JOJOMOYES

TheGirlYouLeftBehind

PENGUINBOOKS

TableofContents

PartOne

Chapter1

Chapter2

Chapter3

Chapter4

Chapter5

Chapter6

Chapter7

Chapter8

Chapter9

Chapter10

PartTwo

Chapter11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Chapter14

Chapter15

Chapter16

Chapter17

Chapter18

Chapter19

Chapter20

Chapter21

Chapter22

Chapter23

Chapter24

Chapter25

Chapter26

Chapter27

Chapter28

Chapter29

Chapter30

Chapter31

Chapter32

Chapter33

Chapter34

Chapter35

Chapter36

ToCharles,asever

PENGUINBOOKS

THEGIRLYOULEFTBEHIND

PraiseforMeBeforeYou

‘Aheart-stoppingread.Destinedtobethenovelthatfriendspressuponeachothermorethananyothernextyear.Moyesdoesamajesticjobofconjuringacastofcharacterswhoarecharismatic,credibleandutterlycompelling.LouandWillareacouplewhoreaderswilltaketotheirheartsastheydidOneDay’sEmmaandDex’

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‘Beautifullywritten’Sun

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Nickers27

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Steady

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Kerrie

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LizzieBennett‘Bookworm’

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Marg‘Margi’

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‘Amazing!Couldnotputitdown.HIGHLYrecommended!’Nearly40

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J.Starling

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‘Atrulyremarkablebook,JojoMoyesdeservesanawardforthis’Swifty

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KC‘squareeyes’

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‘Thisbookisabsolutelyincredible.Honestlyamazing.Lovedeverysecond.Couldn’tstopthinkingaboutitforhours,andeverytimeItriedtoexplainwhathappenedIcouldn’tstopcryingalloveragain!’

TinyLittleKaren

‘Itisalongtimesinceabookhasmovedmesomuch.Bravo’FLBEngland

PARTONE

1

StPéronneOctober1916

Iwasdreamingoffood.Crispbaguettes,thefleshofthebreadavirginalwhite,stillsteamingfromtheoven,andripecheese,itsborderscreepingtowardstheedgeoftheplate.Grapesandplums,stackedhighinbowls,duskyandfragrant,theirscentfillingtheair.Iwasabouttoreachoutandtakeone,whenmysisterstoppedme.‘Getoff,’Imurmured.‘I’mhungry.’‘Sophie.Wakeup.’Icouldtastethatcheese.IwasgoingtohaveamouthfulofReblochon,smearitonahunkofthatwarm

bread,thenpopagrapeintomymouth.Icouldalreadytastetheintensesweetness,smellthericharoma.Butthereitwas,mysister’shandonmywrist,stoppingme.Theplatesweredisappearing,thescents

fading.Ireachedouttothembuttheybegantopop,likesoapbubbles.‘Sophie.’‘What?’‘TheyhaveAurélien!’Iturnedontomysideandblinked.Mysisterwaswearingacottonbonnet,asIwas,tokeepwarm.Her

face,eveninthefeeblelightofhercandle,wasleachedofcolour,hereyeswidewithshock.‘TheyhaveAurélien.Downstairs.’Mymindbegantoclear.Frombelowuscamethesoundofmenshouting,theirvoicesbouncingoffthe

stonecourtyard,thehenssquawkingintheircoop.Inthethickdark,theairvibratedwithsometerriblepurpose.Isatuprightinbed,draggingmygownaroundme,strugglingtolightthecandleonmybedsidetable.Istumbledpasthertothewindowandstareddownintothecourtyardatthesoldiers,illuminatedbythe

headlightsoftheirvehicle,andmyyoungerbrother,hisarmsaroundhishead,tryingtoavoidtheriflebuttsthatlandedblowsonhim.‘What’shappening?’‘Theyknowaboutthepig.’‘What?’‘MonsieurSuelmusthaveinformedonus.Iheardthemshoutingfrommyroom.Theysaythey’lltake

Aurélienifhedoesn’ttellthemwhereitis.’‘Hewillsaynothing,’Isaid.Weflinchedasweheardourbrothercryout.Ihardlyrecognizedmysisterthen:shelookedtwenty

yearsolderthanhertwenty-fouryears.Iknewherfearwasmirroredinmyownface.Thiswaswhatwehaddreaded.

‘TheyhaveaKommandantwiththem.Iftheyfindit,’Hélènewhispered,hervoicecrackingwithpanic,‘they’llarrestusall.YouknowwhattookplaceinArras.They’llmakeanexampleofus.Whatwillhappentothechildren?’Mymindraced,fearthatmybrothermightspeakoutmakingmestupid.Iwrappedashawlaroundmy

shouldersandtiptoedtothewindow,peeringoutatthecourtyard.ThepresenceofaKommandantsuggestedthesewerenotjustdrunkensoldierslookingtotakeouttheirfrustrationswithafewthreatsandknocks:wewereintrouble.Hispresencemeantwehadcommittedacrimethatshouldbetakenseriously.‘Theywillfindit,Sophie.Itwilltakethemminutes.Andthen…’Hélène’svoicerose,liftedbypanic.Mythoughtsturnedblack.Iclosedmyeyes.AndthenIopenedthem.‘Godownstairs,’Isaid.‘Plead

ignorance.AskhimwhatAurélienhasdonewrong.Talktohim,distracthim.Justgivemesometimebeforetheycomeintothehouse.’‘Whatareyougoingtodo?’Igrippedmysister’sarm.‘Go.Buttellthemnothing,youunderstand?Denyeverything.’Mysisterhesitated,thenrantowardsthecorridor,hernightgownbillowingbehindher.I’mnotsureI

hadeverfeltasaloneasIdidinthosefewseconds,feargrippingmythroatandtheweightofmyfamily’sfateuponme.IranintoFather’sstudyandscrabbledinthedrawersofthegreatdesk,hurlingitscontents–oldpens,scrapsofpaper,piecesfrombrokenclocksandancientbills–ontothefloor,thankingGodwhenIfinallyfoundwhatIwassearchingfor.ThenIrandownstairs,openedthecellardoorandskippeddownthecoldstonestairs,sosure-footednowinthedarkthatIbarelyneededtheflutteringglowofthecandle.Iliftedtheheavylatchtothebackcellar,whichhadoncebeenstackedtotheroofwithbeerkegsandgoodwine,slidoneoftheemptybarrelsasideandopenedthedooroftheoldcast-ironbreadoven.Thepiglet,stillonlyhalfgrown,blinkedsleepily.Itlifteditselftoitsfeet,peeredoutatmefromits

bedofstrawandgrunted.SurelyI’vetoldyouaboutthepig?WeliberateditduringtherequisitionofMonsieurGirard’sfarm.LikeagiftfromGod,ithadstrayedinthechaos,meanderingawayfromthepigletsbeingloadedintothebackofaGermantruckandwasswiftlyswallowedbythethickskirtsofGrandmaPoilâne.We’vebeenfatteningitonacornsandscrapsforweeks,inthehopeofraisingittoasizegreatenoughforusalltohavesomemeat.Thethoughtofthatcrispskin,thatmoistpork,haskepttheinhabitantsofLeCoqRougegoingforthepastmonth.OutsideIheardmybrotheryelpagain,thenmysister’svoice,rapidandurgent,cutshortbytheharsh

tonesofaGermanofficer.Thepiglookedatmewithintelligent,understandingeyes,asifitalreadyknewitsfate.‘I’msosorry,monpetit,’Iwhispered,‘butthisreallyistheonlyway.’AndIbroughtdownmyhand.Iwasoutsideinamatterofmoments.IhadwokenMimi,tellingheronlythatshemustcomebuttostay

silent–thechildhasseensomuchtheselastmonthsthatsheobeyswithoutquestion.Sheglancedupatmeholdingherbabybrother,slidoutofbedandplacedahandinmine.Theairwassharpwiththeapproachofwinter,thesmellofwoodsmokelingeringintheairfromour

brieffireearlierintheevening.IsawtheKommandantthroughthestonearchwayofthebackdoorandhesitated.ItwasnotHerrBecker,whomweknewanddespised.Thiswasaslimmerman,clean-shaven,impassive.EveninthedarkIcouldseeintelligence,notbrutishignorance,inhisface,whichmademeafraid.

ThisnewKommandantwasgazingspeculativelyupatourwindows,perhapsconsideringwhetherthisbuildingmightprovideamoresuitablebilletthantheFourrierfarm,whereseniorGermanofficersslept.Isuspectheknewthatourelevatedaspectwouldgivehimavantage-pointacrossthetown.Therewerestablesforhorsesandtenbedrooms,fromthedayswhenourhomewasthetown’sthrivinghotel.Hélènewasonthecobbles,shieldingAurélienwithherarms.Oneofhismenhadraisedhisrifle,buttheKommandantliftedhishand.‘Standup,’heorderedthem.

Hélènescrambledbackwards,awayfromhim.Iglimpsedherface,tautwithfear.IfeltMimi’shandtightenroundmineasshesawhermother,andIgavehersasqueeze,eventhoughmy

heartwasinmymouth.AndIstrodeout.‘What,inGod’sname,isgoingon?’Myvoicerangoutintheyard.TheKommandantglancedtowardsme,surprisedbymytone:ayoungwomanwalkingthroughthe

archedentrancetothefarmyard,athumb-suckingchildatherskirts,anotherswaddledandclutchedtoherchest.Mynightbonnetsatslightlyaskew,mywhitecottonnightgownsowornnowthatitbarelyregisteredasfabricagainstmyskin.Iprayedthathecouldnothearthealmostaudiblethumpingofmyheart.Iaddressedhimdirectly:‘Andforwhatsupposedmisdemeanourhaveyourmencometopunishus

now?’Iguessedhehadnotheardawomanspeaktohiminthiswaysincehislastleavehome.Thesilencethat

felluponthecourtyardwassteepedinshock.Mybrotherandsister,ontheground,twistedround,thebettertoseeme,onlytooawareofwheresuchinsubordinationmightleaveusall.‘Youare?’‘MadameLefèvre.’Icouldseehewascheckingforthepresenceofmyweddingring.Heneedn’thavebothered:likemost

womeninourarea,Ihadlongsincesolditforfood.‘Madame.Wehaveinformationthatyouareharbouringillegallivestock.’HisFrenchwaspassable,

suggestingpreviouspostingsintheoccupiedterritory,hisvoicecalm.Thiswasnotamanwhofeltthreatenedbytheunexpected.‘Livestock?’‘Areliablesourcetellsusthatyouarekeepingapigonthepremises.Youwillbeawarethat,underthe

directive,thepenaltyforwithholdinglivestockfromtheadministrationisimprisonment.’Iheldhisgaze.‘AndIknowexactlywhowouldinformyouofsuchathing.It’sMonsieurSuel,non?’

Mycheekswereflushedwithcolour;myhair,twistedintoalongplaitthathungovermyshoulder,feltelectrified.Itprickledatthenapeofmyneck.TheKommandantturnedtooneofhisminions.Theman’sglancesidewaystoldhimthiswastrue.‘MonsieurSuel,HerrKommandant,comeshereatleasttwiceamonthattemptingtopersuadeusthatin

theabsenceofourhusbandsweareinneedofhisparticularbrandofcomfort.Becausewehavechosennottoavailourselvesofhissupposedkindness,herepaysuswithrumoursandathreattoourlives.’‘Theauthoritieswouldnotactunlessthesourcewerecredible.’‘Iwouldargue,HerrKommandant,thatthisvisitsuggestsotherwise.’Thelookhegavemewasimpenetrable.Heturnedonhisheelandwalkedtowardsthehousedoor.I

followedhim,halftrippingovermyskirtsinmyattempttokeepup.Iknewthemereactofspeakingso

boldlytohimmightbeconsideredacrime.Andyet,atthatmoment,Iwasnolongerafraid.‘Lookatus,Kommandant.Dowelookasthoughwearefeastingonbeef,onroastlamb,onfilletof

pork?’Heturned,hiseyesflickingtowardsmybonywrists,justvisibleatthesleevesofmygown.Ihadlosttwoinchesfrommywaistinthelastyearalone.‘Arewegrotesquelyplumpwiththebountyofourhotel?Wehavethreehensleftoftwodozen.Threehensthatwehavethepleasureofkeepingandfeedingsothatyourmenmighttaketheeggs.We,meanwhile,liveonwhattheGermanauthoritiesdeemtobeadiet–decreasingrationsofmeatandflour,andbreadmadefromgritandbransopoorwewouldnotuseittofeedlivestock.’Hewasinthebackhallway,hisheelsechoingontheflagstones.Hehesitated,thenwalkedthroughto

thebarandbarkedanorder.Asoldierappearedfromnowhereandhandedhimalamp.‘Wehavenomilktofeedourbabies,ourchildrenweepwithhunger,webecomeillfromlackof

nutrition.Andstillyoucomehereinthemiddleofthenighttoterrifytwowomenandbrutalizeaninnocentboy,tobeatusandthreatenus,becauseyouheardarumourfromanimmoralmanthatwewerefeasting?’Myhandswereshaking.Hesawthebabysquirm,andIrealizedIwassotensethatIwasholdingittoo

tightly.Isteppedback,adjustedtheshawl,croonedtoit.ThenIliftedmyhead.Icouldnothidethebitternessandangerinmyvoice.‘Searchourhome,then,Kommandant.Turnitupsidedownanddestroywhatlittlehasnotalreadybeen

destroyed.Searchalltheoutbuildingstoo,thosethatyourmenhavenotalreadystrippedfortheirownwants.Whenyoufindthismythicalpig,Ihopeyourmendinewellonit.’Iheldhisgazeforjustamomentlongerthanhemighthaveexpected.ThroughthewindowIcouldmake

outmysisterwipingAurélien’swoundswithherskirts,tryingtostemtheblood.ThreeGermansoldiersstoodoverthem.Myeyeswereusedtothedarknow,andIsawthattheKommandantwaswrong-footed.Hismen,their

eyesuncertain,werewaitingforhimtogivetheorders.Hecouldinstructthemtostripourhousetothebeamsandarrestusalltopayformyextraordinaryoutburst.ButIknewhewasthinkingofSuel,whetherhemighthavebeenmisled.Hedidnotlookthekindofmantorelishthepossibilityofbeingseentobewrong.WhenÉdouardandIusedtoplaypoker,hehadlaughedandsaidIwasanimpossibleopponentasmy

faceneverrevealedmytruefeelings.Itoldmyselftorememberthosewordsnow:thiswasthemostimportantgameIwouldeverplay.Westaredateachother,theKommandantandI.Ifelt,briefly,thewholeworldstillaroundus:IcouldhearthedistantrumbleofthegunsattheFront,mysister’scoughing,thescrabblingofourpoor,scrawnyhensdisturbedintheircoop.ItfadeduntiljustheandIfacedoneanother,eachgamblingonthetruth.IswearIcouldhearmyveryheartbeating.‘Whatisthis?’‘What?’Heheldupthelamp,anditwasdimlyilluminatedinpalegoldlight:theportraitÉdouardhadpainted

ofmewhenwewerefirstmarried.ThereIwas,inthatfirstyear,myhairthickandlustrousaroundmyshoulders,myskinclearandblooming,gazingoutwiththeself-possessionoftheadored.Ihadbroughtitdownfromitshidingplaceseveralweeksbefore,tellingmysisterIwasdamnediftheGermanswoulddecidewhatIshouldlookatinmyownhome.

Heliftedthelampalittlehighersothathecouldseeitmoreclearly.Donotputitthere,Sophie,Hélènehadwarned.Itwillinvitetrouble.Whenhefinallyturnedtome,itwasasifhehadhadtotearhiseyesfromit.Helookedatmyface,then

backatthepainting.‘Myhusbandpaintedit.’Idon’tknowwhyIfelttheneedtotellhimthat.Perhapsitwasthecertaintyofmyrighteousindignation.Perhapsitwastheobviousdifferencebetween

thegirlinthepictureandthegirlwhostoodbeforehim.Perhapsitwastheweepingblondechildwhostoodatmyfeet.ItispossiblethatevenKommandants,twoyearsintothisoccupation,havebecomewearyofharassingusforpettymisdemeanours.Helookedatthepaintingamomentlonger,thenathisfeet.‘Ithinkwehavemadeourselvesclear,Madame.Ourconversationisnotfinished.ButIwillnotdisturb

youfurthertonight.’Hecaughttheflashofsurpriseonmyface,barelysuppressed,andIsawthatitsatisfiedsomethingin

him.ItwasperhapsenoughforhimtoknowIhadbelievedmyselfdoomed.Hewassmart,thisman,andsubtle.Iwouldhavetobewary.‘Men.’Hissoldiersturned,blindlyobedientasever,andwalkedouttowardstheirvehicle,theiruniforms

silhouettedagainsttheheadlights.Ifollowedhimandstoodjustoutsidethedoor.ThelastIheardofhisvoicewastheordertothedrivertomakeforthetown.Wewaitedasthemilitaryvehicletravelledbackdowntheroad,itsheadlightsfeelingtheirwayalong

thepittedsurface.Hélènehadbeguntoshake.Shescrambledtoherfeet,herhandwhite-knuckledatherbrow,hereyestightlyshut.Aurélienstoodawkwardlybesideme,holdingMimi’shand,embarrassedbyhischildishtears.Iwaitedforthelastsoundsoftheenginetodieaway.Itwhinedoverthehill,asifit,too,wereactingunderprotest.‘Areyouhurt,Aurélien?’Itouchedhishead.Fleshwounds.Andbruises.Whatkindofmenattackedan

unarmedboy?Heflinched.‘Itdidn’thurt,’hesaid.‘Theydidn’tfrightenme.’‘Ithoughthewouldarrestyou,’mysistersaid.‘Ithoughthewouldarrestusall.’Iwasafraidwhenshe

lookedlikethat:asifshewereteeteringontheedgeofsomevastabyss.Shewipedhereyesandforcedasmileasshecrouchedtohugherdaughter.‘SillyGermans.Theygaveusallafright,didn’tthey?SillyMamanforbeingfrightened.’Thechildwatchedhermother,silentandsolemn.SometimesIwonderedifIwouldeverseeMimi

laughagain.‘I’msorry.I’mallrightnow,’shewenton.‘Let’sallgoinside.Mimi,wehavealittlemilkIwillwarm

foryou.’Shewipedherhandsonherbloodiedgown,andheldherhandstowardsmeforthebaby.‘YouwantmetotakeJean?’Ihadstartedtotrembleconvulsively,asifIhadonlyjustrealizedhowafraidIshouldhavebeen.My

legsfeltwatery,theirstrengthseepingintothecobblestones.Ifeltadesperateurgetositdown.‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Isupposeyoushould.’Mysisterreachedout,thengaveasmallcry.Nestlingintheblankets,swaddledneatlysothatitwas

barelyexposedtothenightair,wasthepink,hairysnoutofthepiglet.‘Jeanisasleepupstairs,’Isaid.Ithrustahandatthewalltokeepmyselfupright.

Aurélienlookedoverhershoulder.Theyallstaredatit.‘MonDieu.’‘Isitdead?’‘Chloroformed.IrememberedPapahadabottleinhisstudy,fromhisbutterfly-collectingdays.Ithink

itwillwakeup.Butwe’regoingtohavetofindsomewhereelsetokeepitforwhentheyreturn.Andyouknowtheywillreturn.’Auréliensmiledthen,arare,slowsmileofdelight.HélènestoopedtoshowMimithecomatoselittle

pig,andtheygrinned.Hélènekepttouchingitssnout,clampingahandoverherface,asifshecouldn’tbelievewhatshewasholding.‘Youheldthepigbeforethem?Theycamehereandyouhelditoutinfrontoftheirnoses?Andthenyou

toldthemoffforcominghere?’Hervoicewasincredulous.‘Infrontoftheirsnouts,’saidAurélien,whoseemedsuddenlytohaverecoveredsomeofhisswagger.

‘Hah!Youhelditinfrontoftheirsnouts!’Isatdownonthecobblesandbegantolaugh.IlaugheduntilmyskingrewchilledandIdidn’tknow

whetherIwaslaughingorweeping.Mybrother,perhapsafraidIwasbecominghysterical,tookmyhandandrestedagainstme.Hewasfourteen,sometimesbristlinglikeaman,sometimeschildlikeinhisneedforreassurance.Hélènewasstilldeepinthought.‘IfIhadknown…’shesaid.‘Howdidyoubecomesobrave,Sophie?

Mylittlesister!Whomadeyoulikethis?Youwereamousewhenwewerechildren.Amouse!’Iwasn’tsureIknewtheanswer.Andthen,aswefinallywalkedbackintothehouse,asHélènebusiedherselfwiththemilkpanand

Aurélienbegantowashhispoor,batteredface,Istoodbeforetheportrait.Thatgirl,thegirlÉdouardhadmarried,lookedbackwithanexpressionInolongerrecognized.Hehad

seenitinmelongbeforeanyoneelsedid:itspeaksofknowledge,thatsmile,ofsatisfactiongainedandgiven.Itspeaksofpride.WhenhisParisianfriendshadfoundhisloveofme–ashopgirl–inexplicable,hehadjustsmiledbecausehecouldalreadyseethisinme.Ineverknewifheunderstoodthatitwasonlytherebecauseofhim.Istoodandgazedatherand,forafewseconds,Irememberedhowithadfelttobethatgirl,freeof

hunger,offear,consumedonlybyidlethoughtsofwhatprivatemomentsImightspendwithÉdouard.Sheremindedmethattheworldiscapableofbeauty,andthattherewereoncethings–art,joy,love–thatfilledmyworld,insteadoffearandnettlesoupandcurfews.Isawhiminmyexpression.AndthenIrealizedwhatIhadjustdone.Hehadremindedmeofmyownstrength,ofhowmuchIhadleftinmewithwhichtofight.Whenyoureturn,Édouard,IswearIwillonceagainbethegirlyoupainted.

2

Thestoryofthepig-babyhadreachedmostofStPéronnebylunchtime.ThebarofLeCoqRougesawaconstantstreamofcustomers,eventhoughwehadlittletoofferotherthanchicorycoffee;beersuppliesweresporadic,andwehadonlyafewruinouslyexpensivebottlesofwine.Itwasastonishinghowmanypeoplecalledjusttowishusgoodday.‘Andyoutoreastripoffhim?Toldhimtogoaway?’OldRené,chucklingintohismoustache,was

clutchingthebackofachairandweepingtearsoflaughter.Hehadaskedtohearthestoryfourtimesnow,andwitheverytellingAurélienhadembellisheditalittlemore,untilhewasfightingofftheKommandantwithasabre,whileIcried‘DerKaiseristScheiss!’IexchangedasmallsmilewithHélène,whowassweepingthefloorofthecafé.Ididn’tmind.There

hadbeenlittleenoughtocelebrateinourtownlately.‘Wemustbecareful,’Hélènesaid,asRenéleft,liftinghishatinsalute.Wewatchedhim,convulsed

withrenewedmirthashepassedthepostoffice,pausingtowipehiseyes.‘Thisstoryisspreadingtoofar.’‘Nobodywillsayanything.EveryonehatestheBoche.’Ishrugged.‘Besides,theyallwantapieceof

pork.They’rehardlygoingtoinformonusbeforetheirfoodarrives.’Thepighadbeenmoveddiscreetlynextdoorintheearlyhoursofthemorning.Somemonthsago

Aurélien,choppingupoldbeerbarrelsforfirewood,haddiscoveredthattheonlythingseparatingthelabyrinthinewinecellarfromthatoftheneighbours,theFouberts,wasasingle-skinbrickwall.Wehadcarefullyremovedseveralofthebricks,withtheFouberts’co-operation,andthishadbecomeanescaperouteoflastresort.WhentheFoubertshadharbouredayoungEnglishman,andtheGermanshadarrivedunannouncedattheirdooratdusk,MadameFouberthadpleadedincomprehensionattheofficer’sinstructions,givingtheyoungmanjustenoughtimetosneakdowntothecellarandthroughintoourside.Theyhadtakenherhousetopieces,evenlookedaroundthecellar,butinthedimlight,notonehadnoticedthatthemortarinthewallwassuspiciouslygappy.Thiswasthestoryofourlives:minorinsurrections,tinyvictories,abriefchancetoridiculeour

oppressors,littlefloatingvesselsofhopeamidagreatseaofuncertainty,deprivationandfear.‘YoumetthenewKommandant,then?’Themayorwasseatedatoneofthetablesnearthewindow.As

Ibroughthimsomecoffee,hemotionedtometositdown.Morethananyoneelse’s,hislife,Ioftenthought,hadbeenintolerablesincetheoccupation:hehadspenthistimeinaconstantstateofnegotiationwiththeGermanstograntthetownwhatitneeded,butperiodicallytheyhadtakenhimhostagetoforcerecalcitranttownspeopletodotheirbidding.‘Itwasnotaformalintroduction,’Isaid,placingthecupinfrontofhim.Hetiltedhisheadtowardsme,hisvoicelow.‘HerrBeckerhasbeensentbacktoGermanytorunone

ofthereprisalcamps.Apparentlytherewereinconsistenciesinhisbook-keeping.’

‘That’snosurprise.HeistheonlymaninOccupiedFrancewhohasdoubledinweightintwoyears.’Iwasjoking,butmyfeelingsathisdepartureweremixed.OntheonehandBeckerhadbeenharsh,hispunishmentsexcessive,bornoutofinsecurityandafearthathismenwouldnotthinkhimstrongenough.Buthehadbeentoostupid–blindtomanyofthetown’sactsofresistance–tocultivateanyrelationshipsthatmighthavehelpedhiscause.‘So,whatdoyouthink?’‘OfthenewKommandant?Idon’tknow.Hecouldhavebeenworse,Isuppose.Hedidn’tpullthe

houseapart,whereBeckermighthave,justtoshowhisstrength.But…’Iwrinkledmynose‘…he’sclever.Wemighthavetobeextracareful.’‘Asever,MadameLefèvre,yourthoughtsareinharmonywithmyown.’Hesmiledatme,butnotwith

hiseyes.Irememberedwhenthemayorhadbeenajolly,blusteringman,famousforhisbonhomie:he’dhadtheloudestvoiceatanytowngathering.‘Anythingcominginthisweek?’‘Ibelievetherewillbesomebacon.Andcoffee.Verylittlebutter.Ihopetohavetheexactrationslater

today.’Wegazedoutofthewindow.OldRenéhadreachedthechurch.Hestoppedtotalktothepriest.Itwas

nothardtoguesswhattheywerediscussing.Whenthepriestbegantolaugh,andRenébentdoubleforthefourthtime,Icouldn’tsuppressagiggle.‘Anynewsfromyourhusband?’Iturnedbacktothemayor.‘NotsinceAugust,whenIhadapostcard.HewasnearAmiens.Hedidn’t

saymuch.’Ithinkofyoudayandnight,thepostcardhadsaid,inhisbeautifulloopyscrawl.Youaremylodestarinthisworldofmadness.IhadlainawakefortwonightsworryingafterIhadreceivedit,untilHélènehadpointedoutthat‘thisworldofmadness’mightequallyapplytoaworldinwhichonelivedonblackbreadsoharditrequiredabillhooktocutit,andkeptpigsinabreadoven.‘ThelastIreceivedfrommyeldestsoncamenearlythreemonthsago.Theywerepushingforward

towardsCambrai.Spiritsgood,hesaid.’‘Ihopetheyarestillgood.HowisLouisa?’‘Nottoobad,thankyou.’Hisyoungestdaughterhadbeenbornwithapalsy;shefailedtothrive,could

eatonlycertainfoodsand,ateleven,wasfrequentlyill.Keepingherwellwasapreoccupationofourlittletown.Iftherewasmilkoranydriedvegetabletobehad,alittlespareusuallyfounditswaytothemayor’shouse.‘Whensheisstrongagain,tellherMimiwasaskingafterher.Hélèneissewingadollforherthatisto

betheexacttwinofMimi’sown.Sheaskedthattheymightbesisters.’Themayorpattedherhand.‘Yougirlsaretookind.IthankGodthatyoureturnedherewhenyoucould

havestayedinthesafetyofParis.’‘Pah.ThereisnoguaranteethattheBochewon’tbemarchingdowntheChamps-Élyséesbeforelong.

Andbesides,IcouldnotleaveHélènealonehere.’‘Shewouldnothavesurvivedthiswithoutyou.Youhavegrownintosuchafineyoungwoman.Paris

wasgoodforyou.’‘Myhusbandisgoodforme.’

‘ThenGodsavehim.Godsaveusall.’Themayorsmiled,placedhishatonhisheadandstooduptoleave.

StPéronne,wheretheBessettefamilyhadrunLeCoqRougeforgenerations,hadbeenamongthefirsttownstofalltotheGermansintheautumnof1914.HélèneandI,ourparentslongdeadandourhusbandsattheFront,haddeterminedtokeepthehotelgoing.Wewerenotaloneintakingonmen’swork:theshops,thelocalfarms,theschoolwerealmostentirelyrunbywomen,aidedbyoldmenandboys.By1915therewerebarelyanymenleftinthetown.Wedidgoodbusinessintheearlymonths,withFrenchsoldierspassingthroughandtheBritishnotfar

behind.Foodwasstillplentiful,musicandcheeringaccompaniedthemarchingtroops,andmostofusstillbelievedthewarwouldbeoverwithinmonths,atworst.Therewereafewhintsofthehorrorstakingplaceahundredmilesaway:wegavefoodtotheBelgianrefugeeswhotraipsedpast,theirbelongingsteeteringonwagons;somewerestillcladinslippersandtheclothestheyhadwornwhentheyhadlefttheirhomes.Occasionally,ifthewindblewfromtheeast,wecouldjustmakeoutthedistantboomoftheguns.Butalthoughweknewthatthewarwascloseby,fewbelievedStPéronne,ourproudlittletown,couldpossiblyjointhosethathadfallenunderGermanrule.Proofofhowwrongwehadbeenhadcomeaccompaniedbythesoundofgunfireonastill,cold,

autumnmorning,whenMadameFougèreandMadameDérinhadsetoutfortheirdailysixforty-fivea.m.strolltotheboulangerie,andwereshotdeadastheycrossedthesquare.IhadpulledbackthecurtainsatthenoiseandithadtakenmeseveralmomentstocomprehendwhatI

saw:thebodiesofthosetwowomen,widowsandfriendsformostoftheirseventy-oddyears,sprawledonthepavement,headscarvesaskew,theiremptybasketsupendedattheirfeet.Astickyredpoolspreadaroundtheminanalmostperfectcircle,asifithadcomefromoneentity.TheGermanofficersclaimedafterwardsthatsnipershadshotatthemandthattheyhadactedin

retaliation.(Apparentlytheysaidthesameofeveryvillagetheytook.)Iftheyhadwantedtopromptinsurrectioninthetown,theycouldnothavedonebetterthantheirkillingofthoseoldwomen.Buttheoutragedidnotstopthere.TheysetfiretobarnsandshotdownthestatueofMayorLeclerc.Twenty-fourhourslatertheymarchedinformationdownourmainstreet,theirPickelhaubehelmetsshininginthewintrysunlight,aswestoodoutsideourhomesandshopsandwatchedinshockedsilence.Theyorderedthefewremainingmenoutsidesothattheycouldcountthem.Theshopkeepersandstallholderssimplyshuttheirshopsandstallsandrefusedtoservethem.Mostof

ushadstockpiledfood;weknewwecouldsurvive.Ithinkwebelievedtheymightgiveup,facedwithsuchintransigence,andmarchontoanothervillage.ButthenKommandantBeckerhaddecreedthatanyshopkeeperwhofailedtoopenduringnormalworkinghourswouldbeshot.Onebyone,theboulangerie,theboucherie,themarketstallsandevenLeCoqRougereopened.Reluctantly,ourlittletownwasproddedbackintosullen,mutinouslife.Eighteenmonthson,therewaslittlelefttobuy.StPéronnewascutofffromitsneighbours,deprivedof

newsanddependentontheirregulardeliveryofaid,supplementedbycostlyblack-marketprovisionswhentheywereavailable.SometimesitwashardtobelievethatFreeFranceknewwhatweweresuffering.TheGermansweretheonlyoneswhoatewell;theirhorses(ourhorses)weresleekandfat,andatethecrushedwheatthatshouldhavebeenusedtomakeourbread.Theyraidedourwinecellars,andtookthefoodproducedbyourfarms.

Anditwasn’tjustfood.Everyweeksomeonewouldgetthedreadedknockonthedoor,andanewlistofitemswouldberequisitioned:teaspoons,curtains,dinnerplates,saucepans,blankets.Occasionallyanofficerwouldinspectfirst,notewhatwasdesirable,andreturnwithalistspecifyingexactlythat.Theywouldwritepromissorynotes,whichcouldsupposedlybeexchangedformoney.NotasinglepersoninStPéronneknewanyonewhohadactuallybeenpaid.

‘Whatareyoudoing?’‘I’mmovingthis.’Itooktheportraitandmovedittoaquietcorner,lessinpublicgaze.‘Whoisit?’AurélienaskedasIre-hungit,adjustingitonthewalluntilitwasstraight.‘It’sme!’Iturnedtohim.‘Canyounottell?’‘Oh.’Hesquinted.Hewasn’ttryingtoinsultme:thegirlinthepaintingwasverydifferentfromthe

thin,severewoman,greyofcomplexion,withwary,tiredeyes,whostaredbackatmedailyfromthelooking-glass.Itriednottoglimpsehertoooften.‘DidÉdouarddoit?’‘Yes.Whenweweremarried.’‘I’veneverseenhispaintings.It’s…notwhatIexpected.’‘Whatdoyoumean?’‘Well–it’sstrange.Thecoloursarestrange.Hehasputgreenandblueinyourskin.Peopledon’thave

greenandblueskin!Andlook–it’smessy.Hehasnotkeptwithinthelines.’‘Aurélien,comehere.’Iwalkedtothewindow.‘Lookatmyface.Whatdoyousee?’‘Agargoyle.’Icuffedhim.‘No.Look–reallylook.Atthecoloursofmyskin.’‘You’rejustpale.’‘Lookharder–undermyeyes,inthehollowsofmythroat.Don’ttellmewhatyouexpecttosee.Really

look.Andthentellmewhatcoloursyouactuallysee.’Mybrotherstaredatmythroat.Hisgazetravelledslowlyaroundmyface.‘Iseeblue,’hesaid,‘under

youreyes.Blueandpurple.And,yes,greenrunningdownyourneck.Andorange.Alors–callthedoctor!Yourfaceisamilliondifferentcolours.Youareaclown!’‘Weareallclowns,’Isaid.‘Édouardjustseesitmoreclearlythaneveryoneelse.’Aurélienracedupstairstoinspecthimselfinthelooking-glassandtormenthimselfaboutthebluesand

purpleshewouldnodoubtfind.Notthatheneededmuchexcuse,thesedays.Hewassweetonatleasttwogirlsandspentmuchtimeshavinghissoft,juvenileskinwithourfather’sbluntoldcut-throatrazorinavainattempttohastentheprocessofageing.‘It’slovely,’Hélènesaid,standingbacktolookatit.‘But…’‘Butwhat?’‘Itisarisktohaveitupatall.WhentheGermanswentthroughLille,theyburnedarttheyconsidered

subversive.Édouard’spaintingis…verydifferent.Howdoyouknowtheywon’tdestroyit?’Sheworried,Hélène.SheworriedaboutÉdouard’spaintingsandourbrother’stemper;sheworried

aboutthelettersanddiaryentriesIwroteonscrapsofpaperandstuffedintoholesinthebeams.‘Iwantitdownhere,whereIcanseeit.Don’tworry–therestaresafeinParis.’Shedidn’tlookconvinced.

‘Iwantcolour,Hélène.Iwantlife.Idon’twanttolookatNapoleonorPapa’sstupidpicturesofmournfuldogs.AndIwon’tletthem–’Inoddedoutsidetowhereoff-dutyGermansoldiersweresmokingbythetownfountain‘–decidewhatImaylookatinmyownhome.’Hélèneshookherhead,asifIwereafoolshemighthavetoindulge.Andthenshewenttoserve

MadameLouvierandMadameDurantwho,althoughtheyhadoftenobservedthatmychicorycoffeetastedasifithadcomefromthesewer,hadarrivedtohearthestoryofthepig-baby.

HélèneandIsharedabedthatnight,flankingMimiandJean.Sometimesitwassocold,eveninOctober,thatwefearedwewouldfindthemfrozensolidintheirnightclothes,soweallhuddleduptogether.Itwaslate,butIknewmysisterwasawake.Themoonlightshonethroughthegapinthecurtains,andIcouldjustseehereyes,wideopen,fixedonadistantpoint.Iguessedthatshewaswonderingwhereherhusbandwasatthatverymoment,whetherhewaswarm,billetedsomewherelikeourhome,orfreezinginatrench,gazingupatthesamemoon.Inthefardistanceamuffledboomtoldofsomefar-offbattle.‘Sophie?’‘Yes?’Wespokeinthequietestofwhispers.‘Doyoueverwonderwhatitwillbelike…iftheydonotcomeback?’Ilaythereinthedarkness.‘No,’Ilied.‘BecauseIknowtheywillcomeback.AndIdonotwanttheGermanstohavegleaned

evenonemoreminuteoffearfromme.’‘Ido,’shesaid.‘SometimesIforgetwhathelookslike.Igazeathisphotograph,andIcan’tremember

anything.’‘It’sbecauseyoulookatitsooften.SometimesIthinkwewearourphotographsoutbylookingat

them.’‘ButIcan’trememberanything–howhesmells,howhisvoicesounds.Ican’trememberhowhefeels

besideme.It’sasifheneverexisted.AndthenIthink,Whatifthisisit?Whatifhenevercomesback?Whatifwearetospendtherestofourliveslikethis,oureverymovedeterminedbymenwhohateus?AndI’mnotsure…I’mnotsureIcan…’IproppedmyselfupononeelbowandreachedoverMimiandJeantotakemysister’shand.‘Yes,you

can,’Isaid.‘Ofcourseyoucan.Jean-Michelwillcomehome,andyourlifewillbegood.Francewillbefree,andlifewillbeasitwas.Betterthanitwas.’Shelaythereinsilence.Iwasshiveringnow,outfromundertheblankets,butIdarednotmove.My

sisterfrightenedmewhenshespokelikethis.Itwasasiftherewasawholeworldofterrorsinsideherheadthatshehadtobattleagainsttwiceashardastherestofus.Hervoicewassmall,tremulous,asifshewerefightingbacktears.‘Doyouknow,afterImarriedJean-

Michel,Iwassohappy.Iwasfreeforthefirsttimeinmylife.’Iknewwhatshemeant:ourfatherhadbeenquickwithhisbeltandsharpwithhisfists.Thetown

believedhimtobethemostbenignoflandlords,apillarofthecommunity,goodoldFrançoisBessette,alwaysreadywithajokeandaglass.Butweknewtheferocityofhistemper.Ouronlyregretwasthatourmotherhadgonebeforehim,sothatshecouldhaveenjoyedafewyearsoutofitsshadow.‘Itfeels…itfeelslikewehaveexchangedonebullyforanother.SometimesIsuspectIwillspendmy

wholelifebenttosomebodyelse’swill.You,Sophie,Iseeyoulaughing.Iseeyoudetermined,sobrave,

puttinguppaintings,shoutingatGermans,andIdon’tunderstandwhereitcomesfrom.Ican’trememberwhatitwaslikenottobeafraid.’Welaythereinsilence.Icouldhearmyheartthumping.Shebelievedmefearless.Butnothing

frightenedmeasmuchasmysister’sfears.Therewasanewfragilityabouther,theselastmonths,anewstrainaroundhereyes.Isqueezedherhand.Shedidnotsqueezeback.Betweenus,Mimistirred,throwinganarmoverherhead.Hélènerelinquishedmyhand,andIcould

justmakeouthershapeasshemovedontoherside,andgentlytuckedherdaughter’sarmbackunderthecovers.Oddlyreassuredbythisgesture,Ilaydownagain,pullingtheblanketsuptomychintostopmyselfshivering.‘Pork,’Isaid,intothesilence.‘What?’‘Justthinkaboutit.Roastpork,theskinrubbedwithsaltandoil,cookeduntilitsnapsbetweenyour

teeth.Thinkofthesoftfoldsofwarmwhitefat,thepinkmeatshreddingsoftlybetweenyourfingers,perhapswithcompôteofapple.Thatiswhatwewilleatinamatterofweeks,Hélène.Thinkofhowgooditwilltaste.’‘Pork?’‘Yes.Pork.WhenIfeelmyselfwaver,Ithinkofthatpig,anditsbigfatbelly.Ithinkofitscrisplittle

ears,itsmoisthaunches.’Ialmostheardhersmile.‘Sophie,you’remad.’‘Butthinkofit,Hélène.Won’titbegood?CanyouimagineMimi’sface,withporkfatdribblingdown

herchin?Howitwillfeelinherlittletummy?Canyouimagineherpleasureasshetriestoremovebitsofcracklingfrombetweenherteeth?’Shelaughed,despiteherself.‘I’mnotsuresheremembershowporktastes.’‘Itwon’ttakemuchtoremindher,’Isaid.‘Justlikeitwon’ttakemuchtoremindyouofJean-Michel.

Oneofthesedayshewillwalkthroughthedoors,andyouwillthrowyourarmsaroundhim,andthesmellofhim,thefeelofhimholdingyouaroundyourwaist,willbeasfamiliartoyouasyourownbody.’Icouldalmosthearherthoughtstravellingbackupwardsthen.Ihadpulledherback.Littlevictories.‘Sophie,’shesaid,afterawhile.‘Doyoumisssex?’‘Everysingleday,’Isaid.‘TwiceasoftenasIthinkaboutthatpig.’Therewasabriefsilence,andwe

brokeintogiggles.Then,Idon’tknowwhy,wewerelaughingsohardwehadtoclampourhandsoverourfacestostopourselveswakingthechildren.

IknewtheKommandantwouldreturn.Intheeventitwasfourdaysbeforehedidso.Itwasraininghard,adeluge,sothatourfewcustomerssatoveremptycupsgazingunseeingthroughthesteamedwindows.Inthesnug,oldRenéandMonsieurPellierplayeddominoes;MonsieurPellier’sdog–hehadtopaytheGermansatarifffortheprivilegeofowningit–betweentheirfeet.Manypeoplesatheredailysothattheydidnothavetobealonewiththeirfear.IwasjustadmiringMadameArnault’shair,newlypinnedbymysister,whentheglassdoorsopened

andhesteppedintothebar,flankedbytwoofficers.Theroom,whichhadbeenawarmfugofchattycompanionability,fellabruptlysilent.Isteppedoutfrombehindthecounterandwipedmyhandsonmyapron.

Germansdidnotvisitourbar,exceptforrequisitioning.TheyusedtheBarBlanc,atthetopofthetown,whichwaslargerandpossiblyfriendlier.Wehadalwaysmadeitveryclearthatwewerenotaconvivialspacefortheoccupyingforce.Iwonderedwhattheyweregoingtotakefromusnow.Ifwehadanyfewercupsandplateswewouldhavetoaskcustomerstoshare.‘MadameLefèvre.’Inoddedathim.Icouldfeelmycustomers’eyesonme.‘Ithasbeendecidedyouwillprovidemealsforsomeofourofficers.Thereisnotenoughroominthe

BarBlancforourincomingmentoeatcomfortably.’Icouldseehimclearlyforthefirsttimenow.HewasolderthanIhadthought,inhislateforties

perhaps,althoughwithfightingmenitwashardtotell.Theyalllookedolderthantheywere.‘I’mafraidthatwillbeimpossible,HerrKommandant,’Isaid.‘Wehavenotservedmealsatthishotel

formorethaneighteenmonths.Wehavebarelyenoughprovisionstofeedoursmallfamily.Wecannotpossiblyprovidemealstothestandardthatyourmenwillrequire.’‘Iamwellawareofthat.Therewillbesufficientsuppliesdeliveredfromearlynextweek.Iwill

expectyoutoturnoutmealssuitableforofficers.Iunderstandthishotelwasonceafineestablishment.I’msureitlieswithinyourcapabilities.’Iheardmysister’sintakeofbreathbehindme,andIknewshefeltasIdid.Thevisceraldreadof

havingGermansinourlittlehotelwastemperedbythethoughtthatformonthshadoverriddenallothers:food.Therewouldbeleftovers,boneswithwhichtomakestock.Therewouldbecookingsmells,stolenmouthfuls,extrarations,slicesofmeatandcheesetobesecretlyparedoff.Butstill.‘Iamnotsureourbarwillbesuitableforyou,HerrKommandant.Wearestrippedof

comfortshere.’‘Iwillbethejudgeofwheremymenwillbecomfortable.Iwouldliketoseeyourroomsalso.Imay

billetsomeofmymenuphere.’IheardoldRenémutter,‘Sacrebleu!’‘Youarewelcometoseetherooms,HerrKommandant.Butyouwillfindthatyourpredecessorshave

leftuswithlittle.Thebeds,theblankets,thecurtains,eventhecopperpipingthatfedthebasins,theyarealreadyinGermanpossession.’IknewIriskedangeringhim:IhadmadeclearinapackedbarthattheKommandantwasignorantof

theactionsofhisownmen,thathisintelligence,asfarasitstretchedtoourtown,wasfaulty.Butitwasvitalthatmyowntownspeoplesawmeasobstinateandmulish.TohaveGermansinourbarwouldmakeHélèneandmethetargetofgossip,ofmaliciousrumour.Itwasimportantthatwewereseentodoallwecouldtodeterthem.‘Again,Madame,Iwillbethejudgeofwhetheryourroomsaresuitable.Pleaseshowme.’He

motionedtohismentoremaininthebar.Itwouldbecompletelysilentuntilaftertheyhadleft.Istraightenedmyshouldersandwalkedslowlyoutintothehallway,reachingforthekeysasIdidso.I

felttheeyesofthewholeroomonmeasIleft,myskirtsswishingaroundmylegs,theheavystepsoftheGermanbehindme.Iunlockedthedoortothemaincorridor(Ikepteverythinglocked:itwasnotunknownforFrenchthievestostealwhathadnotalreadybeenrequisitionedbytheGermans).Thispartofthebuildingsmeltmustyanddamp;itwasmonthssinceIhadbeenhere.Wewalkedupthe

stairsinsilence.Iwasgratefulthatheremainedseveralstepsbehindme.Ipausedatthetop,waitingfor

himtostepintothecorridor,thenunlockedthefirstroom.Therehadbeenatimewhenmerelytoseeourhotellikethishadreducedmetotears.TheRedRoom

hadoncebeentheprideofLeCoqRouge;thebedroomwheremysisterandIhadspentourweddingnights,theroomwherethemayorwouldputupvisitingdignitaries.Ithadhousedavastfour-posterbed,drapedinblood-redtapestries,anditsgenerouswindowoverlookedourformalgardens.ThecarpetwasfromItaly,thefurniturefromachâteauinGascogne,thecoverletadeepredsilkfromChina.Ithadheldagiltchandelierandahugemarblefireplace,wherethefirewasliteachmorningbyachambermaidandkeptalightuntilnight.Iopenedthedoor,standingbacksothattheGermanmightenter.Theroomwasempty,butforachair

thatstoodonthreelegsinthecorner.Thefloorboardshadbeenstrippedoftheircarpetandweregrey,thickwithdust.Thebedwaslonggone,withthecurtains,amongthefirstthingsstolenwhentheGermanshadtakenourtown.Themarblefireplacehadbeenrippedfromthewall.Forwhatreason,Idonotknow:itwasnotasifitcouldbeusedelsewhere.IthinkBeckerhadsimplywantedtodemoralizeus,toremoveallthingsofbeauty.Hetookastepintotheroom.‘Becarefulwhereyouwalk,’Isaid.Heglanceddown,thensawit:thecorneroftheroomwherethey

hadattemptedtoremovethefloorboardsforfirewoodlastspring.Thehousehadbeentoowellbuilt,itsboardsnailedtoosecurely,andtheyhadgivenupafterseveralhourswhentheyhadremovedjustthreelongplanks.Thehole,agapingOofprotest,exposedthebeamsbeneath.TheKommandantstoodforaminute,staringatthefloor.Heliftedhisheadandgazedaroundhim.I

hadneverbeenaloneinaroomwithaGerman,andmyheartwasthumping.Icouldsmellthefainthintoftobaccoonhim,seetherainsplashesonhisuniform.Iwatchedthebackofhisneck,andeasedmykeysbetweenmyfingers,readytohithimwithmyarmouredfistshouldhesuddenlyattackme.Iwouldnotbethefirstwomanwhohadhadtofightforherhonour.Butheturnedbacktome.‘Aretheyallasbad?’hesaid.‘No,’Ireplied.‘Theothersareworse.’HelookedatmeforsuchalongtimethatIalmostcoloured.ButIrefusedtoletthatmanintimidateme.

Istaredbackathim,athiscroppedgreyinghair,histranslucentblueeyes,studyingmefromunderhispeakedcap.Mychinremainedlifted,myexpressionblank.Finallyheturnedandwalkedpastme,downthestairsandintothebackhallway.Hestoppedabruptly,

peeredupatmyportraitandblinkedtwice,asifhewereonlynowregisteringthatIhadmovedit.‘Iwillhavesomeoneinformyouofwhentoexpectthefirstdeliveryoffood,’hesaid.Hewentbriskly

throughthedoorwayandbacktothebar.

3

‘Youshouldhavesaidno.’MadameDurantpokedabonyfingerintomyshoulder.Ijumped.Sheworeawhitefrilledbonnet,andafadedbluecrochetedcapewaspinnedaroundhershoulders.Thosewhocomplainedaboutlackofnewsnowthatwewerenotallowednewspapershadevidentlynevercrossedmyneighbour’spath.‘What?’‘FeedingtheGermans.Youshouldhavesaidno.’Itwasafreezingmorning,andIhadwrappedmyscarfhigharoundmyface.Ituggeditdowntorespond

toher.‘Ishouldhavesaidno?Andyouwillsayno,whentheydecidetooccupyyourhouse,willyou,Madame?’‘YouandyoursisterareyoungerthanIam.Youhavethestrengthtofightthem.’‘UnfortunatelyIlackthefirearmsofabattalion.WhatdoyousuggestIdo?Barricadeusallin?Throw

cupsandsaucersatthem?’ShecontinuedtoberatemeasIopenedthedoorforher.Thebakerynolongersmeltlikeabakery.It

wasstillwarminside,butthescentofbaguettesandcroissantshadlongsincedisappeared.ThissmallfactmademesadeverytimeIcrossedthethreshold.‘IswearIdonotknowwhatthiscountryiscomingto.IfyourfathercouldhaveseenGermansinhis

hotel…’MadameLouvierhadevidentlybeenwellbriefed.SheshookherheadindisapprovalasIapproachedthecounter.‘Hewouldhavedoneexactlythesamething.’MonsieurArmand,thebaker,shushedthem.‘YoucannotcriticizeMadameLefèvre!Wearealltheir

puppetsnow.MadameDurant,doyoucriticizemeforbakingtheirbread?’‘Ijustthinkit’sunpatriotictodotheirbidding.’‘Easytosaywhenyou’renottheonefacingabullet.’‘So,moreofthemarecominghere?Moreofthempushingtheirwayintoourstorerooms,eatingour

food,stealingouranimals.IswearIdonotknowhowwewillsurvivethiswinter.’‘Aswealwayshave,MadameDurant.Withstoicismandgoodhumour,prayingthatOurLord,ifnotour

braveboys,willgivetheBochearoyalkickuptheirbacksides.’MonsieurArmandwinkedatme.‘Now,ladies,whatwouldyoulike?Wehaveweek-oldblackbread,five-day-oldblackbread,andsomeblackbreadofindeterminateage,guaranteedfreeofweevils.’‘TherearedaysIwouldconsideraweevilawelcomehorsd’oeuvre,’MadameLouviersaid

mournfully.‘ThenIwillsaveajamjarfullforyou,mydearMadame.Believeme,therearemanydaysinwhich

wereceivegeneroushelpingsinourflour.Weevilcake,weevilpie,weevilprofiteroles:thankstoGermangenerosity,wecansupplythemall.’Welaughed.Itwasimpossiblenotto.MonsieurArmandmanagedtoraiseasmileevenonthedirestofdays.

MadameLouviertookherbreadandputitintoherbasketwithdistaste.MonsieurArmandtooknooffence:hesawthatexpressionahundredtimesaday.Thebreadwasblack,squareandsticky.Itgaveoffamustysmell,asifitweremoulderingfromthemomentitlefttheoven.Itwassosolidthattheolderwomenfrequentlyhadtorequestthehelpoftheyoungsimplytocutit.‘Didyouhear,’shesaid,tuckinghercoataroundher,‘thattheyhaverenamedallthestreetsinLeNouvion?’‘Renamedthestreets?’‘GermannamesforFrenchones.MonsieurDinangotwordfromhisson.Youknowwhattheycall

AvenuedelaGare?’Weallshookourheads.MadameLouvierclosedhereyesforamoment,asiftomakesureshehadgot

itright.‘Bahnhofstrasse,’shesaidfinally.‘Bahnhof-what?’‘Canyoubelieveit?’‘Theywillnotberenamingmyshop.’MonsieurArmandharrumphed.‘I’llberenamingtheirbacksides.

BrotthisandBrotthat.Thisisaboulangerie.InruedesBastides.Alwayshasbeen,alwayswill.Bahnhof-whatsit.Ridiculous.’‘Butthisisterrible!’MadameDurantwaspanic-stricken.‘Idon’tspeakanyGerman!’Weallstaredather.‘Well,howamIsupposedtofindmywayaroundmyowntownifIcan’ttellthestreetnames?’Weweresobusylaughingthatforamomentwedidnotnoticethedooropen.Butthentheshopfell

abruptlysilent.IturnedtoseeLilianeBéthunewalkin,herheadup,butfailingtomeetasingleperson’seye.Herfacewasfullerthanmost,herclearskinrougedandpowdered.Sheutteredageneral‘Bonjour,’andreachedintoherbag.‘Twoloaves,please.’Shesmeltofexpensivescent,andherhairwassweptupincurls.Inatownwheremostwomenwere

tooexhaustedortooempty-handedtodoanythingbuttheminimumofpersonalgrooming,shestoodoutlikeaglitteringjewel.Butitwashercoatthatdrewmyeye.Icouldnotstopstaringatit.Itwasjetblack,madeofthefinestastrakhanlambskinandasthickasafurrug.Ithadthesoftsheenofsomethingnewandexpensive,andthecollarrosearoundherfaceasifherlongneckwereemergingfromblacktreacle.Isawtheolderwomenregisterit,theirexpressionshardeningastheirgazetravelleddownitslength.‘Oneforyou,oneforyourGerman?’MadameDurantmuttered.‘Isaidtwoloaves,please.’SheturnedtoMadameDurant.‘Oneforme.Oneformydaughter.’Foronce,MonsieurArmanddidnotsmile.Hereachedunderthecounter,hiseyesneverleavingher

face,andwithhistwomeatyfistsheslammedtwoloavesontoitssurface.Hedidnotwrapthem.Lilianeheldoutanote,buthedidn’ttakeitfromherhand.Hewaitedthefewsecondsittookherto

placeitonthecounter,andthenhepickeditupgingerly,asifitmightinfecthim.Hereachedintohistillandthrewtwocoinsdowninchange,evenassheheldoutherhand.Shelookedathim,andthenatthecounterwherethecoinslay.‘Keepthem,’shesaid.And,witha

furiousglanceatus,shesnatchedupthebread,andsweptoutoftheshop.‘Howshehasthenerve…’MadameDurantwasneverhappierthanwhenshewasoutragedby

somebodyelse’sbehaviour.Luckilyforher,LilianeBéthunehadgrantedherampleopportunitytoexerciseherfuryoverthepastfewmonths.

‘Isupposeshehastoeat,likeeveryoneelse,’Isaid.‘EverynightshegoestotheFourrierfarm.Everynight.Youseehercrossthetown,scuttlinglikea

thief.’‘Shehastwonewcoats,’MadameLouviersaid.‘Theotheroneisgreen.Abrandnewgreenwoolcoat.

FromParis.’‘Andshoes.Ofkidleather.Ofcourseshedarenotwearthemoutintheday.Sheknowsshewouldget

lynched.’‘Shewon’t,thatone.NotwiththeGermanslookingoutforher.’‘Still,whentheyleave,it’llbeanotherstory,eh?’‘Iwouldn’twanttobeinhershoes,kidleatherornot.’‘Idohatetoseeherstruttingabout,rubbinghergoodfortuneineverybody’sfaces.Whodoesshethink

sheis?’MonsieurArmandwatchedtheyoungwomancrossingthesquare.Suddenlyhesmiled.‘Iwouldn’t

worry,ladies.Noteverythinggoesherway.’Welookedathim.‘Canyoukeepasecret?’Idon’tknowwhyhebotheredasking.Thosetwooldwomencouldbarelystaysilentfortensecondsat

atime.‘What?’‘Let’sjustsaysomeofusmakesureMissFancyPantsgetsspecialtreatmentshewasn’texpecting.’‘Idon’tunderstand.’‘Herloavesliveunderthecounterbythemselves.Theycontainsomespecialingredients.Ingredients

thatIpromiseyougointononeofmyotherloaves.’Theoldwomen’seyeswidened.Idarednotaskwhatthebakermeant,buttheglintinhiseyesuggested

severalpossibilities,noneofwhichIwantedtodwellupon.‘Non!’‘MonsieurArmand!’Theywerescandalized,buttheybegantocackle.Ifeltsickthen.Ididn’tlikeLilianeBéthune,orwhatshewasdoing,butthisrevoltedme.‘I’ve–I’ve

gottogo.Hélèneneeds…’Ireachedformybread.Theirlaughterstillringinginmyears,Iranfortherelativesafetyofthehotel.

ThefoodcamethefollowingFriday.Firsttheeggs,twodozen,deliveredbyayoungGermancorporal,whobroughtthemincoveredwithawhitesheet,asifheweredeliveringcontraband.Thenbread,whiteandfresh,inthreebaskets.Ihadgoneoffbreadalittlesincethatdayintheboulangerie,buttoholdfreshloaves,crustyandwarm,leftmealmostdrunkwithdesire.IhadtosendAurélienupstairs,Iwassoafraidhewouldbeunabletoresistthetemptationtobreakoffamouthful.Next,sixhens,theirfeathersstillon,andacratecontainingcabbage,onions,carrotsandwildgarlic.

