فصل 11

11

Liv sits in the silent cubicle for as long as she can without someone staging an intervention, listening as several women come in and perform ablutions. She checks for non-existent email and plays Scrabble on her phone. Finally, after scoring flux, she gets up, flushes the loo and washes her hands, staring at her reflection with a kind of perverse satisfaction. Her makeup has smudged beneath one eye. She fixes this in the mirror, wondering why she bothers, given that she is about to sit next to Roger again.

She checks her watch. When can she beg an early-morning meeting and head for home? With luck, Roger will be so drunk by the time she goes back out that he will have forgotten she was even there.

Liv takes one last look at her reflection, pushes her hair off her face and grimaces at her appearance. Whats the point? And then she opens the door.

Liv! Liv, come here! I want to tell you something! Roger is standing, gesticulating wildly. His face is even redder and his hair is standing upright on one side. Its possible that he is, she thinks, half man, half ostrich. She feels a momentary panic at the prospect of having to spend another half-hour in his company. Shes used to this an almost overwhelming physical desire to remove herself, to be out on the dark streets alone not having to be anyone at all.

She sits gingerly, like someone prepared to sprint, and drinks another half-glass of wine. I really should go, she says, and there is a wave of protest from the other occupants of the table, as if this is some kind of personal affront. She stays. Her smile is a rictus. She finds herself watching the couples, the domestic cracks becoming visible with each glass of wine. That one dislikes her husband. She rolls her eyes with every second comment he makes. This man is bored with everyone, possibly with his wife. He checks his mobile compulsively beneath the rim of the table. She gazes up at the clock, nods dully at Rogers breathy litany of marital unfairness. She plays a silent game of Dinner Party Bingo. She scores a School Fees and a House Prices. She is on the verge of a Last Years Holiday In Europe Full House when someone taps her on the shoulder.

Excuse me. You have a phone call.

Liv spins round. The waitress has pale skin and long dark hair, which opens around her face like a pair of half-drawn curtains. She is beckoning with her notepad. Liv is conscious of a flicker of familiarity.

What?

Urgent phone call. I think its family.

Liv hesitates. Family? But its a sliver of light in a tunnel. Oh, she says. Oh, right.

Would you like me to show you the phone?

Urgent phone call, she mouths at Kristen, and points at the waitress, who points towards the kitchens.

Kristens face arranges itself into an expression of exaggerated concern. She stoops to say something to Roger, who glances behind him and reaches out a hand as if to stop her. And then Liv is gone, following the short dark girl through the half-empty restaurant, past the bar and down the wood-panelled corridor.

After the gloom of the seating area the glare of the kitchen is blinding, the dulled sheen of steel surfaces bouncing light across the room. Two men in white ignore her, passing pans towards a washing-up station. Something is frying, hissing and spitting in a corner someone speaks rapid-fire Spanish. The girl gestures through a set of swing doors, and suddenly she is in another back lobby, a cloakroom.

Wheres the phone? Liv says, when they come to a halt.

The girl pulls a packet of cigarettes from her apron and lights one. What phone? she says blankly.

You said I had a call?

Oh. That. There isnt a phone. You just looked like you needed rescuing. She inhales, lets out a long sliver of smoke and waits for a moment. You dont recognize me, do you? Mo. Mo Stewart. She sighs, when Liv frowns. I was in your course at uni. Renaissance and Italian Painting. And Life Drawing.

Liv thinks back to her degree. And suddenly she can see her the little Goth girl in the corner, near silent in every class, her expression a careful blank, her nails painted a violent, glittering purple. Wow. You havent changed a bit. This is not a lie. As she says it, she is not entirely sure its a compliment.

You have, says Mo, examining her. You look … I dont know. Geeky …

Geeky.

Maybe not geeky. Different. Tired. Mind you, I dont suppose being sat next to Tim Nice But Dim there is a barrel of laughs. What is it? Some kind of singles night?

Just for me, apparently.

Christ. Here. Ill go out and tell them youve had to leave. Great-aunt with a violent palsy. Or something darker? Aids? Ebola? Any preferences as to the degree of suffering? Will she want your share of the bill?

Oh. Good point. Liv scrabbles in her bag for her purse. She feels suddenly light-headed at the prospect of freedom.

Mo takes the notes, counts them carefully. My tip? she says, straight-faced. She does not appear to be joking.

Liv blinks, then peels off an extra five-pound note and hands it to her. Ta, says Mo, tucking it into the pocket of her apron. Do I look tragic? She pulls a face of mild disinterest and then, as if accepting that she doesnt have the appropriate facial muscles for concern, disappears back down the corridor.

Liv is unsure whether to leave or whether she should wait for the girl to return. She gazes around her at the back lobby, at the cheap coats on the rack, the grubby bucket and mop underneath them, and finally sits down on a wooden stool, the cigarette useless in her hand. When she hears footsteps, she stands, but its a Mediterranean-skinned man, his skull shining in the dim light. He is holding a glass of amber liquid. Here, he says, offering it to her. And when she protests, he adds, For the shock. He winks and is gone.

Liv sits and sips the drink. In the distance, through the clatter of the kitchen, she can hear Rogers voice lifting in protest, the scraping of chairs. The chefs emerge from the kitchen, pull their coats from the rack and disappear, giving her a faint nod as they pass, as if its not unusual for a customer to spend twenty minutes nursing a brandy in the staff corridor.

When Mo reappears she is no longer wearing an apron. She is holding a set of keys, walks past Liv and locks the fire door. Theyve gone, she says, pulling her black hair back into a knot. Your Hot Date said something about wanting to console you. Id turn your mobile off for a bit.

Thank you, said Liv. That was really very kind.

Not at all. Coffee?

