. You can tell.'

  'I can't. You're going to tell me the chest is fake too now, right?'

  'No, they're real. She has quadroboob.'

  'Quadroboob?'

  'Bra's too small. It makes her look like she's got four.'

  Paul laughs so hard he starts to choke. He can't remember the last time he kept laughing like this. She smiles back at him, almost reluctantly. She has been a little strange tonight, as if all her responses are slowed by some separate internal conversation.

  He manages to control himself. 'So what do we think?' he says, trying to make her relax. 'Is Quadroboob Girl going to go for it?'

  'Maybe with one more drink inside her. I'm not convinced she really likes him.'

  'Yeah. She keeps looking over his shoulder as she talks to him. I think she likes grey shoes.'

  'No woman likes grey shoes. Trust me.'

  He lifts an eyebrow, puts down his drink. 'Now this, you see, is why men find it easier to split molecules and invade countries than to work out what goes on in women's heads.'

  'Pfft. If you're lucky one day I'll sneak you a look at the rule book.' He looks at her and she blushes, as if she's said too much. There is a sudden inexplicably awkward silence. She stares at her drink. 'Do you miss New York?'

  'I like visiting. When I go home now they all make fun of my accent.'

  She seems to be only half listening.

  'You don't have to look so anxious,' he says. 'Really. I'm happy here.'

  'Oh. No. Sorry. I didn't mean ...' Her words die on her lips. There is a long silence. And then she looks up at him and speaks, her finger resting on the rim of her glass. 'Paul ... I wanted to ask you to come home with me tonight. I wanted us to ... But I - I just ... It's too soon. I can't. I can't do it. That's why I cancelled dinner.' The words spill out into the air. She flushes to the roots of her hair.

  He opens, then closes his mouth. He leans forward, and says, quietly. '"I'm not very hungry" would have been fine.'

/>   Her eyes widen, then she slumps a little over the table. 'Oh, God. I'm a nightmare date, aren't I?'

  'Maybe a little more honest than you need to be.'

  She groans. 'I'm sorry. I have no idea what I'm -'

  He leans forward, touches her hand lightly. He wants her to stop looking anxious. 'Liv,' he says evenly, 'I like you. I think you're great. But I totally get that you've been in your own space for a long time. And I'm not ... I don't ...' Words fail him too. It seems too soon for a conversation like this. And underneath it all, despite himself, he fights disappointment. 'Ah, hell, you want to grab a pizza? Because I'm starving. Let's go get a bite and make each other feel awkward somewhere else.'

  He can feel her knee against his.

  'You know, I do have food at home.'

  He laughs. And stops. 'Okay. Well, now I don't know what to say.'

  'Say "That would be great." And then you can add, "Please shut up now, Liv, before you make things even more complicated."'

  'That would be great, then,' says Paul. He holds up her coat for her to shrug her way into, then they head out of the pub.

  This time when they walk it is not in silence. Something has unlocked between them, perhaps through his words or her sudden feeling of relief. She laughs at almost everything he says. They weave in and out of the tourists, pile breathlessly into a taxi, and when he sits down in the back seat, holding out his arm for her to tuck into, she leans into him and breathes in his clean, male smell and feels a little giddy with her own sudden good fortune.

  They reach her block, and he laughs about their meeting. About Mo and her apparent belief that he was a bag thief. 'I'm holding you to that four-pound reward,' he says, straight-faced. 'Mo said I was entitled to it.'

  'Mo also thinks it's perfectly acceptable to put washing-up liquid in the drinks of customers you don't like.'

  'Washing-up liquid?'

  'Apparently it makes them wee all night. It's how she plays God with the romantic chances of her diners. You do not want to know what she does to the coffees of people who really upset her.'

  He shakes his head admiringly. 'Mo is wasted in that job. There's a place in organized crime for that girl.'