Afterthiscamejarsofpreservedtomatoes,riceandapples.Milk,coffee,threefatpatsofbutter,flour,sugar.Bottlesandbottlesofwinefromthesouth.HélèneandIacceptedeachdeliveryinsilence.TheGermanshandedusforms,uponwhicheachamounthadbeencarefullynoted.Therewouldbenoeasystealing:aformrequestedthatwenotetheexactamountsusedforeachrecipe.Theyalsoaskedthatweplaceanyscrapsinapailforcollectiontofeedlivestock.WhenIsawthatIwantedtospit.

‘Wearedoingthisfortonight?’Iaskedthelastcorporal.Heshrugged.Ipointedattheclock.‘Today?’Igesturedatthefood.‘Kuchen?’‘Ja,’hesaid,noddingenthusiastically.‘Siekommen.AchtUhr.’‘Eighto’clock,’Hélènesaid,frombehindme.‘Theywanttoeatateighto’clock.’Ourownsupperhadbeenasliceofblackbread,spreadthinlywithjamandaccompaniedbysome

boiledbeetroot.Tohavetoroastchickens,tofillourkitchenwiththescentsofgarlicandtomato,withappletart,feltlikeaformoftorture.Iwasafraid,thatfirstevening,eventolickmyfingers,althoughthesightofthem,drippingwithtomatojuiceorstickywithapple,wassorelytempting.Therewereseveraltimes,asIrolledpastry,orpeeledapples,thatIalmostfaintedwithlonging.WehadtoshooMimi,AurélienandlittleJeanupstairs,fromwhereweheardoccasionalhowlsofprotest.IdidnotwanttocooktheGermansafinemeal.ButIwastooafraidnotto.Atsomepoint,Itold

myself,asIpulledtheroastingchickensfromtheoven,bastingthemwithsizzlingjuice,perhapsImightenjoythesightofthisfood.PerhapsImightrelishthechancetoseeitagain,tosmellit.ButthatnightIcouldnot.Bythetimethedoorbellrang,notifyingusoftheofficers’arrival,mystomachclawedandmyskinsweatedwithhunger.IhatedtheGermanswithanintensityIhaveneverfeltbeforeorsince.‘Madame.’TheKommandantwasthefirsttoenter.Heremovedhisrain-spatteredcapandmotionedto

hisofficerstodothesame.Istood,wipingmyhandsonmyapron,unsurehowtoreact.‘HerrKommandant.’Myfacewas

expressionless.Theroomwaswarm:theGermanshadsentthreebasketsoflogssothatwemightmakeupafire.The

menweredivestingthemselvesofscarvesandhats,sniffingtheair,alreadygrinningwithanticipation.Thescentofthechicken,roastedinagarlicandtomatosauce,hadthoroughlyinfusedtheair.‘Ithinkwewilleatimmediately,’hesaid,glancingtowardsthekitchen.‘Asyouwish,’Isaid.‘Iwillfetchthewine.’Aurélienhadopenedseveralbottlesinthekitchen.Hecameoutscowlingnow,twoinhishands.The

torturethiseveninghadinflictedonushadupsethiminparticular.Iwasafraid,giventherecentbeating,hisyouthandimpulsivenature,thathewouldgethimselfintotrouble.Isweptthebottlesfromhishands.‘GoandtellHélèneshemustservethedinner.’‘But–’‘Go!’Iscoldedhim.Iwalkedaroundthebar,pouringwine.IdidnotlookatanyofthemasIplacedthe

glassesonthetables,eventhoughIfelttheireyesonme.Yes,lookatme,Itoldthemsilently.AnotherscrawnyFrenchwoman,starvedintosubmissionbyyou.Ihopemyappearancerotsyourappetites.Mysisterbroughtoutthefirstplatestomurmursofappreciation.Withinminutesthemenweretucking

in,theircutleryclatteringagainstthechina,exclaimingintheirownlanguage.Iwalkedbackwardsandforwardswithloadedplates,tryingnottobreatheinthedeliciousscents,tryingnottolookattheroastedmeat,glisteningbesidesthebrightvegetables.Atlast,theywereallserved.HélèneandIstoodtogetherbehindthebar,astheKommandantmade

somelengthytoastinGerman.Icannottellyouhowitfeltthentohearthosevoicesinourhome;toseethemeatingthefoodwehadsocarefullyprepared,relaxingandlaughinganddrinking.Iamstrengtheningthesemen,Ithoughtmiserably,whilemybelovedÉdouardmaybeweakwithhunger.Andthisthought,

perhapswithmyownhungerandexhaustion,mademefeelabriefdespair.Asmallsobescapedmythroat.Hélène’shandreachedformine.Shesqueezedit.‘Gotothekitchen,’shemurmured.‘I–’‘Gotothekitchen.IwilljoinyouwhenIhaverefilledtheirglasses.’Justthisonce,Ididasmysistersaid.

Theyateforanhour.SheandIsatinsilenceinthekitchen,lostinexhaustionandtheconfusionofourthoughts.Everytimeweheardaswelloflaughteroraheartyexclamation,welookedup.Itwassohardtoknowwhatanyofitmeant.‘Mesdames.’TheKommandantappearedatthekitchendoor.Wescrambledtoourfeet.‘Themealwas

excellent.Ihopeyoucanmaintainthisstandard.’Ilookedatthefloor.‘MadameLefèvre.’Reluctantly,Iraisedmyeyes.‘Youarepale.Areyouill?’‘Wearequitewell.’Iswallowed.Ifelthiseyesonmelikeaburn.Besideme,Hélène’sfingerstwisted

together,reddenedfromtheunaccustomedhotwater.‘Madame,haveyouandyoursistereaten?’Ithoughtitwasatest.Ithoughthewascheckingthatwehadfollowedthoseinfernalformstotheletter.

Ithoughthemightweightheleftovers,toensurewehadnotsneakedapieceofapplepeelintoourmouths.‘Wehavenottouchedonegrainofrice,HerrKommandant.’Ialmostspatitathim.Hungerwilldothat

toyou.Heblinked.‘Thenyoushould.Youcannotcookwellifyoudonoteat.Whatisleft?’Icouldn’tmove.Hélènemotionedtotheroastingtrayonthestove.Therewerefourquartersofa

chickenthere,keepingwarmincasethemenwantedsecondhelpings.‘Thensitdown.Eathere.’Icouldnotbelievethiswasn’tatrap.‘Thatisanorder,’hesaid.Hewasalmostsmiling,butIdidn’tthinkitwasfunny.‘Really.Goon.’‘Would…woulditbepossibletofeedsomethingtothechildren?Itisalongtimesincetheyhadany

meat.’Hefrownedalittle,asifinincomprehension.Ihatedhim.Ihatedthesoundofmyvoice,begginga

Germanforscrapsoffood.Oh,Édouard,Ithoughtsilently.Ifyoucouldhearmenow.‘Feedyourchildrenandyourselves,’hesaidshortly.Andheturnedandlefttheroom.Wesatthereinsilence,hiswordsringinginourears.ThenHélènegrabbedherskirtsandranupthe

stairs,takingthemtwoatatime.Ihadn’tseenhermovesofastinmonths.Secondslater,shereappeared,withJeaninherarms,stillinhisnightshirt,AurélienandMimibefore

her.‘Isittrue?’Auréliensaid.Hewasstaringatthechicken,hismouthhangingopen.Icouldonlynod.Wefelluponthatunluckybird.IwishIcouldtellyouthatmysisterandIwereladylike,thatwepicked

delicately,astheParisiansdo,thatwepausedtochatandwipeourmouthsbetweenbites.Butwewerelikesavages.Wetoreattheflesh,scoopedhandfulsofrice,atewithourmouthsopen,pickingwildlyat

thebitsthatfellontothetable.InolongercaredwhetherthiswassometrickontheKommandant’spart.Ihavenevertastedanythingasgoodasthatchicken.Thegarlicandtomatoesfilledmymouthwithlong-forgottenpleasure,mynostrilswithscentsIcouldhaveinhaledforever.Weemittedlittlesoundsofdelightasweate,primalanduninhibited,eachlockedintoourownprivateworldofsatisfaction.BabyJeanlaughedandcoveredhisfacewithjuice.Mimichewedpiecesofchickenskin,suckingthegreasefromherfingerswithnoisyrelish.HélèneandIatewithoutspeaking,alwaysensuringthelittleoneshadenough.Whentherewasnothingleft,wheneverybonehadbeensuckedofitsmeat,thetraysemptiedofeach

lastgrainofrice,wesatandstaredateachother.Fromthebar,wecouldhearthechatteroftheGermansbecomingnoisier,astheyconsumedtheirwine,andoccasionalburstsoftheirlaughter.Iwipedmymouthwithmyhands.‘Wemusttellnoone,’Isaid,rinsingthem.Ifeltlikeadrunkwhohadsuddenlybecomesober.‘This

mayneverhappenagain.Andwemustbehaveasifitdidnothappenonce.IfanyonefindsoutthatweatetheGermans’food,wewillbeconsideredtraitors.’WegazedatMimiandAurélienthen,tryingtoimparttothemtheseriousnessofwhatweweresaying.

Auréliennodded.Mimitoo.IthinktheywouldhaveagreedtospeakGermanforeverinthosemoments.Hélènegrabbedadishcloth,wettedit,andsetaboutremovingtracesofthemealfromthefacesofthetwoyoungest.‘Aurélien,’shesaid,‘takethemtobed.Wewillclearup.’Hewasnotinfectedbymymisgivings.Hewassmiling.Histhin,adolescentshouldershaddroppedfor

thefirsttimeinmonths,andashepickedupJean,Iswearhewouldhavewhistledifhecould.‘Noone,’Iwarnedhim.‘Iknow,’hesaid,inthetoneofafourteen-year-oldwhoknowseverything.LittleJeanwasalready

slumpingheavy-liddedonhisshoulder,hisfirstfullmealinmonthsexhaustinghim.Theydisappearedbackupthestairs.Thesoundoftheirlaughterastheyreachedthetopmademyheartache.

Itwaspasteleveno’clockwhentheGermansleft.Wehadbeenunderacurfewforalmostayear;whenthenightsdrewin,ifwehadnocandlesoracetylenelamps,HélèneandIhadacquiredthehabitofgoingtobed.Thebarshutatsix,haddonesincetheoccupation,andwehadn’tbeenupsolateformonths.Wewereexhausted.Ourstomachsgurgledwiththeshockofrichfoodaftermonthsofnear-starvation.Isawmysisterslumpasshescrubbedtheroastingpans.Ididnotfeelquiteastired,andmybrainflickeredwiththememoryofthechicken:itwasasiflong-deadnerveshadbeensparkedintolife.Icouldstilltasteandsmellit.Itburnedinmymindlikeatiny,glowingtreasure.SometimebeforethekitchenwascleanagainIsentHélèneupstairs.Shepushedherhairbackfromher

face.Shehadbeensobeautiful,mysister.WhenIlookedathowthewarhadagedher,Ithoughtofmyownface,andwonderedwhatmyhusbandwouldmakeofme.‘Idon’tliketoleaveyoualonewiththem,’shesaid.Ishookmyhead.Iwasn’tafraid:themoodwaspeaceable.Itishardtorousemenwhohaveeatenwell.

Theyhadbeendrinking,butthebottlesallowedformaybethreeglasseseach;notenoughtoprovokethemtomisbehaviour.Myfatherhadgivenuspreciouslittle,Godknew,buthehadtaughtuswhentobeafraid.Icouldwatchastrangerandknowfromatighteningoftheirjaw,afaintnarrowingoftheeyes,theexactpointatwhichinternaltensionwouldleadtoaflashofviolence.Besides,IsuspectedtheKommandantwouldnottoleratesuch.

Istayedinthekitchen,clearingup,untilthesoundofchairsbeingpushedbackalertedmetothefactthattheywereleaving.Iwalkedthroughtothebar.‘Youmaycloseupnow,’theKommandantsaid.Itriednottobristlevisibly.‘Mymenwishtoconvey

toyoutheirgratitudeforanexcellentmeal.’Iglancedatthem.Igaveaslightnod.Ididnotwishtobeseenasgratefulforthecomplimentsof

Germans.Hedidnotseemtoexpectaresponse.Heplacedhiscaponhishead,andIreachedintomypocketand

handedhimthechitsfromthefood.Heglancedatthemandthrustthembackatme,alittleirritably.‘Idonothandlesuchthings.Givethemtothemenwhodeliverthefoodtomorrow.’‘Désolée,’Isaid,butIhadknownthisfullwell.Somemischievouspartofmehadwishedtoreduce

him,ifonlybriefly,tothestatusofsupportcorps.Istoodthereastheygatheredtheircoatsandhats,someofthemreplacingchairs,withavestigeof

gentlemanlybehaviour,otherscareless,asifitweretheirrighttotreatanyplaceasifitweretheirhome.Sothiswasit,Ithought.WeweretospendtherestofthewarcookingforGermans.Iwonderedbrieflyifweshouldhavecookedbadly,takenlesstrouble.ButMamanhadalways

impressedonusthattocookpoorlywasakindofsininitself.Andhoweverimmoralwehadbeen,howevertraitorous,Iknewthatwewouldallrememberthenightoftheroastedchicken.Thethoughtthattheremightbemoremademefeelalittlegiddy.ItwasthenthatIrealizedhewaslookingatthepainting.Iwasgrippedbyasuddenfear,rememberingmysister’swords.Thepaintingdidlooksubversive,its

colourstoobrightinthefadedlittlebar,theglowinggirlwilfulinherconfidence.Shelooked,Isawnow,almostasifsheweremockingthem.Hekeptstaringatit.Behindhim,hismenhadbeguntoleave,theirvoicesloudandharsh,bouncing

acrosstheemptysquare.Ishiveredalittleeverytimethedooropened.‘Itlookssolikeyou.’Iwasshockedthathecouldseeit.Ididn’twanttoagree.Itimpliedakindofintimacy,thathecouldsee

meinthegirl.Iswallowed.Myknuckleswerewhitewheremyhandspressedtogether.‘Yes.Well,itwasalongtimeago.’‘It’salittlelike…Matisse.’IwassosurprisedbythisthatIspokebeforeIthought.‘Édouardstudiedunderhim,attheAcadémie

MatisseinParis.’‘Iknowofit.HaveyoucomeacrossanartistcalledHansPurrmann?’Imusthavestarted–Isawhis

gazeflicktowardsme.‘Iamagreatadmirerofhiswork.’HansPurrmann.TheAcadémieMatisse.TohearthesewordsfromthemouthofaGerman

Kommandantmademefeelalmostdizzy.Iwantedhimgonethen.Ididn’twanthimtomentionthosenames.Thosememoriesweremine,little

giftsthatIcouldbringouttocomfortmyselfonthedayswhenIfeltoverwhelmedbylifeasitwas;IdidnotwantmyhappiestdayspollutedbythecasualobservationsofaGerman.‘HerrKommandant,Imustclearup.Ifyouwillexcuseme.’Ibeganstackingplates,collectingthe

glasses.Buthedidn’tmove.Ifelthiseyesrestonthepaintingasiftheyrestedonme.

‘ItisalongtimesinceIhadanydiscussionaboutart.’Hespokeasiftothepainting.Finallyheplacedhishandsbehindhisback,andturnedawayfromittome.‘Wewillseeyoutomorrow.’Icouldn’tlookathimashepassed.‘HerrKommandant,’Isaid,myhandsfull.‘Goodnight,Madame.’WhenIfinallymadeitupstairs,Hélènewasasleepfacedownontopofourcoverlet,stillwearingthe

clothesshehadcookedin.Iloosenedhercorset,tookoffhershoesandpulledthecoversoverher.ThenIclimbedintobed,mythoughtshummingandspinningtowardsthedawn.

4

Paris,1912

‘Mademoiselle!’Iglancedupfromthedisplayofgloves,andclosedtheglasscaseoverthem,thesoundswallowedby

thehugeatriumthatmadeupLaFemmeMarché’scentralshoppingarea.‘Mademoiselle!Here!Canyouhelpme?’Iwouldhavenoticedhimevenifhehadn’tbeenshouting.Hewastallandheavyset,withwavyhair

thatfellaroundhisears,atoddswiththeclippedstylesofmostofthegentlemenwhocamethroughourdoors.Hisfeatureswerethickandgenerous,thekindmyfatherwouldhavedismissedaspaysan.Themanlooked,Ithought,likeacrossbetweenaRomanemperorandaRussianbear.AsIwalkedovertohim,hegesturedtowardsthescarves.Buthiseyesremainedonme.Infact,they

stayedonmesolongthatIglancedbehindme,concernedthatMadameBourdain,mysupervisor,mighthavenoticed.‘Ineedyoutochoosemeascarf,’hesaid.‘Whatkindofscarf,Monsieur?’‘Awoman’sscarf.’‘MayIaskhercolouring?Orwhethersheprefersaparticularfabric?’Hewasstillstaring.MadameBourdainwasbusyservingawomaninapeacock-featherhat.Ifshehad

lookedupfromherpositionatthefacecreams,shewouldhavenoticedthatmyearshadturnedpink.‘Whateversuitsyou,’hesaid,adding,‘Shehasyourcolouring.’Isortedcarefullythroughthesilkscarves,myskingrowingeverwarmer,andfreedoneofmy

favourites:afine,feather-lightlengthoffabricinadeepopalescentblue.‘Thiscoloursuitsnearlyeverybody,’Isaid.‘Yes…yes.Holditup,’hedemanded.‘Againstyou.Here.’Hegesturedtowardshiscollarbone.I

glancedatMadameBourdain.Therewerestrictguidelinesastotheleveloffamiliarityforsuchexchanges,andIwasn’tsurewhetherholdingascarftomyexposedneckfellwithinthem.Butthemanwaswaiting.Ihesitated,thenbroughtituptomycheek.Hestudiedmeforsolongthatthewholeofthegroundfloorseemedtodisappear.‘That’stheone.Beautiful.There!’heexclaimed,reachingintohiscoatforhiswallet.‘Youhavemade

mypurchaseeasy.’Hegrinned,andIfoundmyselfsmilingback.Perhapsitwassimplyreliefthathehadstoppedstaringat

me.‘I’mnotsureI–’Iwasfoldingthescarfintissuepaper,thenduckedmyheadasmysupervisor

approached.

‘Yourassistanthasdonesterlingwork,Madame,’heboomed.Iglancedsidewaysather,watchingasshetriedtoreconcilethisman’sratherscruffyexteriorwiththecommandoflanguagethatusuallycamewithextremewealth.‘Youshouldpromoteher.Shehasaneye!’‘Wetrytoensurethatourassistantsalwaysofferprofessionalsatisfaction,Monsieur,’shesaid

smoothly.‘Butwehopethatthequalityofourgoodsmakeseverypurchasesatisfactory.Thatwillbetwofrancsforty.’Ihandedhimhisparcel,thenwatchedhimmakehiswayslowlyacrossthepackedfloorofParis’s

greatestdepartmentstore.Hesniffedthebottledscents,surveyedthebrightlycolouredhats,commentedtothoseservingorevenjustpassing.Whatwoulditbeliketobemarriedtosuchaman,Ithoughtabsently,someoneforwhomeverymomentapparentlycontainedsomesensorypleasure?But–Iremindedmyself–amanwhoalsofeltatlibertytostareatshopgirlsuntiltheyblushed.Whenhereachedthegreatglassdoors,heturnedandlookeddirectlyatme.Heliftedhishatforafullthreeseconds,thendisappearedintotheParismorning.

IhadcometoParisinthesummerof1910,ayearafterthedeathofmymotherandamonthaftermysisterhadmarriedJean-MichelMontpellier,abook-keeperfromtheneighbouringvillage.IhadtakenajobatLaFemmeMarché,Paris’slargestdepartmentstore,andhadworkedmywayupfromstoreroomassistanttoshop-floorassistant,lodgingwithinthestore’sownlargeboardinghouse.IwascontentinParis,onceIhadrecoveredfrommyinitialloneliness,andearnedenoughmoneyto

wearshoesotherthantheclogsthatmarkedmeoutasprovincial.Ilovedthebusinessofit,beingthereateightforty-fivea.m.asthedoorsopenedandthefineParisianwomenstrolledin,theirhatshigh,theirwaistspainfullynarrow,theirfacesframedbyfurorfeathers.Ilovedbeingfreeoftheshadowmyfather’stemperhadcastovermywholechildhood.Thedrunksandreprobatesofthe9tharrondissementheldnofearsforme.AndIlovedthestore:avast,teemingcornucopiaofbeautifulthings.Itsscentsandsightswereintoxicating,itsever-changingstockbringingnewandbeautifulthingsfromthefourcornersoftheworld:Italianshoes,Englishtweeds,Scottishcashmeres,Chinesesilks,fashionsfromAmericaandLondon.Downstairs,itsnewfoodhallsofferedchocolatesfromSwitzerland,glisteningsmokedfish,robust,creamycheeses.AdayspentwithinLaFemmeMarché’sbustlingwallsmeantbeingprivytoadailyglimpseofawider,moreexoticworld.Ihadnowishtomarry(Ididnotwanttoenduplikemymother)andthethoughtofremainingwhereI

was,likeMadameArteuil,theseamstress,ormysupervisor,MadameBourdain,suitedmeverywellindeed.Twodayslater,Iheardhisvoiceagain:‘Shopgirl!Mademoiselle!’Iwasservingayoungwomanwithapairoffinekidgloves.Inoddedathim,andcontinuedmycareful

wrappingofherpurchase.Buthedidn’twait.‘Ihaveurgentneedofanotherscarf,’heannounced.Thewomantookhergloves

frommewithanaudibletut.Ifheheardhedidn’tshowit.‘Ithoughtsomethingred.Somethingvibrant,fiery.Whathaveyougot?’Iwasalittleannoyed.MadameBourdainhadimpressedonmethatthisstorewasalittlepieceof

paradise:thecustomermustalwaysleavefeelingtheyhadfoundahavenofrespitefromthebusystreets(ifonethathadelegantlystrippedthemoftheirmoney).Iwasafraidmyladycustomermightcomplain.Shesweptawaywithherchinraised.

‘Nonono,notthose,’hesaid,asIbegansortingthroughmydisplay.‘Those.’Hepointeddown,withintheglasscabinet,towheretheexpensiveoneslay.‘Thatone.’Ibroughtoutthescarf.Thedeeprubyredoffreshblood,itglowedagainstmypalehands,likea

wound.Hesmiledtoseeit.‘Yourneck,Mademoiselle.Liftyourheadalittle.Yes.Likethat.’Ifeltself-consciousholdingupthescarfthistime.Iknewmysupervisorwaswatchingme.‘Youhave

beautifulcolouring,’hemurmured,reachingintohispocketsforthemoneyasIswiftlyremovedthescarfandbeganwrappingitintissue.‘I’msureyourwifewillbedelightedwithhergifts,’Isaid.Myskinburnedwherehisgazehadlanded.Helookedatmethen,theskinaroundhiseyescrinkling.‘Whereareyourfamilyfrom,youwiththat

skin?Thenorth?Lille?Belgium?’IpretendedIhadn’theardhim.Wewerenotallowedtodiscusspersonalmatterswithcustomers,

especiallymalecustomers.‘Youknowmyfavouritemeal?MoulesmarinièrewithNormandycream.Someonions.Alittlepastis.

Mmm.’Hepressedhislipstohisfingers,andhelduptheparcelthatIhandedhim.‘Àbientôt,Mademoiselle!’ThistimeIdarednotwatchhisprogressthroughthestore.Butfromtheflushatthebackofmyneck,I

knewhehadstoppedagaintolookatme.Ifeltbrieflyinfuriated.InStPéronne,suchbehaviourwouldhavebeenunthinkable.InParis,somedays,IfeltasifIwerewalkingthestreetsinmyundergarments,givenhowParisianmenfeltatlibertytostare.

TwoweeksbeforeBastilleDaytherewasgreatexcitementinthestore;thechanteuseMistinguetthadenteredthegroundfloor.Surroundedbyacoterieofacolytesandassistants,shestoodoutwithherdazzlingsmileandrose-coveredheaddress,asifshehadbeenmorebrilliantlydrawnthananyoneelse.Sheboughtthingswithoutcaringtoexaminethem,pointinggailyatthedisplaysandleavingassistantstogatheritemsinherwake.Wegazedatherfromthesidelinesasifshewereanexoticbird,andwemerelygreyParisianpigeons.Isoldhertwoscarves:oneofcreamsilk,theotheraplushthingfromdyedbluefeathers.Icouldseeitdrapedaroundherneck,andfeltasifIhadbeendustedwithalittleofherglamour.FordaysafterwardsIfeltalittleunbalanced,asiftheexcessofherbeauty,herstyle,hadmademe

awareofitslackinmyself.BearMan,meanwhile,cameinthreemoretimes.Eachtimeheboughtascarf,eachtimesomehow

ensuringthatitwasIwhoservedhim.‘Youhaveanadmirer,’remarkedPaulette(Perfumes).‘MonsieurLefèvre?Becareful,’sniffedLoulou(BagsandWallets).‘Marcelinthepostroomhasseen

himinPigalle,chattingtostreetgirls.Hmph.Talkofthedevil.’Sheturnedbacktohercounter.‘Mademoiselle.’Iflinched,andspunaround.‘I’msorry.’Heleanedoverthecounter,hisbighandsspanningtheglass.‘Ididn’tmeantofrighten

you.’‘Iamfarfromfrightened,Monsieur.’Hisbrowneyesscannedmyfacewithsuchintensity–heseemedtobehavinganinternalconversation

towhichIcouldnotbeprivy.

‘Wouldyouliketolookatsomemorescarves?’‘Nottoday.Iwanted…toaskyousomething.’Myhandwenttomycollar.‘Iwouldliketopaintyou.’‘What?’‘MynameisÉdouardLefèvre.Iamanartist.Iwouldverymuchliketopaintyou,ifyoucouldspare

meanhourortwo.’Ithoughthewasteasingme.IglancedtowhereLoulouandPaulettewereserving,wonderingifthey

werelistening.‘Why…whywouldyouwanttopaintme?’ItwasthefirsttimeIeversawhimlookevenmildlydisconcerted.‘Youreallywantmetoanswer

that?’Ihadsounded,Irealized,asifIwerehopingforcompliments.‘Mademoiselle,thereisnothinguntowardinwhatIaskofyou.Youmaybringachaperoneifyou

choose.Imerelywant…Yourfacefascinatesme.ItremainsinmymindlongafterIleaveLaFemmeMarché.Iwishtocommitittopaper.’Ifoughttheurgetotouchmychin.Myface?Fascinating?‘Will…willyourwifebethere?’‘Ihavenowife.’Hereachedintoapocket,andscribbledonapieceofpaper.‘ButIdohavealotof

scarves.’Hehelditouttome,andIfoundmyselfglancingsideways,likeafelon,beforeIacceptedit.

Ididn’ttellanybody.Iwasn’tevensurewhatIwouldhavesaid.Iputonmybestgownandtookitoffagain.Twice.Ispentanunusualamountoftimepinningmyhair.IsatbymybedroomdoorfortwentyminutesandrecitedallthereasonswhyIshouldnotgo.ThelandladyraisedaneyebrowasIfinallyleft.Ihadshedmygoodshoesandslippedmyclogsback

ontoallayhersuspicions.AsIwalked,Idebatedwithmyself.Ifyoursupervisorshearthatyoumodelledforanartist,theywillcastdoubtonyourmorality.You

couldloseyourjob!Hewantstopaintme!Me,SophiefromStPéronne.TheplainfoiltoHélène’sbeauty.PerhapsthereissomethingcheapinmyappearancethatmadehimconfidentIcouldnotrefuse.He

consortswithgirlsinPigalle…Butwhatisthereinmylifeotherthanworkandsleep?Woulditbesobadtoallowmyselfthisone

experience?TheaddresshehadgivenmewastwostreetsfromthePanthéon.Iwalkedalongthenarrowcobbled

lane,pausedatthedoorway,checkedthenumberandknocked.Nobodyanswered.FromaboveIcouldhearmusic.Thedoorwasslightlyajar,soIpusheditopenandwentin.ImademywayquietlyupthenarrowstaircaseuntilIreachedadoor.FrombehinditIcouldhearagramophone,awomansingingofloveanddespair,amansingingoverher,therich,raspingbassunmistakablyhis.Istoodforamoment,listening,smilingdespitemyself.Ipushedopenthedoor.Avastroomwasfloodedwithlight.Onewallwasbarebrick,anotheralmostentirelyofglass,its

windowsrunningshouldertoshoulderalongitslength.Thefirstthingthatstruckmewastheastonishingchaos.Canvaseslaystackedagainsteachwall;jarsofcongealingpaintbrushesstoodoneverysurface,fightingforspacewithboxesofcharcoalandeasels,withhardeningblobsofglowingcolour.Therewerecanvassheets,pencils,aladder,platesofhalf-finishedfood.Andeverywherethepervasivesmellof

turpentine,mixedwithoilpaint,echoesoftobaccoandthevinegarywhisperofoldwine;darkgreenbottlesstoodineverycorner,somestuffedwithcandles,othersclearlythedetritusofsomecelebration.Agreatpileofmoneylayonawoodenstool,thecoinsandnotesinachaoticheap.Andthere,inthecentreofitall,walkingslowlybackwardsandforwardswithajarofbrushes,lostinthought,wasMonsieurLefèvre,dressedinasmockandpeasanttrousers,asifhewereahundredmilesfromthecentreofParis.‘Monsieur?’Heblinkedatmetwice,asiftryingtorecallwhoIwas,thenputhisjarofbrushesslowlyonatable

besidehim.‘It’syou!’‘Well.Yes.’‘Marvellous!’Heshookhishead,asifhewerestillhavingtroubleregisteringmypresence.

‘Marvellous.Comein,comein.Letmefindyousomewheretosit.’Heseemedbigger,hisbodyclearlyvisiblethroughthefinefabricofhisshirt.Istoodclutchingmybag

awkwardlyashebeganclearingpilesofnewspapersfromanoldchaiselongueuntiltherewasaspace.‘Please,sit.Wouldyoulikeadrink?’‘Justsomewater,thankyou.’Ihadnotfeltuncomfortableonthewaythere,despitetheprecariousnessofmyposition.Ihadn’t

mindedthedinginessofthearea,thestrangestudio.ButnowIfeltslighted,andalittlefoolish,andthismademestiffandawkward.‘Youwerenotexpectingme,Monsieur.’‘Forgiveme.Isimplydidn’tbelieveyouwouldcome.ButI’mverygladyoudid.Veryglad.’He

steppedbackandlookedatme.Icouldfeelhiseyesrunningovermycheekbones,myneck,myhair.Isatbeforehimasrigidasa

starchedcollar.Hegaveoffaslightlyunwashedscent.Itwasnotunpleasant,butalmostoverpoweringinthecircumstances.‘Areyousureyouwouldn’tlikeaglassofwine?Somethingtorelaxyoualittle?’‘No,thankyou.I’djustliketogeton.I…Icanonlyspareanhour.’Wherehadthatcomefrom?Ithink

halfofmealreadywantedtoleave.Hetriedtopositionme,togetmetoputdownmybag,toleanalittleagainstthearmofthechaise

longue.ButIcouldn’t.Ifelthumiliatedwithoutbeingabletosaywhy.AndasMonsieurLefèvreworked,glancingtoandfromhiseasel,barelyspeaking,itslowlydawnedonmethatIdidnotfeeladmiredandimportant,asIhadsecretlythoughtImight,butasifhesawstraightthroughme.Ihad,itseemed,becomeathing,asubject,ofnomoresignificancethanthegreenbottleortheapplesinthestill-lifecanvasbythedoor.Itwasevidentthathedidn’tlikeiteither.Asthehourworeon,heseemedmoreandmoredismayed,

emittinglittlesoundsoffrustration.Isatasstillasastatue,afraidthatIwasdoingsomethingwrong,butfinallyhesaid,‘Mademoiselle,let’sfinish.I’mnotsurethecharcoalgodsarewithmetoday.’Istraightenedwithsomerelief,twistingmyneckonmyshoulders.‘MayIsee?’Thegirlinthepicturewasme,allright,butIwinced.Sheappearedaslifelessasaporcelaindoll.She

boreanexpressionofgrimfortitudeandthestiff-backedprimnessofamaidenaunt.ItriednottoshowhowcrushedIfelt.‘IsuspectIamnotthemodelyouhopedfor.’‘No.It’snotyou,Mademoiselle.’Heshrugged.‘Iam…Iamfrustratedwithmyself.’

‘IcouldcomeagainonSunday,ifyouliked.’Idon’tknowwhyIsaidit.Itwasn’tasifIhadenjoyedtheexperience.Hesmiledatmethen.Hehadthekindesteyes.‘Thatwouldbe…verygenerous.I’msureI’llbeable

todoyoujusticeonanotheroccasion.’ButSundaywasnobetter.Itried,Ireallydid.Ilaywithmyarmacrossthechaiselongue,mybody

twistedliketherecliningAphroditeheshowedmeinabook,myskirtgatheredinfoldsovermylegs.Itriedtorelaxandletmyexpressionsoften,butinthatpositionmycorsetbitintomywaistandastrandofhairkeptslippingoutofitspinsothatthetemptationtoreachforitwasalmostoverwhelming.Itwasalongandarduouscoupleofhours.EvenbeforeIsawthepicture,IknewfromMonsieurLefèvre’sfacethathewas,onceagain,disappointed.Thisisme?Ithought,staringatthegrim-facedgirlwhowaslessVenusthanasourhousekeeper

checkingthesurfacesofhersoftfurnishingsfordust.ThistimeIthinkheevenfeltsorryforme.IsuspectIwastheplainestmodelhehadeverhad.‘Itisnot

you,Mademoiselle,’heinsisted.‘Sometimes…ittakesawhiletogetthetrueessenceofaperson.’Butthatwasthethingthatupsetmemost.Iwasafraidhehadalreadygotit.

ItwasBastilleDaywhenIsawhimagain.IwasmakingmywaythroughthepackedstreetsoftheLatinQuarter,passingunderthehugered,whiteandblueflagsandfragrantwreathsthathungfromthewindows,weavinginandoutofthecrowdsthatstoodtowatchthesoldiersmarchingpast,theirriflescockedovertheirshoulders.ThewholeofPariswascelebrating.Iamusuallycontentwithmyowncompany,butthatdayIwas

restless,oddlylonely.WhenIreachedthePanthéonIstopped:beforemerueSoufflothadbecomeawhirlingmassofbodies,itsnormallygreylengthnowpackedwithpeopledancing,thewomenintheirlongskirtsandbroad-brimmedhats,thebandoutsidetheCaféLéon.Theymovedingracefulcircles,stoodattheedgeofthepavementobservingeachotherandchatting,asifthestreetwereaballroom.Andthentherehewas,sittinginthemiddleofitall,abrightlycolouredscarfaroundhisneck.

Mistinguett,herassociateshoveringaroundher,restedahandpossessivelyonhisshoulderasshesaidsomethingthatmadehimroarwithlaughter.Istaredattheminastonishment.Andthen,perhapscompelledbytheintensityofmygaze,helooked

roundandsawme.Iduckedswiftlyintoadoorwayandsetoffintheoppositedirection,mycheeksflaming.Idivedinandoutofthedancingcouples,myclogsclatteringonthecobbles.Butwithinsecondshisvoicewasboomingbehindme.‘Mademoiselle!’Icouldnotignorehim.Iturned.Helookedforamomentasifhewereabouttoembraceme,but

somethinginmydemeanourmusthavestoppedhim.Insteadhetouchedmyarmlightly,andmotionedmetowardsthethrongofpeople.‘Howwonderfultobumpintoyou,’hesaid.Ibegantomakemyexcuses,stumblingovermywords,butheheldupagreathand.‘Come,Mademoiselle,itisapublicholiday.Eventhemostdiligentmustenjoythemselvesoccasionally.’Aroundustheflagsflutteredinthelate-afternoonbreeze.Icouldhearthemflapping,liketheerratic

poundingofmyheart.Istruggledtothinkofapolitewaytoextricatemyself,buthebrokeinagain.‘Irealize,Mademoiselle,thatshamefully,despiteouracquaintance,Idonotknowyourname.’‘Bessette,’Isaid.‘SophieBessette.’

‘Thenpleaseallowmetobuyyouadrink,MademoiselleBessette.’Ishookmyhead.Ifeltsick,asifinthemereactofcominghereIhadgivenawaytoomuchofmyself.I

glancedbehindhimtowhereMistinguettwasstillstandingamidhergroupoffriends.‘Shallwe?’Heheldouthisarm.AndatthatmomentthegreatMistinguettlookedstraightatme.Itwas,ifI’mhonest,somethinginherexpression,thebriefflashofannoyancewhenheheldouthis

arm.Thisman,thisÉdouardLefèvre,hadthepowertomakeoneofParis’sbrighteststarsfeeldullandinvisible.Andhehadchosenmeoverher.Ipeepedupathim.‘Justsomewater,then,thankyou.’Wewalkedbacktothetable.‘Misty,mydarling,thisisSophieBessette.’Hersmileremained,butthere

wasiceinhergazeasitranthelengthofme.Iwonderedifsherememberedmeservingheratthedepartmentstore.‘Clogs,’oneofhergentlemensaidfrombehindher.‘Howvery…quaint.’Themurmuroflaughtermademyskinprickle.Itookabreath.‘Theemporiumwillbefullofthemforthespringseason,’Irepliedcalmly.‘Theyaretheverylatest

thing.It’slamodepaysanne.’IfeltÉdouard’sfingertipstouchmyback.‘WiththefinestanklesinallParis,IthinkMademoiselleBessettemaywearwhatshelikes.’Abriefsilencefelloverthegroup,asthesignificanceofÉdouard’swordssankin.Mistinguett’seyes

slidawayfromme.‘Enchantée,’shesaid,hersmiledazzling.‘Édouard,darling,Imustgo.So,sobusy.Callonmeverysoon,yes?’Sheheldoutherglovedhandandhekissedit.Ihadtodragmyeyesfromhislips.Andthenshewasgone,aripplepassingthroughthecrowd,asifshewerepartingwater.So,wesat.ÉdouardLefèvrestretchedoutinhischairasifheweresurveyingabeachwhileIwasstill

rigidwithawkwardness.Withoutsayinganything,hehandedmeadrinkandtherewasjustthefaintestapologyinhisexpressionashedidso,with–wasitreally?–ahintofsuppressedlaughter.Asifit–they–wereallsoridiculousthatIcouldnotfeelslighted.Surroundedbythejoyfulpeopledancing,thelaughterandthebrightblueskies,Ibegantorelax.

Édouardspoketomewiththeutmostpoliteness,askingaboutmylifebeforeParis,thepoliticswithintheshop,breakingoffoccasionallytoputhiscigaretteintothecornerofhismouthandshout,‘Bravo!’attheband,clappinghisgreathandshighintheair.Heknewalmosteverybody.Ilosttrackofthenumberofpeoplewhostoppedtosayhelloortobuyhimadrink;artists,shopkeepers,speculativewomen.Itwaslikebeingwithroyalty.ExceptIcouldseetheirgazeflickeringtowardsme,whiletheywonderedwhatamanwhocouldhavehadMistinguettwasdoingwithagirllikeme.‘ThegirlsatthestoresayyoutalktolesputainsofPigalle.’Icouldn’thelpmyself:Iwascurious.‘Ido.Andmanyofthemareexcellentcompany.’‘Doyoupaintthem?’‘WhenIcanaffordtheirtime.’Henoddedatamanwhotippedhishattous.‘Theymakeexcellent

models.Theyaregenerallyutterlyunselfconsciousabouttheirbodies.’‘Unlikeme.’Hesawmyblush.Afterabriefhesitation,heplacedhishandovermine,asifinapology.Itmademe

colourevenmore.‘Mademoiselle,’hesaidsoftly.‘Thosepicturesweremyfailure,notyours.Ihave…’Hechangedtack.‘Youhaveotherqualities.Youfascinateme.Youarenotintimidatedbymuch.’

‘No,’Iagreed.‘Idon’tbelieveIam.’Weatebread,cheeseandolives,andtheywerethebestolivesIhadevertasted.Hedrankpastis,

knockingbackeachglasswithnoisyrelish.Theafternooncrepton.Thelaughtergrewlouder,thedrinkscamefaster.Iallowedmyselftwosmallglassesofwine,andbegantoenjoymyself.Here,inthestreet,onthisbalmyday,Iwasnottheprovincialoutsider,theshopgirlonthelowest-but-onerungoftheladder.Iwasjustanotherreveller,enjoyingtheBastillecelebrations.AndthenÉdouardpushedbackthetableandstoodinfrontofme.‘Shallwedance?’Icouldnotthinkofareasontorefusehim.Itookhishand,andheswungmeoutintotheseaofbodies.I

hadnotdancedsinceIhadleftStPéronne.NowIfeltthebreezewhirlingaroundmyears,theweightofhishandonthesmallofmyback,myclogsunusuallylightonmyfeet.Hecarriedthescentsoftobacco,aniseed,andsomethingmalethatleftmealittleshortofbreath.Idon’tknowwhatitwas.Ihaddrunklittle,soIcouldnotblamethewine.It’snotasifhewere

particularlyhandsome,orthatIhadfeltmylifelackingfortheabsenceofaman.‘Drawmeagain,’Isaid.Hestoppedandlookedatme,puzzled.Icouldn’tblamehim:Iwasconfusedmyself.‘Drawmeagain.Today.Now.’Hesaidnothing,butwalkedbacktothetable,gathereduphistobacco,andwefiledthroughthecrowd

andalongtheteemingstreetstohisstudio.Wewentupthenarrowwoodenstairs,unlockedthedoorintothebrightstudio,andIwaitedwhilehe

shedhisjacket,putarecordonthegramophoneandbegantomixthepaintonhispalette.Andthen,ashehummedtohimself,Ibegantounbuttonmyblouse.Iremovedmyshoesandmystockings.IpeeledoffmyskirtsuntilIwaswearingonlymychemiseandmywhitecottonpetticoat.Isatthere,undressedtomyverycorset,andunpinnedmyhairsothatitfellaboutmyshoulders.WhenheturnedbacktomeIheardhimgasp.Heblinked.‘Likethis?’Isaid.Anxietyflashedacrosshisface.Hewas,perhaps,afraidthathispaintbrushwouldyetagainbetrayme.

Ikeptmygazesteady,myheadhigh.Ilookedathimasifitwereachallenge.Andthensomeartisticimpulsetookoverandhewasalreadylostincontemplationoftheunexpectedmilkinessofmyskin,therussetofmyloosenedhair,andallsemblanceofconcernforprobitywasforgotten.‘Yes,yes.Moveyourhead,alittletotheleft,please.’hesaid.‘Andyourhand.There.Openyourpalmalittle.Perfect.’Ashebegantopaint,Iwatchedhim.Hescannedeveryinchofmybodywithintenseconcentration,as

ifitwouldbeunbearabletogetitwrong.Iwatchedassatisfactioninkeditselfonhisface,andIfeltitmirrormyown.Ihadnoinhibitionsnow.IwasMistinguett,orastreet-walkerfromPigalle,unafraid,unselfconscious.Iwantedhimtoexaminemyskin,thehollowsofmythroat,thesecretglowingundersideofmyhair.Iwantedhimtoseeeverypartofme.AshepaintedItookinhisfeatures,thewayhemurmuredtohimselfwhilemixingcoloursonhis

palette.Iwatchedhimshamblearound,asifhewereolderthanhewas.Itwasanaffectation–hewasyoungerandstrongerthanmostofthemenwhocameintothestore.Irecalledhowheate:withobvious,greedypleasure.Hesangalongwiththegramophone,paintedwhenheliked,spoketowhomhewished

andsaidwhathethought.IwantedtoliveasÉdouarddid,joyfully,suckingthemarrowoutofeverymomentandsingingbecauseittastedsogood.Andthenitwasdark.Hestoppedtocleanhisbrushesandgazedaroundhim,asifhewereonlyjust

noticingit.Helitcandlesandagaslight,placingthemaroundme,thensighedwhenherealizedtheduskhaddefeatedhim.‘Areyoucold?’hesaid.Ishookmyhead,buthewalkedovertoadresser,pullingfromitabrightredwoollenshawl,whichhe

carefullyplacedaroundmyshoulders.‘Thelighthasgonefortoday.Wouldyouliketosee?’Ipulledtheshawlaroundme,andwalkedovertotheeasel,myfeetbareonthewoodenboards.Ifelt

asifIwereinadream,asifreallifehadevaporatedinthehoursIhadsatthere.Iwasafraidtolookandbreakthespell.‘Come.’Hebeckonedmeforwards.OnthecanvasIsawagirlIdidnotrecognize.Shegazedbackatmedefiantly,herhairglintingcopper

inthehalf-light,herskinaspaleasalabaster,agirlwiththeimperiousconfidenceofanaristocrat.Shewasstrangeandproudandbeautiful.ItwasasifIhadbeenshownamagiclooking-glass.‘Iknewit,’hesaid,hisvoicesoft.‘Iknewyouwereinthere.’Hiseyesweretiredandstrainednow,buthewassatisfied.Istaredatheramomentlonger.Then,

withoutknowingwhy,Isteppedforward,reachedupslowlyandtookhisfaceintomyhandssothathehadtolookatmeagain.IheldhisfaceinchesfrommyownandImadehimkeeplookingatme,asifIcouldsomehowabsorbwhathecouldsee.Ihadneverwantedintimacywithaman.Theanimalisticsoundsandcriesthathadleakedfrommy

parents’room–usuallywhenmyfatherwasdrunk–hadappalledme,andIhadpitiedmymotherforherbruisedfaceandhercarefulwalkthefollowingday.ButwhatIfeltforÉdouardoverwhelmedme.Icouldnottakemyeyesfromhismouth.‘Sophie…’Ibarelyheardhim.Idrewhisfaceclosertomine.Theworldevaporatedaroundus.Ifelttheraspof

hisbristlesundermypalms,thewarmthofhisbreathonmyskin.Hiseyesstudiedmyown,soseriously.Isweareventhenitwasasifhehadonlyjustseenme.Ileanedforwards,justafewinches,mybreathstilled,andIplacedmylipsonhis.Hishandscameto

restonmywaist,andtightenedreflexively.Hismouthmetmine,andIinhaledhisbreath,itstracesoftobacco,ofwine,thewarm,wettasteofhim.Oh,God,Iwantedhimtodevourme.Myeyesclosed,mybodysparkedandstuttered.Hishandstangledthemselvesinmyhair,hismouthdroppedtomyneck.Therevellersinthestreetoutsideburstintonoisylaughter,andasflagsflewinthenightbreeze,

somethinginmewasalteredforever.‘Oh,Sophie.Icouldpaintyoueverydayofmylife,’hemurmuredintomyskin.AtleastIthinkhesaid‘paint’.Bythatstageitwasreallytoolatetocare.

5

RenéGrenier’sgrandfatherclockhadbeguntochime.This,itwasagreed,wasadisaster.Formonths,theclockhadbeenburiedunderneaththevegetablepatchthatranalongsidehishouse,alongwithhissilverteapot,fourgoldcoinsandthewatchhisgrandfatherhadwornonhiswaistcoat,topreventitdisappearingintothehandsoftheGermans.Theplanhadworkedwell–indeed,thetowncrunchedunderfootwithvaluablesthathadbeenhastily

buriedundergardensandpathways–untilMadamePoilânehurriedintothebaronebriskNovembermorningandinterruptedhisdailygameofdominoeswiththenewsthatamuffledchimewascomingeveryquarterofanhourfromunderneathwhatremainedofhiscarrots.‘Icanhearit,evenwithmyears,’shewhispered.‘AndifIcanhearit,youcanbesurethattheywill.’‘Areyousurethat’swhatyouheard?’Isaid.‘It’ssolongsinceitwaslastwound.’‘PerhapsitisthesoundofMadameGrenierturninginhergrave,’saidMonsieurLafarge.‘Iwouldnothaveburiedmywifeundermyvegetables,’Renémuttered.‘Shewouldhavemadethem

evenmorebitterandwizenedthantheyare.’Istoopedtoemptytheashtray,loweringmyvoice.‘Youwillhavetodigitupundercoverofnight,

René,andpackitwithsacking.Tonightshouldbesafe–theyhavedeliveredextrafoodfortheirmeal.Withmostoftheminhere,therewillbefewmenonduty.’IthadbeenamonthsincetheGermanshadstartedtoeatatLeCoqRouge,andanuneasytrucehad

settledoveritssharedterritory.Fromteninthemorninguntilhalfpastfive,thebarwasFrench,filledwithitsusualmixtureoftheelderlyandlonely.HélèneandIwouldclearup,thencookfortheGermans,whoarrivedshortlybeforeseven,expectingtheirfoodtobeonthetablesalmostastheywalkedthroughthedoor.Therewerebenefits:whentherewereleftovers,severaltimesaweek,wesharedthem(althoughnowtheretendedtobetheoddscrapsofmeatorvegetables,ratherthanafeastofchicken).Astheweatherturnedcolder,theGermansgothungrier,andHélèneandIwerenotbraveenoughtokeepsomebackforourselves.Still,eventhoseoddmouthfulsofextrafoodmadeadifference.Jeanwasilllessoften,ourskinbegantoclear,andacoupleoftimeswemanagedtosneakasmalljarofstock,brewedfromthebones,tothemayor’shousefortheailingLouisa.Therewereotheradvantages.ThemomenttheGermansleftintheevenings,HélèneandIwouldraceto

thefire,extinguishingthelogsthenleavingtheminthecellartodryout.Afewdays’collectionsofthehalf-burnedoddmentscouldmeanasmallfireinthedaytimewhenitwasparticularlycold.Onthedayswedidthat,thebarwasoftenfulltobursting,eveniffewofourcustomersboughtanythingtodrink.Buttherewas,predictably,anegativeside.MesdamesDurantandLouvierhaddecidedthat,evenifI

didnottalktotheofficers,orsmileatthem,orbehaveasiftheywereanythingbutagrossimpositioninmyhouse,ImustbereceivingGermanlargesse.IcouldfeeltheireyesonmeasItookintheregularsuppliesoffood,wineandfuel.Iknewwewerethesubjectofheateddiscussionaroundthesquare.My

oneconsolationwasthatthenightlycurfewmeanttheycouldnotseethegloriousfoodwecookedforthemen,orhowthehotelbecameaplaceoflivelysoundanddebateduringthosedarkeveninghours.HélèneandIhadlearnedtolivewiththesoundofforeignaccentsinourhome.Werecognizedafewof

themen–therewasthetallthinonewiththehugeears,whoalwaysattemptedtothankusinourownlanguage.Therewasthegrumpyonewiththesalt-and-peppermoustache,whousuallymanagedtofindfaultwithsomething,demandingsalt,pepperorextrameat.TherewaslittleHolger,whodranktoomuchandstaredoutofthewindowasifhismindwasonlyhalfonwhateverwasgoingonaroundhim.HélèneandIwouldnodcivillyattheircomments,takingcaretobepolitebutnotfriendly.Somenights,ifI’mhonest,therewasalmostapleasureinhavingthemthere.NotGermans,buthumanbeings.Men,company,thesmellofcooking.Wehadbeenstarvedofmalecontact,oflife,forsolong.Buttherewereothernightswhenevidentlysomethinghadgonewrong,whentheydidnottalk,whenfacesweretightandsevere,andtheconversationwasconductedinrapid-fireburstsofwhispering.Theyglancedsidewaysatusthen,asifrememberingthatweweretheenemy.Asifwecouldunderstandalmostanythingtheysaid.Aurélienwaslearning.HehadtakentolyingonthefloorofRoomThree,hisfacepressedtothegapin

thefloorboards,hopingthatonedayhemightcatchsightofamaporsomeinstructionthatwouldgrantusmilitaryadvantage.HehadbecomeastonishinglyproficientatGerman:whentheyweregonehewouldmimictheiraccentorsaythingsthatmadeuslaugh.Occasionallyheevenunderstoodsnatchesofconversation;whichofficerwasinderKrankenhaus(hospital),howmanymenweretot.Iworriedforhim,butIwasproudtoo.ItmademefeelthatourfeedingtheGermansmighthavesomehiddenpurposeyet.TheKommandant,meanwhile,wasunfailinglypolite.Hegreetedme,ifnotwithwarmth,thenakindof

increasinglyfamiliarcivility.Hepraisedthefood,withoutattemptingtoflatter,andkeptatighthandonhismen,whowerenotallowedtodrinktoexcessortobehaveinaforwardmanner.Severaltimeshesoughtmeouttodiscussart.Iwasnotquitecomfortablewithone-to-one

conversation,buttherewasasmallpleasureinbeingremindedofmyhusband.TheKommandanttalkedofhisadmirationforPurrmann,oftheartist’sGermanroots,ofpaintingshehadseenbyMatissethathadmadehimlongtotraveltoMoscowandMorocco.AtfirstIwasreluctanttotalk,andthenIfoundIcouldnotstop.Itwaslikebeingremindedofanother

life,anotherworld.HewasfascinatedbythedynamicsoftheAcadémieMatisse,whethertherewasrivalrybetweentheartistsorgenuinelove.Hehadalawyer’swayofspeaking:quick,intelligent,impatienttowardsthosewhocouldnotimmediatelygrasphispoint.IthinkhelikedtotalktomebecauseIwasnotdiscomfitedbyhim.Itwassomethinginmycharacter,Ithink,thatIrefusedtoappearcowed,evenifIsecretlyfeltit.IthadstoodmeingoodsteadinthehaughtyenvironsoftheParisiandepartmentstore,anditworkedequallywellformenow.Hehadaparticularlikingfortheportraitofmeinthebar,andwouldlookatitforsolonganddiscuss

thetechnicalmeritsofÉdouard’suseofcolour,hisbrushstroke,thatIwasbrieflyabletoforgetmyawkwardnessthatIwasitssubject.Hisownparents,heconfided,were‘notcultured’,buthadinspiredinhimapassionforlearning.He

hoped,hesaid,tofurtherhisintellectualstudiesafterthewar,totravel,toread,tolearn.HiswifewascalledLiesl.Hehadachild,too,herevealed,oneevening.Aboyoftwothathehadnotyetseen.(WhenI

toldHélènethisIhadexpectedherfacetocloudwithsympathy,butshehadsaidbrisklythatheshouldspendlesstimeinvadingotherpeople’scountries.)Hetoldmeallthisasifinpassing,withoutattemptingtosolicitanypersonalinformationinreturn.This

didnotstemfromegoism;itwasmoreanunderstandingthatininhabitingmyhomehehadalreadyinvadedmylife;toseekanythingfurtherwouldbetoomuchofanimposition.Hewas,Irealized,somethingofagentleman.ThatfirstmonthIfounditincreasinglydifficulttodismissHerrKommandantasabeast,aBoche,asI

couldwiththeothers.IsupposeIhadcometobelieveallGermanswerebarbaricsoitwashardtopicturethemwithwives,mothers,babies.Therehewas,eatinginfrontofme,nightafternight,talking,discussingcolourandformandtheskillsofotherartistsasmyhusbandmight.Occasionallyhesmiled,hisbrightblueeyessuddenlyframedbydeepcrows’feet,asifhappinesshadbeenafarmorefamiliaremotiontohimthanhisfeaturesleton.IneitherdefendednortalkedabouttheKommandantinfrontoftheothertownspeople.Ifsomeonetried

toengagemeinconversationaboutthetravailsofhavingGermansatLeCoqRouge,Iwouldreplysimplythat,Godwilling,thedaywouldcomesoonwhenourhusbandsreturnedandallthiscouldbeadistantmemory.AndIwouldpraythatnobodyhadnoticedtherehadbeennotasinglerequisitionorderonourhome

sincetheGermanshadmovedin.

ShortlybeforemiddayIleftthefuggyinteriorofthebarandsteppedoutsideonthepretextofbeatingarug.Alightfroststilllayuponthegroundwhereitstoodinshadow,itssurfacecrystallineandglittering.IshiveredasIcarrieditthefewyardsdownthesidestreettoRené’sgarden,andthereIheardit:amuffledchime,signallingaquartertotwelve.WhenIreturned,araggle-tagglegatheringofeldersweremakingtheirwayoutofthebar.‘Wewill

sing,’MadamePoilâneannounced.‘What?’‘Wewillsing.Itwilldrownthechimesuntilthisevening.WewilltellthemitisaFrenchcustom.

SongsfromtheAuvergne.Anythingwecanremember.Whatdotheyknow?’‘Youaregoingtosingallday?’‘No,no.Onthehour.JustifthereareGermansaround.’Ilookedatherindisbelief.‘IftheydigupRené’sclock,Sophie,theywilldigupthiswholetown.Iwillnotlosemymother’s

pearlstosomeGermanHausfrau.’Hermouthpursedinamoueofdisgust.‘Well,you’dbettergetgoing.WhentheclockstrikesmiddayhalfofStPéronnewillhearit.’Itwasalmostfunny.Ihoveredonthefrontstepasthegroupofeldersgatheredatthemouthofthe

alleyway,facingtheGermans,whowerestillstandinginthesquare,andbegantosing.Theysangthenurseryrhymesofmyyouth,aswellas‘LaPastourelle’,‘Bailero’,‘LorsqueJ’étaispetit’,allintheirtunelessraspingvoices.Theysangwiththeirheadshigh,shouldertoshoulder,occasionallyglancingsidewaysateachother.Renélookedalternatelygrumpyandanxious.MadamePoilâneheldherhandsinfrontofher,aspiousasaSunday-schoolteacher.AsIstood,dishclothinhand,tryingnottosmile,theKommandantcrossedthestreet.‘Whatarethese

peopledoing?’