The restaurant is empty. Mo primes the coffee machine, and gestures to her to sit. Liv would really rather go home, but understands there is a price to be paid for her freedom, and a brief, slightly stilted conversation about the Good Old Days is probably it.

I cant believe they all left so suddenly, she says, as Mo lights another cigarette.

Oh. Someone saw a message on a BlackBerry that she shouldnt have. It all kicked off a bit, Mo says. I dont think business lunches usually involve nipple clamps.

You heard that?

You hear everything in here. Most customers dont stop talking when waiters are around. She switches on the milk-frother, adding, An apron gives you superpowers. It actually makes you pretty much invisible.

Liv had not registered Mos appearance at her table, she thinks uncomfortably. Mo is looking at her with a small smile, as if she can hear her thoughts. Its okay. Im used to being the Great Unnoticed.

So, says Liv, accepting a coffee. What have you been doing?

In the last nearly ten years? Um, this and that. Waitressing suits me. I dont have the ambition for bar work. She says this deadpan. You?

Oh, just some freelance stuff. I work for myself. I dont have the personality for office work. Liv smiles.

Mo takes a long drag of her cigarette. Im surprised, she says. You were always one of the Golden Girls.

Golden Girls?

Oh, you and your tawny crew, all legs and hair and men around you, like satellites. Like something out of Scott Fitzgerald. I thought youd be … I dont know. On telly. Or in the media, or acting or something.

If Liv had read these words on a page, she might have detected an edge to them. But there is no rancour in Mos voice. No, she says, and looks at the hem of her shirt.

Liv finishes her coffee. It is a quarter to twelve. Do you need to lock up? Which way are you walking?

Nowhere. Im staying here.

You have a flat here?

No, but Dino doesnt mind. Mo stubs out her cigarette, gets up and empties the ashtray. Actually, Dino doesnt know. He just thinks Im really conscientious. The last to leave every evening. Why cant the others be more like you? She jerks a thumb behind her. I have a sleeping-bag in my locker and I set my alarm for five thirty. Little bit of a housing issue at the moment. As in, I cant afford any.

Liv stares.

Dont look so shocked. That banquette is more comfortable than some of the rental accommodation Ive been in, I promise you.

Afterwards she isnt sure what makes her say it. Liv rarely lets anyone into the house, let alone people she hasnt seen for years. But almost before she knows what shes doing, her mouth is opening and the words You can stay at mine, are emerging. Just for tonight, she adds, when she realizes what she has said. But I have a spare room. With a power shower. Conscious that this may have sounded patronizing, she adds, We can catch up. Itll be fun.

Mos face is blank. Then she grimaces, as if it is she who is doing Liv the favour. If you say so, she says, and goes to get her coat.

She can see her house long before she gets there its pale blue glass walls stand out above the old sugar warehouse as if something extra-terrestrial has landed on the roof. David liked this he liked to be able to point it out if they were walking home with friends or potential clients. He liked its incongruity against the dark brown brick of the Victorian warehouses, the way it caught the light, or carried the reflection of the water below.

When it was built, almost ten years ago, glass had been his construction material of choice, its components made sophisticated with thermal abilities, eco-friendliness. His work is distinctive across London transparency is the key, he would say. Buildings should reveal their purpose, and their structure. The only rooms that are obscured are bathrooms, and even then he often had to be persuaded not to fit one-way glass. It was typical of David that he didnt believe it was unnerving to see out when you were on the loo, even if you were assured that nobody else could see in.

Her friends had envied her this house, its location, and its occasional appearances in the better sort of interiors magazine – but she knew they added, privately, to each other, that such minimalism would have driven them mad. It was in Davids bones, the drive to purify, to clear out what was not needed. Everything in the house had to withstand his William Morris test is it functional, and is it beautiful? And then is it absolutely necessary? When they had first got together, she had found it exhausting. David had bitten his lip as she left trails of clothes across the bedroom floor, filled the kitchen with bunches of cheap flowers, trinkets from the market. Now, she is grateful for her homes blankness its spare asceticism.

So. Freaking. Cool. They emerge from the rickety lift into the Glass House, and Mos face is uncharacteristically animated. This is your house? Seriously? How the hell did you get to live somewhere like this?

My husband built it. She walks through the atrium, hanging her keys carefully on the single silver peg, flicking on the internal lights as she passes.

Your ex? Jeez. And he let you keep it?

Not exactly. Liv presses a button and watches as the roof shutters ease back silently, exposing the kitchen to the starlit sky. He died. She stands there, her face turned firmly upwards, bracing herself for the flurry of awkward sympathy. It never gets any easier, the explanation. Four years on, and the words still cause a reflexive twinge, as if Davids absence is a wound still located deep within her body.

But Mo is silent. When she finally speaks she says simply, Bummer.

Yup, Liv says, and lets out a small breath. Yup, it really is.

Liv listens to the one oclock news on the radio, distantly aware of the sounds from the guest bathroom, the vague prickle of disquiet that she feels whenever someone else is in the house. She wipes the granite work surfaces and buffs them with a soft cloth. She sweeps non-existent crumbs from the floor. Finally she walks through the glass and wood hallway, then up the suspended wood and Perspex stairs to her bedroom. The stretch of unmarked cupboard doors gleams, giving no clue to the few clothes behind it. The bed sits vast and empty in the middle of the room, two Final Reminders on the covers, where she left them this morning. She sits down, folding them neatly back into their envelopes, and she stares straight ahead of her at the portrait of The Girl You Left Behind, vivid in its gilded frame among the muted eau de Nil and grey of the rest of the room, and allows herself to drift.

She looks like you.

She looks nothing like me.

She had laughed at him giddily, still flush with new love. Still prepared to believe in his vision of her.

You look just like that when you –

The Girl You Left Behind smiles.

Liv closes her eyes before she turns off the light so that she does not have to look at the painting again.