‘Goodmorning,HerrKommandant.’‘Youknowtherearetobenogatheringsonthestreet.’‘Theyarehardlyagathering.It’safestival,HerrKommandant.AFrenchtradition.Onthehour,in

November,theelderlyofStPéronnesingfolksongstowardofftheapproachofwinter.’Isaidthiswithutterconviction.TheKommandantfrowned,thenpeeredroundmeattheoldpeople.TheirvoicesliftedinunisonandIguessedthat,behindthem,thechiminghadbegun.‘Buttheyareterrible,’hesaid,loweringhisvoice.‘ItistheworstsingingIhaveeverheard.’‘Please…don’tstopthem.Theyareinnocentpeasantsongs,asyoucanhear.Itgivestheoldpeoplea

littlepleasuretosingthesongsoftheirhomeland,justforoneday.Surelyyouwouldunderstandthat.’‘Theyaregoingtosinglikethisallday?’Itwasn’tthegatheringitselfthattroubledhim.Hewaslikemyhusband:physicallypainedbyanyart

thatwasnotbeautiful.‘It’spossible.’TheKommandantstoodverystill,hissensestrainedonthesound.Iwassuddenlyanxious:ifhisear

formusicwasasgoodashiseyeforpainting,hemightyetdetectthechimingbeneathit.‘Iwaswonderingwhatyouwantedtoeattonight,’Isaidabruptly.‘What?’‘Whetheryouhadanyfavourites.Imean,ouringredientsarelimited,yes,buttherearevariousthingsI

mightbeabletomakeforyou.’IcouldseeMadamePoilâneurgingtheotherstosinglouder,herhandsgesturingsurreptitiouslyupwards.TheKommandantseemedbrieflypuzzled.Ismiled,andforamomenthisfacesoftened.‘That’svery–’Hebrokeoff.ThierryArteuilwasrunninguptheroad,hiswoollenscarfflyingashepointedbehindhim.‘Prisoners

ofwar!’TheKommandantwhippedroundtowardshismen,alreadygatheringinthesquare,andIwas

forgotten.Iwaitedforhimtogo,thenhurriedacrosstothegroupofsingingelders.HélèneandthecustomersinsideLeCoqRouge,perhapshearingthegrowingcommotion,werepeeringthroughthewindows,someedgingoutontothepavement.Therewasabriefhush.Thenupthemainstreettheycame,aroundahundredmen,organizedintoa

smallconvoy.Besideme,theoldpeoplekeptsinging,theirvoicesatfirstfalteringastheyrealizedwhattheywerewitnessing,thengrowinginstrengthanddetermination.Therewashardlyamanorwomanwhodidnotanxiouslyscanthestumblingsoldiersforawell-known

face.Buttherewasnorelieftobehadfromtheabsenceoffamiliarity.WerethesereallyFrenchmen?Theylookedsoshrunken,sogreyanddefeated,theirclotheshangingfrommalnourishedbodies,theirwoundsdressedwithfilthyoldbandages.Theypassedafewfeetbeforeus,theirheadslowered,Germansattheirfrontandrear,andwewerepowerlesstodoanythingbutstare.Iheardtheoldpeople’schorusliftingdeterminedlyaroundme,suddenlymoretunefulandharmonic:‘I

standinwindandrainandsingbailerolero…’Agreatlumproseinmythroatatthethoughtthatsomewhere,manymilesaway,thismightbeÉdouard.

IfeltHélène’shandgripmine,andknewshewasthinkingthesame.

Hereallthegrassisgreener,Singbailerolero…Ishallcomedownandfetchyouo’er…

Wescannedtheirfaces,ourownfrozen.MadameLouvierappearedbesideus.Asquickasamouse,sheforcedherwaythroughourlittlegroupandthrusttheblackbreadthatshehadjustcollectedfromtheboulangerieintothehandsofoneoftheskeletalmen,herwoollenshawlflyingaroundherfaceinthebriskwind.Heglancedup,unsureofwhathadarrivedinhishands.Andthen,withashout,aGermansoldierwasinfrontofthem,hisriflebuttthrashingitfromtheman’shandevenasheregisteredwhathehadbeengiven.Theloaftoppledtothegutterlikeabrick.Thesingingstopped.MadameLouvierstaredatthebread,thenliftedherheadandshrieked,hervoicepiercingthestillair,

‘Youanimal!YouGermans!Youwouldstarvethesemenlikedogs!Whatiswrongwithyou?Youareallbastards!Sonsofwhores!’Ihadneverheardheruselanguagelikeit.Itwasasifsomefinethreadhadsnapped,leavingherloose,untethered.‘Youwanttobeatsomeone?Beatme!Goon,youbastardthug.Beatme!’Hervoicecutthroughthestill,coldair.IfeltHélène’shandgripmyarm.Iwilledtheoldwomantobequiet,butshekeptshrieking,herthinold

fingerpointingandjabbingattheyoungsoldier’sface.Iwassuddenlyafraidforher.TheGermanglancedatherwithanexpressionofbarelysuppressedfury.HisknuckleswhitenedonhisriflebuttandIfearedhewouldstrikeher.Shewassofrail:heroldboneswouldshatterifhedid.Butasweheldourbreathhereacheddown,pickedtheloafoutofthegutterandthrustitbackather.Shelookedathimasifshehadbeenstung.‘YouthinkIwouldeatthisknowingthatyouknockeditfrom

thehandofastarvingbrother?Youthinkthisisnotmybrother?Theyareallmybrothers!Allmysons!VivelaFrance!’shespat,heroldeyesglistening.‘VivelaFrance!’Asifcompelledtodoso,theoldpeoplebehindmebrokeintoanechoingmurmur,thesingingbrieflyforgotten.‘VivelaFrance!’Theyoungsoldierglancedbehindhim,perhapsforinstructionfromhissuperior,butwasdistractedby

ashoutfurtherdowntheline.Aprisonerhadtakenadvantageofthecommotiontobreakforfreedom.Theyoungman,hisarminamakeshiftsling,hadslippedfromtheranksandwasnowfleeingacrossthesquare.TheKommandant,standingwithtwoofhisofficersbythebrokenstatueofMayorLeclerc,wasthe

firsttoseehim.‘Halt!’heshouted.Theyoungmanranfaster,hisoversizedshoesslippingfromhisfeet.‘HALT!’Theprisonerdroppedhisbackpackandappearedbrieflytopickupspeed.Hestumbledashelosthis

secondshoe,butsomehowrightedhimself.Hewasabouttodisappeararoundthecorner.TheKommandantwhippedapistolfromhisjacket.AlmostbeforeIhadregisteredwhathewasdoing,heliftedhisarm,aimedandfired.Theboywentdownwithanaudiblecrack.Theworldstopped.Thebirdsfellsilent.WestaredatthemotionlessbodyonthecobblesandHélène

letoutalowmoan.Shemadeasiftogotohim,buttheKommandantorderedusalltostayback.HeshoutedsomethinginGerman,andhismenraisedtheirrifles,pointingthemattheremainingprisoners.Nobodymoved.Thecaptivesstaredattheground.Theyseemedunsurprisedbythisturnofevents.

Hélène’shandshadgonetohermouth,andshetrembled,mutteringsomethingIcouldnothear.Islidmyarmaroundherwaist.Icouldhearmyownraggedbreathing.TheKommandantwalkedbrisklyawayfromustowardstheprisoner.Whenhereachedhim,he

droppedtohishaunches,andpressedhisfingerstotheyoungman’sjaw.Adarkredpuddlealreadystainedhisthreadbarejacket,andIcouldseehiseyes,staringblanklyacrossthesquare.TheKommandantsquattedthereforaminute,thenstoodagain.TwoGermanofficersmovedtowardshim,but

hemotionedthemintoformation.Hewalkedbackacrossthesquare,tuckinghispistolintohisjacket.Hestoppedbrieflywhenhepassedinfrontofthemayor.‘Youwillmakethenecessaryarrangements,’hesaid.Themayornodded.Isawthefainttictohisjaw.Withashout,thecolumnmovedonuptheroad,theprisonerswiththeirheadsbowed,thewomenofSt

Péronnenowweepingopenlyintotheirhandkerchiefs.ThebodylayinacrumpledheapashortdistanceacrossfromruedesBastides.LessthanaminuteaftertheGermanshadmarchedaway,RenéGrenier’sclockchimedamournful

quarterpastthehourintothesilence.

ThatnightthemoodinLeCoqRougewassober.TheKommandantdidnotattempttomakeconversation;neitherdidIgivetheslightestimpressionthatIwishedforit.HélèneandIservedthemeal,washedthecookingpots,andremainedinthekitchenasfaraswecould.Ihadnoappetite.Icouldnotescapetheimageofthatpooryoungman,hisraggedclothesflyingoutbehindhim,hisoversizedshoesfallingfromhisfeetashefledtohisdeath.Morethanthat,Icouldnotbelievethattheofficerwhohadwhippedouthispistolandshothimso

pitilesslywasthesamemanwhohadsatatmytables,lookingwistfulaboutthechildhehadnotseen,exclaimingabouttheartthathehad.Ifeltfoolish,asiftheKommandanthadconcealedhistrueself.ThiswaswhattheGermanswereherefor,notdiscussionsaboutartanddeliciousfood.Theywereheretoshootoursonsandhusbands.Theywereheretodestroyus.Imissedmyhusbandatthatmomentwithaphysicalpain.ItwasnownearlythreemonthssinceIhad

lastreceivedwordfromhim.Ihadnoideaofwhatheendured.Whileweexistedinthisstrangebubbleofisolation,Icouldconvincemyselfthathewasfineandrobust,thathewasoutthereintherealworld,sharingaflaskofcognacwithhiscomrades,orperhapssketchingonascrapofpaperinsomeidlehours.WhenIclosedmyeyesIsawtheÉdouardIrememberedfromParis.ButseeingthosepitifulFrenchmenmarchedthroughthestreetsmadeitharderformetoholdontomyfantasy.Édouardmightbecaptured,injured,starving.Hemightbesufferingasthosemensuffered.Hemightbedead.Ileanedonthesinkandclosedmyeyes.AtthatmomentIheardthecrash.Jerkedawayfrommythoughts,Iranoutofthekitchen.Hélènestood

withherbacktome,herhandsraised,atrayofbrokenglassesatherfeet.Againstthewall,theKommandanthadayoungmanbythethroat.HewasshoutingsomethingathiminGerman,hisfacecontorted,inchesfromtheman’sown.Hisvictim’shandswereupinagestureofsubmission.‘Hélène?’Shewasashen.‘HeputhishandonmeasIwentpast.But…butHerrKommandanthasgonemad.’Theothermenwerearoundthemnow,pleadingwiththeKommandant,tryingtopullhimoff,their

chairsoverturning,shoutingovereachotherinanattempttobeheard.Thewholeplacewasbrieflyinuproar.EventuallytheKommandantseemedtohearthemandloosenedhisgripontheyoungerman’sthroat.Ithoughthiseyesmetmine,briefly,butthen,ashetookastepback,hisfistshotoutandhepunchedthemanhardinthesideofthehead,sothathisfacericochetedoffthewall.‘SiekönnennichtberührendieFrauen,’heyelled.‘Thekitchen.’Ipushedmysistertowardsthedoor,notevenstoppingtoscoopupthebrokenglass.I

heardtheraisedvoices,theslamofadoor,andIhurriedafterherdownthehallway.

‘MadameLefèvre.’Iwaswashingthelastoftheglasses.Hélènehadgonetobed;theday’seventshadexhaustedhereven

morethantheyhadme.‘Madame?’‘HerrKommandant.’Iturnedtohim,dryingmyhandsonthecloth.Weweredowntoonecandleinthe

kitchen,awicksetinsomefatinasardinetin;Icouldbarelymakeouthisface.Hestoodinfrontofme,hiscapinhishands.‘I’msorryaboutyourglasses.Iwillmakesuretheyare

replaced.’‘Pleasedon’tbother.Wehaveenoughtogetby.’Iknewanyglasseswouldsimplyberequisitioned

frommyneighbours.‘I’msorryabout…theyoungofficer.Pleaseassureyoursisteritwillnothappenagain.’Ididn’tdoubtit.ThroughthebackwindowIhadseenthemanbeinghelpedbacktohisbilletbyoneof

hisfriends,awetclothpressedtothesideofhishead.IthoughttheKommandantmightleavethen,buthejuststoodthere.Ifelthimstaringatme.Hiseyes

wereunquiet,anguishedalmost.‘Thefoodtonightwas…excellent.Whatwasthenameofthedish?’‘Choufarci.’Hewaited,andwhenthepausegrewuncomfortablylong,Iadded,‘It’ssausage-meat,somevegetables

andherbs,wrappedincabbageleavesandpoachedinstock.’Helookeddownathisfeet.Hetookafewstepsaroundthekitchen,thenstopped,fingeringajarof

utensils.Iwondered,absently,ifhewereabouttotakethem.‘Itwasverygood.Everyonesaidso.YouaskedmetodaywhatIwouldliketoeat.Well…wewould

liketohavethatdishagainbeforetoolong,ifitisnottoomuchtrouble.’‘Asyouwish.’Therewassomethingdifferentabouthimthisevening,somesubtleairofagitationthatroseoffhimin

waves.Iwonderedhowitfelttohavekilledaman,whetheritfeltanymoreunusualtoaGermanKommandantthantakingasecondcupofcoffee.Heglancedatmeasifhewereabouttosaysomethingelse,butIturnedbacktomypans.BehindhimI

couldhearthedragofchairlegsonthefloorastheotherofficerspreparedtoleave.Itwasraining,afine,meanspitthathitthewindowsalmosthorizontally.‘Youmustbetired,’hesaid.‘Iwillleaveyouinpeace.’Ipickedupatrayofglassesandfollowedhimtowardsthedoor.Ashereachedit,heturnedandputon

hiscap,sothatIhadtostop.‘Ihavebeenmeaningtoask.Howisthebaby?’‘Jean?Heisfine,thankyou,ifalittle–’‘No.Theotherbaby.’Inearlydroppedthetray.Ihesitatedforamoment,collectingmyself,butIfeltthebloodrushtomy

neck.Iknewhesawit.WhenIspokeagain,myvoicewasthick.Ikeptmyeyesontheglassesinfrontofme.‘Ibelieveweare

all…aswellaswecanbe,giventhecircumstances.’Hethoughtaboutthis.‘Keephimsafe,’hesaidquietly.‘Besthedoesn’tcomeoutinthenightairtoo

often.’Helookedatmeamomentlonger,thenturnedandwasgone.

6

Ilayawakethatnight,despitemyexhaustion.IwatchedHélènesleepfitfully,murmuring,herhandreachingacrossunconsciouslytocheckthatherchildrenwerebesideher.Atfive,whileitwasstilldark,Iclimbedoutofbed,wrappingmyselfinseveralblankets,andtiptoeddownstairstoboilwaterforcoffee.Thediningroomwasstillinfusedwiththescentsofthepreviousevening:woodfromthegrateandafainthintofsausage-meatthatcausedmystomachtorumble.Imademyselfahotdrinkandsatbehindthebar,gazingoutacrosstheemptysquareasthesuncameup.Asthebluelightbecamestreakedwithorange,itwasjustpossibletodistinguishafaintshadowinthefarright-handcornerwheretheprisonerhadfallen.Hadthatyoungmanhadawife,achild?Weretheysittingatthismomentcomposingletterstohimorprayingforhissafereturn?Itookasipofmydrinkandforcedmyselftolookaway.Iwasabouttogobacktomyroomtodresswhentherewasarapatthedoor.Iflinched,seeinga

shadowbehindthecottonscreen.Ipulledmyblanketaroundme,staringatthesilhouette,tryingtoworkoutwhowouldbecallingonusatsuchanhour,whetheritwastheKommandant,cometotormentmeaboutwhatheknew.Iwalkedsilentlytowardsthedoor.Iliftedthescreenandthere,ontheotherside,wasLilianeBéthune.Herhairwaspiledupinpincurls,shewaswearingtheblackastrakhancoat,andhereyeswereshadowed.SheglancedbehindherasIunlockedthetopandbottomboltsandopenedthedoor.‘Liliane?Areyou…doyouneedsomething?’Isaid.Shereachedintohercoatandpulledoutanenvelope,whichshethrustatme.‘Foryou,’shesaid.Iglancedatit.‘But…howdidyou–’Sheheldupapalehand,shookherhead.Ithadbeenmonthssinceanyofushadreceivedaletter.TheGermanshadlongkeptusina

communicationsvacuum.Iheldit,disbelieving,thenrecoveredmymanners.‘Wouldyouliketocomein?Havesomecoffee?Ihavealittlerealcoffeeputby.’Shegavemethesmallestofsmiles.‘No.Thankyou.Ihavetogohometomydaughter.’BeforeIcould

eventhankher,shewastrottingupthestreetinherhighheels,herbackhunchedagainstthecold.Ishutthescreenandre-boltedthedoor.ThenIsatdownandtoreopentheenvelope.Hisvoice,solong

absent,filledmyears.DearestSophie

ItissolongsinceIheardfromyou.Iprayyouaresafe.Itellmyselfindarkermomentsthatsomepartofmewouldfeelit,likethevibrationsofadistantbell,ifyouwerenot.Ihavesolittletoimpart.ForonceIhavenodesiretotranslateintocolourtheworldIseearoundme.Wordsseemwholly

inadequate.Knowonlythat,preciouswife,Iamsoundofmindandbody,andthatmyspiritiskeptwholebythethoughtofyou.

Themenhereclutchphotographsoftheirlovedonesliketalismans,protectionagainstthedark–crumpled,dirtyimagesendowedwiththepropertiesoftreasure.Ineednophotographtoconjureyoubeforeme,Sophie:Ineedonlytoclosemyeyestorecallyourface,yourvoice,yourscent,andyoucannotknowhowmuchyoucomfortme.

Know,mydarling,thatImarkeachdaynot,likemyfellowsoldiers,asonethatIamgratefultosurvive,butthankingGodthateachmeansImustsurelybetwenty-fourhoursclosertoreturningtoyou.

YourÉdouard

Itwasdatedtwomonthspreviously.Idon’tknowifitwasexhaustion,orperhapsshockfromthepreviousday’sevents–Iamnotsomeone

whocrieseasily,ifatall–butIputthelettercarefullybackintoitsenvelope,thenrestedmyheadonmyhandsand,inthecold,emptykitchen,Isobbed.

IcouldnottelltheothervillagerswhyitwastimetoeatthepigbuttheapproachofChristmasgavemetheperfectexcuse.TheofficersweretohavetheirdinneronChristmasEveinLeCoqRouge,alargergatheringthannormal,anditwasagreedthatwhiletheywerehereMadamePoilânewouldholdasecretréveillonatherhome,twostreetsdownfromthesquare.ForaslongasIcouldkeeptheGermanofficersoccupied,ourlittlebandoftownspeoplewouldbesafetoroastandeatthepiginthebreadoventhatMadamePoilânehadinhercellar.HélènewouldhelpmeservetheGermanstheirdinner,thensneakthroughtheholeinthecellarwallandoutdownthealleytojointhechildrenatMadamePoilâne’shouse.Thosevillagerswholivedtoofarfromhertowalkthroughthetownunnoticedwouldremaininherhomeaftercurfew,hidingifanyGermanscamechecking.‘Butthatisn’tfair,’Hélèneremarked,whenIoutlinedtheplantothemayorinfrontofhertwodays

later.‘Ifyouremainhereyouwillbetheonepersontomissit.That’snotright,givenallyoudidtosafeguardthepig.’‘Oneofushastostay,’Ipointedout.‘Youknowit’sfarsaferifwecanbesurethattheofficersareall

inoneplace.’‘Butitwon’tbethesame.’‘Well,nothingisthesame,’Isaidcurtly.‘AndyouknowaswellasIdothatHerrKommandantwill

noticeifIamgone.’Isawherexchangeglanceswiththemayor.‘Hélène,don’tfuss.Iamlapatronne.Heexpectstoseemehereeveryevening.Hewillknow

somethingisgoingonifIammissing.’Isounded,eventomyownears,asifIwasprotestingtoomuch.‘Look,’Icontinued,forcingmyselfto

soundconciliatory.‘Savemesomemeat.Bringitbackinanapkin.Icanpromiseyouthat,iftheGermansaregivenrationsenoughtofeaston,IwillmakesureIhelpmyselftoashare.Iwillnotsuffer.Ipromise.’Theyappearedmollified,butIcouldn’ttellthemthetruth.EversinceIhaddiscoveredthatthe

Kommandantknewaboutthepig,Ihadlostmyappetiteforit.Thathehadnotrevealedhisknowledgeofitsexistence,letalonepunishedus,didn’tmakemejoyouswithrelief,butdeeplyuneasy.NowwhenIsawhimstaringatmyportrait,InolongerfeltgratifiedthatevenaGermancould

recognizemyhusband’stalent.Whenhewalkedintothekitchentomakecasualconversation,Ibecamestiffandtense,afraidhemightmentionit.‘Yetagain,’themayorsaid,‘Isuspectwefindourselvesinyourdebt.’Helookedbeatendown.His

daughterhadbeenillforaweek;hiswifehadoncetoldmethateverytimeLouisafellillhebarelysleptforanxiety.‘Don’tberidiculous,’Isaidbriskly.‘Comparedtowhatourmenaredoing,thisisjustanotherday’s

work.’

Mysisterknewmetoowell.Shedidn’taskquestionsdirectly;thatwasnotHélène’sstyle.ButIcouldfeelherwatchingme,couldhearthefaintedgetohervoicewheneverthequestionoftheréveillonwasraised.Finally,aweekbeforeChristmas,Iconfidedinher.Shehadbeensittingonthesideofherbed,doingherhair.Thebrushstilledinherhand.‘Whydoyouthinkhehasnottoldanyone?’Iasked,whenIfinished.Shestaredatthebedspread.Whenshelookedatmeitwaswithakindofdread.‘Ithinkhelikesyou,’

shesaid.

TheweekbeforeChristmaswasbusy,eventhoughwehadlittlewithwhichtoprepareforthefestivities.Hélèneandacoupleoftheolderwomenhadbeensewingragdollsforthechildren.Theywereprimitive,theirskirtsmadeofsacking,theirfacesembroideredstockings.ButitwasimportantthatthechildrenwhoremainedinStPéronnehadalittlemagicinthatbleakChristmas.Igrewalittlebolderinmyownefforts.TwiceIstolepotatoesfromtheGermanrations,mashingwhat

waslefttodisguisethesmalleramounts,andferriedtheminmypocketstothosewhoseemedparticularlyfrail.IstolethesmallercarrotsandfedthemintothehemofmyskirtsothatevenwhenIwasstoppedandsearched,theyfoundnothing.TothemayorItooktwojarsofchickenstock,sothathiswifecouldmakeLouisaalittlebroth.Thechildwaspaleandfeverish;hiswifetoldmeshekeptlittledownandseemedtoberetreatingintoherself.Lookingather,swallowedbythevastoldbedwithitsthreadbareblankets,listlessandcoughingintermittently,IthoughtbrieflythatIcouldhardlyblameher.Whatlifewasthisforchildren?Wetriedtohidetheworstofitfromthemasbestwecould,buttheyfoundthemselvesinaworldwhere

menwereshotinthestreet,wherestrangershauledtheirmothersfromtheirbedsbytheirhairforsometrivialoffence,likewalkinginabannedwoodorfailingtoshowaGermanofficersufficientrespect.Mimiviewedourworldwithsilent,suspiciouseyes,whichbrokeHélène’sheart.Auréliengrewangry:Icouldseeitbuildinginhim,likeavolcanicforce,andIprayeddailythatwhenhefinallyerupted,itwouldnotcomeathugecosttohimself.Butthebiggestnewsthatweekwasthearrivalthroughmydoorofanewspaper,roughlyprinted,and

entitledJournaldesOccupés.TheonlynewspaperallowedinStPéronnewastheGerman-controlledBulletindeLille,whichwassoobviouslyGermanpropagandathatfewofusdidmorewithitthanuseitforkindling.Butthisonegavemilitaryinformation,namingthetownsandvillagesunderoccupation.Itcommentedonofficialcommuniqués,andcontainedhumorousarticlesabouttheoccupation,limericksabouttheblackbreadandcartoonishsketchesoftheofficersincharge.Itbeggeditsreadersnottoenquirewhereithadcomefrom,andtodestroyitwhenithadbeenread.ItalsocontainedalistitcalledVonHeinrich’sTenCommandmentsthatridiculedthemanypettyrules

imposeduponus.Icannottellyoutheboostthatfour-pagescrapgavetoourlittletown.Inthefewdaysuptothe

réveillon,asteadystreamoftownspeoplecameintothebarandeitherthumbedthroughitspagesinthelavatory(duringthedaywekeptitatthebottomofabasketofoldpaper)orpassedonitsnewsandbetterjokesfacetoface.WespentsolonginthelavatorythattheGermansaskedifsomesicknessweregoinground.Fromthenewspaperwediscoveredthatothernearbytownshadsufferedourfate.Weheardofthe

dreadedreprisalcamps,wheremenwerestarvedandworkedhalftodeath.WediscoveredthatParis

knewlittleofourplight,andthatfourhundredwomenandchildrenhadbeenevacuatedfromRoubaix,wherefoodsupplieswereevenlowerthantheywereinStPéronne.Itwasnotthatthesepiecesofinformationinthemselvesconstitutedanythinguseful.ButitremindedusthatwewerestillpartofFrance,thatourlittletownwasnotaloneinitstravails.Moreimportantly,thenewspaperitselfwasamatterofsomepride:theFrenchwerestillcapableofsubvertingthewilloftheGermans.Therewerefeverishdiscussionsastohowthismighthavereachedus.ThatithadbeendeliveredtoLe

CoqRougewentsomewaytoalleviatingthegrowingdiscontentcausedbyourcookingfortheGermans.IwatchedLilianeBéthunehurrypasttofetchherbreadinherastrakhancoatandhadmyownideas.

TheKommandanthadinsistedthatweeat.Itwasthecooks’privilege,hesaid,onChristmasEve.Wehadbelievedourselvespreparingforeighteen,onlytodiscoverthatthefinaltwowereHélèneandme.Wespenthoursrunningaroundthekitchen,ourexhaustionoutweighedbyoursilent,unspokenpleasureinwhatweknewtobegoingontwostreetsfromours:theprospectofaclandestinecelebrationandpropermeatforourchildren.Tobegiventwowholemealsaswellseemedalmosttoomuch.Andyetnottoomuch.Icouldneverhaveturneddownamealagain.Thefoodwasdelicious:duck

roastedwithorangeslicesandpreservedginger,potatoesdauphinoisewithgreenbeans,allfollowedbyaplateofcheeses.Hélèneatehers,marvellingthatshewouldbeeatingtwosuppers.‘Icangivesomeoneelsemyportionofpork,’shesaid,suckingabone.‘Imightkeepalittlebitofthecrackling.Whatdoyouthink?’Itwassogoodtoseehercheerful.Ourkitchen,thatnight,seemedahappyplace.Therewereextra

candles,givingusalittlemorepreciouslight.TherewerethefamiliarsmellsofChristmas–Hélènehadstuddedoneoftheorangeswithclovesandhungitoverthestovesothatthescentinfusedthewholeroom.Ifyoudidn’tthinktoohard,youcouldlistentotheglassesclinking,thelaughterandconversation,andforgetthatthenextroomwasoccupiedbyGermans.Ataroundhalfpastnine,Iwrappedmysisterupandhelpedherdownstairssothatshecouldclimb

throughtoourneighbours’cellarandthenoutthroughtheircoalhatch.ShewouldrundowntheunlitbackalleystoMadamePoilâne’shousewhereshewouldjoinAurélienandthechildren,whomwehadtakenthereearlierintheafternoon.Wehadmovedthepigthedaybefore.Itwasquitelargebythen,andAurélienhadhadtoholditstillwhileIfeditanappletostopitsquealingand,withacleanswipeofhisknife,MonsieurBaudin,thebutcher,slaughteredit.Ireplacedthebricksinthegapbehindher,allthewhilelisteningtothemeninthebaraboveme.I

realized,withsomesatisfaction,thatforthefirsttimeinmonthsIwasn’tcold.Tobehungryistobealmostpermanentlycoldtoo;itwasalessonIwassureIwouldneverforget.‘Édouard,Ihopeyou’rewarm,’Iwhispered,intotheemptycellar,asmysister’sfootstepsfadedonthe

othersideofthewall.‘Ihopeyoueataswellaswehavedonethisnight.’WhenIre-emergedintothehallwayIjumped.TheKommandantwasgazingatmyportrait.‘Icouldn’tfindyou,’hesaid.‘Ithoughtyouwouldbeinthekitchen.’‘I–Ijustwentforsomeair,’Istammered.‘IseesomethingdifferentinthispictureeverytimeIlookatit.Shehassomethingenigmaticabouther.I

meanyou.’Hehalfsmiledathisownmistake.‘Youhavesomethingenigmaticaboutyou.’Isaidnothing.

‘IhopeIdonotembarrassyou,butIhavetotellyou.IhavethoughtforsometimethatthisisthemostbeautifulpaintingIhaveeverseen.’‘Itisalovelyworkofart,yes.’‘Youexcludeitssubject?’Ididn’tanswer.Heswilledthewineinhisglass.Whenhespokenextitwaswithhiseyesontherubyliquid.‘Doyou

honestlybelieveyourselfplain,Madame?’‘Ibelievebeautyisintheeyeofthebeholder.WhenmyhusbandtellsmeIambeautiful,Ibelieveit

becauseIknowinhiseyesIam.’Helookedupthen.Hiseyeslockedontomineandwouldnotletthemgo.Heheldmygazeforsolong

thatIfeltmybreathingstarttoquicken.Édouard’seyeswerethewindowstohissoul;hisveryselfwaslaidbareinthem.TheKommandant’s

wereintense,shrewdandyetsomehowveiled,asiftohidehistruefeelings.Iwasafraidthathemightbeabletoseemyowncrumblingcomposure,thathemightseethroughmyliesifIallowedhimin.Iwasthefirsttolookaway.HereachedacrossthetabletothecratethattheGermanshaddeliveredearlierandpulledoutabottle

ofcognac.‘Haveadrinkwithme,Madame.’‘No,thankyou,HerrKommandant.’Iglancedtowardsthedoortothediningroom,wheretheofficers

wouldbefinishingtheirdessert.‘One.It’sChristmas.’IknewanorderwhenIheardit.Ithoughtoftheothers,eatingtheroastporkafewdoorsawayfrom

wherewesat.IthoughtofMimi,withporkfatdribblingdownherchin,ofAurélien,smilingandjokingasheboastedoftheirgreatdeception.Heneededsomehappiness:twicethatweekhehadbeensenthomefromschoolforfighting,buthadrefusedtotellmewhatithadbeenabout.Ineededthemalltohaveonegoodmeal.‘Then…verywell.’Iacceptedaglass,andsipped.Thecognacwaslikefiretricklingdownmythroat.Itfeltrestorative,asharpkick.Hedownedhisownglass,watchedmedrinkmine,thenpushedthebottletowardsme,signallingthatI

shouldrefillit.Wesatinsilence.Iwonderedhowmanypeoplehadcometoeatthepig.Hélènehadthoughtitwould

befourteen.Twooftheolderpeoplehadbeenafraidtobreaktheircurfew.ThepriesthadpromisedtotakeleftoverstothosestuckintheirhomesafterChristmasmass.Aswedrank,Iwatchedhim.Hisjawwasset,suggestingsomeoneunbending,butwithouthismilitary

cap,hisalmostshavenhairgavehisheadanairofvulnerability.Itriedtopicturehimoutofuniform,anormalhumanbeing,goingabouthisdailybusiness,buyinganewspaper,takingaholiday.ButIcouldn’t.Icouldn’tseepasthisuniform.‘It’salonelybusiness,war,isn’tit?’Itookasipofmydrink.‘Youhaveyourmen.Ihavemyfamily.Weareneitherofusexactlyalone.’‘It’snotthesame,though,isit?’‘Weallgetbyasbestaswecan.’‘Dowe?I’mnotsurewhetheranyonecandescribethisas“best”.’

Thecognacmademeblunt.‘Youaretheonesittinginmykitchen,HerrKommandant.Isuggest,withrespect,thatonlyoneofushasachoiceinthematter.’Acloudpassedacrosshisface.Hewasunusedtobeingchallenged.Faintcolourrosetohischeeks,

andIsawhimwithhisarmraised,hisgunaimedatarunningprisoner.‘Youreallythinkanyofushasachoice?’hesaidquietly.‘Youreallythinkthisishowanyofuswould

choosetolive?Surroundedbydevastation?Theperpetratorsofit?WereyoutowitnesswhatweseeattheFront,youwouldthinkyourself…’Hetailedoff,shookhishead.‘I’msorry,Madame.It’sthistimeofyear.It’senoughtomakeamanmaudlin.Andweallknowthatthereisnothingworsethanamaudlinsoldier.’Hesmiledthen,anapology,andIrelaxedalittle.Wesatthereoneithersideofthekitchentable,

sippingfromourglasses,surroundedbythedetritusofthemeal.Intheotherroomtheofficershadbeguntosing.Iheardtheirvoiceslifting,thetunefamiliar,thewordsincomprehensible.TheKommandanttiltedhisheadtolisten.Thenheputdownhisglass.‘Youhateusbeinghere,don’tyou?’Iblinked.‘Ihavealwaystried–’‘Youthinkyourfacebetraysnothing.ButI’vewatchedyou.Yearsinthisjobhavetaughtmealotabout

peopleandtheirsecrets.Well.Canwecallatruce,Madame?Justforthesefewhours?’‘Atruce?’‘YoushallforgetthatIampartofanenemyarmy,Ishallforgetthatyouareawomanwhospendsmuch

ofhertimeworkingouthowtosubvertthatarmy,andweshalljust…betwopeople?’Hisface,justbriefly,hadsoftened.Heheldhisglasstowardsmine.Almostreluctantly,Iliftedmyown.‘LetusavoidthesubjectofChristmas,lonelyorotherwise.Iwouldlikeyoutotellmeabouttheother

artistsattheAcadémie.Tellmehowyoucametomeetthem.’

Iamnotsurehowlongwesatthere.IfIamhonest,thehoursevaporatedinconversationandthewarmglowofalcohol.TheKommandantwantedtoknoweverythingaboutanartist’slifeinParis.WhatkindofmanwasMatisse?Washislifeasscandalousashisart?‘Oh,no.Hewasthemostintellectuallyrigorousofmen.Quitestern.Andveryconservative,inbothhis

workandhisdomestichabits.Butsomehow…’Ithoughtforamomentofthebespectacledprofessor,howhewouldglanceovertocheckthatyouhadgraspedeachpointbeforeheshowedyouthenextpiece‘…joyous.Ithinkhegetsgreatjoyfromwhathedoes.’TheKommandantthoughtaboutthis,asifmyanswerhadsatisfiedhim.‘Ioncewantedtobeapainter.

Iwasnogood,ofcourse.Ihadtoconfrontthetruthofthematterveryearlyon.’Hefingeredthestemofhisglass.‘Ioftenthinkthattheabilitytoearnalivingbydoingthethingonelovesmustbeoneoflife’sgreatestgifts.’IthoughtofÉdouardthen,hisfacelostinconcentration,peeringatmefrombehindaneasel.IfIclosed

myeyes,Icouldstillfeelthewarmthofthelogfireonmyrightleg,thefaintchillontheleftwheremyskinwasbare.Icouldseehimliftaneyebrow,andtheexactpointatwhichhisthoughtslefthispainting.‘Ithinkthattoo.’‘ThefirsttimeIsawyou,’hehadtoldmeonourfirstChristmasEvetogether,‘Iwatchedyoustanding

inthemiddleofthatbustlingstoreandIthoughtyouwerethemostself-containedwomanIhadeverseen.Youlookedasiftheworldcouldexplodeintofragmentsaroundyouandthereyouwouldbe,yourchin

lifted,gazingoutatitimperiouslyfromunderthatmagnificenthair.’Heliftedmyhandtohismouth,andkissedittenderly.‘IthoughtyouwereaRussianbear,’Itoldhim.Hehadraisedaneyebrow.WewereinapackedbrasserieoffruedeTurbigo.‘GRRRRRRRR,’he

growled,untilIwashelplesswithlaughter.Hehadcrushedmetohim,rightthere,inthemiddleofthebanquette,coveringmyneckwithkisses,oblivioustothepeopleeatingaroundus.‘GRRRRR.’Theyhadstoppedsingingintheotherroom.Ifeltsuddenlyself-consciousandstood,asiftoclearthe

table.‘Please,’saidtheKommandant,motioningmetositdown.‘Justsitawhilelonger.It’sChristmasEve,

afterall.’‘Yourmenwillbeexpectingyoutojointhem.’‘Onthecontrary,theyenjoythemselvesfarmoreiftheirKommandantisabsent.Itisnotfairtoimpose

myselfonthemallevening.’Butquitefairtoimposeyourselfonme,Ithought.Itwasthenthatheasked,‘Whereisyoursister?’‘Itoldhertogotobed,’Isaid.‘Sheisalittleundertheweather,andshewasverytiredaftercooking

tonight.Iwantedhertobequitewellfortomorrow.’‘Andwhatwillyoudo?Tocelebrate?’‘Istheremuchforustocelebrate?’‘Truce,Madame?’Ishrugged.‘Wewillgotochurch.Perhapsvisitsomeofourolderneighbours.Itisaharddayforthem

tobealone.’‘Youlookaftereveryone,don’tyou?’‘Itisnocrimetobeagoodneighbour.’‘ThebasketoflogsIhaddeliveredforyourownuse.Iknowyoutookthemtothemayor’shouse.’‘Hisdaughterissick.Sheneedstheextrawarmthmorethanwedo.’‘Youshouldknow,Madame,thatnothingescapesmeinthislittletown.Nothing.’Icouldn’tmeethiseyes.Iwasafraidthatthistimemyface,therapidbeatingofmyheart,wouldbetray

me.IwishedIcouldwipefrommymindallknowledgeofthefeastthatwastakingplaceafewhundredyardsfromhere.IwishedIcouldescapethefeelingthattheKommandantwasplayingagameofcatandmousewithme.Itookanothersipofmycognac.Themenweresingingagain.Iknewthiscarol.Icouldalmostmakeout

thewords.

StilleNacht,heiligeNacht.Allesschläft;einsamwacht.

Whydidhekeeplookingatme?Iwasafraidtospeak,afraidtogetupagainincaseheaskedawkwardquestions.Yetjusttositandlethimstareatmeseemedtomakemecomplicitinsomething.FinallyItookasmallbreathandlookedup.Hewasstillwatchingme.‘Madame,willyoudancewithme?Justonedance?ForChristmas’ssake?’‘Dance?’

‘Justonedance.Iwouldlike…Iwouldliketoberemindedofhumanity’sbetterside,justoncethisyear.’‘Idon’t…Idon’tthink…’IthoughtofHélèneandtheothers,downtheroad,free,foroneevening.I

thoughtofLilianeBéthune.IstudiedtheKommandant’sface.Hisrequestseemedgenuine.Weshalljust…betwopeople…AndthenIthoughtofmyhusband.WouldIwishhimtohaveasympatheticpairofarmstodancein?

Justforoneevening?DidInothopethatsomewhere,manymilesaway,somegood-heartedwomanmightremindhiminaquietbarthattheworldcouldbeaplaceofbeauty?‘Iwilldancewithyou,HerrKommandant,’Isaid.‘Butonlyinthekitchen.’Hestood,heldouthishandand,afteraslighthesitation,Itookit.Hispalmwassurprisinglyrough.I

movedafewstepscloser,notlookingathisfaceandthenherestedhisotherhandonmywaist.Asthemeninthenextroomsang,webegantomoveslowlyaroundthetable,meacutelyawareofhisbodyonlyinchesfrommyown,thepressureofhishandonmycorset.Ifelttheroughsergeofhisuniformagainstmybarearm,andthesoftvibrationofhishummingthroughhischest.IfeltasifIwerealmostalightwithtension,everysensemonitoringmyfingers,myarms,tryingtoensurethatIdidnotgettooclose,fearfulthatatanypointhemightpullmetohim.Andallthewhileavoicerepeatedinmyhead,IamdancingwithaGerman.

StilleNacht,heiligeNacht,GottesSohn,owielacht…

Buthedidn’tdoanything.Hehummed,andheheldmelightly,andhemovedsteadilyincirclesaroundthekitchentable.AndjustforafewminutesIclosedmyeyesandwasagirl,alive,freefromhungerandcold,dancingonthenightbeforeChristmas,myheadalittlegiddyfromgoodcognac,breathinginthescentofspicesanddeliciousfood.IlivedasÉdouardlived,relishingeachsmallpleasure,allowingmyselftoseebeautyinallofit.Itwastwoyearssinceamanhadheldme.Iclosedmyeyes,relaxedandletmyselffeelallofit,allowingmypartnertoswingmeround,hisvoicestillhummingintomyear.

Christ,indeinerGeburt!Christ,indeinerGeburt!

Thesingingstoppedandafteramoment,almostreluctantly,hesteppedback,releasingme.‘Thankyou,Madame.Thankyouverymuch.’WhenIfinallydaredtolookupthereweretearsinhiseyes.

Thenextmorningasmallcratearrivedonourdoorstep.Itcontainedthreeeggs,asmallpoussin,anonionandacarrot.Ontheside,incarefulscript,wasmarked:FröhlicheWeihnachten.‘Itmeans“MerryChristmas”,’Auréliensaid.Forsomereasonherefusedtolookatme.

7

Asthetemperaturesdropped,theGermanstightenedtheircontroloverStPéronne.Thetownbecameuneasy,greaternumbersoftroopscomingthroughdaily;theofficers’conversationsinthebartookonanewurgency,sothatHélèneandIspentmostofourtimeinthekitchen.TheKommandantbarelyspoketome;hespentmuchofhistimehuddledwithafewtrustedmen.Helookedexhausted,andwhenIheardhisvoiceinthediningroomitwasoftenraisedinanger.SeveraltimesthatJanuaryFrenchprisonersofwarweremarchedupthemainstreetandpastthehotel,

butwewerenolongerallowedtostandonthepavementtowatchthem.Foodbecameeverscarcer,ourofficialrationsdropped,andIwasexpectedtoconjurefeastsoutofevershrinkingamountsofmeatandvegetables.Troublewasedgingcloser.TheJournaldesOccupés,whenitcame,spokeofvillagesweknew.Atnightitwasnotunusualforthe

distantboomofthegunstocausefaintripplesintheglassesonourtables.ItwassomedaysbeforeIrealizedthatthemissingsoundwasthatofbirdsong.WehadreceivedwordthatallgirlsfromtheageofsixteenandallboysfromfifteenwouldnowberequiredtoworkfortheGermans,pullingsugarbeetortendingpotatoes,orsentfurtherafieldtoworkinfactories.WithAurélienonlymonthsfromhisfifteenthbirthday,HélèneandIbecameincreasinglytense.Rumourswererifeastowhathappenedtotheyoung,withstoriesofgirlsbilletedwithgangsofcriminalmenor,worse,instructedto‘entertain’Germansoldiers.Boyswerestarvedorbeaten,movedaroundconstantlysothattheyremaineddisorientedandobedient.DespiteouragesHélèneandIwereexempt,wewereinformed,becausewewereconsidered‘essentialtoGermanwelfare’atthehotel.Thatalonewouldbeenoughtostirresentmentamongtherestofourvillagewhenitbecameknown.Therewassomethingelse.Itwasasubtlechange,butIwasconsciousofit.Fewerpeoplewerecoming

toLeCoqRougeinthedaytime.Fromourusualtwenty-oddfaces,weweredowntoaroundeight.AtfirstIthoughtthecoldwaskeepingpeopleindoors.ThenIbecameworried,andcalledonoldRenétoseeifhewasill.Buthemetmeatthedoorandsaidgrufflythathepreferredtostayathome.Hedidnotlookatmeashespoke.ThesamehappenedwhenIwenttocallonMadameFoubertandthewifeofthemayor.Iwasleftfeelingstrangelyunbalanced.Itoldmyselfthatitwasallinmyimagination,butonelunchtimeIhappenedtowalkpastLeBarBlanconmywaytothepharmacy,andsawRenéandMadameFoubertsittinginsideatatable,playingdraughts.Iwasconvincedmyeyeshaddeceivedme.Whenitbecameclearthattheyhadn’t,Iputmyheaddownandhurriedpast.OnlyLilianeBéthunesparedmeafriendlysmile.Icaughther,shortlybeforedawnonemorning,asshe

slidanenvelopeundermydoor.ShejumpedasIundidthebolts.‘Oh,monDieu–thankheavenit’syou,’shesaid,herhandathermouth.‘IsthiswhatIthinkitis?’Isaid,glancingdownattheoversizedenvelope,addressedtonobody.‘Whoknows?’shesaid,alreadyturningbacktowardsthesquare.‘Iseenothingthere.’

ButLilianeBéthunewasinaminorityofone.AsthedayscreptonInoticedotherthings:ifIwalkedintoourbarfromthekitchen,theconversationwouldquietenalittle,asifwhoeverwastalkingweredeterminedthatIshouldnotoverhear.IfIspokeupduringaconversation,itwasasifIhadsaidnothing.TwiceIofferedalittlejarofstockorsouptothemayor’swife,onlytobetoldthattheyhadplenty,thankyou.Shehaddevelopedapeculiarwayoftalkingtome,notunfriendlyexactlybutasthoughitweresomethingofareliefwhenIgaveuptrying.Iwouldneverhaveadmittedit,butitwasalmostacomfortwhennightfellandtherestaurantwasfullofvoicesagain,eveniftheydidhappentobeGerman.ItwasAurélienwhoenlightenedme.‘Sophie?’‘Yes?’Iwasmakingthepastryforarabbitandvegetablepie.Myhandsandapronwerecoveredwith

flour,andIwaswonderingwhetherIcouldsafelybaketheoff-cutsintolittlebiscuitsforthechildren.‘CanIaskyousomething?’‘Ofcourse.’Idustedmyhandsonmyapron.Mylittlebrotherwaslookingatmewithapeculiar

expression,asifheweretryingtoworksomethingout.‘Doyou…doyouliketheGermans?’‘DoIlikethem?’‘Yes.’‘Whataridiculousquestion.Ofcoursenot.Iwishtheywouldallbegoneandthatwecouldreturnto

ourlivesasbefore.’‘ButyoulikeHerrKommandant.’Istopped,myhandsonmyrollingpinandspunround.‘Youknowthisisdangeroustalk,thekindoftalk

thatcouldgetusallintoterribletrouble.’‘Itisnotmytalkthatisgettingusintotrouble.’Outside,inthebar,Icouldhearthetownspeopletalking.Iwalkedoverandclosedthekitchendoor,so

thatitwasjustthetwoofusinthekitchen.WhenIspokeagainIkeptmyvoicelowandmeasured.‘Saywhatyouwishtosay,Aurélien.’‘TheysayyouarenobetterthanLilianeBéthune.’‘What?’‘MonsieurSuelsawyoudancingwithHerrKommandantonChristmasEve.Closetohim,youreyes

shut,yourbodiespressedtogether,asifyoulovedhim.’Shockmademefeelalmostfaint.‘What?’‘Theysaythatistherealreasonyouwantedtobeawayfromleréveillon,tobealonewithhim.They

saythatiswhywearegettingextrasupplies.YouaretheGerman’sfavourite.’‘Isthiswhyyouhavebeenfightingatschool?’Ithoughtbacktohisblackeye,hissullenrefusalto

speakwhenIaskedhimhowhehadcometoreceiveit.‘Isittrue?’‘No,itisnottrue.’Islammedmyrollingpindownontheside.‘Heasked…heaskedifwemight

dance,justonce,asitwasChristmas,andIthoughtitbetterifhewerethinkingaboutdancingandbeinghere,ratherthanriskhimwonderingwhatwasgoingonatMadamePoilâne’s.Therewasnothingmoretoitthanthat–yoursistertryingtoprotectyouforthatoneevening.Thatdancewonyouaporksupper,Aurélien.’

‘ButIhaveseenhim.Ihaveseenthewayheadmiresyou.’‘Headmiresmyportrait.Thereisahugedifference.’‘Ihaveheardthewayhetalkstoyou.’Ifrownedathim,andheraisedhiseyestotheceiling.Ofcourse:hishoursspentpeeringthroughthe

floorboardsofRoomThree.Aurélienmusthaveheardandseeneverything.‘Youcan’tdenyhelikesyou.Hesays“tu”,not“vous”whenhetalkstoyou,andyoulethim.’‘HeisaGermanKommandant,Aurélien.Idon’thavemuchsayinhowhechoosestoaddressme.’‘Theyarealltalkingaboutyou,Sophie.IsitupstairsandIhearthenamestheycallyouandIdon’t

knowwhattobelieve.’Hiseyesburnedwithangerandconfusion.Iwalkedovertohimandgraspedhisshoulders.‘Thenbelievethis.Ihavedonenothing,nothing,to

shamemyselformyhusband.EverydayIseeknewwaystokeepourfamilywell,tokeepourneighboursandfriendsinfood,comfortandhope.IhavenofeelingsfortheKommandant.Itrytorememberthatheisahumanbeing,justasweare.Butifyouthink,Aurélien,thatIwouldeverbetraymyhusband,youareafool.IloveÉdouardwitheverypartofme.EverydayheisgoneIfeelhisabsenceasifitwereanactualpain.AtnightIlieawakefearingwhatmightbefallhim.AndnowIdonoteverwanttohearyouspeaklikethisagain.Doyouhearme?’Heshookoffmyhand.‘Doyouhearme?’Henoddedsullenly.‘Oh,’Iadded.PerhapsIshouldnothavesaidit,butmybloodwasup.‘Anddonotbetooswiftto

condemnLilianeBéthune.Youmayfindyouowehermorethanyouthink.’Mybrotherglaredatme,thenstalkedoutofthekitchen,slammingthedoorbehindhim.Istaredatthe

pastryforseveralminutesbeforeIrememberedIwasmeanttobemakingapie.

LaterthatmorningItookawalkacrossthesquare.NormallyHélènefetchedthebread–Kriegsbrot–butIneededtoclearmyhead,andtheatmosphereinthebarhadbecomeoppressive.TheairwassocoldthatJanuarythatithurtmylungs,sheathingthebaretwigsofthetreesinanicyfilm,andIpulledmybonnetlowovermyhead,myscarfuparoundmymouth.Therewerefewpeopleonthestreets,buteventhenonlyoneperson,oldMadameBonnard,noddedtome.Itoldmyselfthiswassimplybecause,undersomanylayers,itwashardtotellwhoIwas.IwalkedtoruedesBastides,whichhadbeenrenamedSchielerPlatz(werefusedtorefertoitassuch).

ThedooroftheboulangeriewasclosedandIpushedatit.InsideMadameLouvierandMadameDurantwereinanimatedconversationwithMonsieurArmand.Theystoppedthemomentthedoorclosedbehindme.‘Goodmorning,’Isaid,adjustingmypannierundermyarm.Thetwowomen,muffledunderlayersofwool,noddedvaguelyinmydirection.MonsieurArmand

simplystood,hishandsonthecounterinfrontofhim.Iwaited,thenturnedtotheoldwomen.‘Areyouwell,MadameLouvier?WehavenotseenyouatLe

CoqRougeforseveralweeksnow.Iwasafraidyouhadbeentakenill.’Myvoiceseemedunnaturallyloudandhighinthelittleshop.‘No,’theoldwomansaid.‘Iprefertostayathomejustnow.’Shedidn’tmeetmyeyeasshespoke.‘DidyougetthepotatoIleftforyoulastweek?’

‘Idid.’HergazeslidsidewaysatMonsieurArmand.‘IgaveittoMadameGrenouille.Sheis…lessparticularabouttheprovenanceofherfood.’Istoodquitestill.Sothiswashowitwas.Theunfairnessofittastedlikebitterashesinmymouth.

‘ThenIhopesheenjoyedit.MonsieurArmand,Iwouldlikesomebread,please.MyloafandHélène’s,ifyouwouldbesokind.’Oh,howIwishedforoneofhisjokes,then.Somebawdysnippetoreye-rollingpun.Butthebakerjustlookedatme,hisgazesteadyandunfriendly.Hedidn’twalkintothebackroom,asI’dexpected.Infact,hedidn’tmove.JustasIwasabouttorepeatmyrequesthereachedunderthecounterandplacedtwoloavesofblackbreadonitssurface.Istaredatthem.Thetemperatureinthelittleboulangerieseemedtodrop,butIfelttheeyesofthethreeotherpeople

likeaburn.Theloavessatonthecounter,squatanddark.Iliftedmyeyesandswallowed.‘Actually,Ihavemadeamistake.Wearenotinneedofbreadtoday,’I

saidquietly,andplacedmypursebackinmybasket.‘Idon’tsupposeyou’reinneedofmuchatthemoment,’MadameDurantmuttered.Iturnedandwestaredateachother,theoldwomanandI.Then,myheadhigh,Ilefttheshop.The

shameofit!Theinjustice!IsawthemockinglooksofthosetwooldladiesandrealizedIhadbeenafool.Howcouldithavetakenmesolongtoseewhatwasgoingonundermynose?Istrodebacktowardsthehotel,mycheeksflushed,mymindracing.TheringinginmyearswassoloudthatIdidn’thearthevoiceatfirst.‘Halt!’Istopped,andglancedaroundme.‘Halt!’AGermanofficerwasmarchingtowardsme,hishandraised.Iwaitedjustundertheruinedstatueof

MonsieurLeclerc,mycheeksstillflushed.Hewalkedrightuptome.‘Youignoredme!’‘Iapologize,Officer.Ididnothearyou.’‘ItisanoffencetoignoreaGermanofficer.’‘AsIsaid,Ididnothearyou.Myapologies.’Iunwoundmyscarfalittlefrommyface.AndthenIsawwhoitwas:theyoungofficerwhohad

drunkenlygrabbedatHélèneinthebar,andwhoseheadhadbeensmashedagainstthewallforhispains.Isawthelittlescaronhistemple,andIalsosawhehadrecognizedmetoo.‘Youridentitycard.’Itwasnotinmypocket.IhadbeensopreoccupiedwithAurélien’swordsthatIhadleftitonthehall

tableatthehotel.‘Ihaveforgottenit.’‘Itisanoffencetoleaveyourhomewithoutyouridentitycard.’‘Itisjustthere.’Ipointedatthehotel.‘Ifyouwalkoverwithme,Icangetit–’‘I’mnotgoinganywhere.Whatisyourbusiness?’‘Iwasjust…goingtotheboulangerie.’Hepeeredatmyemptybasket.‘Tobuyinvisiblebread?’‘Ichangedmymind.’‘Youmustbeeatingwellatthehotel,thesedays.Everybodyelseiskeentogettheirrations.’

‘Ieatnobetterthananyoneelse.’‘Emptyyourpockets.’‘What?’Hejabbedtowardsmewithhisrifle.‘Emptyyourpockets.AndremovesomeofthoselayerssoIcan

seewhatyouarecarrying.’Itwasminusoneinthedaylight.Theicywindnumbedeveryinchofexposedskin.Iputdownmy

pannierandslowlyshedthefirstofmyshawls.‘Dropit.Ontheground,’hesaid.‘Andthenextone.’Iglancedaroundme.AcrossthesquarethecustomersinLeCoqRougewouldbewatching.Islowly

shedmysecondshawl,andthenmyheavycoat.Ifelttheblankwindowsofthesquarewatchingme.‘Emptythepockets.’Hejabbedatmycoatwithhisbayonet,sothatitrubbedagainsttheiceandmud.

‘Turntheminsideout.’Ibentdownandputmyhandsintothepockets.Iwasshiveringnow,andmyfingers,whichwere

mauve,refusedtoobeyme.Inseveralattempts,Ipulledfrommyjacketmyrationbook,twofive-francnotesandascrapofpaper.Hesnatchedatit.‘Whatisthis?’‘Nothingofimportance,Officer.Just…justagiftfrommyhusband.Pleaseletmehaveit.’Iheardthepanicinmyvoice,andevenasIsaidthewords,Iknewithadbeenamistake.Heopened

Édouard’slittlesketchofus;hethebearinhisuniform,meseriousinmystarchedbluedress.‘Thisisconfiscated,’hesaid.‘What?’‘YouarenotentitledtocarrylikenessesofFrenchArmyuniform.Iwilldisposeofit.’‘But…’Iwasincredulous.‘It’sjustasillysketchofabear.’‘AbearinFrenchuniform.Itcouldbeacode.’‘But–butit’sjustajoke…atriflebetweenmeandmyhusband.Pleasedonotdestroyit.’Ireached

outmyhandbuthebatteditaway.‘Please–Ihavesolittletoremindme…’AsIstood,shivering,helookedmeintheeyeandtoreitintwo.Thenhetorethetwopiecesintoshreds,watchingmyfaceastheyfelllikeconfettiontothewetground.‘Nexttimerememberyourpapers,whore,’hesaid,andwalkedofftojoinhiscomrades.

HélènemetmeasIwalkedthroughthedoor,clutchingmyfreezing,soddenshawlstome.IfelttheeyesofthecustomersasIpushedmywayinside,butIhadnothingtosaytothem.Iwalkedthroughthebarandbackintothelittlehallway,strugglingwithfrozenhandstohangmyshawlsonthewoodenpegs.‘Whathappened?’Mysisterwasbehindme.IwassoupsetIcouldbarelyspeak.‘Theofficerwhograbbedyouthattime.HedestroyedÉdouard’s

sketch.Herippeditintopieces,togetrevengeonusaftertheKommandanthithim.AndthereisnobreadbecauseMonsieurArmandapparentlyalsothinksIamawhore.’MyfacewasnumbandIcouldbarelymakemyselfunderstood,butIwaslividandmyvoicecarried.‘Ssh!’‘Why?WhyshouldIbequiet?WhathaveIdonewrong?Thisplaceisalivewithpeoplehissingand

whisperingandnobodytellsthetruth.’Ishookwithrageanddespair.Hélèneclosedthebardoorandhauledmeupthestairstotheemptybedrooms,oneofthefewplaces

wemightnotbeheard.

‘Calmdownandtalktome.Whathappened?’Itoldherthen.ItoldherwhatAurélienhadsaid,andhowtheladiesintheboulangeriehadspokento

meandaboutMonsieurArmandandhisbread,whichwecouldnotnowriskeating.Hélènelistenedtoallofit,placingherarmsaroundme,restingherheadagainstmine,andmakingsoundsofsympathyasItalked.Until:‘Youdancedwithhim?’Iwipedmyeyes.‘Well,yes.’‘YoudancedwithHerrKommandant?’‘Don’tyoulookatmelikethat.YouknowwhatIwasdoingthatnight.YouknowIwouldhavedone

anythingtokeeptheGermansawayfromleréveillon.Keepinghimheremeantthatyouallenjoyedaproperfeast.Youtoldmeitwasthebestdayyou’dhadsinceJean-Michelleft.’Shelookedatme.‘Well,didn’tyousaythat?Didn’tyouusethoseexactwords?’Stillshesaidnothing.‘What?Areyougoingtocallmeawhoretoo?’Hélènelookedatherfeet.Finallyshesaid,‘IwouldnothavedancedwithaGerman,Sophie.’Iletthesignificanceofherwordssinkin.ThenIstoodand,withoutaword,Iwentbackdownthe

stairs.Iheardhercallingmyname,andnoted,somewheredeepinadarkplacewithinme,thatitcamejustalittletoolate.

HélèneandIworkedaroundeachotherinsilencethatevening.Wecommunicatedaslittleaspossible,speakingonlytoconfirmthat,yes,thepiewouldbereadyforseventhirtyand,yes,thewinewasuncorked,andthatindeedtherewerefourfewerbottlesthanthepreviousweek.Aurélienstayedupstairswiththebabies.OnlyMimicamedownandhuggedme.Ihuggedherbackfiercely,breathinginhersweet,childlikesmell,feelinghersoftskinagainstmyown.‘Iloveyou,littleMi,’Iwhispered.Shesmiledatmefromunderherlongblondehair.‘Iloveyoutoo,AuntieSophie,’shesaid.IputmyhandintomyapronandquicklypoppedintohermouthalittlestripofcookedpastryIhad

savedforherearlier.Then,asshegrinnedatme,Hélèneshepherdedherupthestairstobed.Incontrasttomysister’sandmymood,theGermansoldiersseemedcuriouslycheerfulthatevening.

Nobodycomplainedaboutthereducedrations;theyseemednottomindaboutthereductioninwine.TheKommandantaloneseemedpreoccupiedandsombre.Hesataloneastheotherofficerstoastedsomethingandallcheered.IwonderedwhetherAurélienwasupstairslisteningandwhetherheunderstoodwhattheyweresaying.‘Let’snotargue,’Hélènesaid,whenwecrawledintobedlater.‘Idofinditexhausting.’Shereached

outahandformine,andintheneardarkItookit.Butwebothknewsomethinghadchanged.

ItwasHélènewhowenttothemarketthefollowingmorning.Onlyafewstallswereout,thesedays,somepreservedmeats,somefearsomelyexpensiveeggsandafewvegetables,andanelderlymanfromLaVendéewhomadenewundergarmentsfromoldfabric.Istayedinthehotelbar,servingthefewcustomerswehadleftandtryingnottomindthatIwasevidentlystillthesubjectofsomeunfriendlydiscussion.Atabouthalfpasttenwebecameawareofacommotionoutside.Iwonderedbrieflywhetheritwas

moreprisoners,butHélènecamerushingin,herhairlooseandhereyeswide.

‘You’llneverguess,’shesaid.‘It’sLiliane.’Myheartbegantothump.IdroppedtheashtraysIwascleaningandranforthedoor,flankedbythe

othercustomerswhohadrisenasonefromtheirseats.UptheroadcameLilianeBéthune.Shewaswearingherastrakhancoat,butshenolongerlookedlikeaParisianmodel.Shehadonnothingelse.Herlegsweremottledbluewithamixtureofcoldandbruising.Herfeetwerebareandbloodied,herlefteyehalfclosedwithswelling.Herhairlayunpinnedaroundherfaceandshelimped,asifeverystepwereaSisypheaneffort.OneachsideofherstoodtwogoadingGermanofficers,agroupofsoldiersfollowingclosebehind.Foronce,theyseemednottomindwhenwecameouttostare.Thatbeautifulastrakhancoatwasgreywithdirt.Onthebackofitwerenotjuststickypatchesofblood

buttheunmistakablesmearsofphlegm.AsIstaredatit,Iheardasob.‘Maman!Maman!’Behindher,heldbackbyothersoldiers,Inowsaw

Édith,Liliane’sseven-year-olddaughter.Shesobbedandwrithed,tryingtoreachpastthemtohermother,herfacecontorted.Onegrippedherarm,notlettingheranywhereclose.Anothersmirked,asifitwereamusing.Lilianewalkedonasifoblivious,inaprivateworldofpain,herheadlowered.Asshecamepastthehotelalowjeeringbrokeout.‘Seetheproudwhorenow!’‘DoyouthinktheGermanswillstillwantyou,Liliane?’‘They’vetiredofher.Andgoodriddance.’Icouldnotbelievetheseweremyowncountrymen.Igazedaroundmeatthehate-filledfaces,the

scornfulsmiles,andwhenIcouldbearitnolonger,IpushedthroughthemandrantowardsÉdith.‘Givemethechild,’Idemanded.Isawnowthatthewholetownseemedtohavecometowatchthisspectacle.TheywerecatcallingatLilianefromupstairswindows,fromacrossthemarketplace.Édithsobbed,hervoicepleading.‘Maman!’‘Givemethechild!’Icried.‘OrareGermanspersecutinglittlechildrennowtoo?’TheofficerholdingherlookedbehindhimandIsawHerrKommandantstandingbythepostoffice.He

saidsomethingtotheofficerbesidehim,andafteramomentthechildwasreleasedtome.Isweptherintomyarms.‘It’sallright,Édith.Youcomewithme.’Sheburiedherfaceinmyshoulder,cryinginconsolably,onearmstillreachingvainlyinthedirectionofhermother.IthoughtIsawLiliane’sfaceturnslightlytowardsme,butatthisdistanceitwasimpossibletosay.IcarriedÉdithquicklyintothebar,awayfromtheeyesofthetown,awayfromthesoundofthejeering

asitpickedupagain,awayintothebackofthehotelwhereshewouldhearnothing.Thechildwashysterical,andwhocouldblameher?Itookhertoourbedroom,gavehersomewater,thenheldherinmyarmsandrockedher.Itoldheragainandagainthatitwouldbeallright,wewouldmakeitallright,eventhoughIknewwecoulddonothingofthesort.Shecrieduntilshewasexhausted.FromherswollenfaceIguessedshehadbeencryingmuchofthenight.Godonlyknewwhatshehadseen.FinallyshebecamelimpinmyarmsandIlaidhercarefullyinmybed,coveringherwithblankets.ThenImademywaydownstairs.AsIwalkedintothebar,therewassilence.LeCoqRougewasbusierthanithadbeeninweeks,

Hélènerushingbetweenthetableswithaloadedtray.Isawthemayorinthedoorway,thenstaredatthefacesbeforemeandrealizedInolongerknewanyofthem.

‘Areyousatisfied?’Isaid,myvoicebreakingasIspoke.‘Achildliesupstairshavingwatchedyouspitandjeeratherbrutalizedmother.Peopleshethoughtwereherfriends.Areyouproud?’Mysister’shandlandedonmyshoulder.‘Sophie–’Ishruggedheroff.‘Don’tSophieme.Youhavenoideawhatyouhavealldone.Youthinkyouknow

everythingaboutLilianeBéthune.Well,youknownothing.NOTHING!’Iwascryingnow,tearsofrage.‘Youareallsoquicktojudge,butjustasquicktotakewhatsheofferswhenitsuitsyou.’Themayorwalkedtowardsme.‘Sophie,weshouldtalk.’‘Oh.Youwilltalktomenow!ForweeksyouhavelookedatmeasifIwereabadsmellbecause

MonsieurSuelsupposedlybelievesmetobeatraitorandawhore.Me!Whoriskedeverythingtobringyourdaughterfood.Youwouldallbelievehimratherthanme!Well,perhapsIdonotwanttotalktoyou,Monsieur.KnowingwhatIknow,perhapsIwouldrathertalktoLilianeBéthune!’Iwasragingnow.Ifeltunhinged,amadwoman,asifIgaveoffsparks.Ilookedattheirstupidfaces,

theiropenmouths,andIshooktherestraininghandfrommyshoulder.‘WheredoyouthinktheJournaldesOccupéscamefrom?Doyouthinkthebirdsdroppedit?Doyou

thinkitcamebymagiccarpet?’Hélènebegantobundlemeoutnow.‘Idon’tcare!Whodotheythinkwashelpingthem?Lilianehelped

you!Allofyou!Evenwhenyouwereshittinginherbread,shewashelpingyou!’Iwasinthehallway.Hélène’sfacewaswhite,themayorbehindher,pushingmeforwards,awayfrom

them.‘What?’Iprotested.‘Doesthetruthmakeyoutoouncomfortable?AmIforbiddentospeak?’‘Sitdown,Sophie.ForGod’ssake,justsitdownandshutup.’‘Idon’tknowthistownanymore.Howcanyouallstandthereandyellather?Evenifshehadslept

withtheGermans,howcanyoutreatanotherhumanbeingso?Theyspatonher,Hélène,didn’tyousee?Theyspatalloverher.Asifshewerenothuman.’‘IamverysorryforMadameBéthune,’themayorsaidquietly.‘ButIamnotheretodiscussher.Icame

totalktoyou.’‘Ihavenothingtosaytoyou,’Isaid,wipingatmyfacewithmypalms.Themayortookadeepbreath.‘Sophie.Ihavenewsofyourhusband.’Ittookmeamomenttoregisterwhathehadsaid.Hesatdownheavilyonthestairsbesideme.Hélènestillheldmyhand.‘It’snotgoodnews,I’mafraid.Whenthelastprisonerscamethroughthismorning,onedroppeda

messageashepassedthepostoffice.Ascrapofpaper.Myclerkpickeditup.ItsaysthatÉdouardLefèvrewasamongfivemensenttothereprisalcampatArdenneslastmonth.I’msosorry,Sophie.’

8

ÉdouardLefèvre,imprisoned,hadbeenchargedwithhandingafist-sizedpieceofbreadtoaprisoner.Hehadfoughtbackfiercelywhenbeatenforit.IalmostlaughedwhenIheard:howtypicalofÉdouard.Butmylaughterwasshort-lived.Everypieceofinformationthatcamemywayservedtoincreasemy

fears.Thereprisalcampwherehewasheldwassaidtobeoneoftheworst:themenslepttwohundredtoashedonbareboards;theylivedonwaterysoupwithafewhusksofbarleyandtheoccasionaldeadmouse.Theyweresenttoworkstone-breakingorbuildingrailways,forcedtocarryheavyirongirdersontheirshouldersformiles.Thosewhodroppedfromexhaustionwerepunished,beatenordeniedrations.Diseasewasrifeandmenwereshotforthepettiestmisdemeanours.Itookitallinandeachoftheseimageshauntedmydreams.‘Hewillbeallright,won’the?’Isaidto

themayor.Hepattedmyhand.‘Wewillallprayforhim,’hesaid.Hesigheddeeplyashestoodtoleave,andhis

sighwaslikeadeathsentence.ThemayorvisitedmostdaysaftertheparadingofLilianeBéthune.Asthetruthaboutherfiltered

aroundthetown,shebecameslowlyredrawninthecollectiveimagination.Lipsnolongerpursedautomaticallyatthementionofhername.Someonescrawledtheword‘héroïne’onthemarketsquareinchalkundercoverofdarkness,andalthoughitwasswiftlyremoved,weallknewtowhomitreferred.Afewpreciousthingsthathadbeenlootedfromherhousewhenshewasfirstarrestedmysteriouslyfoundtheirwayback.Ofcourse,therewerethosewho,likeMesdamesLouvierandDurant,wouldnothavebelievedwellof

herifshehadbeenseenthrottlingGermanswithherbarehands.Butthereweresomevagueadmissionsofregretinourlittlebar,smallkindnessesshowntoÉdith,inthearrivalatLeCoqRougeofoutgrownclothesoroddpiecesoffood.Lilianehadapparentlybeensenttoaholdingcampatsomedistancesouthofourtown.Shewaslucky,themayorconfided,nottohavebeenshotimmediately.Hesuspecteditwasonlyspecialpleadingbyoneoftheofficersthathadsavedherfromaswiftexecution.‘Butthere’snopointintryingtointervene,Sophie,’hesaid.‘ShewascaughtspyingfortheFrench,andIdon’tsupposeshe’llbesavedforlong.’Asforme,Iwasnolongerpersonanongrata.NotthatIparticularlycared.Ifoundithardtofeelthe

sameaboutmyneighbours.Édithstayedgluedtomyside,likeapaleshadow.Sheatelittleandaskedafterhermotherconstantly.ItoldhertruthfullythatIdidn’tknowwhatwouldhappentoLiliane,butthatshe,Édith,wouldbesafewithus.Ihadtakentosleepingwithherinmyoldroom,tostophershriekingnightmareswakingthetwoyoungerones.Intheevenings,shewouldcreepdowntothefourthstair,thenearestpointfromwhichshecouldseeintothekitchen,andwewouldfindhertherelateatnightwhenwehadfinishedclearingthekitchen,fastasleepwithherthinarmsholdingherknees.Myfearsforhermothermixedwithmyfearsformyhusband.Ispentmydaysinasilentvortexof

worryandexhaustion.Littlenewscameintothetown,andnonewentout.Somewhereouttherehemight

bestarving,lyingsickwithfeverorbeingbeaten.Themayorreceivedofficialnewsofthreedeaths,twoattheFront,oneatacampnearMons,andheardtherewasanoutbreakoftyphoidnearLille.Itookeachofthesesnippetspersonally.Perversely,Hélèneseemedtothriveinthisatmosphereofgrimforeboding.Ithinkthatwatchingme

crumblehadmadeherbelievethattheworstmusthavehappened.IfÉdouard,withallhisstrengthandvitality,faceddeath,therecouldbenohopeforJean-Michel,agentle,bookishman.Hecouldnothavesurvived,herreasoningwent,soshemightaswellgetonwithit.Sheseemedtogrowinstrength,urgingmetogetupwhenshefoundmeinsecrettearsinthebeercellar,forcingmetoeat,orsinginglullabiestoÉdith,MimiandJeaninastrange,jauntytone.Iwasgratefulforherstrength.Ilayatnightwithmyarmsaroundanotherwoman’schildandwishedIneverhadtothinkagain.

LateinJanuary,Louisadied.Thatwehadallknownitwascomingdidnotmakeitanyeasier.Overnight,themayorandhiswifeseemedtoagetenyears.‘Itellmyselfitisablessingthatshewillnothavetoseetheworldasitis,’hesaidtome,andInodded.Neitherofusbelievedit.Thefuneralwastotakeplacefivedayslater.Idecideditwasnotfairtotakethechildren,soItold

Hélènesheshouldgoforme;Iwouldtakethelittleonestothewoodsbehindtheoldfirestation.Giventheseverityofthecold,theGermanshadgrantedthevillagerstwohoursadayinwhichtoforageinlocalwoodsforkindling.Iwasn’tconvincedthatwewouldfindmuch:undercoverofdarknessthetreeshadlongbeenstrippedofanyusefulbranches.ButIneededtobeawayfromthetown,awayfromgriefandfearandtheconstantscrutinyofeithertheGermansormyneighbours.Itwasacrisp,silentafternoon,andthesunshoneweaklythroughtheskeletalsilhouettesofthosetrees

thatremained,seeminglytooexhaustedtorisemorethanafewfeetfromthehorizon.Itwaseasytolookatourlandscape,asIdidthatafternoon,andwonderiftheveryworldwascomingtoanend.Iwalked,conductingasilentconversationwithmyhusband,asIoftendid,thesedays.Bestrong,Édouard.Holdon.JuststayaliveandIknowwewillbetogetheragain.ÉdithandMimiwalkedinsilenceatfirst,flankingme,theirfeetcrunchingontheicyleaves,butthen,aswereachedthewoods,somechildishimpulseovertookthemandIstoppedbrieflytowatchastheyrantowardsarottingtree-trunk,jumpingonandoffit,holdinghandsandgiggling.Theirshoeswouldbescuffed,andtheirskirtsmuddied,butIwouldnotdenythemthatsimpleconsolation.Istoopedandputafewhandfulsoftwigsintomybasket,hopingtheirvoicesmightdrowntheconstant

humofdreadinmymind.Andthen,asIstraightened,Isawhim:intheclearing,aguntohisshoulder,talkingtooneofhismen.Heheardthegirls’voicesandswunground.Édithshrieked,lookedaboutwildlyformeandboltedformyarms,hereyeswidewithterror.Mimi,confused,stumbledalongbehind,tryingtoworkoutwhyherfriendshouldbesoshakenbythemanwhocameeachnighttotherestaurant.‘Don’tcry,Édith,he’snotgoingtohurtus.Pleasedon’tcry.’Isawhimwatchingus,andprisedthe

childfrommylegs.Icroucheddowntotalktoher.‘That’sHerrKommandant.I’mgoingtotalktohimnowabouthissupper.YoustayhereandplaywithMimi.I’mfine.Look,see?’ShetrembledasIhandedhertoMimi.‘Goandplayoverthereforamoment.I’mjustgoingtotalkto

HerrKommandant.Here,takemybasketandseeifyoucanfindmesometwigs.Ipromiseyounothingbadwillhappen.’WhenIcouldfinallypriseherfrommyskirts,Iwalkedovertohim.Theofficerwhowaswithhimsaid

somethinginalowvoice,andIpulledmyshawlsaroundme,crossingmyarmsinfrontofmychest,

waitingastheKommandantdismissedhim.‘Wethoughtwemightgoshooting,’hesaid,peeringupattheemptyskies.‘Birds,’headded.‘Therearenobirdslefthere,’Isaid.‘Theyarealllonggone.’‘Probablyquitesensible.’Inthedistancewecouldhearthefaintboomofthebigguns.Itseemedto

maketheaircontractbrieflyaroundus.‘Isthatthewhore’schild?’Hecockedhisgunoverhisarmandlitacigarette.Iglancedbehindmeto

wherethegirlswerestandingbytherottentrunk.‘Liliane’schild?Yes.Shewillstaywithus.’Hewatchedherclosely,andIcouldnotworkoutwhathewasthinking.‘Sheisalittlegirl,’Isaid.

‘Sheunderstoodnothingofwhatwasgoingon.’‘Ah,’hesaid,andpuffedhiscigarette.‘Aninnocent.’‘Yes.Theydoexist.’HelookedatmesharplyandIhadtoforcemyselfnottolowermyeyes.‘HerrKommandant.Ineedtoaskyouafavour.’‘Afavour?’‘MyhusbandhasbeentakentoareprisalcampinArdennes.’‘AndIamnottoaskyouhowyoucameuponthisinformation.’Therewasnothinginhowhelookedatme.Noclueatall.Itookabreath.‘Iwondered…I’maskingifyoucanhelphim.Heisagoodman.He’sanartist,asyou

know,notasoldier.’‘Andyouwantmetogetamessagetohim.’‘Iwantyoutogethimout.’Heraisedaneyebrow.‘HerrKommandant.Youactasifwearefriends.So,I’mbeggingyou.Pleasehelpmyhusband.Iknow

whatgoesoninthoseplaces,thathehaslittlechanceofcomingoutalive.’Hedidn’tspeak,soIseizedmychanceandcontinued.ThesewerewordsIhadsaidathousandtimesin

myheadoverthepasthours.‘Youknowthathehasspenthiswholelifeinthepursuitofart,ofbeauty.He’sapeacefulman,agentleman.Hecaresaboutpainting,aboutdancing,eatinganddrinking.YouknowitmakesnodifferencetotheGermancausewhetherheisdeadoralive.’Heglancedaroundus,throughthedenudedwoods,asiftomonitorwheretheotherofficershadgone,

thentookanotherpuffathiscigarette.‘Youtakeaconsiderableriskinaskingmesomethinglikethis.YousawhowyourtownspeopletreatawomantheythinkiscollaboratingwithGermans.’‘Theyalreadybelievemetobecollaborating.Thefactofyoubeinginourhotelapparentlymademe

guiltywithoutatrial.’‘That,anddancingwiththeenemy.’Nowitwasmyturntolooksurprised.‘Ihavetoldyoubefore,Madame.ThereisnothingthatgoesoninthistownthatIdon’thearabout.’Westoodinsilence,gazingatthehorizon.Inthedistancealowboomcausedtheearthtovibratevery

slightlyunderourfeet.Thegirlsfeltit:Icouldseethemgazingdownattheirshoes.Hetookafinalpufffromhiscigarette,thencrusheditunderhisboot.

‘Hereisthething.Youareanintelligentwoman.Ithinkyouareprobablyagoodjudgeofhumannature.Andyetyoubehaveinwaysthatwouldentitleme,asanenemysoldier,toshootyouwithoutevenatrial.Despitethis,youcomehereandexpectmenotjusttoignorethatfactbuttohelpyou.Myenemy.’Iswallowed.‘That…thatisbecauseIdon’tjustseeyouas…anenemy.’Hewaited.‘Youweretheonewhosaid…thatsometimeswearejust…twopeople.’Hissilencemademebolder.Iloweredmyvoice.‘Iknowyouareapowerfulman.Iknowyouhave

influence.Ifyousayheshouldbereleased,hewillbereleased.Please.’‘Youdon’tknowwhatyou’reasking.’‘Iknowthatifhehastostaytherehewilldie.’Thefaintestflickerbehindhiseyes.‘Iknowyouareagentleman.Ascholar.Iknowyoucareaboutart.Surelytosaveanartistyouadmire

wouldbe–’Mywordsfaltered.Itookastepforward.Iputahandoutandtouchedhisarm.‘HerrKommandant.Please.YouknowIwouldnotaskyouforanythingbutIbegyouforthis.Please,please,helpme.’Helookedsograve.Andthenhedidsomethingunexpected.Heliftedahandandlightlymovedastrand

ofmyhairfrommyface.Hediditgently,meditatively,asifthiswassomethinghehadimaginedforsometime.Ihidmyshockandkeptperfectlystill.‘Sophie…’‘Iwillgiveyouthepainting,’Isaid.‘Theoneyoulikesomuch.’Hedroppedhishand.Heletoutasigh,andturnedaway.‘ItisthemostpreciousthingIhave.’‘Gohome,MadameLefèvre.’Asmallknotofpanicbegantoforminmychest.‘WhatmustIdo?’‘Gohome.Takethechildrenandgohome.’‘Anything.Ifyoucanfreemyhusband,I’lldoanything.’Myvoiceechoedacrossthewoodland.Ifelt

Édouard’sonlychanceslippingawayfromme.Hekeptwalking.‘DidyouhearwhatIsaid,HerrKommandant?’Heswungbackthen,hisexpressionsuddenlyfurious.Hestrodetowardsmeandonlystoppedwhenhis

facewasinchesfrommine.Icouldfeelhisbreathonmyface.Icouldseethegirlsfromthecornerofmyeye,rigidwithanxiety.Iwouldnotshowfear.Hegazedatme,andthenheloweredhisvoice.‘Sophie…’Heglancedbehindhimatthem.‘Sophie,I

–Ihavenotseenmywifeinalmostthreeyears.’‘Ihavenotseenmyhusbandfortwo.’‘Youmustknow…youmustknowthatwhatyouaskofme…’Heturnedawayfromme,asifhewere

determinednottolookatmyface.Iswallowed.‘Iamofferingyouapainting,HerrKommandant.’Asmalltichadbeguninhisjaw.Hestaredatapointsomewherepastmyrightshoulder,andthenhe

begantowalkawayagain.‘Madame.Youareeitherveryfoolishorvery…’‘Willitbuymyhusbandhisfreedom?Will…willIbuymyhusbandhisfreedom?’

Heturnedback,hisfaceanguished,asifIwasforcinghimtodosomethinghedidn’twanttodo.Hestaredfixedlyathisboots.Finallyhetooktwopacesbacktowardsme,justcloseenoughthathecouldspeakwithoutbeingoverheard.‘Tomorrownight.Cometomeatthebarracks.Afteryouhavefinishedatthehotel.’

Wewalkedhandinhandbackroundthepaths,toavoidgoingthroughthesquare,andbythetimewereachedLeCoqRougeourskirtswerecoveredwithmud.Thegirlsweresilent,eventhoughIattemptedtoreassurethemthattheGermanmanhadjustbeenupsetbecausehehadnopigeonstoshoot.Imadethemawarmdrink,thenwenttomyroomandclosedthedoor.Ilaydownonmybedandputmyhandsovermyeyestoblockoutthelight.Istayedthereforperhaps

halfanhour.ThenIrose,pulledmybluewooldressfromthewardrobe,andlaiditacrossthebed.ÉdouardhadalwayssaidIlookedlikeaschoolmistressinit.Hesaiditasthoughbeingaschoolmistressmightbearatherwonderfulthing.Iremovedmymuddygreydress,leavingittofallontothefloor.Itookoffmythickunderskirt,thehemofwhichwasalsospatteredwithmud,sothatIwaswearingonlymypetticoatandchemise.Iremovedmycorset,thenmyundergarments.Theroomwascold,butIwasoblivioustoit.Istoodbeforethelooking-glass.Ihadnotlookedatmybodyformonths;Ihadhadnoreasonto.Nowtheshapethatstoodbeforemein

themottledglassseemedtobethatofastranger.IappearedtobehalfthewidthIhadbeen;mybreastshadfallenandgrownsmaller,nolongergreatripeorbsofpaleflesh.Mybottomtoo.AndIwasthin,myskinnowhintingatthebonesunderneath:collarbone,shoulderandriballforcedtheirwaytoprominence.Evenmyhair,oncebrightwithcolour,seemeddull.Isteppedcloserandexaminedmyface:theshadowsundermyeyes,thefaintfrownlinebetweenmy

brows.Ishivered,butnotfromthecold.IthoughtofthegirlÉdouardhadleftbehindtwoyearsago.Ithoughtofthefeelofhishandsonmywaist,hissoftlipsonmyneck.AndIclosedmyeyes.

Hehadbeeninafoulmoodfordays.Hewasworkingonapictureofthreewomenseatedaroundatableandhecouldnotgetitright.Ihadposedforhimineachpositionandwatchedsilentlyashehuffedandgrimaced,eventhrewdownhispaletteatonepoint,rubbinghishandsthroughhishairandcursinghimself.‘Let’stakesomeair,’Isaid,uncurlingmyself.Iwassorefromholdingtheposition,butIwouldn’tlet

himknowthat.‘Idon’twanttotakesomeair.’‘Édouard,youwillachievenothinginthismood.Taketwentyminutes’airwithme.Come.’Ireached

formycoat,wrappedascarfaroundmyneck,andstoodinthedoorway.‘Idon’tlikebeinginterrupted,’hegrumbled,reachingforhisowncoat.Ididn’tmindhisill-temper.Iwasusedtohimbythen.WhenÉdouard’sworkwasgoingwell,hewas

thesweetestofmen,joyful,keentoseebeautyineverything.Whenitwentbadly,itwasasifourlittlehomelayunderadarkcloud.IntheearlymonthsofourmarriageIhadbeenafraidthatthiswassomehowmyfault,thatIshouldbeabletocheerhim.ButlisteningtotheotherartiststalkatLaRuche,orinthebarsoftheLatinQuarter,Igrewtoseesuchrhythmsinallofthem:thehighsofaworksuccessfullycompleted,

orsold;thelowswhentheyhadstalled,oroverworkedapiece,orreceivedsomestingingcriticism.Thesemoodsweresimplyweatherfrontstobeborneandadaptedto.Iwasnotalwayssosaintly.ÉdouardgrumbledallthewayalongrueSoufflot.Hewasirritable.Hecouldnotseewhywehadto

walk.Hecouldnotseewhyhecouldnotbeleftalone.Ididn’tunderstand.Ididn’tknowthepressurehewasunder.Why,WeberandPurrmannwerealreadybeingpursuedbygalleriesnearthePalaisRoyale,offeredshowsoftheirown.ItwasrumouredthatMonsieurMatissepreferredtheirworktohis.WhenItriedtoreassurehimthatthiswasnotthecasehewavedahanddismissively,asifmyviewwasofnoaccount.HischolericrantwentonandonuntilwereachedtheLeftBank,andIfinallylostpatience.‘Verywell,’Isaid,unhookingmyarmfromhis.‘Iamanignorantshopgirl.HowcouldIbeexpectedto

understandtheartisticpressuresofyourlife?Iamsimplytheonewhowashesyourclothesandsitsforhours,mybodyaching,whileyoufiddlewithcharcoal,andcollectsmoneyfrompeopletowhomyoudonotwanttoseemungenerous.Well,Édouard,Iwillleaveyoutoit.Perhapsmyabsencewillbringyousomecontentment.’IstalkedoffdownthebankoftheSeine,bristling.Hecaughtupwithmeinminutes.‘I’msorry.’Ikeptwalking,myfaceset.‘Don’tbecross,Sophie.I’msimplyoutofsorts.’‘Butyoudon’thavetomakemeoutofsortsbecauseofit.I’monlytryingtohelpyou.’‘Iknow.Iknow.Look,slowdown.Please.Slowdownandwalkwithyourungracioushusband.’He

heldouthisarm.Hisfacewassoftandpleading.HeknewIcouldnotresisthim.Iglaredathim,thentookhisarmandwewalkedsomedistanceinsilence.Heputhishandovermine,

andfoundthatitwascold.‘Yourgloves!’‘Iforgotthem.’‘Thenwhereisyourhat?’hesaid.‘Youarefreezing.’‘YouknowverywellIhavenowinterhat.Myvelvetwalkinghathasmoth,andIhaven’thadtimeto

patchit.’Hestopped.‘Youcannotwearawalkinghatwithpatches.’‘Itisaperfectlygoodhat.Ijusthaven’thadtimetoseetoit.’Ididn’taddthatthatwasbecauseIwas

runningaroundtheLeftBanktryingtofindhismaterialsandcollectthemoneyhewasowedtopayforthem.WewereoutsideoneofthegrandesthatshopsinParis.Hesawit,andpulledusbothtoastandstill.

‘Come,’hesaid.‘Don’tberidiculous.’‘Don’tdisobeyme,wife.YouknowIameasilytippedintotheworstofmoods.’Hetookmyarm,and

beforeIcouldprotestfurther,wehadsteppedintotheshop.Thedoorclosedbehindus,thebellringing,andIgazedaroundinawe.Onshelvesorstandsaroundthewalls,reflectedinhugegildedlooking-glasses,werethemostbeautifulhatsIhadeverseen:enormous,intricatecreationsinjetblackorflashyscarlet,widebrimstrimmedwithfurorlace.Maraboushiveredinthedisturbedair.Theroomsmeltofdriedroses.Thewomanwhoemergedfromthebackwaswearingasatinhobbleskirt;themostfashionablegarmentonthestreetsofParis.‘CanIhelpyou?’Hereyestravelledovermythree-year-oldcoatandwindblownhair.

‘Mywifeneedsahat.’Iwantedtostophimthen.IwantedtotellhimthatifheinsistedonbuyingmeahatwecouldgotoLa

FemmeMarché,thatImightevenbeabletogetadiscount.Hehadnoideathatthisplacewasacouturier’ssalon,beyondtherealmsofwomenlikeme.‘Édouard,I–’‘Areallyspecialhat.’‘Certainly,sir.Didyouhaveanythinginmind?’‘Somethinglikethisone.’Hepointedatahuge,darkredwide-brimmedDirectoire-styledhattrimmed

withblackmarabou.Dyedblackpeacockfeathersarcedinasprayacrossitsbrim.‘Édouard,youcannotbeserious,’Imurmured.Butshehadalreadylifteditreverentlyfromitsplace,

andasIstoodgapingathim,sheplaceditcarefullyonmyhead,tuckingmyhairbehindmycollar.‘IthinkitwouldlookbetterifMadameremovedherscarf.’Shepositionedmeinfrontofthemirrorand

unwoundmyscarfwithsuchcarethatitmighthavebeenmadeofspungold.Ibarelyfelther.Thehatchangedmyfacecompletely.Ilooked,forthefirsttimeinmylife,likeoneofthewomenIusedtoserve.‘Yourhusbandhasagoodeye,’thewomansaid.‘That’stheone,’Édouardsaidhappily.‘Édouard.’Ipulledhimtooneside,myvoicelowandalarmed.‘Lookatthelabel.Itisthepriceof

threeofyourpaintings.’‘Idon’tcare.Iwantyoutohavethehat.’‘Butyouwillresentit.Youwillresentme.Youshouldspendthemoneyonmaterials,oncanvases.

Thisis–it’snotme.’Hecutmeoff.Hemotionedtothewoman.‘I’lltakeit.’Andthen,assheinstructedherassistanttofetchabox,heturnedbacktomyreflection.Heranhishand

lightlydownthesideofmyneck,bentmyheadgentlytooneside,andmetmyeyeinthemirror.Then,thehattilting,hedroppedhisheadandkissedmyneckwhereitmetmyshoulder.Hismouthstayedtherelongenoughformetocolour,andforthetwowomentolookawayinshockandpretendtobusythemselves.WhenIliftedmyheadagain,mygazealittleunfocused,hewasstillwatchingmeinthemirror.‘Itisyou,Sophie,’hesaid,softly.‘Itisalwaysyou…’

ThathatwasstillinourapartmentinParis.Amillionmilesoutofreach.Isetmyjaw,walkedawayfromthemirrorandbegantodressmyselfinthebluewool.

ItoldHélèneafterthelastGermanofficerhadleftthatevening.Weweresweepingtheflooroftherestaurant,dustingthelastofthecrumbsfromthetables.Notthatthereweremany:eventheGermanstendedtopickupanystrays,thesedays–therationsseemedtoleaveeveryonewishingformore.Istood,mybroominmyhand,andaskedherquietlytostopforamoment.ThenItoldheraboutmywalkinthewood,whatIhadaskedoftheKommandantandwhathehadaskedinreturn.Sheblanched.‘Youdidnotagreetoit?’‘Isaidnothing.’‘Oh,thankGod.’Sheshookherhead,herhandagainsthercheek.‘ThankGodhecannotholdyouto

anything.’‘But…thatdoesnotmeanIwon’tgo.’

Mysistersatdownabruptlyatatable,andafteramomentIslidintotheseatoppositeher.Shethoughtbriefly,thentookmyhands.‘Sophie,Iknowyouarepanickedbutyoumustthinkaboutwhatyouaresaying.ThinkofwhattheydidtoLiliane.YouwouldreallygiveyourselftoaGerman?’‘I…havenotpromisedasmuch.’Shestaredatme.‘Ithink…theKommandantishonourableinhisway.And,besides,hemaynotevenwantmeto…He

didn’tsaythatinsomanywords.’‘Oh,youcannotbesonaïve!’Sheraisedherhandsheavenwards.‘TheKommandantshotaninnocent

mandead!Youwatchedhimsmashtheheadofoneofhisownmenintoawallforthemostminormisdemeanour!Andyouwouldgoaloneintohisquarters?Youcannotdothis!Think!’‘Ihavethoughtaboutlittleelse.TheKommandantlikesme.Ithinkherespectsme,inhisway.AndifI

donotdothisÉdouardwillsurelydie.Youknowwhathappensinthoseplaces.Themayorbelieveshimasgoodasdeadalready.’Sheleanedoverthetable,hervoiceurgent.‘Sophie–thereisnoguaranteethatHerrKommandantwill

acthonourably.HeisaGerman!Whyonearthshouldyoutrustawordthathesays?Youcouldliedownwithhimanditwouldallbefornothing!’Ihadneverseenmysistersoangry.‘Ihavetogoandspeakwithhim.Thereisnootherway.’‘Ifthisgetsout,Édouardwon’twantyou.’Westaredateachother.‘Youthinkyoucankeepitfromhim?Youcan’t.Youaretoohonest.Andevenifyoutried,doyouthink

thistownwouldn’tlethimknow?’Shewasright.Shelookeddownatherhands.Thenshegotupandpouredherselfaglassofwater.Shedrankit

slowly,glancingupatmetwice,andasthesilencelengthened,Ibegantofeelherdisapproval,theveiledquestionwithinit,anditmademeangry.‘YouthinkIwoulddothislightly?’‘Idon’tknow,’shesaid.‘Idon’tknowyouatallthesedays.’Itwaslikeaslap.MysisterandIglaredateachotherandIfeltasthoughIwereteeteringontheedge

ofsomething.Nobodyfightsyoulikeyourownsister;nobodyelseknowsthemostvulnerablepartsofyouandwillaimforthemwithoutmercy.ThespectreofmydancewiththeKommandantedgedaroundus,andIhadasuddenfeelingthatwewerewithoutboundaries.‘Allright,’Isaid.‘Answermethis,Hélène.IfitwereyouronlychancetosaveJean-Michel,what

wouldyoudo?’AtlastIsawherwaver.‘Lifeordeath.Whatwouldyoudotosavehim?Iknowtherearenolimitstowhatyoufeelforhim.’Shebitherlipandturnedtotheblackwindow.‘Thiscouldallgosowrong.’‘Itwon’t.’‘Youmaywellbelievethat.Butyouareimpulsivebynature.Anditisnotonlyyourfutureinthe

balance.’Istoodthen.Iwantedtowalkroundthetabletomysister.Iwantedtocrouchathersideandholdher

andbetoldthatitwouldallbeallright,thatwewouldallbesafe.Butherexpressiontoldmetherewasnothingmoretosay,soIbrusheddownmyskirtsand,broominhand,walkedtowardsthekitchendoor.

Isleptfitfullythatnight.IdreamedofÉdouard,ofhisfacecontortedwithdisgust.Idreamedofusarguing,ofmyselftryingagainandagaintoconvincehimthatIhadonlydonewhatwasright,whileheturnedaway.Inonedream,hepushedthechairbackfromthetableatwhichwesatarguing,andwhenIlookedhehadnolowerbody:hislegsandhalfofhistorsoweremissing.There,hesaidtome.Areyousatisfiednow?Iwokesobbing,tofindÉdithgazingdownatme,hereyesblack,unfathomable.Shereachedoutahand

andgentlytouchedmywetcheek,asifinsympathy.Ireachedoutandheldhertomeandwelaythereinsilence,wrappedaroundeachotherasthedawnbroke.Iwentthroughthedayasifinadream.IpreparedbreakfastforthechildrenwhileHélènewenttothe

market,andwatchedasAurélien,whowasinoneofhismoods,tookÉdithtoschool.Iopenedthedoorsatteno’clockandservedthefewpeoplewhocameinatthattime.OldRenéwaslaughingaboutsomeGermanmilitaryvehiclethathadgoneintoaditchdownbythebarracks,andcouldnotbepulledout.Thismishapcausedmerrimentinthebarforawhile.Ismiledvaguely,andnoddedthat,yes,indeed,thatwouldshowthem,yes,thatwasindeedfineGermansteering.Isawandhearditallasiffromtheinsideofabubble.AtlunchtimeAurélienandÉdithcameinforapieceofbreadandasmallknobofcheese,andwhile

theysatinthekitchenwereceivedanoticefromthemayor,requestingblanketsandseveralsetsofcutlerytogotoanewbilletamiledowntheroad.Therewasmuchgrumblingasourcustomersobservedthepieceofpaperandrecalledthatthey,too,wouldreturnhometosimilarnotices.Somesmallpartofmewasgladtobeseenaspartoftherequisitioning.Atthreeo’clockwepausedtowatchaGermanmedicalconvoypass,thelineofvehiclesandhorses

makingourroadvibrate.Thebarwassilentforsomeminutesafterwards.Atfouro’clockthemayor’swifecameinandthankedeveryonefortheirkindlettersandthoughts,andweaskedhertostayforacupofcoffeebutsherefused.Shewasnotgoodcompany,shesaidapologetically.Shemadeherwayunsteadilybackacrossthesquare,herhusbandsupportingherbytheelbow.Athalfpastfourthelastcustomersleftfortheday,andIknew,withduskfalling,thattherewouldbeno

more,eventhoughwewereopenforanotherhalf-hour.Iwalkedalongthedining-roomwindows,pullingdowneachblindsothatourinteriorwasagainobscured.InthekitchenHélènewascheckingspellingswithÉdith,andoccasionallybreakingofftosingsongswithMimiandJean.ÉdithhadtakenafancytolittleJean,andHélènehadremarkedseveraltimeswhatahelpthelittlegirlwas,playingwithhimsomuch.Hélènehadneveroncequestionedmydecisiontobringherintoourhome;itwouldnothaveoccurredtohertoturnachildaway,eventhoughitmeantlessfoodforeachofus.WhenIwentupstairs,Ipulleddownmyjournalfromtherafters.Imadeasiftowrite,thenrealizedI

hadnothingtosay.Nothingthatwouldnotincriminateme.Ituckedthejournalbackintoitshidingplace,andwonderedwhetherIwouldeverhaveanythingtosaytomyhusbandagain.

TheGermanscame,withouttheKommandant,andwefedthem.Theyweresubdued;Ifoundmyselfhoping,asIoftendid,thatthismeantsometerriblenewsontheirside.Hélènekeptglancingatmeasweworked;IcouldseehertryingtodecidewhatIwasgoingtodo.Iserved,pouredwine,washedup,andacceptedwithacurtnodthethanksofthosemenwhocongratulatedusonthemeal.Then,asthelastofthemleft,IscoopedupÉdith,whowasasleeponthestairsagain,andtookhertomyroom.Ilaidherin

thebed,pullingthecoversuptoherchin.Igazedatherforamoment,gentlymovingastrandofhairawayfromhercheek.Shestirred,herfacetroubledeveninsleep.Iwatchedtomakesureshewouldn’twake.ThenIbrushedmyhairandpinnedit,mymovementsslow

andconsidered.AsIstaredatmyreflectioninthecandlelight,somethingcaughtmyeye.Iturnedandpickedupanotethathadbeenpushedunderthedoor.Istaredatthewords,atHélène’shandwriting.Onceitisdone,itcannotbeundone.

AndthenIthoughtofthedeadboyprisonerinhisoversizedshoes,theraggle-tagglemenwhohadmadetheirwayuptheroadeventhatafternoon.Anditwassuddenlyverysimple:therewasnochoice.Iplacedthenoteinmyhidingplace,thenmademywaysilentlydownthestairs.Atthebottom,Igazed

attheportraitonthewall,thenlifteditcarefullyfromitshookandwrappeditinashawl,sothatnoneofitwasexposed.Icoveredmyselfwithanothertwoshawlsandsteppedoutintothedark.AsIclosedthedoorbehindme,Iheardmysisterwhisperfromupstairs,hervoiceawarningbell.Sophie.

9

Aftersomanymonthsspentinsideundercurfewitfeltstrangetobewalkinginthedark.Theicystreetsofthelittletownweredeserted,thewindowsblank,thecurtainsunmoving.Iwalkedalongbrisklyintheshadows,ashawlpulledhighovermyheadinthehopethatevenifsomeonehappenedtolookouttheywouldseeonlyanunidentifiableshapehurryingthroughthebackstreets.Itwasbitterlycold,butIbarelyfeltit.Iwasnumb.AsImadethefifteen-minutejourneytotheoutskirts

oftown,totheFourrierfarmwheretheGermanshadbilletedthemselvesalmostayearearlier,Ilosttheabilitytothink.Ibecameathing,walking.IwasafraidthatifIletmyselfthinkaboutwhereIwasgoing,Iwouldnotbeabletomakemylegsmove,onefootplacingitselfinfrontoftheother.IfIthought,Iwouldhearmysister’swarnings,theunforgivingvoicesoftheothertownspeopleifitweretoemergethatIhadbeenseenvisitingHerrKommandantundercoverofnight.Imighthearmyownfear.InsteadImutteredmyhusband’snamelikeamantra:Édouard.IwillfreeÉdouard.Icandothis.Iheld

thepaintingtightundermyarm.Ihadreachedtheoutskirtsofthetown.Iturnedleftwherethedirtroadbecameroughandrutted,the

lane’salreadypockedsurfacefurtherdestroyedbythemilitaryvehiclesthatpassedupanddown.Myfather’soldhorsehadbrokenaleginoneoftheserutsthepreviousyear:hehadbeenriddentoohardbysomeGermanwhohadn’tbeenlookingwherehewasgoing.Aurélienhadweptwhenheheardthenews.Justanotherblamelesscasualtyoftheoccupation.Thesedays,nobodyweptforhorses.IwillbringÉdouardhome.ThemoondisappearedbehindacloudandIstumbleddownthefarmtrack,myfeetseveraltimes

disappearingintorutsoficywatersothatmyshoesandstockingsweredrenchedandmycoldfingerstightenedroundthepaintingforfearthatIwoulddropit.Icouldjustmakeoutthedistantlightswithinthehouse,andIkeptwalkingtowardsthem.Dimshapesmovedaheadofmeontheverges,rabbitsperhaps,andtheoutlineofafoxcreptacrosstheroad,pausingbrieflytostareatme,insolentandunafraid.MomentslaterIheardtheterrifiedsquealofarabbitandhadtoforcedownthebileitbroughttomythroat.Thefarmloomedaheadnow,itslightsblazing.Iheardtherumbleofatruckandmybreathquickened.I

leapedbackwardsintoahedge,duckingoutofthebeamoftheheadlightsasamilitaryvehiclebouncedandwhineditswaypast.Intherear,underaflapofcanvas,Icouldjustmakeoutthefacesofwomen,seatedbesideeachother.Istaredastheydisappeared,thenpulledmyselfoutofthehedge,myshawlscatchingonthetwigs.TherewererumoursthattheGermansbroughtingirlsfromoutsidethetown;untilnowIhadbelievedthemtobejustthat.IthoughtofLilianeagainandofferedupasilentprayer.Iwasattheentrancetothefarm.AhundredfeetaheadofmeIsawthetruckstop,theshadowyformsof

womenwalkinginsilencetoadoorontheleft,asifthiswerearoutetheyhadtakenmanytimesbefore.Iheardmen’svoices,thedistantsoundofsinging.‘Halt.’

Thesoldiersteppedoutinfrontofme.Ijumped.Heliftedhisrifle,thenpeeredmoreclosely.Hegesturedtowardstheotherwomen.‘No…no.IamheretoseeHerrKommandant.’Hegesturedagain,impatiently.‘Nein,’Isaid,louder.‘HerrKommandant.Ihave…anappointment.’‘HerrKommandant?’Icouldnotseehisface.Butthesilhouetteappearedtostudyme,thenstrodeacrosstheyardtowhereI

couldjustmakeoutadoor.Herappedonit,andIheardamutteredconversation.Iwaited,myheartthumping,myskinpricklingwithanxiety.‘Wieheist?’hesaid,whenhereturned.‘IamMadameLefèvre,’Iwhispered.Hegesturedtomyshawl,whichIpulledbrieflyfrommyhead,exposingmyface.Hewavedtowardsa

dooracrossthecourtyard.‘DieseTur.Obergeschosse.GruneTuraufderrechtenSeite.’‘What?’Isaid.‘Idon’tunderstand.’Hegrewimpatientagain.‘Da,da.’Hegestured,takingmyelbowandpropellingmeforwardsroughly.

IwasshockedthathewouldtreatavisitortotheKommandantinsuchaway.Andthenitdawnedonme:myprotestationsthatIwasmarriedweremeaningless.Iwassimplyanotherwoman,callingonGermansafterdark.Iwasgladthathecouldnotseethecolourthatsprangtomycheeks.Iwrenchedmyelbowfromhisgraspandwalkedstifflytowardsthesmallbuildingontheright.

Itwasnothardtoseewhichroomwashis:lightcreptfromunderonlyonedoor.Ihesitatedoutside,thenknockedandsaidquietly,‘HerrKommandant?’Thesoundoffootsteps,thedooropened,andItookasmallstepback.Hewasoutofhisuniform,

dressedinastriped,collarlessshirtandbraces,abookdanglingfromonehand,asifIhadinterruptedhim.Helookedatme,halfsmiled,asifingreeting,andsteppedbacktoallowmein.Theroomwaslarge,thickwithbeams,anditsfloorboardscoveredwithrugs,severalofwhichI

thoughtIrecognizedfromthehomesofmyneighbours.Therewasasmalltableandchairs,amilitarychest,itsbrasscornersglowinginthelightoftwoacetylenelamps,acoathook,fromwhichhunghisuniform,andalargeeasychairbyagenerouslystackedfire.Itswarmthwasevidentevenfromtheothersideoftheroom.Inthecornerwasabed,withtwothickquilts.Iglancedatitandlookedaway.‘Here.’Hewasstandingbehindme,liftingtheshawlsfrommyback.‘Letmetakethese.’Iallowedhimtoremovethemandhangthemonthecoathook,stillclutchingthepaintingtomychest.

EvenasIstoodalmostparalysed,Ifeltashamedofmyshabbyclothing.Wecouldnotwashclothesofteninthiscold:wooltookweekstodry,orsimplyfrozeintorigidshapesoutside.‘It’sbitterout,’heobserved.‘Icanfeelitonyourclothes.’‘Yes.’Myvoice,whenitemerged,soundedunlikemyown.‘Thisisahardwinter.AndIthinkwehavesomemonthsofittocomeyet.Wouldyoulikeadrink?’He

movedtoasmalltable,andpouredtwoglassesofwinefromacarafe.Itookonefromhimwordlessly.Iwasstillshiveringfrommywalk.‘Youcanputthepackagedown,’hesaid.IhadforgottenIwasholdingit.Iloweredittothefloor,stillstanding.

‘Please,’hesaid.‘Pleasesit.’HeseemedalmostirritatedwhenIhesitated,asifmynervousnesswereaninsult.Isatononeofthewoodenchairs,onehandrestingagainsttheframeofthepainting.Idon’tknowwhyI

founditacomfort.‘Ididnotcometoeatatthehoteltonight.Ithoughtaboutwhatyousaid,thatyouarealreadyconsidered

atraitorforourpresenceinyourhome.’Itookasipofmywine.‘Idonotwishtocauseyoumoreproblems,Sophie…morethanwealreadycauseyoubyour

occupation.’Ididn’tknowwhattosaytothis.Itookanothersip.Hiseyeskeptdartingtomine,asifhewerewaiting

forsomeresponse.Fromacrossthecourtyardwecouldhearsinging.Iwonderedwhetherthegirlswerewiththemen,then

whotheywere,whichvillagestheyhadcomefrom.Wouldthey,too,beparadedthroughthestreetsascriminalsafterwardsforwhattheyhaddone?DidtheyknowthefateofLilianeBéthune?‘Areyouhungry?’Hegesturedtowardsasmalltrayofbreadandcheese.Ishookmyhead.Ihadhadno

appetiteallday.‘It’snotquiteuptothenormalstandardsofyourcooking,Iadmit.Iwasthinkingtheotherdayofthat

duckdishyoumadelastmonth.Withtheorange.Perhapsyouwoulddothatforusagain.’Hekepttalking.‘Butoursuppliesaredwindling.IfoundmyselfdreamingofaChristmascakecalledStollen.DoyouhaveitinFrance?’Ishookmyheadagain.Wesatoneachsideofthefire.Ifeltelectrified,asifeachpartofmewerefizzing,transparent.Ifeltas

ifhecouldseethroughmyskin.Hekneweverything.Heheldeverything.Ilistenedtothedistantvoices,andeverynowandthenmypresencetherehitme.IamalonewithaKommandant,intheGermanbarracks.Inaroomwithabed.‘DidyouthinkaboutwhatIsaid?’Iblurtedout.Hestaredatmeforaminute.‘Youwouldnotallowusthepleasureofasmallconversation?’Iswallowed.‘I’msorry.ButImustknow.’Hetookasipofwine.‘Ihavethoughtoflittleelse.’‘Then…’Mybreathstalledinmychest.Ileanedover,putmyglassdownandunwrappedthepainting.

Iplaceditagainstthechair,litbythefire,sothathecouldseeitinitsfinestaspect.‘Willyoutakeit?Willyoutakeitinexchangeformyhusband’sfreedom?’Theairintheroomgrewstill.Hedidn’tlookatthepicture.Hiseyesstayedonmine,unblinking,

unreadable.‘IfIcouldconveytoyouwhatthispaintingmeanstome…ifyouknewhowithadkeptmegoinginthe

darkestofdays…youwouldknowIcouldnotofferitlightly.ButI…wouldnotmindthepaintinggoingtoyou,HerrKommandant.’‘Friedrich.CallmeFriedrich.’‘Friedrich.I…havelongknownthatyouunderstoodmyhusband’swork.Youunderstandbeauty.You

understandwhatanartistputsofhimselfintoapieceofwork,andwhyitisathingofinfinitevalue.Sowhileitwillbreakmyhearttoloseit,Igiveitwillingly.Toyou.’

Hewasstillstaringatme.Ididnotlookaway.Everythingdependedonthismoment.Isawanoldscarrunningseveralinchesfromhislefteardownhisneck,alightlysilveredridge.Isawthathisbrightblueeyeswererimmedwithblack,asifsomeonehaddrawnaroundeachirisforemphasis.‘Itwasneveraboutthepainting,Sophie.’Andthereitwas:confirmationofmyfate.Iclosedmyeyesbrieflyandletmyselfabsorbthisknowledge.TheKommandantbegantotalkaboutart.Hespokeofanartteacherhehadknownasayoungman,a

teacherwhohadopenedhiseyestoworkfarfromtheclassicismofhisupbringing.Hespokeofhowhehadtriedtoexplainthisrougher,moreelementalwayofpaintingtohisfather,andhisdisappointmentattheolderman’sincomprehension.‘Hetoldmeitlooked“unfinished”,’hesaidsadly.‘Hebelievedthatveeringfromthetraditionalwasanactofrebellioninitself.Ithinkmywifeismuchthesame.’Ibarelyheardhim.Iliftedmyglassandtookalongdraught.‘MayIhavesomemore?’Isaid.Iemptied

it,thenaskedforittoberefilledagain.Ihaveneverdrunklikethat,beforeorsince.Ididn’tcareifIappearedrude.TheKommandantcontinuedtotalk,hisvoicealowmonotone.Hedidn’taskanythingofmeinreturn:itwasasifhewantedmeonlytolisten.Hewantedmetoknowthattherewassomeoneelsebehindtheuniformandthepeakedcap.ButIbarelyheardhim.Iwishedtoblurtheworldaroundme,forthisdecisionnottobemine.‘Doyouthinkwewouldhavebeenfriends,ifwehadmetinothercircumstances?Iliketothinkwe

would.’ItriedtoforgetthatIwasthere,inthatroom,withaGerman’seyesuponme.Iwantedtobeathing,

unfeeling,unknowing.‘Perhaps.’‘Willyoudancewithme,Sophie?’Thewayhekeptsayingmyname,asifhewereentitledto.Iputdownmyglassandstood,myarmsuselessatmysidesashewalkedovertothegramophoneand

putonaslowwaltz.Hemovedtowardsmeandhesitatedjustaminutebeforeputtinghisarmsaroundme.Asthemusiccrackledintolife,webegantodance.Imovedslowlyaroundtheroom,myhandinhis,myfingerslightagainstthesoftcottonofhisshirt.Idanced,mymindblank,vaguelyconsciousofhisheadasitcametorestagainstmine.Ismeltsoapandtobacco,felthistrousersbrushagainstmyskirt.Heheldme,notpullingmetohim,butcarefully,asonemightholdsomethingfragile.Iclosedmyeyes,allowingmyselftosinkintoahaze,tryingtotrainmymindtofollowthemusic,toputmyselfsomewhereelse.SeveraltimesItriedtoimaginehewasÉdouard,butmymindwouldn’tletme.Everythingaboutthismanwastoodifferent:hisfeel,hissizeagainstmine,thescentofhisskin.‘Sometimes,’hesaidsoftly,‘itseemsthereissolittlebeautyleftinthisworld.Solittlejoy.Youthink

lifeisharshinyourlittletown.Butifyousawwhatweseeoutsideit…Nobodywins.Nobodywinsinawarlikethis.’Itwasasifhewasspeakingtohimself.Myfingersrestedonhisshoulder.Icouldfeelthemuscles

movebeneathhisshirtashebreathed.‘Iamagoodman,Sophie,’hemurmured.‘Itisimportanttomethatyouunderstandthat.Thatwe

understandeachother.’

Andthenthemusicstopped.Hereleasedmereluctantly,andwenttoresettheneedle.Hewaitedforthemusictostartagain,andthen,insteadofdancing,hegazedforamomentatmyportrait.Ifeltaglimmerofhope–perhapshewouldstillchangehismind?–butthen,aftertheslightesthesitation,hereachedupandgentlypulledoneofthepinsfrommyhair.AsIstood,frozen,heremovedtheremainingpinscarefully,onebyone,placingthemonthetable,lettingmyhairfallsoftlyaroundmyface.Hehaddrunkalmostnothingbuttherewasaglazedqualitytohisexpression,ashewatched,melancholy.Hiseyessearchedmine,askingaquestion.Myowngazewasunblinking,likethatofaporcelaindoll.ButIdidnotlookaway.Asthelastofmyhairwasreleased,heliftedahandandallowedthelocktotrailthroughhisfingers.

Hisstillnesswasthatofamanafraidtomove,ahunterunwillingtostartlehisprey.Andthenhetookmyfacegentlybetweenhishandsandkissedme.Ifeltmomentarypanic;Icouldn’tbringmyselftokisshimback.ButIallowedmylipstopartforhis,closedmyeyes.Shockmademybodyalientome.Ifelthishandstightenaroundmywaist,felthimpropellingmebackwardstowardsthebed.Andallthewhileasilentvoiceremindedmethatthiswasatrade.Iwasbuyingmyhusbandhisfreedom.AllIhadtodowasbreathe.Ikeptmyeyesclosed,laydownagainsttheimpossiblesoftnessofthequilts.Ifelthishandsonmyfeet,pullingmyshoesoff,andthentheywereonmylegs,slidingslowlyupundermyskirt.Icouldfeelhiseyesonmyfleshastheyrosehigher.Édouard.Hekissedme.Hekissedmymouth,mychest,mybarestomach,hisbreathingaudible,lostinaworldof

hisownimaginings.Hekissedmyknees,mystockingedthighs,lettinghismouthrestagainstbareskinasifitsproximitywereasourceofunbearablepleasure.‘Sophie,’hemurmured.‘Oh,Sophie…’Andashishandsreachedtheinnermostpartofmythighs,sometreacherouspartofmesparkedinto

life,awarmththatwasnothingtodowiththefire.Somepartofmedivorceditselffrommyheart,andletslipitshungerfortouch,fortheweightofabodyagainstmyown.Ashislipstracedmyskin,Ishiftedslightlyandoutofnowhereamoanescapedmymouth.Buttheurgencyofhisresponse,thequickeningofhisbreathonmyface,quelleditasfastasitwasborn.Myskirtswerepushedup,myblousepulledfrommychest,andasIfelthismouthonmybreast,Ifoundmyselfturning,likesomemythicalfigure,tostone.Germanlips.Germanhands.Hewasontopofmenow,hisweightpinningmetothebed.Icouldfeelhishandstuggingatmy

underclothes,desperatetogetinsidethem.Hepushedmykneetooneside,halfcollapsingonmychestinhisdesperation.Ifelthimhard,unyielding,againstmyleg.Somethingripped.Andthen,withalittlegasp,hewasinsideme,andmyeyesweretightshut,myjawclenchedtostopmyselfcryingoutinprotest.In.In.In.Icouldhearthehoarsenessofhisbreathinginmyear,feelthefaintsheenofhissweatagainst

myskin,thebuckleofhisbeltagainstmythigh.Mybodymoved,propelledbytheurgencyofhis.Oh,God,whathaveIdone?In.In.In.Myfistsclosedaroundtwohandfulsofquilt,mythoughtsjumbledandtransient.Somedistantpartofmeresentedtheirsoft,heavywarmthmorethanalmostanything.Stolenfromsomeone.Liketheystoleeverything.Occupied.Iwasoccupied.Idisappeared.IwasinastreetinParis,rueSoufflot.Thesunwasshining,andaroundme,asIwalked,IcouldseeParisianwomenintheirfinery,thepigeonsstruttingthroughthedappledshadowsofthetrees.Myhusband’sarmwaslinkedthroughmine.IwantedtosaysomethingtohimbutinsteadIletoutasmallsob.Thescenestilled,andevaporated.AndthenIwasawaredimlythatithadstopped.Thepushingslowed,thenstopped.

Everythinghadstopped.Thething.Histhingwasnolongerinsidemebutsoft,curlingapologeticallyagainstmygroin.Iopenedmyeyes,andfoundmyselflookingstraightintohis.TheKommandant’sface,inchesfrommyown,wasflushed,hisexpressionagonized.Istopped

breathingasIgraspedhispredicament.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.ButhiseyeslockedonmineandheknewthatIknew.Hepushedhimselfroughlybackwardssothathisweightwasoffme.‘You–’hebegan.‘What?’Iwasconsciousofmyexposedbreasts,myskirtbunchedaroundmywaist.‘Yourexpression…so…’Hestood,andIavertedmyeyeswhileIheardhimpulluphistrousersandfastenthem.Hestared

rigidlyawayfromme,onehandonthetopofhishead.‘I–I’msorry,’Ibegan.Iwasn’tsurewhatIwasapologizingfor.‘WhatdidIdo?’‘You–you–Ididn’twantthat!’Hegesturedtowardsme.‘Yourface…’‘Idon’tunderstand.’Iwasalmostangrythen,accostedbytheunfairnessofit.Didhehaveanyidea

whatIhadendured?Didheknowwhatithadcostmetolethimtouchme?‘Ididwhatyouwanted!’‘Ididn’twantyoulikethat!Iwanted…’hesaid,hishandliftedinfrustration.‘Iwantedthis!Iwanted

thegirlinthepainting!’Webothstaredinsilenceattheportrait.Thegirlgazedsteadilybackatus,herhairaroundherneck,

herexpressionchallenging,glorious,sexuallyreplete.Myface.Ipulledmyskirtsovermylegs,clutchedmyblousearoundmyneck.WhenIspoke,myvoicewasthick,

tremulous.‘Igaveyou…HerrKommandant…everythingIwascapableofgiving.’Hiseyesbecameopaque,aseathathadfrozen.Theticjumpedinhisjaw,ajudderingpulse.‘Getout,’

hesaidquietly.Iblinked.‘I’msorry,’Istammered,whenIrealizedIhadheardhimcorrectly.‘If…Ican…’‘GETOUT!’heroared.Hegrabbedmyshoulder,hisfingersdiggingintomyflesh,andwrenchedme

acrosstheroom.‘Myshoes…myshawls!’‘OUT,DAMNYOU!’Ihadtimeonlytograbmypainting,andthenIwaspropelledoutofthedoor,

stumblingtomykneesatthetopofthestairs,mymindstillstrugglingtograspwhatwashappening.Therewasthesoundofatremendouscrashbehindthedoor.Andthenanother,thistimeaccompaniedbythesoundofsplinteringglass.Iglancedbehindme.Then,barefoot,Irandownthestairs,acrossthecourtyardandfled.

Ittookmealmostanhourtowalkhome.Ilostthefeelinginmyfeetafteraquarterofamile.BythetimeIreachedthetowntheyweresofrozenthatIwasnotawareofthecutsandgrazesIhadcollectedonthelongwalkuptheflintedfarmtrack.Iwalkedon,stumblingthroughthedark,thepaintingundermyarm,shiveringinmythinblouse,andIfeltnothing.AsIwalked,myshockgavewaytounderstandingofwhatIhaddone,andwhatIhadlost.Mymindspunwithit.Iwalkedthroughthedesertedstreetsofmyhometown,nolongercaringifanyonesawme.IreachedLeCoqRougeshortlybeforeoneo’clock.IheardtheclockchimeasolitarynoteasIstood

outside,andwonderedbrieflywhetheritwouldbebetterforeveryoneifIfailedtoletmyselfinatall.Andthen,asIstoodthere,atinyglowappearedbehindthegauzecurtainandtheboltsweredrawnback

ontheotherside.Hélèneappeared,hernightbonneton,herwhiteshawlaroundher.Shemusthavewaitedupforme.Ilookedupather,mysister,andIknewthenthatshehadbeenrightallalong.IknewthatwhatIhad

donehadputourentirefamilyatrisk.IwantedtotellherIwassorry.IwantedtotellherIunderstoodthedepthofmymistake,andthatmyloveforÉdouard,mydesperationforourlifetogethertocontinue,hadmademeblindtoeverythingelse.ButIcouldn’tspeak.Ijuststoodinthedoorway,mute.Hereyeswidenedasshetookinmybareshoulders,mynakedfeet.Shereachedoutahandandpulled

mein,closingthedoorbehindher.Sheplacedhershawlaroundmyshoulders,smoothedmyhairbackfrommyface.Wordlessly,sheledmetothekitchen,closedthedoorandlittherange.Sheheatedacupofmilk,andasIheldit(Icouldn’tdrinkit),sheunhookedourtinbathfromitsplaceonthewallandputitonthefloor,infrontoftherange.Shefilledcopperpotaftercopperpotwithwater,whichsheboiled,wrenchedfromthestoveandpouredintothebath.Whenitwasfullenough,shewalkedaroundmeandcarefullyremovedtheshawl.Sheunlacedmyblouse,thenliftedmychemiseovermyhead,asshemightwithachild.Sheunbuttonedmyskirtsattheback,loosenedmycorset,thenunhookedmypetticoats,layingthemallonthekitchentableuntilIwasnaked.AsIbegantoshake,shetookmyhandandhelpedmestepintothebath.Thewaterwasscalding,butIbarelyfeltit.Iloweredmyselfsothatmostofme,exceptmykneesand

shoulders,wasunderthewater,ignoringthestingingofthecutsonmyfeet.Andthenmysisterrolleduphersleeves,tookawashcloth,andbegantosoapme,frommyhairtomyshoulders,frommybacktomyfeet.Shebathedmeinsilence,herhandstenderassheworked,liftingeachlimb,gentlywipingbetweeneachfinger,carefullyensuringthattherewasnopartofmenotcleansed.Shebathedthesolesofmyfeet,delicatelyremovingthesmallpiecesofstonethathadembeddedthemselvesinthecuts.Shewashedmyhair,rinsingitwithabowluntilthewaterranclear,thencombeditout,strandbystrand.Shetookthewashcloth,andwipedatthetearsthatrolledsilentlydownmycheeks.Allthewhileshesaidnothing.Finally,asthewaterbegantocoolandIstartedtoshakeagain,fromcoldorexhaustionorsomethingelseentirely,shetookalargetowelandwrappedmeinit.Thensheheldme,putmeintoanightgownandledmeupstairstomybed.‘Oh,Sophie,’Iheardhermurmur,asIdriftedintosleep.AndIthinkIkneweventhenwhatIhad

broughtdownuponusall.‘Whathaveyoudone?’

10

Dayspassed.HélèneandIwentaboutourdailybusinessliketwoactors.Fromafarperhapswelookedaswealwayshad,buteachofusflounderedinagrowingunease.Neitherofustalkedaboutwhathadhappened.Isleptlittle,sometimesonlytwohoursanight.Istruggledtoeat.Mystomachcoileditselftightlyaroundmyfearevenastherestofmethreatenedtounravel.Ireturnedcompulsivelytotheeventsofthatfatefulevening,beratingmyselfformynaïvety,my

stupidity,mypride.Foritmusthavebeenpridethathadbroughtmetothis.IfIhadpretendedtoenjoytheKommandant’sattentions,ifIhadimitatedmyownportrait,Imighthavewonhisadmiration.Imighthavesavedmyhusband.Wouldthathavebeensuchaterriblethingtodo?InsteadIhadheldontothisridiculousnotionthatbyallowingmyselftobecomeathing,avessel,Iwassomehowlesseningmyinfidelity.Iwassomehowbeingtruetous.AsifthatcouldmakeanydifferencetoÉdouard.EachdayIwaited,heartinmouth,andwatchedsilentlyastheofficersfiledinandtheKommandant

wasn’twiththem.Iwasafraidtoseehim,butIwasmoreafraidofhisabsenceandwhatitmightmean.Onenight,Hélènepluckedupthecouragetoasktheofficerwiththesalt-and-peppermoustachewherehewas,buthejustwavedahandandsaidhewas‘toobusy’.Mysister’seyesmetmineandIknewthatwasnocomforttoeitherofus.IwatchedHélèneandfeltcowedbytheweightofmyguilt.EverytimesheglancedatthechildrenI

knewshewaswonderingwhatwouldbecomeofthem.Once,Isawhertalkingquietlytothemayor,andIthoughtIheardheraskinghimtotakethem,ifanythinghappenedtoher.Isaythisbecausehelookedappalled,asifhewereastonishedthatsheshouldeventhinksuchathing.Isawthenewlinesofstrainastheythreadedtheirwayaroundhereyesandjaw,andknewthattheyweremydoing.Thesmallerchildrenseemedoblivioustoourprivatefears.JeanandMimiplayedastheyalwayshad,

whiningandcomplainingofcoldoreachother’sminortransgressions.Hungermadethemfractious.IdarednottakethesmallestscrapfromtheGermansuppliesnow,butitwashardtellingthemno.Aurélienwasagainlockedinhisownunhappiness.Heatesilently,andspoketoneitherofus.Iwonderedifhehadbeenfightingagainatschool,butIwastoopreoccupiedtogiveitfurtherthought.Édithknew,though.Shehadthesensitivityofadiviningrod.Shestucktomysideatalltimes.Atnightshesleptwithmynightgownclenchedinherrighthand,andwhenIwokeherbigdarkeyeswouldbefixedonmyface.WhenIcaughtsightofmyreflection,myfacewashaggard,unrecognizableeventomyself.NewsfilteredthroughoftwomoretownstakenbytheGermanstothenorth-east.Ourrationsgrew

smaller.Eachdayseemedlongerthanthelast.Iservedandcleanedandcookedbutmythoughtswerechaoticwithexhaustion.PerhapstheKommandantsimplywouldn’tappear.Perhapshisshameatwhathadhappenedbetweenusmeanthecouldn’tfaceseeingme.Perhapshe,too,feltguilt.Perhapshewasdead.PerhapsÉdouardwouldwalkthroughthedoor.Perhapsthewarwouldendtomorrow.AtthispointIwouldusuallyhavetositdownandtakeabreath.

‘Goupstairsandgetsomesleep,’Hélènewouldmurmur.Iwonderedifshehatedme.Iwouldhavefoundithardnotto,ifIwereher.

TwiceIreturnedtomyhiddenletters,fromthemonthsbeforewehadbecomeaGermanterritory.IreadÉdouard’swords,aboutthefriendshehadmade,theirpaltryrations,theirgoodspirits,anditwaslikelisteningtoaghost.Ireadhiswordsoftendernesstome,hispromisethathewouldbewithmesoon,thatIoccupiedhiseverywakingthought.IdothisforFrancebut,moreselfishly,Idoitforus,sothatImaytravelbackacrossaFreeFrancetomywife.Thecomfortsofhome;ourstudio,coffeeintheBarduLyons,ourafternoonscurledupinbed,youpassingmepiecesofpeeledorange…Thingsthatweredomesticmundanityhavenowtakenontheglowinghuesoftreasure.DoyouknowhowmuchIlongtobringyoucoffee?Towatchyoubrushyourhair?DoyouknowhowIlongtowatchyoulaughingontheothersideofthetable,andknowthatIamthecauseofyourhappiness?Ibringoutthesememoriestoconsolemyself,toremindmewhyIamhere.Staysafeforme.KnowthatIremain

Yourdevotedhusband.

IreadhiswordsandnowtherewasanextrareasontowonderwhetherIwouldeverhearthemagain.

Iwasdowninthecellar,changingoneofthecasksofale,whenIheardfootstepsontheflagstones.Hélène’ssilhouetteappearedinthedoorway,blockingoutthelight.‘Themayorishere.HesaystheGermansarecomingforyou.’Myheartstopped.Sherantothedividingwall,andbeganpullingtheloosebricksfromtheirplacements.‘Goon–you

cangetoutthroughnextdoorifyouhurry.’Shepulledthemout,herhandsscrabblinginherhaste.Whenshehadcreatedaholeaboutthewidthofasmallbarrel,sheturnedtome.Sheglanceddownatherhands,wrenchedoffherweddingringandhandedittome,beforepullinghershawlfromhershoulders.‘Takethis.Gonow.I’llholdthemup.Buthurry,Sophie,they’recomingacrossthesquare.’Ilookeddownattheringinmypalm.‘Ican’t,’Isaid.‘Whynot?’‘Whatifhekeepshissideofthedeal?’‘HerrKommandant?Deal?Howonearthcanhebekeepinghissideofthedeal?Theyarecomingfor

you,Sophie!Theyarecomingtopunishyou,toimprisonyouinacamp.Youhavegravelyoffendedhim!Theyarecomingtosendyouaway!’‘Butthinkaboutit,Hélène.Ifhewantedtopunishme,hewouldhavehadmeshotorparadedthrough

thestreets.HewouldhavedonetomewhathedidtoLilianeBéthune.’‘Andriskrevealingwhathewaspunishingyoufor?Haveyoutakenleaveofyoursenses?’‘No.’Mythoughtshadbeguntoclear.‘Hehashadtimetoconsiderhistemperandheissendingmeto

Édouard.Iknowit.’Shepushedmetowardsthehole.‘Thisisnotyoutalking,Sophie.Itislackofsleep,yourfears,a

mania…Youwillcometoyoursensessoon.Butyouneedtogonow.ThemayorsaystogotoMadamePoilânesothatyoucanstayinthebarnwiththefalsefloortonight.I’lltryandsendwordtoyoulater.’Ishookoffherarm.‘No…no.Don’tyousee?TheKommandantcannotpossiblybringÉdouardback

here,notwithoutmakingitobviouswhathehasdone.Butifhesendsmeaway,withÉdouard,hecanfreeusboth.’‘Sophie!Enoughtalkingnow!’

‘Ikeptmysideofthedeal.’‘GO!’‘No.’Westaredateachotherintheneardark.‘I’mnotgoing.’Ireachedforherhandandplacedtheringinit,closingherfingersaroundit.Irepeatedquietly,‘I’mnot

going.’Hélène’sfacecrumpled.‘Youcannotletthemtakeyou,Sophie.Thisisinsanity.Theyaresendingyou

toaprisoncamp!Doyouhearme?Acamp!TheverythingyousaidwouldkillÉdouard!’ButIbarelyheardher.Istraightenedup,andletoutabreath.Ifeltstrangelyrelieved.Iftheywere

comingonlyforme,Hélènewassafe,thechildrentoo.‘Iwasrightabouthimallalong,Iamsure.Hehasthoughtaboutitall,inthelightofday,andheknows

Itried,despiteeverything,tokeeptomysideofthings.Heisanhonourableman.Hesaidwewerefriends.’Mysisterwascryingnow.‘Please,Sophie,pleasedon’tdothis.Youdon’tknowyourownmind.You

stillhavetime–’Shetriedtoblockmypath,butIpushedpastherandbegantowalkupthestairs.TheywerealreadyintheentrancetothebarwhenIemerged,twooftheminuniform.Thebarwas

silentandtwentypairsofeyeslandedonme.IcouldseeoldRené,hishandtremblingontheedgeofthetable,MesdamesLouvierandDuranttalkinginhushedvoices.Themayorwaswithoneoftheofficers,gesticulatingwildly,tryingtoconvincehimtochangehismind,thattheremusthavebeensomemistake.‘ItistheordersoftheKommandant,’theofficersaid.‘Butshehasdonenothing!Thisisatravesty!’‘Courage,Sophie,’someoneshouted.IfeltasifIwereinadream.Timeseemedtoslow,thevoicesfadingaroundme.OneoftheofficersbeckonedmeforwardsandIsteppedoutside.Thesun’swaterylightfloodedthe

square.Therewerepeoplestandingonthestreet,waitingtoseethecauseofthecommotioninthebar.Istoppedforamomentandgazedaroundme,blinkinginthedaylightafterthegloomofthecellar.Everythingseemedsuddenlycrystalline,redrawninafiner,brighterimage,asifitwereimprintingitselfonmymemory.Thepriestwasstandingoutsidethepostoffice,andhecrossedhimselfwhenhesawthevehicletheyhadsenttotakemeaway.Itwas,Irealized,theonethathadtransportedthosewomentothebarracks.Thatnightseemedanageago.Themayorwasshouting:‘Wewillnotallowthis!Iwanttoregisteranofficialcomplaint!Thisisthe

limit!IwillnotletyoutakethisgirlwithoutspeakingtotheKommandantfirst!’‘Thesearehisorders.’Asmallgroupofolderpeoplewerebeginningtosurroundthemen,asiftoformabarrier.‘Youcannotpersecuteinnocentwomen!’MadameLouvierwasdeclaiming.‘Youtakeoverherhome,

makeheryourservant,andnowyouwouldimprisonher?Fornoreason?’‘Sophie.Here.’Mysisterreappearedatmyshoulder.‘Atleasttakeyourthings.’Shethrustacanvas

bagatme.Itoverflowedwithbelongingsshehadhurriedlystuffedintoit.‘Juststaysafe.Doyouhearme?Staysafeandcomebacktous.’Thecrowdwasmurmuringitsprotest.Ithadbecomeafebrile,angrything,growinginsize.Iglanced

sidewaysandsawAurélien,hisfacefuriousandflushed,standingonthepavementwithMonsieurSuel.Ididn’twanthimtogetinvolved.IfheturnedontheGermansnowitwouldbeadisaster.Anditwas

importantthatHélènehadanallythesenextfewmonths.Ipushedmywaytowardshim.‘Aurélien,youarethemanofthehouse.YoumusttakecareofeveryonewhenIamgone,’Ibegan,buthestoppedme.‘Itisyourownfault!’heblurtedout.‘Iknowwhatyoudid!IknowwhatyoudidwiththeGerman!’Everythingstopped.Ilookedatmybrother,themixtureofanguishandfuryonhisface.‘IheardyouandHélènetalking.Isawyoucomebackthatnight!’Iregisteredtheexchangesofglancesaroundme.DidAurélienBessettejustsaywhatIthinkhedid?‘It’snotwhat–’Ibegan.Butheturnedandboltedbackintothebar.Anewsilencefell.Aurélien’saccusationwasrepeatedinmurmurstothosewhohadn’theardit.I

registeredtheshockonthefacesaroundme,andHélène’sfearfulglancesideways.IwasLilianeBéthunenow.Butwithoutthemitigatingfactorofresistance.Theatmospherehardenedaroundmetangibly.Hélène’shandreachedformine.‘Youshouldhavegone,’shewaswhispering,hervoicebreaking.‘You

shouldhavegone,Sophie…’Shemadeasiftotakeholdofme,butshewaspulledaway.OneoftheGermansgrabbedmyarm,pushingmetowardsthebackofthetruck.Someoneshouted

somethingfromthedistance,butIcouldn’tmakeoutwhetheritwasaprotestattheGermansorsometermofabuseaimedatme.ThenIheard,‘Putain!Putain!’andflinched.HeissendingmetoÉdouard,Itoldmyself,whenmyheartfeltasifitwouldbreakoutofmychest.Iknowheis.Imusthavefaith.AndthenIheardher,hervoicebreakingintothesilence.‘Sophie!’Achild’svoice,piercingand

anguished.‘Sophie!Sophie!’Édithburstthroughthecrowdthathadgatheredandhurledherselfatmeandclutchedmyleg.‘Don’tleave.Yousaidyouwouldn’tleave.’Itwasthemostshehadsaidaloudsinceshehadcometous.Iswallowed,myeyesfillingwithtears.I

stoopedandputmyarmsaroundher.HowcanIleaveher?Mythoughtsblurred,mysensesnarrowingtothefeelofherlittlehands.AndthenIglancedupandsawhowtheGermansoldierswatchedher,somethingspeculativeintheir

gaze.Ireachedupandsmoothedherhair.‘Édith,youmuststaywithHélèneandbebrave.YourmamanandIwillcomebackforyou.Ipromise.’Shedidn’tbelieveme.Hereyeswerewidewithfear.‘Nothingbadisgoingtohappentome.Ipromise.Iamgoingtoseemyhusband.’Itriedtomakeher

believeme,tofillmyvoicewithcertainty.‘No,’shesaid,hergriptightening.‘No.Pleasedon’tleaveme.’Myheartbroke.Ipleadedsilentlywithmysister.Takeherawayfromhere.Don’tlethersee.Hélène

prisedherfingersfromme.Shewassobbingnow.‘Pleasedon’ttakemysister,’shesaidtothesoldiers,asshepulledÉdithaway.‘Shedoesnotknowhermind.Pleasedon’ttakemysister.Shedoesnotdeservethis.’Themayorputhisarmaroundhershoulders,hisexpressionconfused,thefightknockedoutofhimbyAurélien’swords.‘Iwillbeallright,Édith.Bestrong,’Icalledtoher,abovethenoise.Thensomeonespatatme,andI

sawit,athin,viletrail,uponmysleeve.Thecrowdjeered.Panicfilledme.‘Hélène?’Icalled.‘Hélène?’Germanhandspropelledmeroughlyintothebackofthetruck.Ifoundmyselfinadarkinterior,seated

onawoodenbench.Asoldiertookhisplaceoppositeme,hisriflerestinginthecrookofhiselbow.Thecanvasflapdroppeddown,andtheenginefiredintolife.Thenoiseswelled,andsodidthesoundofthecrowd,asifthisactionhadunleashedthosewhowishedtoabuseme.IwonderedbrieflyifIcouldthrowmyselfthroughthesmallgap,butthenIheard,‘Whore!’followedbyÉdith’sthinwail,andthesharpcrack

ofastoneasithitthesideofthetruck,causingthesoldiertobarkoutawarning.Iflinchedasanotherstruck,behindwhereIwassitting.TheGermanlookedatmesteadily.Theslightsmirkinhisexpressiontoldmeofmyterriblemistake.Isat,myhandspressedtogetheronmybag,andbegantoshake.Asthetruckpulledaway,Ididnottry

toliftthecanvasflaptoseeout.Ididnotwanttofeeltheeyesofthetownuponme.Ididnotwanttoheartheirverdict.Isatonthearchofthewheel,andslowlydroppedmyheadintomyhands,murmuring,‘Édouard,Édouard,Édouard,’tomyself.And:‘I’msorry.’I’mnotsurewhoIwasapologizingto.OnlywhenIreachedtheoutskirtsofthetowndidIdaretolookup.Throughtheflappinggapinthe

canvas,IcouldjustseetheredsignofLeCoqRougeglintinginthewintersun,andthebrightblueofÉdith’sdressontheedgeofthecrowd.Itgrewsmallerandsmalleruntilfinally,likethetown,itdisappeared.

PARTTWO

11

London,2006

Livrunsalongtheriver,herbagwedgedunderherarm,herphonepressedbetweenearandshoulder.SomewherearoundEmbankment,theloadedgreyskiesoverLondonhaveopened,dumpinganear-tropicalrainstormacrossthecentreofthecapital,andthetrafficsitsstationary,thetaxis’exhaustpipessteaming,theirwindowsobscuredbythebreathoftheirpassengers.‘Iknow,’shesays,forthefifteenthtime,herjacketdarkenedandherhairplasteredtoherhead.‘I

know…Yes,I’mwellawareoftheterms.I’mjustwaitingonacoupleofpaymentsthat–’Sheducksintoadoorway,pullsapairofhighheelsfromherhandbagandslipsthemon,staringatherwetpumpsassherealizesshehasnowheretoputthem.‘Yes.Yes,Iam…No,mycircumstanceshaven’tchanged.Notrecently.’Sheducksoutofthedoorwayandheadsbackontothepavement,crossingtheroadandheadingup

towardsAldwych,thewetpumpsinonehand.Acarsendsasprayofwateroverherfeetandshestops,staringatitsdepartingwheelsindisbelief.‘Areyoukiddingme?’sheyells.Andthen,‘No,notyou,Mr…Dean.Notyou,Dean…Yes,Idoappreciateyou’rejustdoingyourjob.Look,’shesays.‘I’llhavethepaymentbyMonday.Okay?It’snotlikeI’vebeenlatepayingbefore.Okay,once.’Anothertaxiapproachesandthistimesheducksneatlybackintoadoorway.‘Yes.Iunderstand,

Dean…Iknow.Itmustbeveryhardforyou.Look–Ipromiseyou’llhaveitonMonday…Yes.Yes,definitely.AndI’msorryaboutthewholeshoutingthing…Ihopeyougetthenewjobtoo,Dean.’Shesnapsshutherphone,stuffsitintoherhandbag,andlooksupattherestauranthoarding.Shedipsto

checkherreflectioninacarmirroranddespairs.There’snothingtobedone.She’salreadyfortyminuteslate.Livsmoothesherwethairfromherface,andglanceslonginglybackdownthestreet.Thenshetakesa

breath,pushesopenthedooroftherestaurantandwalksin.

‘Theresheis!’KristenSolbergstandsupfromherchairinthemiddleofthelongtableandopensherarmstogreether,air-kissingLivnoisilysomeinchesfromeachsideofherface.‘Oh,mygoodness,you’redrenched!’Herhairis,ofcourse,animmaculatechestnutsheet.‘Yes.Iwalked.Notmybestdecision.’‘Everybody,thisisLivHalston.Shedoeswonderfulthingsforourcharity.Andshelivesinthemost

amazinghouseinLondon.’Kristensmilesbeneficently,thenlowershervoice.‘I’llconsidermyselftohavefailedifshehasn’tbeensnappedupbysomelovelymanbeforeChristmas.’Thereisamurmurofgreeting.Livprickleswithembarrassment.Sheforcesasmile,deliberatelynot

meetingtheeyeofanyofthepeopleseatedaroundher.Svenlooksathersteadily,inhiseyesanapology

forwhatisabouttocome.‘Isavedyouaseat,’Kristensays.‘NexttoRoger.He’slovely.’ShegivesLivameaningfullookasshe

directshertowardstheemptychair.‘You’lllovehim.’Theyareallcouples.Ofcoursetheyare.Eightofthem.AndRoger.Shefeelsthewomensurveyingher

surreptitiouslyfrombehindpolitesmiles,tryingtoascertainwhether,astheonlysinglewomanthere,sheislikelytobeathreat.Itisanexpressionwithwhichshehasbecomewearyinglyfamiliar.Themenglancesideways,checkingheroutforadifferentreason.Shefeelsthewarm,garlickyblastofRoger’sbreathasheleansinandpatsthechairbesidehim.Heholdsoutahand.‘Rog.You’reverywet.’Hemanagestomakeitsoundfaintlylascivious;thekind

ofex-public-schoolboywhofindsitimpossibletotalktowomenwithoutintroducingasexualundertow.Shepullsherjacketacrossher.‘Yes.Yes,Iam.’Theysmilevaguelyateachother.Hehassparsesandyhair,andtheruddycomplexionofsomeonewho

spendsalotoftimeinthecountry.Hepoursheraglassofwine.‘So.Whatdoyoudothen,Liv?’Hesayshernameasifshemayhaveinventeditandheishumouringher.‘Copywritingmainly.’‘Well.Copywriting.’Theybothpause.‘Anychildren?’‘No.You?’‘Two.Boys.Bothatboardingschool.Bestplaceforthem,frankly.So…nochildren,eh?Andnoman

inthewings.Whatareyou,thirty-something?’Sheswallows,triestoignorethefaintstabofhiswords.‘Thirty.’‘Youdon’twanttohangaround.Orareyouoneofthose…’heholdsuphisfingerstomakeinverted

commas‘…careerwomen?’‘Yes,’shesays,andsmiles.‘IhadmyovariesremovedwhenIlastupdatedmyCV.Justtobeonthe

safeside.’Hegawpsather,thenbarksalaugh.‘Oh!Funny!Yes.Awomanwithasenseofhumour.Very

good…ovaries…hah.’Hisvoicetailsaway.Hetakesaswigofwine.‘Mywifeleftwhenshewasthirty-nine.Apparentlyit’satrickyageforthegirls.’Hedownstherestofhisglassandreachesforthebottletorefillit.‘Nottootrickyforher,obviously,seeingasshegotawaywithaPuertoRicancalledViktor,thehouseinFranceandhalfmybloodypension.Women…’Heturnstoher.‘Can’tlivewith’em,can’tshoot’em,eh?’Heliftshisarmsandfiresoffanimaginaryroundofbulletsintotherestaurantceiling.It’sgoingtobealongnight.Livkeepssmiling,poursherselfasecondglassofwine,andburiesherself

inthemenu,promisingherselfthat,nomatterhowpersuasiveKristenisnexttime,shewillchewoffherownarmratherthanagreetogotoanykindofdinnerpartyeveragain.

Theeveningstretches,thecouplesbitchaboutpeopleshehasnevermet,thecoursescomeagonizinglyslowly.Kristensendshermainbacktoberedonetoherexactspecifications.Sheletsoutawearylittlesigh,asifthekitchen’sfailuretoputthespinachonthesideisthemostawfulimposition.Svengazesatherindulgently.LivsitstrappedbetweenthebroadbackofamancalledMartin,whosewife’sfriendseemsdeterminedtomonopolizehim,andRoger.‘Bitch,’hesays,atonepoint.‘I’msorry?’

‘Firstitwasmynostrilhairputtingheroff.Thenmytoenails.Alwaysareasonwhywecouldn’tdotheold…youknow.’HeformshisthumbandfingerintoanOandslideshisotherindexfingerthroughit.‘Oraheadache.NosuchheadacheswitholdViktor,eh?Oh,no.Ibetshedoesn’tcarehowlonghisruddytoenailsare.’Heswigsfromhisglass.‘Betthey’reatitlikebloodyrabbits.’Thelambiscongealingonherplate.Sheputsherknifeandforkneatlytogether.‘Whathappenedtoyou,then?’Sheglancesupathim,hopinghedoesn’tmean–butofcoursehedoes.‘Kristensaidyouweremarriedbefore.ToSven’sbusinesspartner.’‘Iwas.’‘Leftyou,didhe?’Sheswallows.Composesherfaceintoablank.‘Inamannerofspeaking.’Rogershakeshishead.‘Idon’tknow.What’swrongwithpeople,thesedays?Whycan’ttheyjustbe

satisfiedwithwhatthey’regiven?’Hetakesatoothpickanddigsvigorouslyintoabackmolar,pausingtoexaminehispickingswithgrimrelish.LivlooksdownthetableandmeetsKristen’seye.Kristenliftsbothbrowssuggestively,andgiveshera

surreptitiousthumbs-up.Bighit!shemouths.‘Willyouexcuseme?’Livsays,pushingbackherchair.‘IreallyneedtovisittheLadies.’

Livsitsinthesilentcubicleforaslongasshecanwithoutsomeonestaginganintervention,listeningasseveralwomencomeinandperformablutions.Shechecksfornon-existentemailandplaysScrabbleonherphone.Finally,afterscoring‘flux’,shegetsup,flushesthelooandwashesherhands,staringatherreflectionwithakindofperversesatisfaction.Hermakeuphassmudgedbeneathoneeye.Shefixesthisinthemirror,wonderingwhyshebothers,giventhatsheisabouttositnexttoRogeragain.Shechecksherwatch.Whencanshebeganearly-morningmeetingandheadforhome?Withluck,

Rogerwillbesodrunkbythetimeshegoesbackoutthathewillhaveforgottenshewaseventhere.Livtakesonelastlookatherreflection,pushesherhairoffherfaceandgrimacesatherappearance.

What’sthepoint?Andthensheopensthedoor.‘Liv!Liv,comehere!Iwanttotellyousomething!’Rogerisstanding,gesticulatingwildly.Hisfaceis

evenredderandhishairisstandinguprightononeside.It’spossiblethatheis,shethinks,halfman,halfostrich.Shefeelsamomentarypanicattheprospectofhavingtospendanotherhalf-hourinhiscompany.She’susedtothis:analmostoverwhelmingphysicaldesiretoremoveherself,tobeoutonthedarkstreetsalone;nothavingtobeanyoneatall.Shesitsgingerly,likesomeonepreparedtosprint,anddrinksanotherhalf-glassofwine.‘Ireally

shouldgo,’shesays,andthereisawaveofprotestfromtheotheroccupantsofthetable,asifthisissomekindofpersonalaffront.Shestays.Hersmileisarictus.Shefindsherselfwatchingthecouples,thedomesticcracksbecomingvisiblewitheachglassofwine.Thatonedislikesherhusband.Sherollshereyeswitheverysecondcommenthemakes.Thismanisboredwitheveryone,possiblywithhiswife.Hecheckshismobilecompulsivelybeneaththerimofthetable.Shegazesupattheclock,nodsdullyatRoger’sbreathylitanyofmaritalunfairness.SheplaysasilentgameofDinnerPartyBingo.ShescoresaSchoolFeesandaHousePrices.SheisonthevergeofaLastYear’sHolidayInEuropeFullHousewhensomeonetapsherontheshoulder.‘Excuseme.Youhaveaphonecall.’

Livspinsround.Thewaitresshaspaleskinandlongdarkhair,whichopensaroundherfacelikeapairofhalf-drawncurtains.Sheisbeckoningwithhernotepad.Livisconsciousofaflickeroffamiliarity.‘What?’‘Urgentphonecall.Ithinkit’sfamily.’Livhesitates.Family?Butit’sasliveroflightinatunnel.‘Oh,’shesays.‘Oh,right.’‘Wouldyoulikemetoshowyouthephone?’‘Urgentphonecall,’shemouthsatKristen,andpointsatthewaitress,whopointstowardsthekitchens.Kristen’sfacearrangesitselfintoanexpressionofexaggeratedconcern.Shestoopstosaysomethingto

Roger,whoglancesbehindhimandreachesoutahandasiftostopher.AndthenLivisgone,followingtheshortdarkgirlthroughthehalf-emptyrestaurant,pastthebaranddownthewood-panelledcorridor.Afterthegloomoftheseatingareatheglareofthekitchenisblinding,thedulledsheenofsteelsurfaces

bouncinglightacrosstheroom.Twomeninwhiteignoreher,passingpanstowardsawashing-upstation.Somethingisfrying,hissingandspittinginacorner;someonespeaksrapid-fireSpanish.Thegirlgesturesthroughasetofswingdoors,andsuddenlysheisinanotherbacklobby,acloakroom.‘Where’sthephone?’Livsays,whentheycometoahalt.Thegirlpullsapacketofcigarettesfromherapronandlightsone.‘Whatphone?’shesaysblankly.‘YousaidIhadacall?’‘Oh.That.Thereisn’taphone.Youjustlookedlikeyouneededrescuing.’Sheinhales,letsoutalong

sliverofsmokeandwaitsforamoment.‘Youdon’trecognizeme,doyou?Mo.MoStewart.’Shesighs,whenLivfrowns.‘Iwasinyourcourseatuni.RenaissanceandItalianPainting.AndLifeDrawing.’Livthinksbacktoherdegree.Andsuddenlyshecanseeher:thelittleGothgirlinthecorner,near

silentineveryclass,herexpressionacarefulblank,hernailspaintedaviolent,glitteringpurple.‘Wow.Youhaven’tchangedabit.’Thisisnotalie.Asshesaysit,sheisnotentirelysureit’sacompliment.‘Youhave,’saysMo,examiningher.‘Youlook…Idon’tknow.Geeky…’‘Geeky.’‘Maybenotgeeky.Different.Tired.Mindyou,Idon’tsupposebeingsatnexttoTimNiceButDimthere

isabarreloflaughs.Whatisit?Somekindofsinglesnight?’‘Justforme,apparently.’‘Christ.Here.’ShehandsLivacigarette.‘Sparkthatup,andI’llgooutandtellthemyou’vehadto

leave.Great-auntwithaviolentpalsy.Orsomethingdarker?Aids?Ebola?Anypreferencesastothedegreeofsuffering?’ShehandsLivthelighter.‘Idon’tsmoke.’‘It’snotforyou.ThiswayIcangettwoinbeforeDinonotices.Willshewantyourshareofthebill?’‘Oh.Goodpoint.’Livscrabblesinherbagforherpurse.Shefeelssuddenlylight-headedatthe

prospectoffreedom.Motakesthenotes,countsthemcarefully.‘Mytip?’shesays,straight-faced.Shedoesnotappeartobe

joking.Livblinks,thenpeelsoffanextrafive-poundnoteandhandsittoher.‘Ta,’saysMo,tuckingitintothe

pocketofherapron.‘DoIlooktragic?’Shepullsafaceofmilddisinterestandthen,asifacceptingthatshedoesn’thavetheappropriatefacialmusclesforconcern,disappearsbackdownthecorridor.

Livisunsurewhethertoleaveorwhethersheshouldwaitforthegirltoreturn.Shegazesaroundheratthebacklobby,atthecheapcoatsontherack,thegrubbybucketandmopunderneaththem,andfinallysitsdownonawoodenstool,thecigaretteuselessinherhand.Whenshehearsfootsteps,shestands,butit’saMediterranean-skinnedman,hisskullshininginthedimlight.Theowner?Heisholdingaglassofamberliquid.‘Here,’hesays,offeringittoher.Andwhensheprotests,headds,‘Fortheshock.’Hewinksandisgone.Livsitsandsipsthedrink.Inthedistance,throughtheclatterofthekitchen,shecanhearRoger’svoice

liftinginprotest,thescrapingofchairs.Shechecksherwatch.Itisaquarterpasteleven.Thechefsemergefromthekitchen,pulltheircoatsfromtherackanddisappear,givingherafaintnodastheypass,asifit’snotunusualforacustomertospendtwentyminutesnursingabrandyinthestaffcorridor.WhenMoreappearssheisnolongerwearinganapron.Sheisholdingasetofkeys,walkspastLivand

locksthefiredoor.‘They’vegone,’shesays,pullingherblackhairbackintoaknot.‘YourHotDatesaidsomethingaboutwantingtoconsoleyou.I’dturnyourmobileoffforabit.’‘Thankyou,’saidLiv.‘Thatwasreallyverykind.’‘Notatall.Coffee?’Therestaurantisempty.Livstaresatthetablewhereshehadsat,asthewaitersweepsefficiently

aroundthechairs,thendistributescutlerywiththeunthinking,metronomicefficiencyofsomeonewhohasdonethisathousandtimes.Moprimesthecoffeemachine,andgesturestohertosit.Livwouldreallyrathergohome,butunderstandsthereisapricetobepaidforherfreedom,andabrief,slightlystiltedconversationabouttheGoodOldDaysisprobablyit.‘Ican’tbelievetheyallleftsosuddenly,’shesays,asMolightsanothercigarette.‘Oh.SomeonesawamessageonaBlackBerrythatsheshouldn’thave.Itallkickedoffabit,’Mosays.

‘Idon’tthinkbusinesslunchesusuallyinvolvenippleclamps.’‘Youheardthat?’‘Youheareverythinginhere.Mostcustomersdon’tstoptalkingwhenwaitersarearound.’She

switchesonthemilk-frother,adding,‘Anaprongivesyousuperpowers.Itactuallymakesyouprettymuchinvisible.’LivhadnotregisteredMo’sappearanceathertable,shethinksuncomfortably.Moislookingather

withasmallsmile,asifshecanhearherthoughts.‘It’sokay.I’musedtobeingtheGreatUnnoticed.’‘So,’saysLiv,acceptingacoffee.‘Whathaveyoubeendoing?’‘Inthelastnearlytenyears?Um,thisandthat.Waitressingsuitsme.Idon’thavetheambitionforbar

work.’Shesaysthisdeadpan.‘You?’‘Oh,justsomefreelancestuff.Iworkformyself.Idon’thavethepersonalityforofficework.’Liv

smiles.Motakesalongdragofhercigarette.‘I’msurprised,’shesays.‘YouwerealwaysoneoftheGolden

Girls.’‘GoldenGirls?’‘Oh,youandyourtawnycrew,alllegsandhairandmenaroundyou,likesatellites.Likesomethingout

ofScottFitzgerald.Ithoughtyou’dbe…Idon’tknow.Ontelly.Orinthemedia,oractingorsomething.’IfLivhadreadthesewordsonapage,shemighthavedetectedanedgetothem.Butthereisnorancour

inMo’svoice.‘No,’shesays,andlooksatthehemofhershirt.

Livfinisheshercoffee.Theremainingwaiterhasgone.AndMo’scupisempty.Itisaquartertotwelve.‘Doyouneedtolockup?Whichwayareyouwalking?’‘Nowhere.I’mstayinghere.’‘Youhaveaflathere?’‘No,butDinodoesn’tmind.’Mostubsouthercigarette,getsupandemptiestheashtray.‘Actually,

Dinodoesn’tknow.HejustthinksI’mreallyconscientious.Thelasttoleaveeveryevening.“Whycan’ttheothersbemorelikeyou?”’Shejerksathumbbehindher.‘Ihaveasleeping-baginmylockerandIsetmyalarmforfivethirty.Littlebitofahousingissueatthemoment.Asin,Ican’taffordany.’Livstares.‘Don’tlooksoshocked.Thatbanquetteismorecomfortablethansomeoftherentalaccommodation

I’vebeenin,Ipromiseyou.’Afterwardssheisn’tsurewhatmakeshersayit.Livrarelyletsanyoneintothehouse,letalonepeople

shehasn’tseenforyears.Butalmostbeforesheknowswhatshe’sdoing,hermouthisopeningandthewords‘Youcanstayatmine,’areemerging.‘Justfortonight,’sheadds,whensherealizeswhatshehassaid.‘ButIhaveaspareroom.Withapowershower.’Consciousthatthismayhavesoundedpatronizing,sheadds,‘Wecancatchup.It’llbefun.’Mo’sfaceisblank.Thenshegrimaces,asifitisshewhoisdoingLivthefavour.‘Ifyousayso,’she

says,andgoestogethercoat.

Shecanseeherhouselongbeforeshegetsthere:itspaleblueglasswallsstandoutabovetheoldsugarwarehouseasifsomethingextra-terrestrialhaslandedontheroof.Davidlikedthis;helikedtobeabletopointitoutiftheywerewalkinghomewithfriendsorpotentialclients.HelikeditsincongruityagainstthedarkbrownbrickoftheVictorianwarehouses,thewayitcaughtthelight,orcarriedthereflectionofthewaterbelow.HelikedthefactthatthestructurehadbecomeafeatureofLondon’sriversidelandscape.Itwas,hesaid,aconstantadvertisementforhiswork.Whenitwasbuilt,almosttenyearsago,glasshadbeenhisconstructionmaterialofchoice,its

componentsmadesophisticatedwiththermalabilities,eco-friendliness.HisworkisdistinctiveacrossLondon;transparencyisthekey,hewouldsay.Buildingsshouldrevealtheirpurpose,andtheirstructure.Theonlyroomsthatareobscuredarebathrooms,andeventhenheoftenhadtobepersuadednottofitone-wayglass.ItwastypicalofDavidthathedidn’tbelieveitwasunnervingtoseeoutwhenyouwereontheloo,evenifyouwereassuredthatnobodyelsecouldseein.Herfriendshadenviedherthishouse,itslocation,anditsoccasionalappearancesinthebettersortof

interiorsmagazine–butsheknewtheyadded,privately,toeachother,thatsuchminimalismwouldhavedriventhemmad.ItwasinDavid’sbones,thedrivetopurify,toclearoutwhatwasnotneeded.EverythinginthehousehadtowithstandhisWilliamMorristest:isitfunctional,andisitbeautiful?Andthen:isitabsolutelynecessary?Whentheyhadfirstgottogether,shehadfounditexhausting.Davidhadbittenhislipasshelefttrailsofclothesacrossthebedroomfloor,filledthekitchenwithbunchesofcheapflowers,trinketsfromthemarket.Now,sheisgratefulforherhome’sblankness;itsspareasceticism.‘So.Freaking.Cool.’TheyemergefromthericketyliftintotheGlassHouse,andMo’sfaceis

uncharacteristicallyanimated.‘Thisisyourhouse?Seriously?Howthehelldidyougettolivesomewherelikethis?’

‘Myhusbandbuiltit.’Shewalksthroughtheatrium,hangingherkeyscarefullyonthesinglesilverpeg,flickingontheinternallightsasshepasses.‘Yourex?Jeez.Andheletyoukeepit?’‘Notexactly.’Livpressesabuttonandwatchesastheroofshutterseasebacksilently,exposingthe

kitchentothestarlitsky.‘Hedied.’Shestandsthere,herfaceturnedfirmlyupwards,bracingherselffortheflurryofawkwardsympathy.Itnevergetsanyeasier,theexplanation.Fouryearson,andthewordsstillcauseareflexivetwinge,asifDavid’sabsenceisawoundstilllocateddeepwithinherbody.ButMoissilent.Whenshefinallyspeaksshesayssimply,‘Bummer.’Herfaceispale,impassive.‘Yup,’Livsays,andletsoutasmallbreath.‘Yup,itreallyis.’

Livlistenstotheoneo’clocknewsontheradio,distantlyawareofthesoundsfromtheguestbathroom,thevagueprickleofdisquietthatshefeelswheneversomeoneelseisinthehouse.Shewipesthegraniteworksurfacesandbuffsthemwithasoftcloth.Shesweepsnon-existentcrumbsfromthefloor.Finallyshewalksthroughtheglassandwoodhallway,thenupthesuspendedwoodandPerspexstairstoherbedroom.Thestretchofunmarkedcupboarddoorsgleams,givingnocluetothefewclothesbehindit.Thebedsitsvastandemptyinthemiddleoftheroom,twoFinalRemindersonthecovers,wheresheleftthemthismorning.Shesitsdown,foldingthemneatlybackintotheirenvelopes,andshestaresstraightaheadofherattheportraitofTheGirlYouLeftBehind,vividinitsgildedframeamongthemutedeaudeNilandgreyoftherestoftheroom,andallowsherselftodrift.Shelookslikeyou.Shelooksnothinglikeme.Shehadlaughedathimgiddily,stillflushwithnewlove.Stillpreparedtobelieveinhisvisionofher.Youlookjustlikethatwhenyou–TheGirlYouLeftBehindsmiles.Livbeginstoundress,foldingherclothesbeforesheplacesthem,neatly,onthechairneartheendof

thebed.Shecloseshereyesbeforesheturnsoffthelightsothatshedoesnothavetolookatthepaintingagain.

12

Somelivesworkbetterwithroutines,andLivHalston’sisoneofthem.Everyweekdaymorningsherisesatseventhirtya.m.,pullsonhertrainers,grabsheriPod,andbeforeshecanthinkaboutwhatsheisdoing,sheheadsdown,bleary-eyed,intheracketylift,andoutforahalf-hourrunalongtheriver.Atsomepoint,threadingherwaythroughthegrimlydeterminedcommuters,swervingroundreversingdeliveryvans,shecomesfullyawake,herbrainslowlywrappingitselfaroundthemusicalrhythmsinherears,thesoftthud-thud-thudofherfeethittingthepavements.Mostimportantly,shehassteeredherselfawayagainfromatimeshestillfears:thoseinitialwakingminutes,whenvulnerabilitymeansthatlosscanstillstrikeher,unheraldedandvenal,sendingherthoughtsintoatoxicblackfug.Shehadbegunrunningaftershehadrealizedthatshecouldusetheworldoutside,thenoiseinherearphones,herownmotion,asakindofdeflector.Nowithasbecomehabit,aninsurancepolicy.Idonothavetothink.Idonothavetothink.Idonothavetothink.Especiallytoday.Sheslowstoabriskwalk,buysacoffee,andridestheliftbackuptotheGlassHouse,hereyes

stingingwithsweat,unsightlydamppatchesonherT-shirt.Sheshowers,dresses,drinkshercoffeeandeatstwoslicesoftoastwithmarmalade.Shekeepsalmostnofoodinthehouse,havingconcludedthatthesightofafullfridgeisoddlyoverwhelming;areminderthatsheshouldbecookingandeating,notlivingoncrackersandcheese.Afridgefulloffoodisasilentrebuketohersolitarystate.Thenshesitsatherdeskandchecksheremailforwhateverworkhascomeinovernightfrom

copywritersperhour.com.Or,asseemstohavebeenthecaserecently,not.‘Mo?I’mleavingacoffeeoutsideyourdoor.’Shestands,herheadcocked,waitingforsomesound

suggestinglifewithin.It’saquarterpasteight:tooearlytowakeaguest?Ithasbeensolongsinceshehadanyonetostaythatshenolongerknowstherightthingstodo.Shewaitsawkwardly,halfexpectingsomeblearyresponse,anirritablegrunt,even,thendecidesthatMoisasleep.Shehadworkedallevening,afterall.Livplacesthepolystyrenecupsilentlyoutsidethedoor,justincase,andheadsofftohershower.

Therearefourmessagesinherinbox.DearMsHalston

Igotyouremailfromcopywritersperhour.com.Irunapersonalizedstationerybusinessandhaveabrochurethatneedsrewriting.Inoticeyourratesare£100per1000words.Wouldyouconsiderdroppingthatpriceatall?Weareworkingonaverytightbudget.Thebrochurecopycurrentlystandsataround1250words.

YourssincerelyMrTerenceBlank

Livvydarling

Thisisyourfather.Carolinehasleftme.Iambereft.Ihavedecidedtohavenothingmoretodowithwomen.Callmeifyoucansparethetime.

HiLiv

EverythingokayforThursday?Thekidsarereallylookingforwardtoit.We’relookingataround20atthemoment,butasyouknowthisfigureisalwaysfluid.Letmeknowifyouneedanything.

BestregardsAbiola

DearMsHalston

We’vetriedseveraltimestoreachyoubyphonewithoutsuccess.Pleasecouldyoucontactustoarrangeatimewherebywecandiscussyouroverdraftsituation.Ifyoufailtomakecontactwewillhavetoimposeadditionalcharges.

Pleasecanyoualsoensurethatwehaveyourup-to-datecontactdetails.

YourssincerelyDamianWatts,Personalaccountsmanager,NatWestBank

Shetypesaresponsetothefirst.DearMrBlank.Iwouldlovetodropmypricestoaccommodateyou.Unfortunatelymybiologicalmake-upmeansIalsohavetoeat.Goodluckwithyourbrochure.

Sheknowstherewillbesomebodyouttherewhowilldoitmorecheaply,someonewhodoesn’tcaretoomuchaboutgrammarorpunctuation,andwillnotnoticethatthebrochurecopycontains‘their’for‘there’twenty-twotimes.Butsheistiredofhavingheralreadymeagreratespusheddownfurther.

Dad,Iwillcallroundlater.IfCarolinehappenstohavereturnedbetweennowandthen,pleasemakesureyouaredressed.MrsPatelsaidyouwerewateringtheJapaneseanemonesnakedagainlastweekandyouknowwhatthepolicesaidaboutthat.

Livx

ThelasttimeshehadarrivedtocomfortherfatherafteroneofCaroline’sdisappearances,hehadopenedthedoorwearingawoman’sOrientalsilkrobe,gapingatthefront,andwrappedherinanexpansivehugbeforeshecouldprotest.‘I’myourfather,forgoodness’sake,’hewouldmutter,whenshescoldedhimafterwards.Althoughhehadn’thadadecentactingjobinalmostadecade,MichaelWorthinghadneverlosthischildlikelackofinhibition,orhisirritationwithwhathecalled‘wrappings’.InchildhoodshehadstoppedbringingfriendshomeafterSamanthaHowcrofthadgonehomeandtoldhermotherthatMrWorthingwalkedaround‘withallhisbitsswinging’.(ShehadalsotoldeveryoneatschoolthatLiv’sdadhadawillylikeagiantsausage.Herfatherhadseemedoddlyuntroubledbythatone.)Caroline,hisflame-hairedgirlfriendofalmostfifteenyears,wasuntroubledbyhisnakedness.Infact,

shewasquitehappytowalkaroundsemi-nakedherself.Livsometimesthoughtshewasmorefamiliarwiththesightofthosetwopale,pendulousoldbodiesthanshewaswithherown.Carolinewashisgreatpassion,andwouldwalkoutinagiantstropeverycoupleofmonths,citinghis

impossibility,hislackofearnings,andhisbrief,ferventaffairswithotherwomen.Whattheysawinhim,Livcouldneverquiteimagine.‘Lustforlife,mydarling!’hewouldexclaim.‘Passion!Ifyouhavenoneyou’readeadthing.’Liv,she

suspectsprivately,issomethingofadisappointmenttoherfather.Sheswigsthelastofhercoffee,andpensanemailtoAbiola.HiAbiola

I’llmeetyououtsidetheConaghybuildingat2p.m.Allclearedthisend.Theyarealittlenervousbutdefinitelyupforit.Hopeallgoodwithyou.

RegardsLiv

Shesendsitthenstaresattheonefromherbankmanager.Herfingersstallonthekeyboard.Thenshereachesacrossandpressesdelete.Sheknows,withsomesensiblepartofher,thatthiscannotcontinue.Shehearsthedistant,threatening

clamouroftheneatlyfoldedfinaldemandsintheirenvelopes,likethedrumbeatofaninvadingarmy.Atsomepointshewillnolongerbeabletocontainthem,tofobthemoff,toslide,unnoticed,awayfromthem.Sheliveslikeachurchmouse,buyslittle,socializesrarely,andstillitisnotenough.Hercashcardsandcreditcardsarepronetospitthemselvesbackatherfromcashpoints.Thecouncilhadarrivedatherdoorlastyear,partofalocalreassessmentofcounciltaxpayers.ThewomanhadwalkedaroundtheGlassHouse,thenhadlookedatLivasifshehadsomehowtriedtocheatthemofsomething.Asifitwereaninsultthatshe,avirtualgirl,livedinthishousealone.Livcouldbarelyblameher:sinceDavid’sdeathshehasfeltafraudlivinghere.She’slikeacurator,protectingDavid’smemory,keepingtheplaceashewouldhavewantedit.Livnowpaysthemaximumcounciltaxchargeable,thesamerateasthebankerswiththeirmillion-

poundwagepackets,thefinancierswiththeirswollenbonuses.Iteatsupmorethanhalfofwhatsheearnsinsomemonths.Shenolongeropensbankstatements.Thereisnopoint.Sheknowsexactlywhattheywillsay.

‘It’smyownfault.’Herfatherdropshisheadtohishandstheatrically.Frombetweenhisfingers,sparsegreyhairsticksupintufts.Aroundhimthekitchenisscatteredwithpotsandpansthattellofaneveningmealinterrupted:halfalumpofParmesan,abowlofcongealedpasta,aMaryCelesteofdomesticdisharmony.‘IknewIshouldn’tgoanywherenearher.But,oh!Iwaslikeamothtoaflame.Andwhataflame!Theheat!Theheat!’Hesoundsbewildered.Livnodsunderstandingly.Sheisattempting,privately,toreconcilethistaleofepicsexual

misadventurewithJean,thefifty-somethingwomanwhorunsthelocalflowershop,smokesfortyadayandwhosegreyanklesemergefromtoo-shorttrouserslikeslicesoftripe.‘Weknewitwaswrong.AndItried,oh,God,Itriedtobegood.ButIwasinthereoneafternoon,

lookingforspringbulbs,andshecameupbehindmesmellingoffreesias,andbeforeIknewitthereIwas,astumescentasanewbud…’‘Okay,Dad.Toomuchinformation.’Livputsthekettleon.Asshebeginsclearinguptheworksurfaces,

herfatherdownstherestofhisglass.‘It’stooearlyforwine.’‘It’snevertooearlyforwine.Nectarofthegods.Myoneconsolation.’‘Yourlifeisonelongconsolation.’‘HowdidIraiseawomanofsuchwill,suchfearsomeboundaries?’‘Becauseyoudidn’traiseme.Mumdid.’Heshakeshisheadwithsomemelancholy,apparentlyforgettingthetimeshehadcursedherforleaving

himwhenLivwasachild,orcalleddownthewrathofthegodsuponherdisloyalhead.Livthoughtsometimesthatthedayhermotherhaddied,sixyearsago,herparents’short,fracturedmarriagehadsomehowbeenredrawninherfather’smindsothatthisintolerantwoman,thishussy,thisharridanwhohadpoisonedhisonlychildagainsthimnowresembledakindofvirginMadonna.Shedidn’tmind.Shediditherself.Whenyoulostyourmother,shegraduallyrecastherselfintheimaginationasperfect.Aseriesofsoftkisses,lovingwords,acomfortingembrace.Afewyearsbackshehadlistenedtoher

friends’litanyofirritationabouttheirowninterferingmotherswiththesamelackofcomprehensionasiftheyhadbeenspeakingKorean.‘Losshashardenedyou.’‘Ijustdon’tfallinlovewitheverypersonoftheoppositesexwhohappenstosellmeapotoftomato

food.’Shehadopenedthedrawers,searchingforcoffeefilters.Herfather’shousewasasclutteredand

chaoticasherswastidy.‘IsawJasmineinthePig’sFoottheothernight.’Hebrightens.‘Whatagorgeousgirlsheis.Sheasked

afteryou.’Livfindsthefilterpapers,deftlyopensoneandscoopsincoffee.‘Really?’‘She’smarryingaSpaniard.HelookslikeErrolFlynn.Couldn’ttakehiseyesoffher.Mindyou,neither

couldI.Shehasaswaytoherwalkthatispositivelyhypnotic.He’stakingonherandthebaby.Someotherchap’s,Ibelieve.They’regoingtoliveinMadrid.’Livpoursamugofcoffee,handsittoherfather.‘Whydon’tyouseeheranymore?Youtwoweresuchgoodfriends?’hewonders.Sheshrugs.‘Peoplegrowapart.’Shecannottellhimthisisonlyhalfofthereason.Thesearethethings

thattheydonottellyouaboutlosingyourhusband:thataswellastheexhaustionyouwillsleepandsleep,andsomedayseventheactofwakingupwillforceyoureyelidsbackdownandthatmerelygettingthrougheachdaywillfeellikeaHerculeaneffort–youwillhateyourfriends,irrationally:eachtimesomeonearrivesatyourdoororcrossesthestreetandhugsyouandtellsyoutheyareso,sodesperatelysorry,youlookather,herhusbandandtheirtinychildrenandareshockedattheferocityofyourenvy.HowdidtheygettoliveandDavidtodie?Howdidboring,lumpenRichardwithhisCityfriendsandhisweekendgolfingtripsandhistotallackofinterestinanythingoutsidehistinycomplacentworldgettolive,whenDavid,brilliant,loving,generous,passionateDavid,hadtodie?HowdidhangdogTimgettoreproduce,tobringfurthergenerationsoflittleunimaginativeTimsintothisworld,whenDavid’sunexpectedmind,hiskindness,hiskisses,hadbeenextinguishedforever?Livcanrememberscreamingsilentlyinbathrooms,boltingwithoutexplanationfromcrowdedrooms,

consciousofherownapparentrudenessbutunabletostopherself.Ithadbeenyearsbeforeshecouldviewanybodyelse’shappinesswithoutmourningthelossofherown.Thesedays,theangerhasgone,butshepreferstoviewdomesticsatisfactionatadistance,andin

peopleshedoesn’tknowwell,asifhappinesswereascientificconceptthatsheismerelypleasedtoseeproven.Shenolongerseesthefriendsshehadbackthen,theCherrys,theJasmines.Thewomenwhowould

rememberthegirlshehadbeen.Itwastoocomplicatedtoexplain.Andshedidn’tparticularlylikewhatitsaidabouther.‘Well,Ithinkyoushouldmeetherbeforeshegoes.Iusedtolovewatchingthetwoofyouheadout

together,pairofyounggoddessesthatyouwere.’‘WhenareyougoingtocallCaroline?’shesays,wipingcrumbsfromthestripped-pinekitchentable

andscrubbingataringofredwine.‘Shewon’ttalktome.Ileftfourteenmessagesonhermobilephonelastnight.’

‘Youneedtostopsleepingwithotherpeople,Dad.’‘Iknow.’‘Andyouneedtoearnsomemoney.’‘Iknow.’‘Andyouneedtogetdressed.IfIwereherandcamehomeandsawyoulikethisI’dturnaroundand

walkstraightoutagain.’‘I’mwearingherdressing-gown.’‘Iguessed.’‘Itstillcarriesherscent.’HeinhalesCaroline’ssleeve,anexpressionofdeeptragedyacrosshisface,

andhiseyesfillwithtears.‘WhatamIsupposedtodoifshedoesn’tcomeback?’Livstills,herexpressionhardeningmomentarily.Shewondersifherfatherhasanyideawhatdayitis

today.Thenshelooksatthebatteredmaninhiswomen’sdressing-gown,thewayhisblueveinsstandproudonhiscrêpyskin,andturnsawaytothewashing-up.‘Youknowwhat,Dad?I’mnotreallythepersontoask.’

13

Theoldmanlowershimselfgingerlyintothechairandletsoutasigh,asifcrossingtheroomhasbeensomeeffort.Hisson,standingwithhishandunderhiselbow,watchesanxiously.PaulMcCaffertywaits,thenglancesatMiriam,hissecretary.‘Wouldyouliketeaorcoffee?’sheasks.Theoldmangivesasmallshakeofhishead.‘No,thankyou.’Thewayhelooksupsays,Let’sjustget

on,shallwe?‘I’llleaveyoutoit.’Miriambacksoutofthelittleoffice.Paulopenshisfolder.Helayshishandsonthedesk,feelingMrNowicki’seyesonhim.‘Well,Iasked

youheretodaybecauseIhavesomenews.WhenyouinitiallyapproachedmeIwarnedyouthatIthoughtthiscasewouldbetrickybecauseofthelackofprovenanceonyourside.Asyouknow,manygalleriesarereluctanttohandoverworkwithoutthemostsolidproofof–’‘Irememberthepaintingclearly.’Theoldmanliftsahand.‘Iknow.Andyouknowthatthegalleryinquestionwasveryreluctanttoengagewithus,despitethe

holesintheirownprovenance.Thiscasewascomplicatedbythesharpincreaseinvalueoftheworkinquestion.Anditwasparticularlyhard,giventhatyouhadnoimagewecouldgoon.’‘HowamImeanttodescribesuchadrawingperfectly?Iwastenwhenwewereforcedfromourhouse

–tenyearsold.Couldyoutellmewhatwasonyourparents’wallswhenyouwereten?’‘No,MrNowicki,Icouldn’t.’‘Werewemeanttoknowthenwewouldneverbeallowedtogobacktoourownhome?Itis

ridiculous,thissystem.WhyshouldIhavetoprovethatsomethingwasstolenfromus?Afterallwehavebeenthrough…’‘Dad,we’vebeenoverthis…’Theson,Jason,placesahandonhisfather’sforearm,andtheold

man’slipspresstogetherreluctantly,asifheisusedtobeingquelled.‘ThisiswhatIwantedtotalktoyouabout,’Paulsays.‘Ididwarnyouthatwedidn’thavethestrongest

case.WhenwehadourmeetinginJanuary,yousaidsomethingtomeaboutyourmother’sfriendshipwithaneighbour,ArturBohmann,whomovedtoAmerica.’‘Yes.Theyweregoodneighbours.Iknowhehadseenthepaintinginourhouse.Hevisitedusmany

times.Iplayedballwithhisdaughter…buthedied.Itoldyouhedied.’‘Well,Imanagedtotrackdownhissurvivingfamily,inDesMoines.Andhisgranddaughter,Anne-

Marie,wentthroughthefamilyalbumsandtuckedawayinoneofthemshefoundthis.’PaulpullsasheetofpaperfromhisfolderandslidesitacrossthedesktoMrNowicki.Itisnotaperfectcopy,buttheblack-and-whiteimageisclearlyvisible.Afamilysitsinthestiff

embraceofatightlyupholsteredsofa.Awomansmilescautiously,holdingabutton-eyedbabyfirmlyonherlap.Amanwithavastmoustachereclines,hisarmrunningalongtheback.Aboygrinsbroadly,amissingtoothclearlyvisible.Behindthem,onthewall,hangsapaintingofayounggirldancing.‘That’sit,’MrNowickisaysquietly,anarthritichandrisingtohismouth.‘TheDegas.’

‘Icheckeditagainsttheimagebank,thenwiththeEdgarDegasFoundation.Isentthispicturetotheirlawyers,alongwithastatementfromArturBohmann’sdaughter,sayingthatshe,too,rememberedseeingthispaintinginyourparents’house,andhearingyourfatherdiscusshowheboughtit.’Hepauses.‘Butthat’snotallAnne-Marieremembers.Shesaysthatafteryourparentsfled,Artur

Bohmannhadgoneonenighttotheapartmenttotrytocollectyourfamily’sremainingvaluables.Hetoldhiswife,Anne-Marie’sgrandmother,thatwhenhearrivedhebelievedhe’dgotthereintimeastheapartmentseemedundisturbed.Itwasonlyashewasleavingthathesawthepaintingwasmissing.‘Shesaysthatbecausenothingelsewasdisturbedhehadalwaysassumedyourfamilyhadtakenitwith

them.Andthen,ofcourse,becauseyouonlycorrespondedwitheachothersomeyearslater,thematterneverarose.’‘No,’theoldmansays,staringattheimage.‘No.Wehadnothing.Justmymother’sweddingand

engagementrings.’Hiseyesfillwithtears.‘ItispossiblethattheNazishadearmarkedthepainting.Thereisevidenceofsystematicremovalof

importantworksofartduringtheNaziperiod.’‘ItwasMrDreschler.Hetoldthem.Ialwaysknewhetoldthem.Andhecalledmyfatherhisfriend!’

Hishandstrembleonhisknees.Itisnotanunusualresponse,despitethemorethansixtyyearsthathaveelapsed.ManyoftheclaimantsPaulseescanrecallimagesandeventsfromthe1940sfarmoreclearlythantheycanrememberhowtheyarrivedathisoffice.‘Yes,well,we’velookedintoMrDreschler’srecords,andthereareanumberofunexplainedtrades

withtheGermans–onethatreferssimplytoaDegas.It’snotclearwhichDegasbutthedatesandthefactthattherecan’thavebeenmanyinyourareaatthetimedoesaddweighttoyourargument.’Heturnsslowlytofacehisson.Yousee?hisexpressionsays.‘Well,MrNowicki,lastnightIhadaresponsefromthegallery.Doyouwantmetoreadit?’‘Yes.’‘DearMrMcCafferty,Inlightofthenewevidenceprovided,andourowngapsinprovenance,aswellasourdiscoveryoftheextentofthe

sufferingenduredbyMrNowicki’sfamily,wehavedecidednottocontesttheclaimfor“Femme,dansant”byDegas.Thetrusteesofthegalleryhaveinstructedtheirlawyersnottoproceedfurther,andweawaityourinstructionswithregardsthetransferofthephysicalitem.’

Paulwaits.Theoldmanseemslostinthought.Finallyhelooksup.‘Theyaregivingitback?’Henods.Hecannotkeepthesmilefromhisface.Ithasbeenalongandtestingcase,anditsresolution

hasbeengratifyinglyswift.‘Theyarereallygivingitbacktous?Theyagreethatitwasstolenfromus?’‘Youhaveonlytoletthemknowwhereyouwantitsent.’Thereisalongsilence.JasonNowickitearshisgazefromhisfather.Heliftstheheelsofhishandsand

wipestearsfromhiseyes.‘I’msorry,’hesays.‘Idon’tknowwhy…’‘It’snotunusual.’Paulpullsaboxoftissuesfromunderhisdeskandhandsittohim.‘Thesecasesare

alwaysemotional.It’sneverjustapainting.’‘It’sbeensuchalongtimecoming.ThelossofthatDegashasbeenlikeaconstantreminderofwhatmy

father,mygrandparentssufferedinthewar.AndIwasn’tsureyou…’Heblowsouthischeeks.‘It’s

amazing.Trackingdownthatman’sfamily.Theysaidyouweregood,but–’Paulshakeshishead.‘Justdoingmyjob.’HeandJasonlookattheoldman,whoisstillstaringattheimageofthepainting.Heseemstohave

diminishedinsize,asiftheweightoftheeventsofseveraldecadesagohavecomecrushingdownonhim.Thesamethoughtseemstocrossboththeirmindsatonce.‘Areyouokay,Dad?’‘MrNowicki?’Hestraightensalittle,asifonlyjustrememberingthattheyarethere.Hishandisrestingonthe

photograph.Paulsitsbackinhischair,hispenabridgebetweenhishands.‘So.Returningthepainting.Ican

recommendaspecialistart-transportcompany.Youneedavehiclethatishighsecurity,climatecontrolledandhasair-ridesuspension.AndIwouldalsosuggestyouinsureitbeforeitcomestoyou.Idon’tneedtotellyouthatapaintingsuchasthisis–’‘Doyouhavecontactsattheauctionhouse?’‘I’msorry?’MrNowickihasregainedhiscolour.‘Doyouhavecontactsatanyauctionhouses?Ispoketoonea

whilebackbuttheywantedtoomuchmoney.Twentypercent,Ithinkitwas.Plustax.It’stoomuch.’‘You…wanttogetitvaluedforinsurance?’‘No.Iwanttosellit.’Heopenshisbatteredleatherwalletwithoutlookingupandslidesthe

photographinside.‘Apparentlythisisaverygoodtimetosell.Foreignersarebuyingeverything…’Hewavesahanddismissively.Jasonisstaringathim.‘But,Dad…’‘Thishasallbeenexpensive.Wehavebillstopay.’‘Butyousaid–’MrNowickiturnsawayfromhisson.‘Canyoulookintoitforme?I’massumingyouwillinvoiceme

yourfee.’Outside,adoorslamsinthestreet;thesoundreverberatesoffthefrontagesofthebuildings.Inthenext

officePaulcanhearMiriam’smuffledtelephoneconversation.Heswallows.Keepshisvoicelevel.‘I’lldothat.’Thereisalongsilence.Finallytheoldmanrisesfromhisseat.‘Well,thatisverygoodnews,’hesaysfinally,andgiveshimatightsmile.‘Verygoodnewsindeed.

Thankyouverymuch,MrMcCafferty.’‘Noproblem,’hesays.Hestandsandholdsouthishand.Whentheyleave,PaulMcCaffertysitsdowninhischair.Heclosesthefile,thenhiseyes.

‘Youcan’ttakeitpersonally,’Janeysays.‘Iknow.It’sjust–’‘It’snotourbusiness.We’rejusthereforrecovery.’‘Iknow.It’sjustthatMrNowickihadgoneonandonabouthowpersonalthispaintingwastothe

familyandhowitrepresentedeverythingthey’dlostand–’‘Letitgo,Paul.’

‘ThisneverhappenedintheSquad.’HestandsupandpacesaroundJaney’scrampedoffice.Hestopsbythewindowandgazesout.‘Yougotpeopletheirstuffbackandtheywerejusthappy.’‘Youdon’twanttogobacktothepolice.’‘Iknow.I’mjustsaying.Itgetsmeeverytimewiththeserestitutioncases.’‘Well,youearnedourfeeonacasewhereIwasn’tsureyou’dbeableto.Andit’sallmoneytowards

yourhousemove,yes?Soweshouldbothbehappy.Here.’Janeypushesafolderacrossherdesk.‘Thisshouldcheeryouup.Cameinlastnight.Itlooksprettystraightforward.’Paultakesthepapersoutofthefolder.Aportraitofawoman,missingsince1916,itstheftonly

discoveredadecadeagoduringanauditoftheartist’sworkbyhissurvivingfamily.Andthere,onthenextsheetofpaper,animageofthepaintinginquestion,nowhangingboldlyonaminimalistwall.Publishedinaglossymagazineseveralyearsago.‘FirstWorldWar?’‘Statuteoflimitationsdoesn’tapply,apparently.Itseemsprettyclearcut.Theysaytheyhaveevidence

thatGermansstolethepaintingduringthewar,anditwasneverseenagain.Afewyearsagosomefamilymemberopensanoldglossymagazineandwhatdoyouthinkissittingthereinthecentrespread?’‘They’resureit’stheoriginal?’‘It’sneverbeenreproduced.’Paulshakeshishead,themorning’seventsbrieflyforgotten,consciousofthatbrief,reflexivetwingeof

excitement.‘Andthereitis.Nearlyahundredyearslater.Justhangingonsomerichcouple’swall.’‘ThefeaturejustsayscentralLondon.AllthoseIdealHometypefeaturesdo.Theydon’twantto

encourageburglarsbygivingtheexactaddress.ButI’mguessingitshouldn’tbetoohardtotracethem–itnamesthecoupleafterall.’Paulshutsthefolder.HekeepsseeingMrNowicki’stightmouth,thewaythesonhadlookedathis

fatherasifhe’dneverseenhimbefore.‘You’reAmerican,yes?’theoldmanhadsaidtohim,astheystoodathisofficedoor.‘Youcannotpossiblyunderstand.’Janey’shandisrestinglightlyonhisarm.‘How’sthehousehuntinggoing?’‘Notgreat.Everythinggoodseemstogetsnappedupbycashbuyers.’‘Well,ifyouwantcheeringup,wecouldgoandgetabitetoeat.I’mnotdoinganythingtonight.’Paulraisesasmile.HetriesnottonoticethewayJaney’shandmovestoherhair,thepainfullyhopeful

slanttohersmile.Hestepsaway.‘I’mworkinglate.GotacoupleofcasesIwanttogetontopof.Butthanks.I’llgetontothenewfilefirstthinginthemorning.’

Livarriveshomeatfive,havingcookedherfatheramealandvacuumedthegroundfloorofhishouse.Carolinerarelyvacuums,andthecoloursofthefadedPersianrunnershadbeennoticeablymorevividwhenshefinished.Aroundher,thecityseethesonawarmlatesummerday,thetrafficnoisesfilteringup,withthesmellofdieselrisingfromthetarmac.‘Hey,Fran,’shesays,asshereachesthemaindoor.Thewoman,woollenhatrammedlowoverherheaddespitetheheat,nodsagreeting.Sheisdigging

aroundinaplasticbag.Shehasanendlesscollectionofthem,tiedwithtwineorstuffedinsideeachother,whichsheendlesslysortsandrearranges.Todayshehasmovedhertwoboxes,coveredwithabluetarpaulin,totherelativeshelterofthecaretaker’sdoor.ThepreviouscaretakertoleratedFranforyears,evenusingherasanunofficialparcelstop.Thenewone,shesays,whenLivbringsherdownacoffee,

keepsthreateningtomoveher.Someresidentshavecomplainedthatsheisloweringthetone.‘Youhadavisitor.’‘What?Oh.Whattimedidshego?’Livhadnotleftouteitheranoteorakey.Shewonderswhethershe

shouldstopbytherestaurantlatertomakesureMoisokay.Evenasshethinksit,sheknowsshewon’t.Shefeelsvaguelyrelievedattheprospectofasilent,emptyhouse.Franshrugs.‘Youwantadrink?’Livsays,assheopensthedoor.‘Teawouldbelovely,’Fransays,adding,‘Threesugars,please,’asifLivhasnevermadeherone

before.Andthen,withthepreoccupiedairofsomeonewhohasfartoomuchtodotostandaroundtalking,shegoesbacktoherbags.

Shesmellsthesmokeevenassheopensthedoor.Moissittingcross-leggedonthefloorbytheglasscoffee-table,onehandaroundapaperbackbook,theotherrestingacigaretteagainstawhitesaucer.‘Hi,’shesays,notlookingup.Livstaresather,herkeyinherhand.‘I–Ithoughtyou’dleft.Fransaidyou’dgone.’‘Oh.Theladydownstairs?Yeah.Ijustgotback.’‘Backfromwhere?’‘Mydayshift.’‘Youworkadayshift?’‘Atacarehome.HopeIdidn’tdisturbyouthismorning.Itriedtoleavequietly.Ithoughtthewhole

desk-drawerthingmightwakeyou.Gettingupatsixkindofkillsthewhole“welcomehouseguest”vibe.’‘Desk-drawerthing?’‘Youdidn’tleaveakey.’Livfrowns.Shefeelsasifsheistwostepsbehindinthisconversation.Moputsherbookdownand

speaksslowly.‘IhadtohavealittledigaroundtillIfoundthesparekeyinyourdeskdrawer.’‘Youwentinmydeskdrawer?’‘Itseemedlikethemostobviousplace.’Sheturnsapage.‘It’sokay.Iputitback.’Sheadds,underher

breath,‘Man,youlikestufftidy.’Shereturnstoherbook.David’sbook,Livsees,checkingoutthespine.ItisabatteredPenguin

IntroductiontoModernArchitecture,oneofhisfavourites.Shecanstillpicturehimreadingit,stretchedoutonthesofa.Seeingitinsomeoneelse’shandsmakesherstomachtightenwithanxiety.Livputsherbagdown,andwalksthroughtothekitchen.Thegraniteworktopsarecoveredwithtoastcrumbs.Twomugssitonthetable,brownringsbisecting

theirinsides.Bythetoaster,abagofslicedwhitebreadsitscollapsedandhalfopen.Ausedteabagsquatsonthesideofthesinkandaknifeemergesfromapatofunsaltedbutter,likethechestofamurdervictim.Livstandsthereforamoment,thenbeginstotidy,sweepingthedetritusintothekitchenbin,loading

cupsandplatesintothedishwasher.Shepressesthebuttontodrawbacktheceilingshutters,andwhentheyarefullyopen,shepressesthebuttonthatwillopentheglassroof,wavingherhandstogetridofthelingeringsmellofsmoke.SheturnstofindMostandinginthedoorway.‘Youcan’tsmokeinhere.Youjustcan’t,’shesays.There

isaweirdedgeofpanictohervoice.

‘Oh.Sure.Ididn’trealizeyouhadadeck.’‘No.Notonthedeckeither.Please.Justdon’tsmokehere.’Moglancesattheworksurface,atLiv’sfrantictidying.‘Hey–I’lldothatbeforeIleave.Really.’‘It’sfine.’‘Itobviouslyisn’t,oryouwouldn’tbehavingaheartattack.Look.Stop.I’llcleanupmyownmess.

Really.’Livstops.Sheknowssheisoverreacting,butshecan’thelpit.ShejustwantsMogone.‘I’vegotto

takeFranacupoftea,’shesays.Herbloodthumpsinherearsthewholewaydowntothegroundfloor.Whenshegetsbackthekitchenistidy.Momovesquietlyaroundthespace.‘I’mprobablyabitlazy

whenitcomestoclearingupstraightaway,’shesays,asLivwalksbackin.‘It’sthewholeclearing-up-at-workthing.Oldpeople,guestsatrestaurants…Youdosomuchofitintheday,youkindofrebelagainstitathome.’Livtriesnottobristleatheruseoftheword.Itisthenshebecomesawareoftheothersmell,underthe

smoke.Andtheovenlightison.ShebendsdowntopeerinsideitandseesherLeCreusetdish,itssurfacebubblingwithsomething

cheesy.‘Imadesomesupper.Pastabake.IjustthrewtogetherwhatIcouldgetfromthecornershop.It’llbe

readyinabouttenminutes.Iwasgoingtohaveminelater,butseeingasyou’rehere…’Livcannotrememberthelasttimesheeventurnedtheovenon.‘Oh,’saysMo,reachingfortheovengloves.‘Andsomeonerangfromthecouncil.’‘What?’‘Yeah.Somethingaboutcounciltax.’Liv’sinsidesturnbrieflytowater.‘IsaidIwasyou,sohetoldmehowmuchyouowe.It’squitealot.’Shehandsherapieceofpaper

withafigurescribbledonit.AsLiv’smouthopenstoprotest,shesays,‘Well,Ihadtomakesurehehadtherightperson.Ithoughthe

musthavemadeamistake.’Shehadknownroughlyhowmuchitwouldbe,butseeingitinprintisstillashock.ShefeelsMo’s

eyesonherand,inheruncharacteristicallylongsilence,sheknowsthatMohasguessedthetruth.‘Hey.Sitdown.Everythinglooksbetteronafullstomach.’Shefeelsherselfbeingsteeredintoachair.

Moflipsopentheovendoor,allowingthekitchentofloodwiththeunfamiliarsmellofhome-cookedfood.‘Andifnot,well,Iknowofareallycomfortablebanquette.’

Thefoodisgood.Liveatsaplatefulandsitswithherhandsonherstomachafterwards,wonderingwhysheissosurprisedthatMocanactuallycook.‘Thanks,’shesays,asMomopsupthelastofhers.‘Itwasreallygood.Ican’trememberthelasttimeIatethatmuch.’‘Noproblem.’Andnowyouhavetoleave.Thewordsthathavebeenonherlipsforthepasttwentyhoursdonot

come.ShedoesnotwantMotogojustyet.Shedoesnotwanttobealonewiththecouncil-taxpeopleandthefinaldemandsandherownuncontrollablethoughts;shefeelssuddenlygratefulthattonightshewillhavesomebodytotalkto–ahumandefenceagainstthedate.

‘So.LivWorthing.Thewholehusband-dyingthing–’Livputsherknifeandforktogether.‘I’drathernottalkaboutit.’ShefeelsMo’seyesonher.‘Okay.Nodeadhusbands.So–whataboutboyfriends?’‘Boyfriends?’‘Since…theOneWeMustNotMention.Anyoneserious?’‘No.’Mopicksapieceofcheesefromthesideofthebakingdish.‘Ill-advisedshags?’‘Nope.’Mo’sheadshootsup.‘Notone?Inhowlong?’‘Fouryears,’Livmumbles.Sheislying.Therewasone,threeyearsago,afterwell-meaningfriendshadinsistedshehadto‘move

on’.AsifDavidhadbeensomekindofobstacle.Shehaddrunkherselfhalfwaytoobliviontogothroughwithitandthenweptafterwards,huge,snottysobsofgriefandguiltandself-disgust.Theman–shecan’tevenrememberhisname–hadbarelybeenabletocontainhisreliefwhenshehadsaidshewasgoinghome.Evennowwhenshethinksaboutitshefeelscoldshame.‘Nothinginfouryears?Andyou’re…what?Thirty?Whatisthis,somekindofsexualsuttee?Whatare

youdoing,Worthing?SavingyourselfforMrDeadHusbandinthehereafter?’‘I’mHalston.LivHalston.And…Ijust…haven’tmetanyoneIwantedto…’Livdecidestochange

thedirectionofthisconversation.‘Okay,howaboutyou?Someniceself-harmingEmointhewings?’Defensivenesshasmadeherspiky.Mo’sfingerscreeptowardshercigarettesandretreatagain.‘Idookay.’Livwaits.‘Ihaveanarrangement.’‘Anarrangement?’‘WithRanic,thewinewaiter.Everycoupleofweekswehookupforatechnicallyproficientbut

ultimatelysoullesscoupling.Hewasprettyrubbishwhenwestartedbuthe’sgettingthehangofit.’Sheeatsanotherstraypieceofcheese.‘Stillwatchestoomuchporn,though.Youcantell.’‘Nobodyserious?’‘Myparentsstoppedtalkingaboutgrandchildrensometimearoundtheturnofthecentury.’‘Oh,God.Thatremindsme:IpromisedI’dringmydad.’Livhasasuddenthought.Shestandsand

reachesforherbag.‘Hey,howaboutInipdowntotheshopandgetabottleofwine?’Thisisgoingtobefine,shetellsherself.We’lltalkaboutparentsandpeopleIdon’tremember,andcollege,andMo’sjobs,andI’llsteerherawayfromthewholesexthing,andbeforeIknowittomorrowwillbehereandmyhousewillfeelnormalandtoday’sdatewillbeawholeyearawayagain.Mopushesherchairbackfromthetable.‘Notforme,’shesays,scoopingupherplate.‘I’vegottoget

changedandshoot.’‘Shoot?’‘Work.’Liv’shandisonherpurse.‘But–yousaidyou’djustfinished.’

‘Mydayshift.NowIstartmyeveningshift.Well,inabouttwentyminutes.’Shepullsherhairupandclipsitintoplace.‘Youokaytowashup?AndallrightifItakethatkeyagain?’Thebriefsenseofwellbeingthathadarrivedwiththemealevaporates,likethepoppingofasoap

bubble.Shesitsatthehalf-clearedtable,listeningtoMo’stunelesshumming,thesoundofherwashingandscrubbingherteethinthespare-roombathroom,thesoftclosingofthebedroomdoor.Shecallsupthestairs.‘Doyouthinktheyneedanyoneelsetonight?Imean–Icouldhelpout.Maybe.

I’msureIcoulddowaitressing.’Thereisnoreply.‘Ididworkinabaronce.’‘Metoo.Itmademewanttostabpeopleintheeye.Evenmoresothanwaitingtables.’Moisbackinthehallway,dressedinablackshirtandbomberjacket,anapronunderherarm.‘See

youlater,dude,’shecalls.‘UnlessIgetluckywithRanic,obvs.’Sheisgone,downstairs,drawnbackintotheworldofliving.Andastheechoofhervoicediesaway,

thestillnessoftheGlassHousebecomesasolid,weightythingandLivrealizes,withagrowingsenseofpanic,thatherhouse,herhaven,ispreparingtobetrayher.Sheknowsthatshecannotspendthiseveningherealone.

14

Thesearetheplacesitisnotagoodideatodrinkaloneifyou’refemale.

1. Bazookas:thisusedtobetheWhiteHorse,aquietpubonthecorneroppositethecoffeeshop,stuffedwithsaggingplushvelvetbenchesandtheoccasionalhorsebrass,itssignhalfobscuredbyage-relatedpaintloss.Nowitisaneon-cladtittybar,wherebusinessmengolate,andtaut-facedgirlswithtoomuchmakeupleaveinplatformshoessometimeinthesmallhours,smokingfuriouslyandmoaningabouttheirtips.

2. Dino’s:thelocalwinebar,packedthroughoutthenineties,hasreinventeditselfasaspit-and-sawdusteateryforyummymummiesinthedaylighthours.Aftereighto’clockintheeveningitnowrunsoccasionalspeed-datingsessions.Therestofthetime,apartfromFridays,itsfloor-to-ceilingwindowsrevealittobeconspicuouslyandpainfullyempty.

3. Anyoftheolderpubsinthebackstreetsbeyondtheriver,whichdrawsmallgroupsofresentfullocals,menwhosmokeroll-upswithdead-eyedpitbullsandwhowillstareatawomanaloneinapubasamullahwouldatawomantakingastrollinabikini.

4. Anyofthenewcheerfullypackeddrinkingplacesneartheriverthatarepackedwithpeopleyoungerthanyou,mostlygroupsoflaughingfriendswithAppleMacsatchelsandthickblackglasses,allofwhomwillmakeyoufeelmorelonelythanifyouhadjustsatindoors.

Livtoyswiththeideaofbuyingabottleofwineandtakingithome.Buteverytimeshepicturessittinginthatemptywhitespacealone,sheisfilledwithanunusualdread.Shedoesnotwanttowatchtelevision:thelastthreeyearshaveshownherthatthisistheeveningofcosmicjokes,wherenormallymundanecomedydramaswillsuddenly,poignantly,killoffahusband,orsubstituteawildlifeprogrammewithanotheraboutsuddendeath.Shedoesn’twanttofindherselfstandinginfrontofTheGirlYouLeftBehind,recallingthedaytheyhadboughtittogether,seeinginthatwoman’sexpressiontheloveandfulfilmentsheusedtofeel.Shedoesn’twanttofindherselfdiggingoutthephotographsofherandDavidtogether,knowingwithwearycertaintythatshewillneverloveanybodylikethatagain,andthatwhileshecanrecalltheexactwayhiseyescrinkled,orhisfingersheldamug,shecannolongerbringtomindhowtheseelementsfittedtogether.Shedoesnotwanttofeeleventhefaintesttemptationtocallhismobilenumber,asshehaddone

obsessivelyforthefirstyearafterhisdeathsoshecouldhearhisvoiceontheansweringservice.Mostdaysnowhislossisapartofher,anawkwardweightshecarriesaround,invisibletoeveryoneelse,subtlyalteringthewayshemovesthroughtheday.Buttoday,theanniversaryofthedayhedied,isadaywhenallbetsareoff.Andthensherememberssomethingoneofthewomenhadsaidatdinnerthepreviousnight.Whenmy

sisterwantstogooutwithoutbeinghassled,sheheadsforagaybar.Sofunny.Thereisagaybarnottenminutes’walkfromhere.Shehaspasseditahundredtimeswithouteverwonderingwhatliesbehindtheprotectivewiregrillesonthewindows.Nobodywillhassleherinagaybar.Livreachesforherjacket,bagandkeys.Ifnothingelse,shehasaplan.

‘Well,that’sawkward.’‘Itwasonce.Monthsago.ButIgetthefeelingshe’sneverquiteforgottenit.’‘BecauseyouareSOGOOD.’Gregwipesanotherpintglass,grinning,andputsitontheshelf.

‘No…Well,okay,obviously,’Paulsays.‘Seriously,Greg,Ijustfeelguiltywhenevershelooksatme.Like…likeIpromisedsomethingIcan’tdeliver.’‘What’sthegoldenrule,bro?Nevershitonyourowndoorstep.’‘Iwasdrunk.ItwasthenightLeonietoldmesheandJakeweremovinginwithMitch.Iwas…’‘Youletyourdefencesdown.’Gregdoeshisdaytime-televisionvoice.‘Yourbossgotyouwhenyou

werevulnerable.Pliedyouwithdrink.Andnowyoujustfeelused.Hangon…’Hedisappearstoserveacustomer.ThebarisbusyforaThursdaynight,allthetablestaken,asteadystreamofpeopleatthebar,alowhumofcheerfulconversationrisingabovethemusic.Hehadmeanttogohomeafterhefinishedattheoffice,butherarelygetsachancetocatchupwithhisbrother,andit’sgoodtogetafewdrinksinnowandthen.Evenifyoudohavetospendyourtimeavoidingeyecontactwith70percentofthecustomers.GregringsupsomemoneyandarrivesbackinfrontofPaul.‘Look,Iknowhowitsounds.Butshe’sanicewoman.Andit’sjusthorriblehavingtofendheroffall

thetime.’‘Suckstobeyou.’‘Likeyou’dunderstand.’‘Becausenobodyeverhitsonyouwhenyou’rewithsomeone.Notinagaybar.Oh,no.’Gregputs

anotherglassontheshelf.‘Look,whydon’tyoujustsitherdown,tellherthatshe’sareallylovelyperson,yadayadayada,butyou’renotinterestedinherthatway?’‘Becauseit’sawkward.Usworkingsocloselytogetherandall.’‘Andthisisn’t?Thewhole“Oh,well,ifyoueverfancyaquickiewhenyou’vefinishedthiscase,Paul”

thing.’Greg’sattentionshiftstotheotherendofthebar.‘Uh-oh.Ithinkwe’vegotaliveone.’Paulhasbeendimlyawareofthegirlallevening.Shehadarrivedlookingperfectlycomposedandhe

hadassumedshewaswaitingforsomeone.Nowsheistryingtoclimbbackontoherbarstool.Shemakestwoattempts,thesecondsendingherstumblingclumsilybackwards.Shepushesherhairoutofhereyesandpeersatthebarasifit’sthesummitofEverest.Shepropelsherselfupwards.Whenshelandsonthestoolshereachesoutbothhandstosteadyherselfandblinkshard,asifittakesheracoupleofsecondstobelieveshehasactuallymadeit.SheliftsherfacetowardsGreg.‘Excuseme?CanIhaveanotherwine?’Sheholdsupanemptyglass.Greg’sgaze,amusedandweary,travelstoPaulandaway.‘We’reclosingintenminutes,’hesays,

flickinghistea-toweloverhisshoulder.He’sgoodwithdrunks.PaulhasneverseenGreglosehiscool.Theywere,theirmotherwouldremark,chalkandcheeselikethat.‘Sothatleavesmetenminutestodrinkit?’shesays,hersmilewaveringslightly.Shedoesn’tlooklikealesbian.But,then,fewofthemdo,thesedays.Hedoesn’tsaythistohisbrother,

whowouldlaughathimandtellhimhehadspenttoomuchtimeinthepolice.‘Sweetheart,Imeanthisinthenicestway,butifyouhaveanotherdrinkI’llworryaboutyou.AndI

really,reallyhateendingmyshiftworryingaboutcustomers.’‘Asmallone,’shesays.Hersmileisheartbreaking.‘Idon’tevenusuallydrink.’‘Yeah.You’retheonesIworryabout.’‘This…’Hereyesarestrained.‘Thisisadifficultday.Areallydifficultday.PleasecanIjusthave

onemoredrink?AndthenyoucancallmeanicerespectabletaxifromanicerespectablefirmandI’llgohomeandpassoutandyoucangohomewithoutworryingaboutme.’

HelooksbackatPaulandsighs.SeewhatIhavetoputupwith?‘Asmallone,’hesays.‘Averysmallone.’Hersmilefallsaway,hereyeshalfclose,andshereachesdowntoherfeet,swaying,forherbag.Paul

turnsbacktothebar,checkinghisphoneformessages.ItishisturntohaveJaketomorrownight,andalthoughthethingwithhimandLeonieisnowamicable,somepartofhimstillworriesthatshewillfindareasontocancel.‘Mybag!’Heglancesup.‘Mybag’sgone!’Thewomanhasslidfromthestoolandisgazingaroundatthefloor,onehand

clutchingthebar.Whenshelooksup,herfaceisleachedofcolour.‘DidyoutakeittotheLadies?’Gregleansacrossthebar.‘No,’shesays,hergazedartingaroundthebar.‘Itwastuckedundermystool.’‘Youleftyourbagunderthestool?’Gregtuts.‘Didn’tyoureadthesigns?’Therearesignsalloverthebar.Donotleaveyourbagunattended:pickpocketsoperateinthisarea.

Paulcancountthreeofthemjustfromwherehesits.Shehasnotreadthem.‘I’mreallysorry.Butit’snotgoodaroundhere.’Thewoman’sgazeflickersbetweenthemand,drunk

assheis,hecanseethatsheguesseswhatthey’rethinking.Sillydrunkgirl.Paulreachesforhisphone.‘I’llcallthecops.’‘AndtellthemIwasstupidenoughtoleavemybagunderastool?’Sheputsherfaceintoherhands.

‘Oh,God.I’djustwithdrawntwohundredpoundsforthecounciltax.Idon’tbelieveit.Two.Hundred.Pounds.’‘We’vehadtwoalreadythisweek,’saysGreg.‘We’rewaitingforCCTVtobeinstalled.Butit’san

epidemic.I’mreallysorry.’Shelooksupandwipesherface.Sheletsoutalong,unsteadybreath.Sheisplainlytryingnottoburst

intotears.Theglassofwinesitsuntouchedonthebar.‘I’mreallysorry.ButIdon’tthinkI’mgoingtobeabletopayforthat.’‘Don’tgiveitathought,’saysGreg.‘Here,Paul,youcallthecops.I’llgogetheracoffee.Right.Time,

ladiesandgentlemen,please…’

Thepolicearoundheredonotcomeoutforvanishedhandbags.Theygivethewoman,whosenameisLiv,acrimenumberandpromisealetteraboutvictimsupport,andtellherthey’llbeintouchiftheyfindanything.It’scleartoeveryonethattheydonotexpecttobeintouch.Bythetimeshe’soffthephonethebarislongempty.Gregunlocksthedoortoletthemout,andLiv

reachesforherjacket.‘I’veagueststaying.She’sgotasparekey.’‘Youwanttocallher?’Paulproffershisphone.Shelooksblanklyathim.‘Idon’tknowhernumber.ButIknowwheresheworks.’Paulwaits.‘It’sarestaurantabouttenminutes’walkfromhere.TowardsBlackfriars.’It’smidnight.Paulgazesattheclock.Heistiredandhissonisbeingdroppedoffatseventhirty

tomorrowmorning.Buthecannotleaveadrunkwoman,whohasplainlyspentthebestpartofanhourtryingnottocry,towalkthebackstreetsoftheSouthBankatmidnight.

‘I’llwalkwithyou,’hesays.Hecatchesherlookofwariness,thewayshepreparestodecline.Gregtouchesherarm.‘You’reokay,

sweetheart.He’sanex-cop.’Paulfeelshimselfbeingreassessed.Thewoman’smakeuphassmudgedbeneathoneeyeandhehasto

fighttheurgetowipeit.‘Icanvouchforhisgoodcharacter.He’sgeneticallywiredtodothis,kindoflikeaStBernardin

humanform.’‘Yeah.Thanks,Greg.’Sheputsonherjacket.‘Ifyou’resureyoudon’tmind,thatwouldbereallykindofyou.’‘I’llcallyoutomorrow,Paul.Andgoodluck,MissLiv.Hopeitallgetssorted.’Gregwaitsuntilthey

aresomewaydowntheroad,thenclosesandlocksthedoor.

Theywalkbriskly,theirfeetechoingintheemptycobbledstreets,thesoundbouncingoffthesilentbuildingsaroundthem.Ithasbeguntorain,andPaulramshishandsdeepintohispockets,hisneckhunchedintohiscollar.Theypasstwoyoungmeninhoodiesandheisconsciousofhermovingslightlyclosertohim.‘Didyoucancelyourcards?’hesays.‘Oh.No.’Thefreshairishittingherhard.Shelooksdespondent,andeverynowandthenshestumbles

alittle.Hewouldofferhisarmbuthedoesn’tthinkshewouldtakeit.‘Ididn’tthinkofthat.’‘Canyourememberwhatyouhave?’‘OneMastercard,oneBarclays.’‘Holdon.Iknowsomeonewhocanhelp.’Hedialsanumber.‘Sherrie?…Hi.It’sMcCafferty…Yeah,

fine,thanks.Allgood.You?’Hewaits.‘Listen–couldyoudomeafavour?Textmethenumbersforstolenbankcards?MastercardandaBarclays.Friend’sjusthadherbagnicked…Yeah.Thanks,Sherrie.Sayhitotheguysforme.And,yeah,seeyousoon.’Hedialsthetextednumbers,handsherthephone.‘Cops,’hesays.‘Smallworld.’Andthenwalks

silentlyassheexplainsthesituationtotheoperator.‘Thankyou,’shesays,handingthephoneback.‘Noproblem.’‘I’dbesurprisediftheymanagetogetanymoneyoutonthemanyway.’Livsmilesruefully.Theyareattherestaurant,aSpanishplace.Thelightsareoffandthedoorslocked.Heducksintothe

doorwayandshepeersinthroughthewindow,asifwillingittoshowsomedistantsignoflife.Paulconsultshiswatch.‘It’saquarterpasttwelve.They’reprobablydoneforthenight.’Livstandsandbitesherlip.Sheturnsbacktohim.‘Perhapsshe’satmine.PleasecanIborrowyour

phoneagain?’Hehandsitover,andsheholdsitupinthesodiumlightbettertoseethescreen.Hewatchesasshetapsanumber,thenturnsaway,onehandriflingunconsciouslythroughherhair.Sheglancesbehindherandgiveshimabrief,uncertainsmile,thenturnsback.Shetypesinanothernumber,andathird.‘Anyoneelseyoucancall?’‘Mydad.Ijusttriedhim.Nobody’sansweringthereeither.Althoughit’sentirelypossiblehe’sasleep.

Hesleepslikethedead.’Shelookscompletelylost.‘Look–whydon’tIbookyouaroominahotel?Youcanpaymebackwhenyougetyourcards.’

Shestandsthere,bitingherlip.Twohundredpounds.Heremembersthewayshehadsaidit,despairing.ThiswasnotsomeonewhocouldaffordacentralLondonhotelroom.Therainisfallingmoreheavilynow,splashinguptheirlegs,watergurglingalongtheguttersinfrontof

them.Hespeaksalmostbeforehethinks:‘Youknowwhat?It’sgettinglate.Iliveabouttwentyminutes’walkaway.Youwanttothinkaboutitanddecidewhenwegettomine?Wecansortitalloutfromthereifyoulike.’Shehandshimhisphone.Hewatchessomebrief,internalstruggletakeplace.Thenshesmiles,alittle

warily,andstepsforwardbesidehim.‘Thankyou.Andsorry.I–Ireallydidn’tsetouttomessupsomeoneelse’snighttoo.’

Livgrowsprogressivelyquieterastheyapproachhisflat,andheguessesthatsheissoberingup:somesensiblepartofheriswonderingwhatshehasjustagreedto.Hewondersifthereissomegirlfriendwaitingforhersomewhere.She’spretty,butinthewaythatwomenarewhentheydon’twanttodrawmaleattentiontothemselves:freeofmakeup,hairscrapedbackintoaponytail.Isthisagaything?Herskinistoogoodforhertobearegulardrinker.Shehastautlegsandalongstridethatspeakofregularexercise.Butshewalksdefensively,withherarmscrossedoverherchest.Theyreachhisflat,asecond-floormaisonetteaboveacaféontheoutskirtsofTheatreland,andhe

standswellbackfromherasheopensthedoor.Paulswitchesonthelightsandgoesstraighttothecoffee-table.Hesweepsupthenewspapersandthat

morning’smug,seeingtheflatthroughastranger’seyes:toosmall,overstuffedwithreferencebooks,photographsandfurniture.Luckily,nostraysocksorwashing.Hewalksintothekitchenareaandputsthekettleon,fetchesheratoweltodryherhair,andwatchesasshewalkstentativelyaroundtheroom,apparentlyreassuredbythepackedbookshelves,thephotographsonthesideboard:himinuniform,himandJakegrinning,theirarmsaroundeachother.‘Isthisyourson?’‘Yup.’‘Helookslikeyou.’Shepicksupaphotographofhim,JakeandLeonie,takenwhenJakewasfour.Her

otherarmisstillwrappedaroundherstomach.HewouldofferheraT-shirt,buthedoesn’twanthertothinkhe’stryingtogethertoremoveherclothes.‘Isthishismother?’‘Yes.’‘You’re…notgay,then?’Paulisbrieflylostforwords,thensays,‘No!Oh.No,that’smybrother’sbar.’‘Oh.’Hegesturestowardsthephotographofhiminuniform.‘That’snot,like,medoingaVillagePeople

routine.Ireallywasacop.’Shestartstolaugh,thekindoflaughterthatcomeswhentheonlyalternativeistears.Thenshewipes

hereyesandflasheshimanembarrassedsmile.‘I’msorry.It’sabaddaytoday.Andthatwasbeforemybaggotstolen.’She’sreallypretty,hethinkssuddenly.Shehasanairofvulnerability,likesomeone’sstrippedherofa

layerofskin.Sheturnstofacehimandhelooksawayabruptly.‘Paul,haveyougotadrink?Asinnotcoffee.IknowyouprobablythinkI’macompletesoakbutIcouldreally,reallydowithonerightnow.’

Heflicksthekettleoff,poursthembothaglassofwineandcomesintothelivingarea.Sheissittingontheedgeofthesofa,herelbowsthrustbetweenherknees.‘Youwanttotalkaboutit?Ex-copshavegenerallyheardalotofstuff.’Hehandshertheglassofwine.

‘Muchworsestuffthanyours.I’dputmoneyonit.’‘Notreally.’Shetakesanaudiblegulpofherwine.Then,abruptly,sheturnstohim.‘Actually,yes.My

husbanddiedfouryearsagotoday.Hedied.Mostpeoplecouldn’tevensaythewordwhenhedid,andnowtheykeeptellingmeIshouldhavemovedon.Ihavenoideahowtomoveon.There’saGothlivinginmyhouseandIcan’tevenrememberhersurname.Iowemoneytoeveryone.AndIwenttoagaybartonightbecauseIcouldn’tfacebeinginmyhousealone,andmybaggotnickedwiththetwohundredpoundsI’dborrowedfrommycreditcardtopaymycounciltax.AndwhenyouaskediftherewasanyoneelseIcouldcall,theonlypersonIcouldthinkofwhomightoffermeabedwasFran,thewomanwholivesincardboardboxesatthebottomofmyblock.’Heissobusydigestingtheword‘husband’thathebarelyhearstherest.‘Well,Icanofferyouabed.’Thatwaryglanceagain.‘Myson’sbed.It’snottheworld’smostcomfortable.Imean,mybrothersleptinitonandoffwhenhe

brokeupwithhislastboyfriend,andhesayshe’shadtoseeanosteopatheversince,butit’sabed.’Hepauses.‘It’sprobablybetterthancardboardboxes.’Shelookssidewaysathim.‘Okay.Marginallybetter.’Shesmileswrylyintoherglass.‘Icouldn’taskFrananyway.Sheneverbloodyinvitesmein.’‘Well,that’sjustrude.Iwouldn’twanttogotoherhouseanyway.Staythere.I’llsortyououta

toothbrush.’

Sometimes,Livthinks,itispossibletofallintoaparalleluniverse.Youthinkyouknowwhatyou’reinfor–abadnightinfrontofthetelevision,drinkinginabar,hidingfromyourhistory–andsuddenlyyouveeroffthetracktoawholedestinationyouneverevenknewwasthere.Itisall,onthesurface,adisaster:thestolenbag,thelostcash,thedeadhusband,thelifegoneawry.Andthenyou’resittinginthetinyflatofanAmericanwithbrightblueeyesandhairlikeagrizzledpelt,andit’salmostthreeo’clockinthemorningandhe’smakingyoulaugh,properlylaugh,asifyouhavenothingtoworryaboutinthewholeworld.Shehasdrunkalot.Therehavebeenatleastthreeglassessinceshegothere,andthereweremany

morebackatthebar.Butshehasreachedthatrare,pleasantstateofalcoholicequilibrium.Sheisnotdrunkenoughtofeelsickorwoozy.Sheisjustmerryenoughtobesuspended,floatinginthispleasurablemoment,withthemanandthelaughter,andthecrowdedlittleflatthatcarriesnomemories.Theyhavetalkedandtalkedandtalked,theirvoicesgettinglouderandmoreinsistent.Andshehastoldhimeverything,liberatedbyshockandalcohol,andthefactthatheisastrangerandshewillprobablyneverseehimagain.Hehastoldherofthehorrorsofdivorce,thepoliticsofpolicingandwhyhewasunsuitedtothem,andwhyhemissesNewYorkbutcannotreturnuntilhissonisgrown-up.Shewantstotellhimeverything,becauseheseemstounderstandeverything.Shehastoldhimofhergriefandheranger,andhowshelooksatothercouplesandsimplycannotseethepointintryingagain.Becausenoneofthemseemreally,properly,happy.Notone.

‘Okay.Devil’sadvocatehere.’Paulputsdownhisglass.‘Andthiscomesfromonewhototallyfuckeduphisownrelationship.Butyouweremarriedfouryears,right?’‘Right.’‘Idon’twanttosoundcynicaloranything,butdon’tyouthinkthatoneofthereasonsit’sallperfectin

yourheadisthathedied?Thingsarealwaysmoreperfectifthey’recutshort.Anindustryofdeadmovieiconsprovesthat.’‘Soyou’resayingthatifhehadlivedwewouldhavegotasgrumpyandfedupwitheachotheras

everyoneelse?’‘Notnecessarily.Butfamiliarityandhavingkids,workandthestressesofeverydaylifecantakethe

edgeoffromance,forsure.’‘Thevoiceofexperience.’‘Yeah.Probably.’‘Well,itdidn’t.’Sheshakesherheademphatically.Theroomspinsalittle.‘Oh,comeon,youmusthavehadtimeswhenyougotabitfedupwithhim.Everyonedoes.Youknow–

whenhemoanedaboutyouspendingmoneyorfartedinbedorleftthetoothbrushcapoff…’Livshakesherheadagain.‘Whydoeseveryonedothis?Whyiseveryonesodeterminedtodiminish

whatwehad?Youknowwhat?Wewerejusthappy.Wedidn’tfight.Notabouttoothpasteorfartingoranything.Wejustlikedeachother.Wereallylikedeachother.Wewere…happy.’Sheisbitingbacktearsandturnsherheadtowardsthewindow,forcingthemaway.Shewillnotcrytonight.Shewillnot.Thereisalongsilence.Bugger,shethinks.‘Thenyouwereoneoftheluckyones,’saysthevoicebehindher.SheturnsandPaulMcCaffertyisofferingthelastofthebottle.‘Lucky?’‘Notmanypeoplegetthat.Evenfouryearsofit.Youshouldbegrateful.’Grateful.Itmakesperfectsensewhenhesaysitlikethat.‘Yes,’shesays,afteramoment.‘Yes,I

should.’‘Actually,storieslikeyoursgivemehope.’Shesmiles.‘That’salovelythingtosay.’‘Well,it’strue.To…What’shisname?’Paulholdsupaglass.‘David.’‘ToDavid.Oneofthegoodguys.’Sheissmiling–wideandunexpected.Shenoteshisvaguelookofsurprise.‘Yes,’shesays.‘To

David.’Paultakesasipofhisdrink.‘Youknow,thisisthefirsttimeI’veinvitedagirlbacktomyplaceand

endeduptoastingherhusband.’Andthereitisagain:laughter,bubblingupinsideher,anunexpectedvisitor.Heturnstoher.‘Youknow,I’vebeenwantingtodothisallnight.’Heleansforwardand,beforeshe

hastimetofreeze,hereachesoutathumbandwipesgentlyunderherlefteye.‘Yourmakeup,’hesays,holdinghisthumbaloft.‘Iwasn’tsureyouknew.’Livstaresathim,andsomethingunexpectedandelectricjoltsthroughher.Shelooksathisstrong,

freckledhands,thewayhiscollarmeetshisneck,andhermindbecomesblank.Sheputsdownherglass,

leansforwardand,beforehecansayanything,shedoestheonlythingshecanthinkofandplacesherlipsagainsthis.Thereisthebriefshockofphysicalcontact,thenshefeelshisbreathonherskin,ahandrisingtomeetherwaistandheiskissingherback,hislipssoftandwarmandtastingfaintlyoftannin.Sheletsherselfmeltintohim,herbreathquickening,floatinguponalcoholandsensationandthesweetnessofsimplybeingheld.Oh,God,butthisman.Hereyesareclosed,herheadspinning,hiskissessoftanddelicious.Andthenhepullsback.Ittakesherasecondtorealize.Shepullsbacktoo,justafewinches,herbreath

stalledinherchest.Whoareyou?Helooksstraightintohereyes.Blinks.‘Youknow…Ithinkyou’reabsolutelylovely.ButIhaverules

aboutthissortofthing.’Herlipsfeelswollen.‘Areyou…withsomeone?’‘No.Ijust…’Herunsahandoverhishair.Clencheshisjaw.‘Liv,youdon’tseem…’‘I’mdrunk.’‘Yes,yes,youare.’Shesighs.‘Iusedtohavegreatdrunksex.’‘Youneedtostoptalkingnow.I’mtryingtobereally,reallygoodhere.’Shethrowsherselfbackagainstthesofacushions.‘Really.Somewomenarerubbishwhenthey’re

drunk.Iwasn’t.’‘Liv–’‘Andyouare…delicious.’Hischinisstubbled,asifalreadyalertingthemtothefactthatmorningisapproaching.Shewantsto

runherfingersalongthosetinybristles,tofeelthemroughagainstherskin.Shereachesoutahandandheshiftsawayfromher.‘AaandI’mgone.Okay,yup,I’mgone.’Hestands,takesabreath.Hedoesnotlookather.‘Uh,that’s

myson’sbedroomthere.Ifyouneedadrinkofwateroranything,there’satap.It,uh,itdoeswater.’Hepicksupamagazineandputsitdownagain.Andthendoesthesamewithasecond.‘Andthereare

magazines.Ifyouwantsomethingtoread.Lotsof…’Itcannotstophere.Shewantshimsobadlyit’sasifherwholebodyradiatesit.Shecouldactuallybeg,

rightnow.Shecanstillfeeltheheatofhishandonherwaist,thetasteofhislips.Theystareateachotherforamoment.Can’tyoufeelthis?Don’twalkaway,shewillshimsilently.Pleasedon’twalkawayfromme.‘Goodnight,Liv,’hesays.Hegazesatherforamomentlonger,thenpadsdownthecorridorandcloseshisbedroomdoorsilently

behindhim.

FourhourslaterLivwakesinaboxroomwithanArsenalduvetcoverandaheadthatthumpssohardshehastoreachupahandtochecksheisn’tbeingassaulted.Sheblinks,staresblearilyatthelittleJapanesecartooncreaturesonthewalloppositeandletshermindslowlybringtogetherthepiecesofinformationfromthepreviousnight.Stolenbag.Shecloseshereyes.Oh,no.Strangebed.Shehasnokeys.Oh,God,shehasnokeys.Andnomoney.Sheattemptstomove,andpain

slicesthroughherheadsothatshealmostyelps.

Andthensherememberstheman.Pete?Paul?Sheseesherselfwalkingthroughdesertedstreetsintheearlyhours.Andthensheseesherselflurchingforwardtokisshim,hisownpoliteretreat.Youare…delicious.‘Oh,no,’shesayssoftly,thenputsherhandsoverhereyes.‘Oh,Ididn’t…’Shesitsupandmovestothesideofthebed,noticingasmallyellowplasticcarnearherrightfoot.

Then,whenshehearsthesoundofadooropening,theshowerstartingupnextdoor,Livgrabshershoesandherjacketandletsherselfoutoftheflatintothecacophonousdaylight.

15

‘Itfeelsalittlelikewe’vebeeninvaded.’TheCEOstandsback,hisshirt-sleevedarmsacrosshischest,andlaughsnervously.‘Does…everyonefeellikethat?’‘Oh,yes.’shesays.Itisnotanunusualresponse.Aroundher,fifteenorsoteenagersmoveswiftlythroughthevastfoyerofConaghySecurities.Two–

EdunandCam–arevaultingovertherailsthatrunalongsidetheglasswall,backwardsandforwards,theirbroadhandsexpertlypropellingtheirweight,theirglowingwhitetrainerssqueakingastheyliftfromthelimestonefloor.Ahandfulofothershavealreadyshotthroughintothecentralatrium,teeteringandshriekingwithlaughterontheedgeoftheperfectlyalignedwalkways,pointingdownastheyseethehugekoicarpthatswimplacidlyamongtheangularpools.‘Aretheyalways…thisnoisy?’theCEOasks.Abiola,theyouthworker,standsbesideLiv.‘Yup.Weusuallygivethemtenminutesjusttoadapttothe

space.Thenyoufindtheysettlesurprisinglyquickly.’‘And…nothingevergetsdamaged?’‘Notonce.’LivwatchesCamrunlightlyalongaraisedwoodenrail,jumpingontohistoesattheendof

it.‘OfthelistofpreviouscompaniesIgaveyou,we’venothadsomuchasadislodgedcarpettile.’Sheseeshisdisbelievingexpression.‘YouhavetorememberthattheaverageBritishchildlivesinahomewithfloorspacelessthanseventy-sixsquaremetres.’Shenods.‘Andthesewillprobablyhavegrownupinfarlessthanthat.It’sinevitablethatwhenthey’reletlooseinanewplacetheygetitchyfeetforabit.Butyouwatch.Thespacewillworkaroundthem.’OnceamonththeDavidHalstonFoundation,partofSolbergHalstonArchitects,organizesatripfor

underprivilegedkidstovisitabuildingofspecialarchitecturalinterest.Davidhadbelievedthatyoungpeopleshouldnotjustbetaughtabouttheirbuiltenvironmentbutletlooseinit,toutilizethespaceintheirownway,tounderstandwhatitdid.Hehadwantedthemtoenjoyit.ShestillremembersthefirsttimeshehadwatchedhimtalkingitthroughwithagroupofBengalikidsfromWhitechapel.‘Whatdoesthisdoorwaysaywhenyouwalkin?’hehadasked,pointingupatthehugeframe.‘Money,’saysone,andtheyhadalllaughed.‘That,’Davidhadsaid,smiling,‘isexactlywhatit’ssupposedtosay.Thisisastockbrokingfirm.This

doorway,withitshugemarblepillarsanditsgoldlettering,issayingtoyou,“Giveusyourmoney.AndwewillmakeyouMOREMONEY.”Itsays,inthemostblatantwaypossible,“WeKnowAboutMoney.”’‘That’swhy,Nikhil,yourdoorwayisthreefoottall,man.’Oneoftheboyshadshovedanotherandboth

hadfallenaboutlaughing.Butitworked.Shehadseeneventhenthatitworked.Davidhadmadethemthinkaboutthespace

aroundthem,whetheritmadethemfeelfreeorangryorsad.Hehadshownthemhowlightandspacemoved,almostasifitwerealive,aroundtheoddestbuildings.‘They’vegottoseethatthereisan

alternativetothelittleboxestheylivein,’hesaid.‘They’vegottounderstandthattheirenvironmentaffectshowtheyfeel.’Sincehehaddied,shehad,withSven’sblessing,takenoverDavid’srole,meetingcompanydirectors,

persuadingthemofthebenefitsoftheschemeandtoletthemin.Ithadhelpedgetherthroughtheearlymonths,whenshehadfeltthattherewaslittlepointinherexistence.Nowitwastheonethingshedideachmonththatsheactivelylookedforwardto.‘Miss?Canwetouchthefish?’‘No.Notouching,I’mafraid.Havewegoteveryone?’ShewaitedasAbioladidaquickheadcount.‘Okay.We’llstarthere.Ijustwantyoualltostandstillfortensecondsandtellmehowthisspace

makesyoufeel.’‘Peaceful,’saidone,afterthelaughterstopped.‘Why?’‘Dunno.It’sthewater.Andthesoundofthatwaterfallthing.It’speaceful.’‘Whatelsemakesyoufeelpeaceful?’‘Thesky.It’sgotnoroof,innit?’‘That’sright.Whydoyouthinkthisbithasnoroof?’‘Theyrunoutofmoney.’Morelaughter.‘Andwhenyougetoutside,what’sthefirstthingyoudo?No,Dean,Iknowwhatyou’reabouttosay.

Andnotthat.’‘Takeadeepbreath.Breathe.’‘Exceptourairisfullofshit.Thisairtheyprobablypumpthroughafilterandstuff.’‘It’sopen.Theycan’tfilterthis.’‘Idobreathe,though.Likeabigbreath.Ihatebeingshutinsmallplaces.Myroom’sgotnowindows

andIhavetosleepwiththedooropenorIfeellikeI’minacoffin.’‘Mybrother’sroom’sgotnowindowssomymumgothimthisposterwithawindowonit.’Theybegincomparingbedrooms.Shelikesthem,thesekids,andshefearsforthem,thecasual

deprivationstheytossintoherpath,thewaytheyrevealthat99percentoftheirlivesarespentwithinasquaremileortwo,lockedinbyphysicalconstraintsorthegenuinefearofrivalgangsandillegaltrespass.It’sasmallthing,thischarity.AchancetomakeherfeelasifDavid’slifewasnotwasted;thathis

ideascontinue.Sometimesareallybrightkidemerges–onewhoimmediatelylocksontoDavid’sideas–andshetriestohelptheminsomeway,totalktotheirteachersororganizescholarships.Acoupleoftimesshehasevenmettheirparents.OneofDavid’searlyprotégésisnowdoinganarchitecturedegree,hisfeespaidbythefoundation.Butformostofthemit’sjustabriefwindowontoadifferentworld,anhourortwoinwhichto

practisetheirparkourskillsonsomeoneelse’sstairsandrailsandmarblefoyers,achancetoseeinsideMammon,albeitunderthebemusedeyeoftherichpeopleshehaspersuadedtoletthemin.‘Therewasastudydoneafewyearsback,whichshowedthatifyoureducetheamountofspaceper

childfromtwenty-fivetofifteensquarefeet,theybecomemoreaggressiveandlessinclinedtointeractwitheachother.Whatdoyouthinkofthat?’

Camisswingingaroundanendrail.‘IhavetoshareabedroomwithmybrotherandIwanttobatterhimhalfthetime.He’salwaysputtinghisstuffovermyside.’‘Sowhatplacesmakeyoufeelgood?Doesthisplacemakeyoufeelgood?’‘ItmakesmefeellikeIgotnoworries.’‘Iliketheplants.Themwiththebigleaves.’‘Oh,man.I’djustsithereandstareatthefish.Thisplaceisrestful.’Thereisamurmurofagreement.‘AndthenI’dcatchoneandmakemymumcooksomechipsforit,innit?’Theyalllaugh.LivlooksatAbiolaand,despiteherself,shestartstolaughtoo.

‘Diditgowell?’Svenrisesfromhisdesktomeether.Shekisseshischeek,putsdownherbagandsitsinthewhiteleatherEameschairopposite.ItisroutinenowthatshewillcometoSolbergHalstonAssociatesaftereachouting,todrinkcoffeeandreportback.Sheisalwaysmoretiredthansheexpects.‘Great.OnceMrConaghyrealizedtheyweren’tabouttodiveintohisatriumpools,hewasquite

inspired,Ithink.Hestuckaroundtospeaktothem.IthinkImightevenbeabletopersuadehimtoprovidesomesponsorship.’‘Good.That’sgoodnews.Sitdown,andI’llgetsomecoffee.Howareyou?How’syourdangerously

illrelative?’Shelooksblanklyathim.‘Youraunt?’Theblushcreepsabovehercollar.‘Oh.Oh,yes,nottoobad,thanks.Better.’Svenhandsheracoffeeandhiseyesrestonhersjustamomenttoolong.Hischairsqueakssoftlyashe

sitsdown.‘You’llhavetoforgiveKristen.Shejustgetscarriedaway.IdidtellherIthoughtthatmanwasanidiot.’‘Oh.’Shewinces.‘Wasitthattransparent?’‘NottoKristen.Shedoesn’tknowthatEbolaisn’tgenerallyfixedbysurgery.’Andthen,asLivgroans,

hesmiles.‘Don’tgiveitathought.RogerFoldsisanass.And,ifnothingelse,itwasjustnicetoseeyououtandaboutagain.’Hetakesoffhisglasses.‘Really.Youshoulddoitmoreoften.’‘Well,um,Ihaveabitlately.’Sheblushes,thinkingofhernightwithPaulMcCafferty.Shehasfoundherselfreturningtoit

relentlesslyoverthedayssince,worryingatthenight’sevents,likeatongueataloosetooth.Whathadmadeherbehaveinthatway?Whathadhethoughtofher?Andthen,themercurialshiver,theimprintofthatkiss.Sheiscoldwithembarrassment,yetburnsgently,theresidueofitonherlips.Shefeelsasifsomelong-distantpartofherhasbeensparkedbacktolife.It’salittledisconcerting.‘So,how’sGoldstein?’‘Notfaroffnow.Wehadsomeproblemswiththenewbuildingregs,butwe’renearlythere.The

Goldsteinsarehappy,anyway.’‘Doyouhaveanypictures?’TheGoldsteinBuildinghadbeenDavid’sdreamcommission:avastorganicglassstructurestretching

halfwayaroundasquareontheedgeoftheCity.Hehadbeenworkingonitfortwoyearsoftheirmarriage,persuadingthewealthyGoldsteinbrotherstosharehisboldvision,tocreatesomethingfarfromtheangularconcretecastlesaroundthem,andhehadstillbeenworkingonitwhenhedied.Svenhad

takenovertheblueprintandoverseenitthroughtheplanningstages,andwasnowmanagingitsactualconstruction.Ithadbeenaproblematicbuild,thematerialsdelayedintheirshippingfromChina,thewrongglass,thefoundationsprovinginadequateinLondon’sclay.Butnow,finally,itisrisingexactlyasplanned,eachglasspanelshininglikethescalesofsomegiantserpent.Svenriflesthroughsomedocumentsonhisdesk,picksoutaphotographandhandsitover.Shegazesat

thevaststructure,surroundedbybluehoardings,butsomehow,indefinably,David’swork.‘It’sgoingtobeglorious.’Shecan’thelpbutsmile.‘Iwantedtotellyou–they’veagreedtoputalittleplaqueinthefoyerinhismemory.’‘Really?’Herthroatconstricts.‘Yes.JerryGoldsteintoldmelastweek–theythoughtitwouldbenicetocommemorateDavidinsome

way.Theywereveryfondofhim.’Sheletsthisthoughtsettle.‘That’s…that’sgreat.’‘Ithoughtso.You’llbecomingtotheopening?’‘I’dloveto.’‘Good.Andhow’stheotherstuff?’Shesipshercoffee.Shealwaysfeelsfaintlyself-conscioustalkingaboutherlifetoSven.Itisasifthe

lackofdimensionsinitcannothelpbutdisappoint.‘Well,Iseemtohaveacquiredahousemate.Whichis…interesting.I’mstillrunning.Workisabitquiet.’‘Howbadisit?’Shetriestosmile.‘Honestly?I’dprobablybeearningmoreinaBangladeshisweatshop.’Svenlooksdownathishands.‘You…haven’tthoughtitmightbetimetostartdoingsomethingelse?’‘I’mnotreallyequippedforanythingelse.’Shehaslongknownthatithadnotbeenthewisestmoveto

giveupworkandfollowDavidaroundduringtheirmarriage.Asherfriendsbuiltcareers,putintwelve-hourdaysattheoffice,shehadsimplytravelledwithhim,toParis,Sydney,Barcelona.Hehadn’tneededhertowork.Itseemedstupid,beingawayfromhimallthetime.Andafterwardsshehadn’tbeengoodformuchatall.Notforalongtime.‘Ihadtotakeoutamortgageonthehouselastyear.AndnowIcan’tkeepupwiththepayments.’She

blurtsoutthislastbit,likeasinneratconfession.ButSvenlooksunsurprised.‘Youknow…ifyoueverwantedtosellit,Icouldeasilyfindyoua

buyer.’‘Sell?’‘It’sabighousetoberattlingaroundin.And…Idon’tknow.You’resoisolatedupthere,Liv.Itwasa

marvellousthingforDavidtocuthisteethon,andalovelyretreatforthetwoofyou,butdon’tyouthinkyoushouldbeinthethickofthingsagain?Somewhereabitlivelier?AniceflatinthemiddleofNottingHillorClerkenwell,maybe?’‘Ican’tsellDavid’shouse.’‘Whynot?’‘Becauseitwouldjustbewrong.’Hedoesn’tsaytheobvious.Hedoesn’thaveto:it’sthereinthewayheleansbackinhischair,closes

hismouthoverhiswords.‘Well,’hesays,leaningforwardsoverhisdesk.‘I’mjustputtingthethoughtoutthere.’

Behindhimahugecraneismoving,irongirdersslicingthroughtheskyastheytraveltowardsacavernousroofspaceontheothersideoftheroad.WhenSolbergHalstonArchitectshadmovedhere,fiveyearspreviously,theviewhadbeenarowofdilapidatedshops–bookmaker,launderette,second-handclothes–theirbrickssludgebrown,theirwindowsobscuredbyyearsofaccumulatedleadanddirt.Nowthereisjustahole.Itispossiblethatthenexttimeshecomeshereshewillnotrecognizetheviewatall.‘Howarethekids?’shesaysabruptly.AndSven,withthetactofsomeonewhohasknownherfor

years,changesthesubject.

ItishalfwaythroughthemonthlymeetingwhenPaulnoticesthatMiriam,hisandJaney’ssharedsecretary,isperchednotonachairbutontwolargeboxesoffiles.Shesitsawkwardly,herlegsangledinanattempttokeepherskirtatamodestlength,herbackproppedagainstmoreboxes.Atsomepointinthemid-nineties,therecoveryofstolenartworkhadbecomebigbusiness.Nobodyat

theTraceandReturnPartnershipseemedtohaveanticipatedthis,so,fifteenyearson,meetingsareheldinJaney’sincreasinglycrampedoffice,elbowsbrushingagainsttheteeteringpilesoffolders,orboxesoffaxesandphotocopies,or,ifclientsareinvolved,downstairsinthelocalcoffeeshop.Hehassaidoftenthattheyshouldlookatnewpremises.EachtimeJaneylooksathimasifit’sthefirsttimeshehasheardthis,andsays,yes,yes,goodidea.Andthendoesnothingaboutit.‘Miriam?’Paulstands,offersherhischair,butsherefuses.‘Really,’shesays.‘I’mfine.’Shekeepsnodding,asiftoconfirmthistoherself.‘You’refallingintoUnresolvedDisputes1996,’hesays.Hewantstoadd:AndIcanseehalfwayup

yourskirt.‘Really,I’mquitecomfortable.’‘Miriam.Honestly,Icanjust–’‘Miriam’sfine,Paul.Really.’Janeyadjustsherspectaclesonhernose.‘Oh,yes.I’mverycomfortablehere.’Shekeepsnoddinguntilhelooksaway.Itmakeshimfeelbad.‘Sothat’swhereweare,asfarasthestaffingandofficeissuesstand.Whereareweallat?’Sean,thelawyer,beginstorunthroughhisupcomingschedule;anapproachtotheSpanishgovernment

toreturnalootedVelázqueztoaprivatecollector,twooutstandingsculpturerecoveries,apossiblelegalchangetorestitutionclaims.Paulleansbackinhischairandrestshisballpointagainsthispad.Andshe’sthereagain,smilingruefully.Herburstofunexpectedlaughter.Thesadnessintinylines

aroundhereyes.Iwasgreatatdrunksex.Really.Iwas.Hedoesn’twanttoadmittohimselfhowdisappointedhehadbeenwhenheemergedfromthebathroom

thatmorningtofindshe’dsimplyletherselfout.Hisson’sduvethadbeenstraightened,andtherewasjustanabsencewherethegirlhadbeen.Noscribbledmessage.Nophonenumber.Nothing.‘Isshearegular?’hehadaskedGreg,casually,onthephonethatevening.‘Nope.Notseenherbefore.Sorrytolandyouwithherlikethat,bro.’‘Noproblem,’hehadsaid.Hehadn’tbotheredtotellGregtowatchoutincaseshecameback.

Somethingtoldhimshewouldn’t.‘Paul?’HedragshisthoughtsbacktotheA4padinfrontofhim.‘Um…Well,asyouknow,wegotthe

Nowickipaintingreturned.That’sheadedforauction.Whichisobviously–um–rewarding.’Heignores

Janey’swarningglance.‘AndcomingupthismonthI’vegotameetingaboutthestatuettecollectionfromBonhams,atraceonaLowrythat’sbeenstolenfromastatelyhomeinAyrshireand…’Heleafsthroughhispapers.‘ThisFrenchworkthatwaslootedintheFirstWorldWarandturnedupinsomearchitect’shouseinLondon.I’mguessing,giventhevalue,theywon’tgiveitupwithoutabitofafight.Butitlooksfairlyclearcut,ifwecanestablishitreallywasstoleninitially.Sean,youmightwanttodigoutanylegalprecedentonFirstWorldWarstuff,justincase.’Seanscribblesanote.‘Apartfromthat,I’vejustgottheothercasesfromlastmonththatI’mcarryingforward,andI’mtalking

tosomeinsurersaboutwhetherwewanttogetinvolvedwithanewfineartregister.’‘Another?’saysJaney.‘It’sthescalingdownoftheArtandAntiquesSquad,’Paulsaid.‘Theinsurersaregettingnervous.’‘Mightbegoodnewsforus,though.WhereareweontheStubbs?’Heclickstheendofhispen.‘Deadlock.’‘Sean?’‘It’satrickyone.I’vebeenlookingupprecedent,butitmaywellgototrial.’Janeynods,thenglancesupasPaul’smobilephonerings.‘Sorry,’hesays,andwrenchesitfromhis

pocket.Hestaresatthename.‘Actually,ifyou’llexcuseme,IthinkIshouldtakethis.Sherrie.Hi.’HefeelsJaney’seyesburningintohisbackashestepscarefullyoverhiscolleagues’legsandintohis

office.Heclosesthedoorbehindhim.‘Youdid?…Hername?Liv.Nope,that’sallIgot…Thereis?Canyoudescribeit?…Yup–thatsoundslikeher.Mid-brownhair,maybeblonde,shoulderlength.Wearingitinaponytail?…Phone,wallet–don’tknowwhatelse.Noaddress?…No,Idon’t.Sure–Sherrie,domeafavour?CanIpickitup?’Hestaresoutofthewindow.‘Yeah.Yeah,Ido.Ijustrealized–IthinkI’veworkedouthowtogetitbacktoher.’

‘Hello?’‘IsthatLiv?’‘No.’Hepauses.‘Um…isshethere?’‘Areyouabailiff?’‘No.’‘Well,she’snothere.’‘Doyouknowwhenshe’llbeback?’‘Areyousureyou’renotabailiff?’‘Iamdefinitelynotabailiff.Ihaveherhandbag.’‘Areyouabagthief?Becauseifyou’retryingtoblackmailher,you’rewastingyourtime.’‘Iamnotabagthief.Orabailiff.Iamamanwhohasfoundherbagandistryingtogetitbacktoher.’

Hepullsathiscollar.Thereisalongpause.‘Howdidyougetthisnumber?’‘It’sonmyphone.Sheborroweditwhenshetriedtoringhome.’‘Youwerewithher?’

Hefeelsalittlegermofpleasure.Hehesitates,triesnottosoundtookeen.‘Why?Didshementionme?’‘No.’Thesoundofakettleboiling.‘Iwasjustbeingnosy.Look–she’sjustonherannualtripoutof

thehouse.Ifyoudropbyaroundfour-ishsheshouldbebackbythen.IfnotI’lltakeitforher.’‘Andyouare?’Along,suspiciouspause.‘I’mthewomanwhotakesinstolenhandbagsforLiv.’‘Right.Sowhat’stheaddress?’‘Youdon’tknow?’There’sanothersilence.‘Hmm.Itellyouwhat,cometothecornerofAudleyStreet

andPackersLane,andsomeonewillmeetyoudownthere–’‘I’mnotabagthief.’‘Soyoukeepsaying.Ringwhenyou’rethere.’Hecanhearherthinking.‘Ifnobodyanswers,justhand

ittothewomaninthecardboardboxesbythebackdoor.Hername’sFran.Andifwedodecidetomeetyou,nofunnybusiness.Wehaveagun.’Beforehecansayanythingelse,shehasrungoff.Hesitsathisdesk,staringathisphone.Janeywalksintohisofficewithoutknocking.Ithasstartedtoannoyhim,thewayshedoesthis.Itmakes

himthinkshe’stryingtocatchhiminthemiddleofsomething.‘TheLefèvrepainting.Haveweactuallysentofftheopeningletteryet?’‘No.I’mstilldoingchecksonwhetherithasbeenexhibited.’‘Didwegetthecurrentowners’address?’‘Themagazinedidn’tkeeparecordofit.Butit’sfine–I’llsenditviahisworkplace.Ifhe’san

architectheshouldn’tbehardtofind.Thecompanywillprobablybeinhisname.’‘Good.IjustgotamessagesayingtheclaimantsarecomingtoLondoninafewweeksandwanta

meeting.Itwouldbegreatifwecouldgetaninitialresponsebeforethen.Canyouthrowsomedatesatme?’‘Willdo.’Hestaresathiscomputerscreenveryhard,eventhoughonlythescreensaverisinfrontofhim,until

Janeytakesthehintandleaves.

Moisathome.Sheisastrangelyunobtrusivepresence,evengiventhestartlinginkyblackofherhairandclothing.OccasionallyLivhalfwakesatsixandhearsherpaddingaround,preparingtoleaveforhermorningshiftatthecarehome.Shefindsthepresenceofanotherpersoninthehouseoddlycomforting.Mocookseveryday,orbringsbackfoodfromtherestaurant,leavingfoil-covereddishesinthefridge

andscrawledinstructionsonthekitchentable.‘Heatupfor40minsat180.ThatwouldmeanSWITCHINGONTHEOVEN’and‘FINISHTHISASBYTOMORROWITWILLCLIMBOUTOFITSCONTAINERANDKILLUS.’Thehousenolongersmellsofcigarettesmoke.LivsuspectsMosneakstheoddoneoutonthedeck,butshedoesn’task.Theyhavesettledintoaroutineofsorts.Livrisesasbefore,headingoutontotheconcretewalkways,

herfeetpounding,herheadfilledwithnoise.Shehasstoppedbuyingcoffee,soshemakesteaforFran,eatshertoastandsitsinfrontofherdesktryingnottoworryaboutherlackofwork.Butnowshefindsshehalflooksforwardtothesoundofthekeyinthelockatthreeo’clock,Mo’sarrivalhome.Mohasnotofferedtopayrent–andsheisnotsurethateitherofthemwantstofeelthisisaformalarrangement–but

thedayaftersheheardaboutLiv’sbag,apileofcrumpledcashhadappearedonthekitchentable.‘Emergencycounciltax,’thenotewithitread.‘Don’tstartbeingallweirdaboutit.’Livdidn’tgetevenremotelyweirdaboutit.Shedidn’thaveachoice.

TheyaredrinkingteaandreadingaLondonfree-sheetwhenthephonerings.Molooksup,likeagundogscentingtheair,checkstheclockandsays,‘Oh.Iknowwhothisis.’Livturnsbacktothenewspaper.‘It’sthemanwithyourhandbag.’Liv’smugstallsinmid-air.‘What?’‘Iforgottotellyou.Herangupearlier.Itoldhimtowaitonthecornerandwe’dcomedown.’‘Whatkindofman?’‘Dunno.Ijustcheckedthathewasn’tabailiff.’‘Oh,God.Hedefinitelyhasit?Doyouthinkhe’llwantareward?’Shecastsaroundinherpockets.She

hasfourpoundsincoinsandsomecoppers,whichsheholdsoutinfrontofher.‘Itdoesn’tseemlikealot,doesit?’‘Shortofsexualfavours,it’sprettymuchallyouhave.’‘Fourpoundsitis.’Theyheadintothelift,Livclutchingthemoney.Moissmirking.‘What?’‘Iwasjustthinking.Itwouldbefunnyifwestolehisbag.Youknow,muggedhim.Girlmuggers.’She

sniggers.‘Ioncestolesomechalkfromapostoffice.Ihaveform.’Livisscandalized.‘What?’Mo’sfaceissombre.‘Iwasseven.’Theystandinsilenceastheliftreachesthebottom.Asthedoorsopen,Mosays,‘Wecouldmakea

cleangetaway.Hedoesn’tactuallyknowyouraddress.’‘Mo–’Livbegins,butasshestepsoutofthemaindoorwaysheseesthemanonthecorner,thecolour

ofhishair,thewayherunshishandoverthetopofhishead,andwhipsround,hercheeksburning.‘What?Whereareyougoing?’‘Ican’tgooutthere.’‘Why?Icanseeyourbag.Helooksokay.Idon’tthinkhe’samugger.He’swearingshoes.Nomugger

wearsshoes.’‘Willyougetitforme?Really–Ican’ttalktohim.’‘Why?’Moscrutinizesher.‘Whyhaveyougonesopink?’‘Look,Istayedathishouse.Andit’sjustembarrassing.’‘Oh,myGod.Youdidthenastywiththatman.’‘No,Ididnot.’‘Youdid.’Mosquintsather.‘Oryouwantedto.YOUWANTEDTO.Youaresobusted.’‘Mo–canyoujustgetmybagforme,please?JusttellhimI’mnotin.Please?’BeforeMocansay

anythingelse,sheisbackintheliftandjabbingatthebuttontotakehertothetopfloor,herthoughtsspinning.WhenshereachestheGlassHousesherestsherforeheadagainstthedoorandlistenstoherheartbeatinginherears.Iamthirtyyearsold,shesaystoherself.Behindhertheliftdooropens.

‘Oh,God,thanks,Mo,I–’PaulMcCaffertyisinfrontofher.‘Where’sMo?’shesays,stupidly.‘Isthatyourflatmate?She’s…interesting.’Shecannotspeak.Hertonguehasswollentofillhermouth.Herhandreachesuptoherhair–she’s

consciousthatshehasn’twashedit.‘Anyway,’hesays.‘Hey.’‘Hello.’Heholdsoutahand.‘Yourbag.Itisyourbag,right?’‘Ican’tbelieveyoufoundit.’‘I’mgoodatfindingstuff.It’smyjob.’‘Oh.Yes.Theex-copthing.Well,thanks.Really.’‘Itwasinabin,ifyou’reinterested.Withtwoothers.OutsideUniversityCollegeLibrary.The

caretakerfoundthemandhandedthemallin.I’mafraidyourcardsandyourphonearegone…Thegoodnewsisthatthecashwasstillthere.’‘What?’‘Yeah.Amazing.Twohundredpounds.Icheckedit.’Relieffloodsher,likeawarmbath.‘Really?Theyleftthecash?Idon’tunderstand.’‘Norme.Icanonlythinkitfelloutofyourpurseastheyopenedit.’Shetakesherbagandrummagesthroughit.Twohundredpoundsisfloatingaroundinthebottom,along

withherhairbrush,thepaperbackshe’dbeenreadingthatmorningandastraylipstick.‘Neverheardofthathappeningbefore.Still,it’llhelp,eh?Onelessthingtoworryabout.’Heissmiling.Notasympatheticoh-you-poor-drunken-woman-who-made-a-pass-at-mekindofsmile,

butthesmileofsomeonewhoisjustreallypleasedaboutsomething.Shefindssheissmilingback.‘Thisisjust…amazing.’‘SodoIgetmyfour-poundreward?’Sheblinksathim.‘Motoldme.Joke.Really.’Helaughs.‘But…’

Hestudieshisfeetforamoment.‘Liv–wouldyouliketogooutsometime?’Whenshedoesn’trespondimmediately,headds,‘Itdoesn’thavetobeabigdeal.Wecouldnotgetdrunk.Andnotgotoagaybar.Wecouldevenjustwalkaroundholdingourowndoor-keysandnotlettingourbagsgetstolen.’‘Okay,’shesaysslowly,andfindssheissmilingagain.‘I’dlikethat.’

PaulMcCaffertywhistlestohimselfthewholewaydowninthenoisy,judderinglift.Whenhegetstothebottomhetakesthecashpointreceiptfromhispocket,crumplesitintoalittleball,andthrowsitintothenearestbin.

16

Theygooutfourtimes.Thefirsttimetheyhaveapizzaandshestickstomineralwateruntilshe’ssurehedoesn’treallythinkshe’sasoak,atwhichpointsheallowsherselfoneginandtonic.It’sthemostdeliciousginandtonicshehaseverhad.Hewalksherbacktoherhouseandlookslikehe’sabouttoleave,thenafteraslightlyawkwardmomenthekisseshercheekandtheybothlaughasiftheyknowthisisallabitembarrassing.Withoutthinking,sheleansforwardandkisseshimproperly,ashortone,butwithintent.Onethatsuggestssomethingofherself.Itleavesherabitbreathless.Hewalksintotheliftbackwardsandisstillgrinningasthedoorscloseonhim.Shelikeshim.Thesecondtimetheygotoseealivebandhisbrotherrecommendedandit’sawful.Aftertwenty

minutes,sherealizes,withsomerelief,thathethinksit’sawfultoo,andwhenhesaysdoesshewanttoleave,theyfindthemselvesholdinghandssotheydon’tloseeachotherastheyfighttheirwayoutthroughthecrowdedbar.Somehowtheydon’tletgountiltheyreachhisflat.Theretheytalkabouttheirchildhoodsandbandstheylikeandtypesofdogandthehorrorofcourgettes,thenkissonthesofauntilherlegsgoabitweak.Herchinstaysbrightpinkfortwowholedaysafterwards.Acoupleofdaysafterthisheringsheratlunchtimetosayhehappenstobepassinganearbycaféand

doesshefancyaquickcoffee?‘Wereyoureallypassingby?’shesays,aftertheyhavestretchedtheircoffeeandcakeasfarashislunchhourcanreasonablyallow.‘Sure,’hesays,andthen,toherdelight,hisearsgopink.Heseesherlookingandreachesahandupto

hisleftlobe.‘Ah.Man.I’mareallybadliar.’Thefourthtimetheygotoarestaurant.HerfathercallsjustbeforepuddingarrivestosaythatCaroline

haslefthimagain.HewailssoloudlydownthetelephonethatPaulactuallyjumpsattheothersideofthetable.‘Ihavetogo,’shesays,anddeclineshisofferofhelp.Sheisnotreadyforthetwomentomeet,especiallywherethepossibilityexiststhatherfathermaynotbewearingtrousers.Whenshearrivesathishousehalfanhourlater,Carolineisalreadyhome.‘Iforgotitwashernightforlifedrawing,’hesayssheepishly.Pauldoesnotattempttopushthingsfurther.ShewondersbrieflyifshetalkstoomuchaboutDavid;

whethersomehowshehasmadeherselfofflimits.Butthenshethinksitmightjustbehimbeinggentlemanly.Othertimesshethinks,almostindignantly,thatDavidispartofwhosheis,andifPaulwantstobewithher,well,he’llhavetoacceptthat.Shehasseveralimaginaryconversationswithhimandtwoimaginaryarguments.Shewakesupthinkingabouthim,aboutthewayheleansforwardwhenhelistens,asifdeterminednot

tomissasinglethingshesays,thewayhishairhasgreyedprematurelyatthetemples,hisblue,blueeyes.Shehasforgottenwhatit’sliketowakeupthinkingaboutsomeone,towanttobephysicallyclosetothem,tofeelalittlegiddyattherememberedscentoftheirskin.Shestilldoesn’thaveenoughworkbutit

bothersherless.SometimeshesendsheratextmessageinthemiddleofthedayandshehearsitspokeninanAmericanaccent.SheisafraidofshowingPaulMcCaffertyhowmuchshelikeshim.Sheisafraidofgettingitwrong:the

rulesseemtohavechangedinthenineyearssinceshelastdated.ShelistenstoMoandherdispassionateobservationsaboutInternetdating,of‘friendswithbenefits’,ofthedosanddon’tsofsex–howsheshouldwaxandtrimandhave‘techniques’–andit’sasifshe’slisteningtosomeonespeakingPolish.ShefindsithardtotallyPaulMcCaffertywithMo’sassertionsaboutmen:sleazy,chancing,self-

serving,porn-obsessedslackers.Heisquietlystraightforward,aseeminglyopenbook.ItwaswhyclimbingtheranksofhisspecialistunitintheNYPDdidn’tsuithim,hesays.‘Alltheblacksandwhitesgetprettygreythehigherupyouget.’Theonlytimehelooksevenremotelyuncertain,hisspeechbecominghesitant,iswhendiscussinghisson.‘It’scrap,divorce,’hesays.‘Wealltellourselvesthekidsarefine,thatit’sbetterthiswaythantwounhappypeopleshoutingateachother,butweneverdareaskthemthetruth.’‘Thetruth?’‘Whattheywant.Becauseweknowtheanswer.Anditwouldbreakourhearts.’Hehadgazedoffinto

themiddledistance,andthen,secondslater,recoveredhissmile.‘Still,Jakeisgood.He’sreallygood.Betterthanwebothdeserve.’ShelikeshisAmericanness,thewayitmakeshimslightlyalien,andcompletelyremovedfromDavid.

Hehasaninnatesenseofcourtesy,thekindofmanwhowillinstinctivelyopenadoorforawoman,notbecausehe’smakingsomekindofchivalrousgesturebutbecauseitwouldn’toccurtohimnottoopenthedoorifsomeoneneededtogothroughit.Hecarriesakindofsubtleauthority:peopleactuallymoveoutofthewaywhenhewalksalongthestreet.Hedoesnotseemtobeawareofthis.‘Oh,myGod,you’vegotitsobad,’saysMo.‘What?I’mjustsaying.It’snicetospendtimewithsomeonewhoseems…’Mosnorts.‘Heissogettinglaidthisweek.’ButshehasnotinvitedhimbacktotheGlassHouse.Mosensesherhesitation.‘Okay,Rapunzel.If

you’regoingtostickaroundinthistowerofyours,you’regoingtohavetolettheoddprincerunhisfingersthroughyourhair.’‘Idon’tknow…’‘SoI’vebeenthinking,’saysMo.‘Weshouldmoveyourroomaround.Changethehouseabit.

Otherwiseyou’realwaysgoingtofeellikeyou’rebringingsomeonebacktoDavid’shouse.’Livsuspectsitwillfeellikethathoweverthefurnitureisarranged.ButonTuesdayafternoon,whenMo

isoffwork,theymovethebedtotheothersideoftheroom,pushingitagainstthealabaster-colouredconcretewallthatrunslikeanarchitecturalbackbonethroughthecentreofthehouse.Itisnotanaturalplaceforit,ifyouweregoingtobereallypicky,butshehastoadmitthereissomethinginvigoratingaboutitalllookingsodifferent.‘Now,’saysMo,gazingupatTheGirlYouLeftBehind.‘Youwanttohangthatpaintingsomewhere

else.’‘No.Itstays.’‘ButyousaidDavidboughtitforyou.Andthatmeans–’

‘Idon’tcare.Shestays.Besides…’Livnarrowshereyesatthewomanwithintheframe.‘Ithinkshe’dlookoddinalivingroom.She’stoo…intimate.’‘Intimate?’‘She’s…sexy.Don’tyouthink?’Mosquintsattheportrait.‘Can’tseeitmyself.Personally,ifitweremyroomI’dhaveamassiveflat-

screentellythere.’Moleaves,andLivkeepsgazingatthepainting,andjustforonceshedoesn’tfeeltheclenchofgrief.

Whatdoyouthink?sheasksthegirl.Isitfinallytimetomoveon?

ItstartstogowrongonFridaymorning.‘So,youhaveahotdate!’Herfatherstepsforwardandenvelopsherinahugebearhug.Heisfullof

joiedevivre,expansiveandwise.Heis,onceagain,speakinginexclamationmarks.Heisalsodressed.‘He’sjust…Idon’twanttomakeabigdealofit,Dad.’‘Butit’swonderful!You’reabeautifulyoungwoman!Thisisasnatureintended–youshouldbeout

there,flutteringyourfeathers,struttingyourstuff!’‘Idon’thavefeathers,Dad.’Shesipshertea.‘AndI’mnotentirelyconvincedaboutthestuff.’‘Whatareyougoingtowear?Somethingabitbrighter?Caroline,whatshouldshewear?’Carolinewalksintothekitchen,pinningupherlongredhair.Shehasbeenworkingonhertapestries

andsmellsvaguelyofsheep.‘She’sthirtyyearsold,Michael.Shecanpickherownwardrobe.’‘Butlookatthewayshecoversherselfup!She’sstillgotDavid’saesthetic–allblacksandgreysand

shapelessthings.YoushouldtakealeafoutofCaroline’sbook,darling.Lookatthecoloursshewears!Awomanlikethatdrawstheeye…’‘Awomandressedasayakwoulddrawyoureye,’saysCaroline,plugginginthekettle.Butitissaid

withoutrancour.Herfatherstandsbehindherandmouldshimselfaroundherback.Hiseyescloseinecstasy.‘Wemen…we’reprimalcreatures.Oureyesareinevitablydrawntothebrightandthebeautiful.’Heopensoneeye,studyingLiv.‘Perhaps…youcouldwearsomethingabitlessmasculineatleast.’‘Masculine?’Hestandsback.‘Bigblackpullover.Blackjeans.Nomakeup.It’snotexactlyasirencall.’‘Youwearwhateveryou’recomfortablein,Liv.Takenonoticeofhim.’‘YouthinkIlookmasculine?’‘Mindyou,yousaidyoumethiminagaybar.Perhapshelikeswomenwholookabit…boyish.’‘Youaresuchanoldfool,’saysCaroline,anddepartstheroombearinghermugofteaaloft.‘SoIlooklikeabutchlesbian.’‘I’mjustsayingIthinkyoucouldplayupyourbestfeaturesalittlemore.Awaveinyourhair,perhaps.

Abelttoshowoffyourwaist…’Carolineputsherheadbackaroundthedoor.‘Itdoesn’tmatterwhatyouwear,darling.Justmakesure

theunderwearisgood.Lingerieisultimatelyallthatmatters.’HerfatherwatchesCarolinedisappearandblowsamutekiss.‘Lingerie!’hesaysreverently.Livlooksdownatherclothes.‘Well,thanks,Dad.Ifeelgreatnow.Just…great.’‘Pleasure.Anytime.’Hebangstheflatofhishanddownonthepinetable.‘Andletmeknowhowit

goes!Adate!Exciting!’

Livstaresatherselfinthemirror.Itisthreeyearssinceamansawherbody,andfoursinceamansawherbodywhileshewassoberenoughtocare.ShehasdonewhatMosuggested:depilatedallbuttheneatestamountsofbodyhair,scrubbedherface,putaconditioningtreatmentonherhair.Shehassortedthroughherunderweardraweruntilshefoundsomethingthatmightqualifyasvaguelyseductiveandnotgreyedwitholdage.Shehaspaintedhertoenailsandfiledherfingernailsratherthanjustattackingthemwithclippers.Davidnevercaredaboutthisstuff.ButDavidisn’thereanymore.Shehasgonethroughherwardrobe,sortingthroughrailsofblackandgrey,ofunobtrusiveblack

trousersandjumpers.Itis,shehastoadmit,utilitarian.ShefinallysettlesonablackpencilskirtandaV-neckedjumper.Sheteamsthesewithapairofredhighheelswithbutterfliesonthetoesthatsheboughtandworeoncetoaweddingbuthasneverthrownout.Theymaynotbeexactlyontrend,buttheycouldnotbemistakenforthefootwearofabutchlesbian.‘Whoa!Lookatyou!’Mostandsinthedoorway,herjacketon,arucksackoverhershoulder,readyto

headoffforhershift.‘Isittoomuch?’Sheholdsoutanankledoubtfully.‘Youlookgreat.You’renotwearinggrannyknickers,right?’Livtakesabreath.‘No,Iamnotwearinggrannyknickers.NotthatIreallyfeelobligedtokeep

everyoneinthepostcodeuptospeedwithmyunderwearchoices.’‘Thengoforthandtrynottomultiply.I’veleftyouthechickenthingIpromised,andthere’sasalad

bowlinthefridge.Justaddthedressing.I’llbestayingatRanic’stonight,soI’mnotunderyourfeet.It’sallyours.’ShegrinsmeaningfullyatLiv,thenheadsdownthestairs.Livturnsbacktothemirror.Anovermade-upwomaninaskirtstaresbackather.Shewalksaround

theroom,alittleunsteadyintheunfamiliarshoes,tryingtoworkoutwhatismakingherfeelsounbalanced.Theskirtfitsperfectly.Runninghasgivenherlegsanattractive,sculptedoutline.Theshoesareagooddashofcolouragainsttherestoftheoutfit.Theunderwearisprettywithoutbeingtarty.Shecrossesherarmsandsitsonthesideofthebed.Heisduehereinanhour.ShelooksupatTheGirlYouLeftBehind.Iwanttolookhowyoulook,shetellshersilently.Foronce,thatsmileoffershernothing.Itseemsalmosttomockher.Itsays,Notachance.Livshutshereyesforsometime.ThenshereachesforherphoneandtextsPaul.Changeofplan.Wouldyoumindifwemetsomewhereforadrinkinstead?

‘So…sickofcooking?BecauseIwouldhavebroughtatakeaway.’Paulleansbackinhischair,hiseyesdartingtoagroupofshriekingofficeworkers,whoseemtohave

beenthereallafternoon,judgingbythegeneralairofdrunkenflirtatiousness.Hehasbeenquietlyamusedbythem,bythelurchingwomen,thedozingaccountantinthecorner.‘I…justneededtogetoutofthehouse.’‘Ah,yeah.Theworking-from-homething.Iforgethowthatcandriveyoucrazy.Whenmybrotherfirst

movedoverherehespentweeksatminewritingjobapplications,andwhenIusedtogetinfromworkhewouldliterallytalkatmenon-stopforanhour.’‘YoucameoverfromAmericatogether?’

‘HecametosupportmewhenIgotdivorced.Iwasabitofamess.Andthenhejustneverleft.’PaulhadcometoEnglandtenyearsago.HisEnglishwifehadbeenmiserable,hadmissedhome,especiallywhenJakewasababy,andhehadlefttheNYPDtokeepherhappy.‘Whenwegotherewefounditwasus,notthelocation,thatwasallwrong.Hey,look.BlueSuitMan

isgoingtomakeamoveonthegirlwiththegreathair.’Livsipsherdrink.‘That’snotrealhair.’Hesquints.‘What?You’rekiddingme.It’sawig?’‘Extensions.Youcantell.’‘Ican’t.You’regoingtotellmethechestisfaketoonow,right?’‘No,they’rereal.Shehasquadroboob.’‘Quadroboob?’‘Bra’stoosmall.Itmakesherlooklikeshe’sgotfour.’Paullaughssohardhestartstochoke.Hecan’trememberthelasttimehekeptlaughinglikethis.She

smilesbackathim,almostreluctantly.Shehasbeenalittlestrangetonight,asifallherresponsesareslowedbysomeseparateinternalconversation.Hemanagestocontrolhimself.‘Sowhatdowethink?’hesays,tryingtomakeherrelax.‘Is

QuadroboobGirlgoingtogoforit?’‘Maybewithonemoredrinkinsideher.I’mnotconvincedshereallylikeshim.’‘Yeah.Shekeepslookingoverhisshoulderasshetalkstohim.Ithinkshelikesgreyshoes.’‘Nowomanlikesgreyshoes.Trustme.’Heliftsaneyebrow,putsdownhisdrink.‘Nowthis,yousee,iswhymenfinditeasiertosplit

moleculesandinvadecountriesthantoworkoutwhatgoesoninwomen’sheads.’‘Pfft.Ifyou’reluckyonedayI’llsneakyoualookattherulebook.’Helooksatherandsheblushes,as

ifshe’ssaidtoomuch.Thereisasuddeninexplicablyawkwardsilence.Shestaresatherdrink.‘DoyoumissNewYork?’‘Ilikevisiting.WhenIgohomenowtheyallmakefunofmyaccent.’Sheseemstobeonlyhalflistening.‘Youdon’thavetolooksoanxious,’hesays.‘Really.I’mhappyhere.’‘Oh.No.Sorry.Ididn’tmean…’Herwordsdieonherlips.Thereisalongsilence.Andthenshe

looksupathimandspeaks,herfingerrestingontherimofherglass.‘Paul…Iwantedtoaskyoutocomehomewithmetonight.Iwantedusto…ButI–Ijust…It’stoosoon.Ican’t.Ican’tdoit.That’swhyIcancelleddinner.’Thewordsspilloutintotheair.Sheflushestotherootsofherhair.Heopens,thencloseshismouth.Heleansforward,andsays,quietly.‘“I’mnotveryhungry”would

havebeenfine.’Hereyeswiden,thensheslumpsalittleoverthetable.‘Oh,God.I’manightmaredate,aren’tI?’‘Maybealittlemorehonestthanyouneedtobe.’Shegroans.‘I’msorry.IhavenoideawhatI’m–’Heleansforward,touchesherhandlightly.Hewantshertostoplookinganxious.‘Liv,’hesaysevenly,

‘Ilikeyou.Ithinkyou’regreat.ButItotallygetthatyou’vebeeninyourownspaceforalongtime.AndI’mnot…Idon’t…’Wordsfailhimtoo.Itseemstoosoonforaconversationlikethis.Andunderneathit

all,despitehimself,hefightsdisappointment.‘Ah,hell,youwanttograbapizza?BecauseI’mstarving.Let’sgogetabiteandmakeeachotherfeelawkwardsomewhereelse.’Hecanfeelherkneeagainsthis.‘Youknow,Idohavefoodathome.’Helaughs.Andstops.‘Okay.Well,nowIdon’tknowwhattosay.’‘Say“Thatwouldbegreat.”Andthenyoucanadd,“Pleaseshutupnow,Liv,beforeyoumakethings

evenmorecomplicated.”’‘Thatwouldbegreat,then,’saysPaul.Heholdsuphercoatforhertoshrugherwayinto,thenthey

headoutofthepub.

Thistimewhentheywalkitisnotinsilence.Somethinghasunlockedbetweenthem,perhapsthroughhiswordsorhersuddenfeelingofrelief.Shelaughsatalmosteverythinghesays.Theyweaveinandoutofthetourists,pilebreathlesslyintoataxi,andwhenhesitsdowninthebackseat,holdingouthisarmforhertotuckinto,sheleansintohimandbreathesinhisclean,malesmellandfeelsalittlegiddywithherownsuddengoodfortune.Theyreachherblock,andhelaughsabouttheirmeeting.AboutMoandherapparentbeliefthathewas

abagthief.‘I’mholdingyoutothatfour-poundreward,’hesays,straight-faced.‘MosaidIwasentitledtoit.’‘Moalsothinksit’sperfectlyacceptabletoputwashing-upliquidinthedrinksofcustomersyoudon’t

like.’‘Washing-upliquid?’‘Apparentlyitmakesthemweeallnight.It’showsheplaysGodwiththeromanticchancesofher

diners.Youdonotwanttoknowwhatshedoestothecoffeesofpeoplewhoreallyupsether.’Heshakeshisheadadmiringly.‘Moiswastedinthatjob.There’saplaceinorganizedcrimeforthat

girl.’Theyclimboutofthetaxiandgointothewarehouse.Theairiscrispwiththeapproachofautumn;it

seemstobiteherskin.Theyhurryintothefuggywarmthofthefoyer.Shefeelsabitsillynow.Somehowshecanseethatinthepreviousforty-eighthoursPaulMcCaffertyhadstoppedbeingapersonandstartedtobecomeanidea,athing.Thesymbolofhermoving-on.Itwastoomuchweightforsomethingsonew.ShehearsMo’svoiceinherear:Whoa,missus.Youthinktoomuch.Andthen,ashetugstheliftdoorshutbehindthem,theyfallsilent.Itascendsslowly,rattlingand

echoing,thelightsflickering,astheyalwaysdo.Itheadspastthefirstfloor,andtheycanhearthedistantconcreteechoofsomeonetakingthestairs,afewbarsofcellomusicfromanotherapartment.Livisacutelyconsciousofhimintheenclosedspace,thecitrustangofhisaftershave,theimprintofhis

armaroundhershoulders.Shelooksdownandwishes,suddenly,thatshehadnotchangedintothisfrumpyskirt,theflatheels.Shewishesshehadwornthebutterflyshoes.Shelooksupandheiswatchingher.Heisnotlaughing.Heholdsouthishand,andasshetakesit,he

drawsherslowlythetwostepsacrossthelift,andlowershisfacetoherssothattheyareinchesapart.Buthedoesnotkissher.Hisblueeyestravelslowlyoverherface:eyes,eyelashes,brows,lips,untilshefeelscuriously

exposed.Shecanfeelhisbreathonherskin,hismouthsoclosetohersthatshecouldtipforwardsandbiteitgently.

Stillhedoesnotkissher.Itmakeshershiverwithlonging.‘Ican’tstopthinkingaboutyou,’hemurmurs.‘Good.’Herestshisnoseagainsthers.Theverytopsoftheirlipsaretouching.Shecanfeeltheweightofhim

againsther.Shethinksherlegsmayhavebeguntotremble.‘Yes,it’sfine.Imean,no,I’mterrified.Butinagoodway.I–IthinkI…’‘Stoptalking,’hemurmurs.Shefeelshiswordsagainstherlips,hisfingertipstracingthesideofher

neck,andshecannotspeak.Andthentheyareatthetopfloor,kissing.Hewrenchesopentheliftdoorandtheystumbleout,still

pressedagainsteachother,needspirallingbetweenthem.Shehasonehandinsidethebackofhisshirt,absorbingtheheatofhisskin.Shereachesbehindherwiththeother,fumblinguntilsheopensthedoor.Theyfallintothehouse.Shedoesnotturnonthelight.Shestaggersbackwards,dazednowbyhis

mouthonhers,hishandsonherwaist.Shewantshimsobadlyherlegsturnliquid.Shecrashesagainstthewall,hearshimswearunderhisbreath.‘Here,’shewhispers.‘Now.’Hisbody,solidagainsthers.Theyareinthekitchen.Themoonhangsabovetheskylight,castingthe

roominacoldbluelight.Somethingdangeroushasenteredtheroom,somethingdarkandaliveanddelicious.Shehesitates,justamoment,andpullsherjumperoverherhead.Sheissomeonesheknewalongtimeago,unafraid,greedy.Shereachesup,hereyeslockedonhis,andunbuttonshershirt.One,two,three,thebuttonsfallaway.Theshirtslidesfromhershoulders,sothatsheisexposedtoherwaist.Herbareskintightensinthecoolair.Hiseyestraveldownhertorsoandherbreathquickens.Everythingstops.Theroomissilentapartfromtheirbreathing.Shefeelsmagnetized.Sheleansforward,something

building,intenseandgorgeousinthisbriefhiatus,andtheyarekissing,akissshefeelsshehaswaitedyearstocomplete,akissthatdoesnotalreadyhaveafullstopinmind.Shebreathesinhisaftershave,hermindspins,goesblank.Sheforgetswheretheyare.Hepullsawaygently,andheissmiling.‘What?’Sheisglazed,breathless.‘You.’He’slostforwords.Hersmilespreadsacrossherface,thenshekisseshimthroughituntilsheis

lost,dizzy,untilreasonseepsoutthroughherearsandshecanhearonlythegrowing,insistenthumofherownneed.Here.Now.Hisarmstightenaroundher,hislipsonhercollarbone.Shereachesforhim,herbreathcominginshallowbursts,herheartracing,over-sensitizedsothatsheshiversashisfingerstrailherskin.Shewantstolaughwiththejoyofit.Hetearshisshirtoverhishead.Theirkissesdeepen,becomepunishing.Heliftsherclumsilyontotheworktopandshewrapsherlegsaroundhim.Hestoops,pushingherskirtuparoundherwaist,andshearchesback,letsherskinmeetthecoldgranitesothatsheisgazingupattheglassceiling,herhandsentwinedinhishair.Aroundhertheshuttersareopen,theglasswallsawindowtothenightsky.Shestaresupintothepunctureddarknessandthinks,almosttriumphantly,withsomestillfunctioningpartofher:Iamstillalive.Andthenshecloseshereyesandrefusestothinkatall.

Hisvoicerumblesthroughher.‘Liv?’Heisholdingher.Shecanhearherownbreath.

‘Liv?’Aresidualshudderescapesher.‘Areyouokay?’‘Sorry.Yes.It’s…it’sbeenalongtime.’Hisarmstightenaroundher,asilentanswer.Anothersilence.‘Areyoucold?’Shesteadiesherbreathingbeforesheanswers.‘Freezing.’Heliftsherdownandreachesforhisshirtonthefloor,wrappingitaroundherslowly.Theygazeat

eachotherinthenear-dark.‘Well…thatwas…’Shewantstosaysomethingwitty,carefree.Butshecan’tspeak.Shefeels

numbed.Sheisafraidtoletgoofhim,asifonlyheisanchoringhertotheearth.Therealworldisencroaching.Sheisawareofthesoundofthetrafficdownstairs,somehowtooloud,

thefeelofthecoldlimestonefloorunderherbarefoot.Sheseemstohavelostashoe.‘Ithinkweleftthefrontdooropen,’shesays,glancingdownthecorridor.‘Um…forgettheshoe.Didyouknowthatyourroofismissing?’Sheglancesup.Shecannotrememberopeningit.Shemusthavehitthebuttonaccidentallyastheyfell

intothekitchen.Autumnalairsinksaroundthem,raisinggoose-bumpsacrossherbareskin,asifit,too,hadonlyjustrealizedwhathadhappened.Mo’sblacksweaterhangsoverthebackofachair,liketheopenwingsofasettlingvulture.‘Holdon,’shesays.Shepadsacrossthekitchenandpressesthebutton,listeningtothehumastheroof

closesover.Paulstaresupattheoversizedskylight,thenbackdownather,andthenheturnsslowly,360degrees,ashiseyesadjusttothedimlight,takinginhissurroundings.‘Well,this–It’snotwhatIwasexpecting.’‘Why?Whatwereyouexpecting?’‘Idon’tknow…Thewholethingaboutyourcounciltax…’Heglancesbackupattheopenceiling.

‘Somechaoticlittleplace.Somewherelikemine.Thisis…’‘David’shouse.Hebuiltit.’Hisexpressionflickers.‘Oh.Toomuch?’‘No.’Paulpeersaroundintothelivingroomandblowsouthischeeks.‘You’reallowed.

He…uh…soundslikequiteaguy.’Shepoursthembothaglassofwater,triesnottofeelself-consciousastheydress.Heholdsouther

shirtforhertoslideinto.Theylookateachotherandhalflaugh,suddenlyperverselyshyinclothes.‘So…whathappensnow?Youneedsomespace?’Headds,‘Ihavetowarnyou–ifyouwantmeto

leaveImayneedtowaituntilmylegsstopshaking.’ShelooksatPaulMcCafferty,attheshapeofhim,alreadyfamiliartoherverybones.Shedoesnot

wanthimtoleave.Shewantstoliedownbesidehim,hisarmsaroundher,herheadnestledintohischest.Shewantstowakewithouttheinstant,terribleurgetorunawayfromherownthoughts.Sheisconsciousofanechoingdoubt–David–butshepushesitaway.Itistimetoliveinthepresent.SheismorethanthegirlDavidleftbehind.

Shedoesnotturnonthelight.ShereachesforPaul’shandandleadshimthroughthedarkhouse,upthestairsandtoherbed.

Theydonotsleep.Thehoursbecomeaglorious,hazymiasmaoftangledlimbsandmurmuredvoices.Shehasforgottentheutterjoyofbeingwrappedaroundabodyyoucan’tleavealone.Shefeelsasifshehasbeenrecharged,asifsheoccupiesanewspaceintheatmosphere.Itissixa.m.whenthecoldelectricsparkofdawnfinallybeginstoleachintotheroom.‘Thisplaceisamazing,’hemurmurs,gazingoutthroughthewindow.Theirlegsareentwined,his

kissesimprintedalloverherskin.Shefeelsdruggedwithhappiness.‘Itis.Ican’treallyaffordtostayhere,though.’Shepeersathimthroughthehalf-dark.‘I’minabitofa

mess,financially.I’vebeentoldIshouldsell.’‘Butyoudon’twantto.’‘Itfeels…likeabetrayal.’‘Well,Icanseewhyyouwouldn’twanttoleave,’hesays.‘It’sbeautiful.Soquiet.’Helooksupagain.

‘Wow.Justtobeabletopeelyourroofoffwheneveryoufeellikeit…’Shewrigglesoutofhisarmsalittle,sothatshecanturntowardsthelongwindow,herheadinthecrookofhisarm.‘SomemorningsIliketowatchthebargesheaduptowardsTowerBridge.Look.Ifthelightisrightitturnstheriverintoatrickleofgold.’‘Atrickleofgold,huh?’Theyfallsilent,andastheywatch,theroombeginstoglowobligingly.Shegazesdownattheriver,

watchingitilluminatebydegrees,likeathreadtoherfuture.Isthisokay?sheasks.AmIallowedtobethishappyagain?Paulissoquietshewondersifhehasfinallydriftedofftosleep.Butwhensheturnsheislookingatthe

walloppositethebed.HeisstaringatTheGirlYouLeftBehind,nowjustvisibleinthedawn.Sheshiftsontohersideandwatcheshim.Heistransfixed,hiseyesnotleavingtheimageasthelightgrowsstronger.Hegetsher,shethinks.Shefeelsastabofsomethingthatmightactuallybepurejoy.‘Youlikeher?’Hedoesn’tseemtohear.Shenestlesbackintohim,restsherfaceonhisshoulder.‘You’llseehercoloursmoreclearlyinafew

minutes.She’scalledTheGirlYouLeftBehind.Oratleastwe–I–thinksheis.It’sinkedonthebackoftheframe.She’s…myfavouritethinginthishouse.Actually,she’smyfavouritethinginthewholeworld.’Shepauses.‘Davidgavehertomeonourhoneymoon.’Paulissilent.Shetrailsafingeruphisarm.‘Iknowitsoundsdaft,butafterhedied,Ijustdidn’twant

tobepartofanything.Isatuphereforweeks.I–Ididn’twanttoseeotherhumanbeings.Andevenwhenitwasreallybad,therewassomethingaboutherexpression…HerswastheonlyfaceIcouldcopewith.ShewaslikethisreminderthatIwouldsurvive.’Sheletsoutadeepsigh.‘AndthenwhenyoucamealongIrealizedshewasremindingmeofsomethingelse.OfthegirlIusedtobe.Whodidn’tworryallthetime.Andknewhowtohavefun,whojust…didstuff.ThegirlIwanttobeagain.’Heisstillsilent.Shehassaidtoomuch.WhatshewantsisforPaultolowerhisfacetohers,tofeelhisweightuponher.Buthedoesn’tspeak.Shewaitsforamomentandthensays,justtobreakthesilence,‘Isupposeit

soundssilly…tobesoattachedtoapainting…’

Whenheturnstoherhisfacelooksodd:tautanddrawn.Eveninthehalf-lightshecanseeit.Heswallows.‘Liv…what’syourname?’Shepullsaface.‘Liv.Youknowth–’‘No.Yoursurname.’Sheblinks.‘Halston.MysurnameisHalston.Oh.Isupposewenever…’Shecan’tworkoutwhere

thisisgoing.Shewantshimtostoplookingatthepainting.Shegraspssuddenlythattherelaxedmoodhasevaporatedandsomethingstrangehastakenitsplace.Theyliethereinanincreasinglyuncomfortablesilence.Heliftsahandtohishead.‘Um…Liv?DoyoumindifIheadoff?I’m…I’vegotsomeworkstuffto

seeto.’It’sasifshehasbeenwinded.Ittakesheramomenttospeak,andwhenshedoeshervoiceistoohigh,

notherown.‘Atsixa.m.?’‘Yeah.Sorry.’‘Oh.’Sheblinks.‘Oh.Right.’Heisoutofbedanddressing.Dazed,shewatcheshimhaulingonandfasteninghistrousers,thefierce

swiftnesswithwhichhepullsonhisshirt.Dressed,heturns,hesitates,thenleansforwardanddropsakissonhercheek.Unconsciouslyshepullstheduvetuptoherchin.‘Areyousureyoudon’twantanybreakfast?’‘No.I…I’msorry.’Hedoesn’tsmile.‘It’sfine.’Hecannotleavefastenough.Mortificationbeginstostealthroughher,likepoisoninherblood.Bythetimehereachesthebedroomdoorhecanbarelymeethereye.Heshakeshishead,likesomeone

tryingtodislodgeafly.‘Um…Look.I’ll–I’llcallyou.’‘Okay.’Shetriestosoundlight.‘Whatever.’Asthedoorshutsbehindhim,sheleansforward,‘Hopetheworkthinggoes…’Livstaresindisbeliefatthespacewherehehasbeen,herfakecheerywordsechoingaroundthesilent

house.EmptinesscreepsintothespacethatPaulMcCaffertyhassomehowopenedinsideher.

17

Theofficeisempty,ashehadknownitwouldbe.Helauncheshimselfthroughthedoor,theoldfluorescentbulbsstutteringintolifeoverhead,andmakesstraightforhisoffice.Onceinside,herummagesthroughthepilesoffilesandfoldersonhisdesk,notcaringasthepapersspewoutacrossthefloor,untilhefindswhatheislookingfor.Thenheflicksonhisdesklamp,andlaysthephotocopiedarticleinfrontofhim,smoothingitwithhispalms.‘Letmebewrong,’hemutters.‘Justletmehavegotthiswrong.’ThewalloftheGlassHouseisonlypartlyvisible,astheimageofthepaintinghasbeenenlargedtofill

theA4space.ButthepaintingisunmistakablyTheGirlYouLeftBehind.Andtotherightofher,thefloor-to-ceilingwindowthatLivhadshownhim,theviewthatextendedouttowardsTilbury.Hescanstheextractoftext.Halstondesignedthisroomsothatitsoccupantswouldbewokenbythemorningsun.‘Ioriginallysetouttoputsomekindofscreeningsystemupforsummerdaylighthours,’hesays.‘Butactuallyyoufindthatifyou’rewokennaturally,you’relesstired.SoIneverbotheredputtingthemin.’JustoffthemasterbedroomisaJapanesestyle

Itends,cutshortbythephotocopy.Paulstaresatitforamoment,thenturnsonhiscomputerandtypesDAVIDHALSTONintoasearchengine.Hisfingersthrumonthedeskashewaitsforittoload.TributeswerepaidyesterdaytothemodernistarchitectDavidHalston,whohasdiedsuddenlyinLisbonattheageof38.Initialreportssuggesthisdeathwasasaresultofundiagnosedheartfailure.Localpolicearenotsaidtobetreatinghisdeathassuspicious.Hiswifeoffouryears,OliviaHalston,26,whowaswithhimatthetime,isbeingcomfortedbyfamilymembers.Amember

oftheBritishconsulateinLisbonappealedforthefamilytobeallowedtogrieveinprivate.

Halston’sdeathcutsshortastellarcareer,notableforitsinnovativeuseofglass,andfellowarchitectsyesterdaylineduptopaytributetothe

Paullowershimselfslowlyintohischair.Heflicksthroughtherestofthepaperwork,thenre-readstheletterfromthelawyersoftheLefèvrefamily.aclear-cutcase,whichisunlikelytobetime-barredgiventhecircumstances…stolenfromanhotelinStPéronnecirca1917,shortlyaftertheartist’swifewastakenprisonerbytheoccupyingGermanforces…WehopethatTARPcanbringthiscasetoaswiftandsatisfactoryconclusion.Thereissomeleewayinthebudgetfor

compensationtothecurrentowners,butitisunlikelytobeanythingneartheestimatedauctionvalue.

Hewouldputmoneyonitthatshehasnoideawhothepaintingisby.Hehearshervoice,shyandoddlyproprietorial:‘She’smyfavouritethinginthishouse.Actually,she’smyfavouritethinginthewholeworld.’Paulletshisheaddropintohishands.Hestaysthereuntiltheofficephonestartsringing.

ThesunrisesacrosstheflatlandseastofLondon,floodingthebedroomapalegold.Thewallsglowbriefly,thealmostphosphorescentlightbouncingoffthewhitesurfacessothatonanotheroccasionLivmighthavegroaned,screwedhereyesshutandburiedherheadunderherduvet.Butsheliesverystillin

theoversizedbed,alargepillowbehindherneck,andstaresoutatthemorning,hereyesfixedblanklyonthesky.She’dgotitallwrong.Shekeepsseeinghisface,hearinghisscrupulouslypolitedismissalofher.DoyoumindifIheadoff?Shehaslainthereforalmosttwohours,hermobilephoneinherhand,wonderingwhethertotexthima

smallmessage.Areweokay?Youseemedsuddenly…SorryifItalkedtoomuchaboutDavid.It’shardformetorememberthatnoteveryone…Reallylovelytoseeyoulastnight.Hopeyourworkeasesupsoon.Ifyou’refreeonSundayI’d…WhatdidIdowrong?Shesendsnoneofthem.Shetracesandretracesthestagesoftheconversation,goingovereachphrase,

eachsentence,meticulously,likeanarchaeologistsiftingthroughbones.Wasitatthispointthathehadchangedhismind?Wastheresomethingshehaddone?Somesexualfoibleshehadn’tbeenawareof?WasitjustbeingintheGlassHouse?Ahousethat,whileithadnolongerheldanyofhisbelongings,wassopalpablyDavidthatitmightaswellhavehadhisimageshotthroughitlikeletteringthroughastickofrock?HadshemisreadPaulcompletely?Eachtimesheconsidersthesepotentialblunders,herstomachclencheswithanxiety.Ilikedhim,shethinks.Ireallylikedhim.Then,knowingsleepwillnotcome,sheclimbsoutofbedandpadsdownstairstothekitchen.Hereyes

aregrittywithtiredness,therestofherjusthollowedout.Shebrewscoffeeandissittingatthekitchentable,blowingonit,whenthefrontdooropens.‘Forgotmysecuritycard.Can’tgetintothecarehomewithoutitatthistime.Sorry–Iwasgoingto

creepinsothatIwouldn’tdisturbyou.’Mostopsandpeerspasther,asiflookingforsomeone.‘So…What?Didyoueathim?’‘Hewenthome.’Moreachesintothecupboardandstartsfishingaroundinhersparejacketpocket.Shefindsher

securitycardandpocketsit.‘You’regoingtohavetogetpastthis,youknow.Fouryearsistoolongtonot–’‘Ididn’twanthimtoleave.’Livswallows.‘Hebolted.’MolaughsandstopsabruptlyassherealizesthatLivisserious.‘Heactuallyranoutofthebedroom.’Shedoesn’tcarethatshe’smakingherselfsoundtragic:she

couldn’tfeelanyworsethanshedoesalready.‘Beforeorafteryoujumpedhisbones?’Livsipshercoffee.‘Guess.’‘Oh,ouch.Wasitthatbad?’‘No,itwasgreat.Well,Ithoughtitwas.AdmittedlyIhaven’thadmuchtogobyrecently.’Mogazesaroundher,asiflookingforclues.‘YouputyourpicturesofDavidaway,right?’‘OfcourseIdid.’‘Andyoudidn’t,like,sayDavid’snameatthecrucialmoment?’‘No.’SheremembersthewayPaulhadheldher.‘ItoldhimhehadchangedthewayIfeltabout

myself.’

Moshakesherheadsadly.‘AwLiv.Badhand.You’vejustbeendealtaToxicBachelor.’‘What?’‘He’stheperfectman.He’sstraightforward,caring,attentive.Hecomesonsuper-stronguntilhe

realizesyoulikehimtoo.Andthenherunsamile.Kryptonitetoacertainkindofneedy,vulnerablewoman.Thatwouldbeyou.’Mofrowns.‘Youdosurpriseme,though.Ihonestlydidn’tthinkhewasthetype.’Livglancesdownathermug.Thenshesays,withjustahintofdefensiveness,‘It’spossibleImight

havetalkedaboutDavidabit.WhenIwasshowinghimthepainting.’Mo’seyeswiden,thenlifttotheheavens.‘Well,IthoughtIcouldjustbestraightforwardabouteverything.HeknowswhereI’mcomingfrom.I

thoughthewasokaywithit.’Shecanhearhervoice:chippy.‘Hesaidhewas.’Mostandsandgoestothebreadbin.Shereachesinforaslice,foldsitinhalfandtakesabite.‘Liv–

youcan’tbestraightforwardaboutothermen.Nomanwantstohearabouthowfantastictheonebeforewas,evenifheisdead.YoumightaswelljustdoawholespielonEnormousPenisesIHaveKnown.’‘Ican’tpretendDavidisn’tpartofmypast.’‘No,buthedoesn’thavetobeyourwholepresenttoo.’AsLivglaresather,Mosays,‘Honestly?It’s

likeyou’reonaloop.Ifeellikeevenwhenyou’renottalkingabouthimyou’rethinkingabouttalkingabouthim.’Thatmighthavebeentrueevenafewweeksago.Butnotnow.Livwantstomoveon.Shehadwanted

tomoveonwithPaul.‘Well.Itdoesn’treallymatter,doesit?Iblewit.Idon’tthinkhe’llbecomingback.’Shesipshercoffee.Itburnshertongue.‘Itwasstupidofmetogetmyhopesup.’Moputsahandonhershoulder.‘Menareweird.It’snotlikeitwasn’tobviousthatyouwereamess.

Oh,shit–thetime.Look,yougooutforoneofyourinsaneruns.I’llbebackatthreeo’clockandI’llcallinsicktotherestaurantandwecanswearalotandthinkupmedievalpunishmentsforfuckwitmenwhoblowhotandcold.I’vegotsomemodellingclayupstairsthatIuseforvoodoodolls.Canyougetsomecocktailsticksready?Orsomeskewers?I’mallout.’Mograbsthesparekey,salutesherwiththefoldedbread,andisgonebeforeLivcanrespond.

InthepreviousfiveyearsTARPhasreturnedmorethantwohundredandfortyworksofarttoowners,ordescendantsofowners,whohadbelievedtheymightneverseethemagain.PaulhasheardstoriesofwartimebrutalitymoreappallingthananythingheencounteredwhileworkingintheNYPD;theyarerepeatedwithaclarityofrecallthatsuggeststheymighthavehappenedyesterday,ratherthansixtyyearsago.Hehasseenpain,bornelikeapreciousinheritancethroughtheagesandwritlargeonthefacesofthoseleftbehind.Hehasheldthehandsofoldwomenwhohaveweptbittersweettearsathavingbeeninthesameroom

asalittleportraitthatwasstolenfromtheirmurderedparents,thesilentaweofyoungermembersofafamilyseeingalong-missedpaintingforthefirsttime.Hehashadstand-upargumentswiththeheadsofmajornationalartgalleries,andbittenhislipwhenlong-fought-oversculptureswerereturnedtofamilies,thenimmediatelyputupforsale.Butforthemostpartthisjob,inthefiveyearshehasdoneit,hasallowedhimtofeelheisonthesideofsomebasicright.Hearingthestoriesofhorrorandbetrayal,offamiliesmurderedanddisplacedbytheSecondWorldWar,asifthosecrimeswerecommittedyesterday,

andknowingthatthosevictimsstilllivedwiththeinjusticeseveryday,hehasrelishedbeingpartofsomesmalldegreeofrecompense.Hehasneverhadtodealwithanythinglikethis.‘Shit,’saysGreg.‘That’stough.’TheyareoutwalkingGreg’sdogs,twohyperactiveterriers.Themorningisunseasonablycoldand

Paulwisheshehadwornanextrajumper.‘Icouldn’tbelieveit.Theactualpainting.Staringmeintheface.’‘Whatdidyousay?’Paulpullshisscarfuparoundhisneck.‘Ididn’tsayanything.Icouldn’tthinkwhattosay.I

just…left.’‘Youran?’‘Ineededtimetothinkaboutit.’Pirate,thesmallerofGreg’sdogs,hasshotacrosstheheathlikeaguidedmissile.Thetwomenstopto

watch,waitingtodeterminehiseventualtarget.‘Pleasedon’tletitbeacat,pleasedon’tletitbeacat.Oh,it’sokay.It’sGinger.’Inthefardistance

Piratehurlshimselfjoyouslyataspringerspanielandthetwodogschaseeachothermanicallyinever-wideningcirclesinthelonggrass.‘Andthiswaswhen?Lastnight?’‘Twonightsago.IknowIshouldringher.Ijustcan’tworkoutwhatI’mgoingtosay.’‘Iguess“Givemeyourdamnpainting”isn’tyourbestline.’Gregcallshisolderdogtoheel,andlifts

hishandtohisbrow,tryingtotrackPirate’sprogress.‘Bro,IthinkyoumayhavetoacceptthatFatehasjustblownthisparticulardateoutofthewater.’Paulshoveshishandsdeepinhispockets.‘Ilikedher.’Gregglancessidewaysathim.‘What?Asinreallylikedher?’‘Yeah.She…shegotundermyskin.’Hisbrotherstudieshisface.‘Okay.Well,thishasjustgotteninteresting…Pirate.Here!Oh,man.

There’stheVizsla.Ihatethatdog.Didyouspeaktoyourbossaboutit?’‘Yeah.BecauseJaneywoulddefinitelywanttotalktomeaboutsomeotherwoman.No.Ijustchecked

withourlawyeraboutthestrengthofthecase.Heseemstothinkwewouldwin.’There’snotimebaronthesecases,Paul,Seanhadsaid,barelylookingupfromhispapers.Youknow

that.‘Sowhatareyougoingtodo?’Gregclipshisdogbackontotheleadandstandsthere,waiting.‘NotalotIcando.Thepicturehastogobacktoitsrightfulowners.I’mnotsurehowwellshe’sgoing

totakethat.’‘Shemightbeokay.Youneverknow.’GregstridesoverthegrasstowardswherePirateisrunning

around,yappingdementedlyatthesky,warningittocomenocloser.‘Hey,ifshe’sbrokeandthere’spropermoneyinvolved,youmayactuallybedoingherafavour.’Hestartstorunandhislastwordsflyoverhisshoulderonthebreeze.‘Andshemightfeelthesamewayaboutyouandjustnotgiveashitaboutanythingelse.You’vegottokeepinmind,bro,thatultimately,it’sjustapainting.’Paulstaresathisbrother’sback.It’sneverjustapainting,hethinks.

Jakeisatafriend’shouse.Paularrivestopickhimupatthreethirty,asarranged,andJakeslopesoutofthefriend’sfrontdoor,hishairmussed,hisjackethangingoverhisshouldersinapparentpreparationfor

hisadolescentyears.Itneverceasestoshockhim,thefamiliarjolt,theumbilicalnature,ofparentallove.Somedayshestrugglesnottoembarrasshissonwiththedepthofhisloveforhim.Hewrapsanelbowaroundtheboy’sneck,hookshimtowardshimanddropsacasualkissonhisheadastheysetoffforthetubestation.‘Hey,fella.’‘Hi,Dad.’Jakeischeerful,pointingoutthevariouspermutationsofanewelectronicgame.Paulnodsandsmiles

intherightplaces,butevenashedoesso,hefindshe’sconductingaparallelargumentinhishead.Hekeepsworkingitoversilently.Whatshouldhesaytoher?Shouldhetellherthetruth?Willsheunderstandifheexplainsittoher?Shouldhejuststeerclear?Thejobiseverything,afterall.Helearnedthatalongtimeago.Butashesitsbesidehisson,watchinghisthumbsflickingonthecontrols,histotalabsorptioninthe

pixelatedgame,hisminddrifts.HefeelsLiv,softandyieldingagainsthimafterwards,seesthedrowsywaysheliftedhereyestohis,asifsheweredazedbythedepthofherfeelings.‘Didyougetanewhouseyet?’‘Nope.Notyet.’Ican’tstopthinkingaboutyou.‘Canwegoforapizzatonight?’‘Sure.’‘Really?’‘Mm.’Henods.Thehurtonherfaceashehadturnedtoleave.Shewassotransparent,everyemotion

registeringonherfaceasif,likeherhouse,shehadneverknownwhatsheshouldconceal.‘Andicecream?’‘Sure.’I’mterrified.Butinagoodway.Andhehadrun.Withoutawordofexplanation.‘WillyoubuymeSuperMarioSmashBrosformyNintendo?’‘Don’tpushyourluck,’hesays.

Theweekendstretches,isweigheddownbysilence.Mocomesandgoes.HernewverdictonPaul:‘DivorcedToxicBachelor.Worstvarietyofspecies.’ShemakesLivalittleclaymodelofhim,andurgeshertostickthingsinit.LivhastoadmitthatMiniPaul’shairisalarminglyaccurate.‘Youthinkthiswillgivehimstomach

ache?’‘Ican’tguaranteeit.Butit’llmakeyoufeelbetter.’LivpicksupacocktailstickandtentativelygivesMiniPaulabellybutton,thenfeelsimmediately

guiltyandsmoothesitoverwithherthumb.Shecan’tquitereconcilethisversionofPaulwithwhatsheknows,butsheissmartenoughtograspthatsomethingsarenotworthdwellingon,soshehastakenMo’sadviceandrununtilshehasgivenherselfshinsplints.ShehascleanedtheGlassHousefromtoptobottom.Shehasbinnedtheshoeswithbutterflies.Shehascheckedherphonefourtimes,thenturneditoff,hatingherselfforcaring.‘That’sfeeble.Youhaven’tevenbrokenhistoes.Youwantmetohaveagoforyou?’saysMo,

inspectingthelittlemodelonMondaymorning.

‘No.It’sfine.Really.’‘You’retoosoft.Tellyouwhat,whenIgethomewe’llballhimupandturnhimintoanashtray.’When

LivreturnstothekitchenMohasstuckfifteenmatchesintothetopofhishead.TwopiecesofworkcomeinonMonday.One,somecataloguecopyforadirect-marketingcompany,is

litteredwithgrammaticalandspellingerrors.Bysixo’clockLivhasalteredsomuchofitthatshehasprettymuchwrittenthewholething.Thewordrateisterrible.Shedoesn’tcare.SheissorelievedtobeworkinginsteadofthinkingthatshemightwellwriteForbexSolutionsawholeextracatalogueforfree.Thedoorbellrings.Mowillhaveleftherkeysatwork.Sheunfoldsherselffromthedesk,stretches,

andheadsfortheentryphone.‘Youleftthemontheside.’‘It’sPaul.’Shefreezes.‘Oh.Hi.’‘CanIcomeup?’‘Youreallydon’thaveto.I–’‘Please?Weneedtotalk.’Thereisnotimetocheckherfaceorbrushherhair.Shestands,onefingeronthedoorbutton,

hesitating.Shedepressesit,thenmovesback,likesomeonebracingthemselvesforanexplosion.Theliftrattlesitswayup,andshefeelsherstomachconstrictasthesoundgrowslouder.Andthenthere

heis,gazingstraightatherthroughtherailingsofthelift.Heiswearingasoftbrownjacketandhiseyesareuncharacteristicallywary.Helooksexhausted.‘Hey.’Hestepsoutofthelift,andwaitsinthehallway.Shestands,herarmsfoldeddefensively.‘Hello.’‘CanI…comein?’Shestepsback.‘Doyouwantadrink?Imean…areyoustopping?’Hecatchestheedgeinhervoice.‘Thatwouldbegreat,thankyou.’Shewalksthroughthehousetothekitchen,herbackrigid,andhefollows.Asshemakestwomugsof

tea,sheisconsciousofhiseyesonher.Whenshehandsonetohimheisrubbingmeditativelyathistemple.Whenhecatcheshereyeheseemsalmostapologetic.‘Headache.’Livglancesupatthelittlemodelling-clayfigureonthefridgeandflusheswithguilt.Asshepassesshe

deliberatelyknocksitdownthebackofthefridge.Paulplaceshismugonthetable.‘Okay.Thisisreallydifficult.IwouldhavecomeoversoonerbutI

hadmysonandIneededtothinkwhatIwasgoingtodo.Look,I’mjustgoingtocomeoutandexplainthewholething.ButIthinkmaybeyoushouldsitdownfirst.’Shestaresathim.‘Oh,God.You’remarried.’‘I’mnotmarried.Thatwould…almostbesimpler.Please,Liv.Justsit.’Sheremainsstanding.Hepullsaletterfromhisjacketandhandsittoher.‘What’sthis?’‘Justreadit.AndthenI’lldomybesttoexplain.’

TARPSuite6,115GranthamStreet

LondonW1

15October2006

DearMrsHalstonWeactforanorganizationcalledtheTraceandReturnPartnership,createdtoreturnworksofarttothosewhosuffered

lossesduetolootingortheforcedsaleofpersonalartefactsduringwartime.

WeunderstandthatyouaretheownerofapaintingbytheFrenchartistÉdouardLefèvre,entitledTheGirlYouLeftBehind.WehavereceivedwrittenconfirmationfromdescendantsofMrLefèvrethatthiswasaworkinthepersonalpossessionoftheartist’swifeandthesubjectofaforcedorcoercivesale.Theclaimants,whoarealsoofFrenchnationality,wishtohavetheworkreturnedtotheartist’sfamily,andundertheGenevaConventionandthetermsoftheHagueConventionfortheProtectionofCulturalPropertyintheEventofArmedConflict,wewishtoinformyouthatwewillbepursuingsuchaclaimontheirbehalf.

Inmanycasessuchworkscanberestoredtotheirrightfulownerswiththeminimumlegalintervention.WethereforeinviteyoutocontactustoarrangeameetingbetweenyourselvesandrepresentativesoftheLefèvrefamilyinorderthatwemaycommencethisprocess.

Weappreciatethatsuchnoticemaycomeassomethingofashock.Butwewouldremindyouthatthereisastronglegalprecedentforthereturnofworksofartobtainedastheresultofwartimetransgressions,andIwouldaddthattheremayalsobesomediscretionaryfundingtocompensateforyourloss.

Wehopeverymuchthat,aswithotherworksofthisnature,thesatisfactionofknowingaworkisfinallybeingreturnedtoitsrightfulownerswillgrantthoseaffectedsomeadditionalsatisfaction.

Pleasedonothesitatetocontactusifyouwishtodiscussthisfurther.

PaulMcCaffertyJaneyDickinsonDirectors,TARP

Shestaresatthenameatthebottomofthepageandtheroomrecedes.Shere-readsthewords,thinkingthismustbeajoke.No,thisisanotherPaulMcCafferty,anentirelydifferentPaulMcCafferty.Theremustbehundredsofthem.It’sacommonenoughname.Andthensheremembersthepeculiarwayhehadlookedatthepaintingthreedaysearlier,thewayhehadbeenunabletomeethereyeafterwards.Shesitsdownheavilyinherchair.‘Isthissomekindofajoke?’‘Iwishitwas.’‘WhatthehellisTARP?’‘Wetracemissingworksofartandoverseetheirrestorationtotheiroriginalowners.’‘We?’Shestaresattheletter.‘What…whatdoesthishavetodowithme?’‘TheGirlYouLeftBehindisthesubjectofarestitutionrequest.Thepaintingisbyanartistcalled

ÉdouardLefèvre.Hisfamilywantitback.’‘But…thisisridiculous.I’vehaditforyears.Years.Thebestpartofadecade.’Hereachesintohispocketandpullsoutanotherletter,withaphotocopiedimage.‘Thiscametothe

officeacoupleofweeksago.Itwassittinginmyin-tray.IwasbusywithotherstuffsoIdidn’tputthetwothingstogether.Then,whenyouinvitedmeuptheothernight,Irecognizeditimmediately.’Shescansit,glancesatthephotocopiedpage.Herownpaintingstaresbackatherfromthecoloured

page,itscoloursmuddiedthroughreproduction.‘TheArchitecturalDigest.’‘Yeah.Ithinkthatwasit.’‘TheycameheretodoapieceontheGlassHousewhenwewerefirstmarried.’Herhandliftstoher

mouth.‘Davidthoughtitwouldbegoodpublicityforhispractice.’

‘TheLefèvrefamilyhavebeenconductinganauditintoallÉdouardLefèvre’sworks,andduringthecourseofittheydiscoveredseveralweremissing.OneisTheGirlYouLeftBehind.Thereisnodocumentedhistoryforitafter1917.Canyoutellmewhereyougotit?’‘Thisiscrazy.Itwas…DavidboughtitfromanAmericanwoman.InBarcelona.’‘Agalleryowner?Haveyougotareceiptforit?’‘Ofsorts.Butit’snotworthanything.Shewasgoingtothrowitaway.Itwasoutonthestreet.’Paulrunsahandoverhisface.‘Doyouknowwhothiswomanwas?’Livshakesherhead.‘Itwasyearsago.’‘Liv,youhavetoremember.Thisisimportant.’Sheexplodes:‘Ican’tremember!Youcan’tcomeinhereandtellmeIhavetojustifyownershipofmy

ownpaintingjustbecausesomeonesomewherehasdecideditoncebelongedtothemamillionyearsago!Imean,whatisthis?’Shewalksaroundthekitchentable.‘I–Ican’tgetmyheadroundit.’Paulrestshisfaceinhishands.Heliftshisheadandlooksather.‘Liv,I’mreallysorry.Thisisthe

worstcaseI’veeverdealtwith.’‘Case?’‘ThisiswhatIdo.IlookforstolenworksofartandIreturnthemtotheirowners.’Shehearsthestrangeimplacabilityinhisvoice.‘Butthisisn’tstolen.Davidboughtit,fairandsquare.

Andthenhegaveittome.It’smine.’‘Itwasstolen,Liv.Nearlyahundredyearsago,yes,butitwasstolen.Look,thegoodnewsisthat

they’rewillingtooffersomefinancialcompensation.’‘Compensation?Youthinkthisisaboutmoney?’‘I’mjustsaying–’Shestands,liftsherhandtoherbrow.‘Youknowwhat,Paul?Ithinkyou’dbetterleave.’‘Iknowthepaintingmeansalottoyoubutyouhavetounderstand–’‘Really.I’dlikeyoutogonow.’Theystareateachother.Shefeelsradioactive.Sheisnotsureshehaseverbeensoangry.‘Look,I’lltrytothinkofawaywecansettlethistosuit–’‘Goodbye,Paul.’Shefollowshimout.Whensheslamsthedoorbehindhimitreverberatessoloudlythatshecanfeelthe

wholewarehouseshakebelowher.

18

Theirhoneymoon.Ahoneymoonofsorts.DavidhadbeenworkingonanewconferencecentreinBarcelona,amonolithicthing,builttoreflecttheblueskies,theshimmeringseas.SheremembersherfaintsurpriseathisfluentSpanishandbeingawedbothbythethingsheknewandbythethingsshedidnotyetknowabouthim.Eachafternoontheywouldlieinbedintheirhotel,thenstrollthemedievalstreetsoftheGothicQuarterandBorn,seekingrefugeintheshade,stoppingtodrinkmojitosandrestlazilyagainsteachother,theirskinstickingintheheat.Shestillremembershowhishandlookedrestingonherthigh.Hehadacraftsman’shands.Hewouldrestthemslightlysplayed,asiftheywerealwaysholdingdowninvisibleplans.TheyhadbeenwalkingaroundthebackofPlaçadeCatalunyawhentheyheardtheAmericanwoman’s

voice.Shehadbeenshoutingatatrioofimpassivemen,closetotearsastheyemergedthroughapanelleddoorway,dumpingfurniture,householdobjectsandtrinketsinfrontoftheapartmentblock.‘Youcan’tdothis!’shehadexclaimed.DavidhadreleasedLiv’shandandsteppedforwards.Thewoman–anangularwomaninearlymiddle

agewithbrightblondehair–hadletoutalittleohohohoffrustrationasachairwasdumpedinfrontofthehouse.Asmallcrowdoftouristshadstoppedtowatch.‘Areyouokay?’hehadsaid,hishandatherelbow.‘It’sthelandlord.He’sclearingoutallmymother’sstuff.IkeeptellinghimIhavenowheretoputthese

things.’‘Whereisyourmother?’‘Shedied.Icameoverheretosortthroughitallandhesaysithastobeoutbytoday.Thesemenare

justdumpingitonthestreetandIhavenoideawhatI’mgoingtodowithit.’SheremembershowDavidhadtakencharge,howhehadtoldLivtotakethewomantothecaféacross

theroad,howhehadremonstratedwiththemeninSpanishastheAmericanwoman,whosenamewasMarianneJohnson,satanddrankaglassoficedwaterandgazedanxiouslyacrossthestreet.Shehadonlyflowninthatmorning,sheconfided.Shesworeshedidnotknowwhethershewascomingorgoing.‘I’msosorry.Whendidyourmotherdie?’‘Oh,threemonthsago.IknowIshouldhavedonesomethingsooner.Butit’ssohardwhenyoudon’t

speakSpanish.AndIhadtogetherbodyflownhomeforthefuneral…andIjustgotdivorcedsothere’sonlymedoingeverything…’Shehadhugewhiteknucklesbeneathwhichshehadcrammedadizzyingarrayofplasticrings.Herhairbandwasturquoisepaisley.Shekeptreachinguptotouchit,asifforreassurance.Davidwastalkingtoamanwhomighthavebeenthelandlord.Hehadappeareddefensiveinitially,but

now,tenminuteslater,theywereshakinghandswarmly.Hereappearedattheirtable.Sheshouldsortoutwhichthingsshewantedtokeep,Davidsaid,andhehadanumberforashippingcompanythatcouldpackthoseitemsandflythemhomeforher.Thelandlordhadagreedtoletthemremainintheapartmentuntil

tomorrow.Therestcouldbetakenanddisposedofbytheremovalmenforasmallfee.‘Areyouokayformoney?’hehadsaidquietly.Thekindofmanhewas.MarianneJohnsonhadnearlyweptwithgratitude.Theyhadhelpedhermovethings,stackingobjects

rightorleftdependingonwhatshouldbekept.Astheyhadstoodthere,thewomanpointingatthings,movingthemcarefullytooneside,Livhadlookedmorecloselyattheitemsonthepavement.TherewasaCoronatypewriter,hugeleather-boundalbumsoffadingnewsprint.‘Momwasajournalist,’saidthewoman,placingthemcarefullyonastonestep.‘HernamewasLouanneBaker.IrememberherusingthiswhenIwasalittlegirl.’‘Whatisthat?’Livpointedatasmallbrownobject.Eventhoughshewasunabletomakeitoutwithout

steppingcloser,somevisceralpartofhershuddered.Shecouldseewhatlookedliketeeth.‘Oh.Those.ThoseareMom’sshrunkenheads.Sheusedtocollectallsorts.There’saNazihelmet

somewheretoo.D’youthinkamuseummightwantthem?’‘You’llhavefungettingthemthroughCustoms.’‘Oh,God.Imightjustleaveitonthestreetandrun.’Shepausedtowipeherforehead.‘Thisheat!I’m

dying.’AndthenLivhadseenthepainting.Proppedupagainstaneasychair,thefacewassomehow

compellingevenamongthenoiseandthechaos.Shehadstoopedandturneditcarefullytowardsher.Agirllookedoutfromwithinthebatteredgiltframe,afaintnoteofchallengeinhereyes.Agreatswatheofred-goldhairfelltohershoulders;afaintsmilespokeofakindofpride,andsomethingmoreintimate.Somethingsexual.‘Shelookslikeyou,’Davidhadmurmured,underhisbreath,frombesideher.‘That’sjusthowyou

look.’Liv’shairwasblonde,notred,andshort.Butshehadknownimmediately.Thelooktheyexchangedmadethestreetfade.DavidhadturnedtoMarianneJohnson.‘Don’tyouwanttokeepthis?’Shehadstraightenedup,squintedathim.‘Oh–no.Idon’tthinkso.’Davidhadloweredhisvoice.‘Wouldyouletmebuyitfromyou?’‘Buyit?Youcanhaveit.It’stheleastIcando,givenyou’vesavedmydarnedlife.’Buthehadrefused.Theyhadstoodthereonthepavement,engagedinabizarrereversehaggling,David

insistingongivinghermoremoneythanshewascomfortablewith.Finally,asLivcontinuedtosortthrougharailofclothes,sheturnedtoseethemshakingonaprice.‘Iwouldgladlyhaveletyouhaveit,’shesaid,asDavidcountedoutthenotes.‘Totellyouthetruth,I

nevermuchlikedthatpainting.WhenIwasakidIusedtothinkshewasmockingme.Shealwaysseemedalittlesnooty.’Theyhadleftheratduskwithhismobilenumber,thepavementclearinfrontoftheemptyapartment,

MarianneJohnsongatheringherbelongingstogobacktoherhotel.Theyhadwalkedawayinthethickheat,himbeamingasifhehadacquiredsomegreattreasure,holdingthepaintingasreverentlyashewouldholdLivlaterthatevening.‘Thisshouldbeyourweddingpresent,’hehadsaid.‘SeeingasInevergaveyouanything.’‘Ithoughtyoudidn’twantanythinginterruptingthecleanlinesofyourwalls,’shehadteased.Theyhadstoppedinthebusystreet,andheldituptoviewitagain.Sheremembersthetaut,sunburned

skinatthebackofherneck,thefinedustysheenonherarms.ThehotBarcelonastreets,theafternoonsun

reflectedinhiseyes.‘Ithinkwecanbreaktherulesforsomethingwelove.’

‘SoyouandDavidboughtthatpaintingingoodfaith,yes?’saysKristen.Shepausestoswatthehandofateenagerscrabblingamongthecontentsofthefridge.‘No.Nochocolatemousse.Youwon’teatsupper.’‘Yes.Ievenmanagedtodigoutthereceipt.’Shehaditinherhandbag:apieceoftatteredpaper,torn

fromthebackofajournal.Receivedwiththanksforportrait,posscalledTheGirlYouLeftBehind.300francs–MarianneBaker(Ms).‘Soit’syours.Youboughtit,youhavethereceipt.Surelythat’stheendofit.Tasmin?Willyoutell

Georgeit’ssupperintenminutes?’‘You’dthink.Andthewomanwegotitfromsaidhermother’dhaditforhalfacentury.Shewasn’t

evengoingtosellittous–shewasgoingtogiveittous.Davidinsistedonpayingher.’‘Well,thewholethingisfranklyridiculous.’Kristenstopsmixingthesaladandthrowsupherhands.‘I

mean,wheredoesitend?IfyouboughtahouseandsomeonestolethelandinthelandgrabsoftheMiddleAges,doesthatmeansomedaysomeone’sgoingtoclaimyourhousebacktoo?DowehavetogivebackmydiamondringbecauseitmighthavebeentakenfromthewrongbitofAfrica?ItwastheFirstWorldWar,forgoodness’sake.Nearlyahundredyearsago.Thelegalsystemisgoingtoofar.’Livsitsbackinherchair.ShehadcalledSventhatafternoon,tremblingwithshock,andhehadtoldher

tocomeoverthatevening.Hehadbeenreassuringlycalmwhenshehadtoldhimabouttheletter,hadactuallyshruggedashereadit.‘It’sprobablyanewvariationontheambulance-chasingthing.Itallsoundsveryunlikely.I’llcheckitout–butIwouldn’tworry.You’vegotareceipt,youboughtitlegally,soI’mguessingthere’snowaythiscouldstandupinacourtoflaw.’Kristendepositsthebowlofsaladonthetable.‘Whoisthisartistanyway?Doyoulikeolives?’‘HisnameisÉdouardLefèvre,apparently.Butit’snotsigned.Andyes.Thankyou.’‘Imeanttotellyou…afterthelasttimewespoke.’Kristenlooksupatherdaughter,shepherdsher

towardsthedoor.‘Goon,Tasmin.Ineedsomemummytime.’Livwaitsas,withadisgruntledbackwardslook,Tasminslopesoutoftheroom.‘It’sRog.’‘Who?’‘Ihavebadnews.’Shewinces,leansforwardoverthetable.Takesadeep,theatricalbreath.‘Iwanted

totellyoulastweekbutIcouldn’tworkoutwhattosay.Yousee,hedidthinkyouwereterriblynice,butI’mafraidyou’renot…well…hesaysyou’renothistype.’‘Oh?’‘Hereallywantssomeone…younger.I’msosorry.Ijustthoughtyoushouldknowthetruth.Icouldn’t

beartheideaofyousittingtherewaitingforhimtocall.’LivistryingtostraightenherfacewhenSvenenterstheroom.Heisholdingapageofscribblednotes.

‘IjustgotoffthephonewithafriendofmineatSotheby’s.So…thebadnewsisthatTARPisawell-respectedorganization.Theytraceworksthathavebeenstolen,butincreasinglythey’redoingthetougherstuff,worksthatdisappearedduringwartime.They’vereturnedsomequitehigh-profilepiecesinthelastfewyears,somefromnationalcollections.Itappearstobeagrowtharea.’‘ButTheGirlisn’tahigh-profileworkofart.She’sjustalittleoilpaintingwepickeduponour

honeymoon.’‘Well…that’struetoanextent.Liv,didyoulookupthisLefèvrechapafteryougottheletter?’

Itwasthefirstthingshehaddone.AminormemberoftheImpressionistschoolattheturnofthelastcentury.Therewasonesepia-tintedphotographofabigmanwithdarkbrowneyesandhairthatreacheddowntohiscollar.WorkedbrieflyunderMatisse.‘I’mstartingtounderstandwhyhiswork–ifitishiswork–mightbethesubjectofarestitution

request.’‘Goon.’Livpopsanoliveintohermouth.Kristenstandsbesideher,dishclothinhand.‘Ididn’ttellhimabouttheclaim,obviously,andhecan’tvalueitwithoutseeingit,butonthebasisof

thelastsaletheyheldforLefèvre,anditsprovenance,theyreckonitcouldeasilybeworthbetweentwoandthreemillionpounds.’‘What?’shesaysweakly.‘Yes.David’slittleweddinggifthasturnedouttobearathergoodinvestment.Twomillionpounds

minimumwerehisexactwords.Infact,herecommendedyougetaninsurancevaluationdoneimmediately.ApparentlyourLefèvrehasbecomequitethemanintheartmarket.TheRussianshaveathingforhimandit’spushedpricesskyhigh.’Sheswallowstheolivewholeandbeginstochoke.Kristenthumpsheronthebackandpourshera

glassofwater.Shesipsit,hearinghiswordsgoingroundinherhead.Theydon’tseemtomakeanysense.‘So,Isupposeitshouldactuallycomeasnogreatsurprisethattherearepeoplesuddenlycomingoutof

thewoodworktotrytogetapieceoftheaction.IaskedShirleyattheofficetodigoutafewcasestudiesandemailthemover–theseclaimants,theydigaroundalittleinthefamilyhistory,claimthepainting,sayingitwassoprecioustotheirgrandparents,howheartbrokentheyweretoloseit…Thentheygetitback,andwhatdoyouknow?’‘Whatdoweknow?’saysKristen.‘Theysellit.Andthey’rericherthantheirwildestdreams.’Thekitchenfallssilent.‘Twotothreemillionpounds?But–butwepaidtwohundredeurosforher.’‘It’slikeAntiquesRoadshow,’saysKristen,happily.‘That’sDavid.AlwaysdidhavetheMidastouch.’Svenpourshimselfaglassofwine.‘It’sashame

theyknewitwasinyourhouse.Ithink,withoutawarrantorproofofanykind,theymightnothavebeenabletoproveyouhadit.Dotheyknowforsureit’sinthere?’ShethinksofPaul.Andthepitofherstomachdrops.‘Yes,’shesays.‘TheyknowIhaveit.’‘Okay.Well,eitherway,’hesitsdownbesideherandputsahandonhershoulder,‘weneedtogetyou

someseriouslegalrepresentation.Andfast.’

Livsleepwalksthroughthenexttwodays,hermindhumming,herheartracing.Shevisitsthedentist,buysbreadandmilk,deliversworktodeadline,takesmugsofteadownstairstoFranandbringsthembackupwhenFrancomplainsshehasforgottenthesugar.Shebarelyregistersanyofit.SheisthinkingofthewayPaulhadkissedher,thataccidentalfirstmeeting,hisunusuallygenerousofferofhelp.Hadheplannedthisfromthestart?Giventhevalueofthepainting,hadsheactuallybeenthesubjectofacomplicatedsting?SheGooglesPaulMcCafferty,readstestimonialsabouthistimeintheArtSquadoftheNYPD,his‘brilliantcriminalmind’,his‘strategicthinking’.Everythingshehasbelievedabouthimevaporates.Herthoughtsspinandcollide,veeroffinnew,terribledirections.Twiceshehasfeltsosickthatshehashad

toleavethetableandsplashherfacewithcoldwater,restingitagainstthecoolporcelainofthecloakroom.LastNovemberTARPhelpedreturnasmallCézannetoaRussianJewishfamily.Thevalueofthe

paintingwassaidtobeintheregionoffifteenmillionpounds.TARP,itswebsitestatesinthesectionAboutUs,worksonacommissionbasis.Hetextsherthreetimes:Canwetalk?Iknowthisisdifficult,butplease–canwejustdiscussit?He

makeshimselfsoundsoreasonable.Likesomeonealmosttrustworthy.Shesleepssporadically,andstrugglestoeat.Mowatchesallthisand,foronce,saysnothing.Livruns.Everymorning,andsomeeveningstoo.Runninghastakentheplaceofthinking,ofeating,

sometimesofsleeping.Sherunsuntilhershinsburnandherlungsfeelasiftheywillexplode.Sherunsnewroutes:aroundtheback-streetsofSouthwark,acrossthebridgeintothegleamingoutdoorcorridorsoftheCity,duckingthebesuitedbankersandthecoffee-bearingsecretariesasshegoes.SheisheadedoutonFridayeveningatsixo’clock.Itisabeautifulcrispevening,thekindwherethe

wholeofLondonlookslikethebackdroptosomeromanticmovie.Herbreathisvisibleinthestillair,andshehaspulledawoollenbeanielowoverherhead,whichshewillshedsometimebeforeWaterlooBridge.InthedistancethelightsoftheSquareMileglintacrosstheskyline;thebusescrawlalongtheEmbankment;thestreetshum.SheplugsinheriPodearphones,closesthedooroftheblock,ramsherkeysintothepocketofhershorts,andsetsoffatapace.Sheletshermindfloodwiththedeafeningthumpingbeat,dancemusicsorelentlessthatitleavesnoroomforthought.‘Liv.’Hestepsintoherpathandshestumbles,thrustingoutahandandwithdrawingit,asifshe’sbeen

burned,whensherealizeswhoitis.‘Liv–wehavetotalk.’Heiswearingthebrownjacket,hiscollarturnedupagainstthecold,afolderofpapersunderhisarm.

Theireyeslock,andshewhipsroundbeforeshecanregisteranykindoffeelingandsetsoff,herheartracing.Heisbehindher.Shedoesnotlookroundbutshecanjustmakeouthisvoiceabovethevolumeofher

music.Sheturnsituplouder,canalmostfeelthevibrationofhisfootstepsonthepavingbehindher.‘Liv.’Hishandreachesforherarmand,almostinstinctively,shelaunchesherrighthandroundand

whackshim,ferociously,intheface.Theshockofimpactissogreatthattheybothstumblebackwards,hispalmpressedagainsthisnose.Shepullsoutherearphones.‘Leavemealone!’sheyells,recoveringherbalance.‘Justpissoff.’‘Iwanttotalktoyou.’Bloodtricklesthroughhisfingers.Heglancesdownandseesit.‘Jesus.’He

dropshisfiles,strugglestogethissparehandintohispocket,pullingoutalargecottonhandkerchief,whichhepressestohisnose.Theotherhandheholdsupinagestureofpeace.‘Liv,Iknowyou’remadatmerightnowbutyou–’‘Madatyou?Madatyou?Thatdoesn’tbegintocoverwhatIfeelaboutyourightnow.Youtrickyour

wayintomyhome,givemesomebullshitaboutfindingmybag,smooth-talkyourwayintomybed,andthen–oh,wow,whatasurprise–thereisthepaintingyoujusthappentobeemployedtorecoverforagreatbigfatcommission.’

‘What?’Hisvoiceismuffledthroughthehandkerchief.‘What?YouthinkIstoleyourbag?YouthinkImadethisthinghappen?Areyoucrazy?’‘Stayawayfromme.’Hervoiceisshaking,herearsringing.Sheiswalkingbackwardsdowntheroad

awayfromhim.Peoplehavestoppedtowatchthem.Hestartsafterher.‘No.Youlisten.Foroneminute.Iamanex-cop.I’mnotinthebusinessofstealing

bags,oreven,frankly,returningthem.ImetyouandIlikedyouandthenIdiscoveredthat,bysomeshittytwistofFate,youhappentoholdthepaintingthatI’memployedtorecover.IfIcouldhavegiventhatparticularjobtoanyoneelse,believeme,Iwouldhavedone.I’msorry.Butyouhavetolisten.’Hepullsthehandkerchiefawayfromhisface.Thereisbloodonhislip.‘Thatpaintingwasstolen,Liv.I’vebeenthroughthepaperworkamilliontimes.It’sapictureofSophie

Lefèvre,theartist’swife.ShewastakenbytheGermans,andthepaintingdisappearedstraightafterwards.Itwasstolen.’‘Thatwasahundredyearsago.’‘Youthinkthatmakesitright?Youknowwhatit’sliketohavethethingyouloverippedawayfrom

you?’‘Funnilyenough,’shespits,‘Ido.’‘Liv–Iknowyou’reagoodperson.Iknowthishascomeasashock,butifyouthinkaboutityou’lldo

therightthing.Timedoesn’tmakeawrongright.Andyourpaintingwasstolenfromthefamilyofthatpoorgirl.Itwasthelasttheyhadofheranditbelongswiththem.Therightthingisforittogoback.’Hisvoiceissoft,almostconvincing.‘WhenyouknowthetruthaboutwhathappenedtoherIthinkyou’regoingtolookatSophieLefevrequitedifferently.’‘Oh,savemeyoursanctimoniousbullshit.’‘What?’‘YouthinkIdon’tknowwhatit’sworth?’Hestaresather.‘YouthinkIdidn’tcheckoutyouandyourcompany?Howyouoperate?Iknowwhatthisisabout,Paul,

andit’sgotnothingtodowithyourrightsandwrongs.’Shegrimaces.‘God,youmustthinkI’msuchapushover.Thestupidgirlinheremptyhouse,stillgrievingforherhusband,sittingupthereknowingnothingaboutwhat’sunderherownnose.It’saboutmoney,Paul.Youandwhoeverelseisbehindthiswantsherbecauseshe’sworthafortune.Well,it’snotaboutmoneyforme.Ican’tbebought–andneithercanshe.Nowleavemealone.’Shespinsroundandrunsonbeforehecansayanotherword,thedeafeningnoiseofherheartbeatinher

earsdrowningallothersound.SheonlyslowswhenshereachestheSouthBankCentreandturns.Hehasgone,swallowedamongthethousandsofpeoplecrossingtheLondonstreetsontheirwayhome.Bythetimeshemakesitbacktoherdoorsheisholdingbacktears.HerheadisfullofSophieLefèvre.Itwasthelasttheyhadofher.Therightthingisforittogoback.‘Damnyou,’sherepeatsunderherbreath,asshetriestoshakeoffhiswords.Damnyoudamnyoudamnyou.‘Liv!’Shejumpsasthemanstepsoutfromherdoorway.Butit’sherfather,ablackberetrammedonhishead,

arainbowscarfaroundhisneck,andhisoldtweedcoatdowntohisknees.Hisfaceglowsgoldunderthe

sodiumlight.Heholdsopenhisarmstohugher,revealingafadedSexPistolsT-shirtunderneath.‘Thereyouare!Wedidn’thearbackfromyouaftertheGreatHotDate.IthoughtI’dpopbyandseehowitwent!’

19

‘Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?’Livglancesupatthesecretary.‘Thankyou.’Shesitsverystillintheplushleatherseat,gazingunseeing

atthenewspapershehaspretendedtoreadforthelastfifteenminutes.Sheiswearingasuit,theonlyonesheowns.Itisprobablyanunfashionablecut,butsheneededtofeel

heldintoday;structured.Shehasfeltoutofherdepthsinceherfirstvisittothelawyers’offices.Nowsheneedstofeelthatsomethingmorethanhernerveisholdingherup.‘Henry’sgonedowntowaitfortheminReception.Won’tbelongnow.’Withaprofessionalsmile,the

womanturnsonherhighheelsandwalksaway.It’spropercoffee.Soitshouldbe,giventheamountshe’spayingperhour.Therewasnopointinher

fightingthiscase,Svenhadinsisted,withouttheproperfirepower.Hehadconsultedhisfriendsattheauctionhouses,hiscontactsatthebar,astowhomightbestseeofftherestitutionclaim.Unfortunately,headded,biggunscostbigmoney.WhenevershelooksatHenryPhillips,athisgoodhaircut,hisbeautifulhandmadeshoes,theexpensive-holidaysheenonhisplumpface,allshecanthinkis,Youarerichbecauseofpeoplelikeme.Shehearsfootstepsandvoicesoutsidethelobby.Shestands,straighteningherskirt,composingher

face.Andthereheis,wearingthebluewoolscarf,afolderunderhisarm,justvisiblebehindHenry,andtwopeopleshedoesnotrecognize.Hecatcheshereye,andsheturnsawayswiftly,feelingthesmallhairsonherneckprickle.‘Liv?We’reallhere.Wouldyouliketocomethroughtotheboardroom?I’llarrangeforyourcoffeeto

bebroughtin.’ShegazesfixedlyatHenry,whopassesherandholdsopenthedoorfortheotherwomantoenter.She

feelsPaul’spresence,asifheactuallygivesoffheat.Heisthere,besideher.Heiswearingjeans,asifthissortofmeetingisofsolittleconsequencetohimthathemightaswellbeoutforawalk.‘Connedanyotherwomenoutoftheirvaluableslately?’shesaysquietly,soquietlythatonlyhewill

hearit.‘Nope.I’vebeentoobusystealinghandbagsandseducingthevulnerable.’Herheadshootsupandhiseyeslockonhers.Heis,sheseeswithsomeshock,asfuriousassheis.Theboardroomiswood-panelled,itsseatsheavyandcoveredwithleather.Onewallislinedwith

leather-boundbooks.Itsuggestsyearsofreasonablelegalaccommodation,isinfusedwithstatelywisdom.ShefollowsHenry,andwithinsecondstheyareseated,lineduponeachsideofthetable.Shelooksatherpadofpaper,herhands,hercoffee,anythingbutPaul.‘So.’Henrywaitsforcoffeetobepoured,thenplaceshisfingertipstogether.‘Weareheretodiscuss,

withoutprejudice,theclaimmadeagainstMrsHalstonthroughtheorganizationTARP,andtotrytoidentifywhetherthereisanywaywemightreachsomekindofaccommodationwithoutrecoursetolegalmeasures.’

Shegazesatthepeoplesittingopposite.Thewomanisinhermid-thirties.Shehasdarkhairthatfallsincorkscrewsaroundherfaceandanintenseexpression.Sheisscribblingsomethingonanotepad.ThemanbesideherisFrenchandbearstheheavyfeaturesofamiddle-agedSergeGainsbourg.Livoftenthoughtitwaspossibletotellthefacesofdifferentnationalities,evenwithouthearingthemspeak.ThismanissoGallichemightaswellhavebeensmokingaGauloiseandwearingastringofonions.AndthenthereisPaul.‘Ithinkitwouldbeagoodideaiffirstwemadesomeintroductions.MynameisHenryPhillips,and

I’mactingforMrsHalston.ThisisSeanFlaherty,actingforTARP,PaulMcCaffertyandJaneyDickinson,itsdirectors.ThisisMonsieurAndréLefèvre,oftheLefèvrefamily,whoismakingtheclaiminconjunctionwithTARP.MrsHalston,TARPisanorganizationthatspecializesintheseekingoutandrecoveryof–’‘Iknowwhatitis,’shesays.Oh,buthe’ssoclosetoher.Directlyacrossthetable,shecanseetheindividualveinsonhishands,the

wayhiscuffsslidefromwithinhissleeves.Heiswearingtheshirtheworethenighttheymet.Ifshestretchedoutherfeetunderthetable,theywouldtouchhis.Shefoldsthemneatlyunderherchairandreachesforhercoffee.‘Paul,perhapsyouwouldliketoexplaintoMrsHalstonhowthisclaimhascomeabout.’‘Yes,’shesays,andhervoiceisicy.‘I’dliketohear.’Sheslowlyliftsherface,andPaulislookingstraightather.Shewondersifhecandetecthowhardshe

isvibrating.Shefeelsitmustbeobvioustoeveryone;hereverybreathbetraysher.‘Well…I’dliketostartwithanapology,’hesays.‘Iamconsciousthatthiswillhavecomeasashock.

Thatisunfortunate.Thesadfactisthatthereisnowayofgoingaboutthesethingsnicely.’Heislookingdirectlyather.Shecanfeelhimwaitingforhertoacknowledgehim,somesign.Under

thedesk,shegripsherknees,diggingherfingernailsintotheskintogivehersomethingtofocuson.‘Nobodywantstotakesomethingthatlegitimatelybelongstosomeoneelse.Andthatisnotwhatwe’re

about.Butthefactexiststhat,waybackduringwartime,awrongwasdone.Apainting,TheGirlYouLeftBehind,byÉdouardLefèvre,ownedandlovedbyhiswife,wastakenandpassedintoGermanpossession.’‘Youdon’tknowthat,’shesays.‘Liv.’Henry’svoicecontainsawarning.‘Wehaveobtaineddocumentaryevidence,adiaryownedbyaneighbourofMadameLefèvre,that

suggestsaportraitoftheartist’swifewasstolenorobtainedcoercivelybyaGermanKommandantlivingintheareaatthetime.Now,thiscaseisunusualinthatmostoftheworkwedoisbasedonlossessufferedintheSecondWorldWar,andwebelievetheinitialthefttookplaceduringtheFirstWorldWar.ButtheHagueConventionstillapplies.’‘Sowhynow?’shesays.‘Nearlyahundredyearsafteryousayitwasstolen.ConvenientthatMonsieur

Lefèvrejusthappenstobeworthawholelotmoremoneynow,wouldn’tyousay?’‘Thevalueisimmaterial.’‘Fine.ifthevalueisimmaterial,I’llcompensateyou.Rightnow.Youwantmetogiveyouwhatwe

paidforit?BecauseIstillhavethereceipt.Willyoutakethatamountandleavemealone?’Theroomfallssilent.

Henryreachesacrossandtouchesherarm.Herknucklesarewhitewheretheyclutchherpen.‘IfImayinterject,’hesayssmoothly.‘Thepurposeofthismeetingistoofferanumberofsolutionstotheissue,andseewhetheranyofthemmaybeacceptable.’JaneyDickinsonexchangesafewwhisperedwordswithAndréLefèvre.Shewearsthestudiedcalmof

theprimary-schoolteacher.‘IhavetosayherethatasfarastheLefèvrefamilyareconcerned,theonlythingthatwouldbeacceptableisthereturnoftheirpainting,’shesays.‘Exceptit’snottheirpainting,’saysLiv.‘UndertheHagueConventionitis,’shesayscalmly.‘That’sbullshit.’‘It’sthelaw.’LivglancesupandPaulisstaringather.Hisexpressiondoesn’tchange,butinhiseyesthereisthehint

ofanapology.Forwhat?Thisyellingacrossavarnishedmahoganytable?Astolennight?Astolenpainting?Sheisnotsure.Don’tlookatme,shetellshimsilently.‘Perhaps…’SeanFlahertysays.‘Perhaps,asHenrysays,wecouldatleastoutlinesomeofthe

possiblesolutions.’‘Oh,youcanoutlinethem,’saysLiv.‘Thereareanumberofprecedentsinsuchcases.OneisthatMrsHalstonisfreetoextinguishthe

claim.Thismeans,MrsHalston,thatyouwouldpaytheLefèvrefamilythevalueofthepaintingandretainit.’JaneyDickinsondoesn’tlookupfromherpad.‘AsIhavealreadystated,thefamilyisnotinterestedin

money.Theywantthepainting.’‘Oh,right,’saysLiv.‘YouthinkI’venevernegotiatedanythingbefore?ThatIdon’tknowanopening

salvo?’‘Liv,’Henrysaysagain,‘ifwecould…’‘Iknowwhat’sgoingonhere.“Oh,no,wedon’twantmoney.”Untilwereachafigurethatequalsa

lotterywin.Then,somehow,everyonemanagestogetovertheirhurtfeelings.’‘Liv…’Henrysays,quietly.Sheletsoutabreath.Underthetableherhandsareshaking.‘Thereareoccasionsonwhichanagreementhasbeenreachedtosharethepainting.Inthecaseofwhat

wecallindivisibleassets,suchasthis,itis,admittedly,complicated.Buttherehavebeencaseswherepartieshaveagreedto,ifyoulike,timeshareaworkofart,orhaveagreedthattheywillownitjointlybutallowittobeshowninamajorgallery.Thiswould,ofcourse,beaccompaniedbynoticesinformingvisitorsbothofitslootedpastandthegenerosityofitspreviousowners.’Livshakesherheadmutely.‘Thereisthepossibilityofsaleanddivision,wherewe–’‘No,’sayLivandLefèvreinunison.‘MsHalston.’‘MrsHalston,’shesays.‘MrsHalston.’Paul’stonehashardened.‘Iamobligedtoinformyouthatourcaseisverystrong.We

haveagooddealofevidencesupportingrestitution,andabodyofprecedentthatlendsweighttoourcause.Inyourowninterests,Isuggestyouthinkquitecarefullyabouttheissueofsettlement.’

Theroomfallssilent.‘Isthatmeanttofrightenme?’Livasks.‘No,’hesaysslowly.‘Butitis,Iwouldremindyou,ineveryone’sbestinterestsforthistobesettled

amicably.It’snotgoingtogoaway.I–wearenotgoingtogoaway.’Sheseeshimsuddenly,hisarmslungacrosshernakedwaist,hismopofbrownhairrestingagainsther

leftbreast.Sheseeshiseyes,smiling,inthehalf-light.Sheliftsherchinalittle.‘She’snotyourstotake,’shesays.‘I’llseeyouincourt.’

TheyareinHenry’soffice.Shehasdrunkalargewhisky.Shehasneverinherlifedrunkwhiskyindaytime,butHenryhaspouredherone,asifitistotallyexpected.Hewaitsafewminutesasshetakesacoupleofsips.‘Ishouldwarnyou,itwillbeanexpensivecase,’hesays,leaningbackinhischair.‘Howexpensive?’‘Well,inmanycasestheartworkhashadtobesoldafterthecasesimplytopaythelegalfees.There

wasaclaimantinConnecticutrecentlywhorecoveredstolenworksworthtwenty-twomilliondollars.Buttheyowedmorethantenmillioninlegalfeestoonelawyeralone.Wewillneedtopayexperts,especiallyFrenchlegalexperts,giventhepainting’shistory.Andthesecasescandragon,Liv.’‘Buttheyhavetopayourcostsifwewin,yes?’‘Notnecessarily.’Shedigeststhis.‘Well,whatarewetalking–fivefigures?’‘Iwouldbankonsix.Itdependsontheirfirepower.Buttheydohaveprecedentontheirside.’Henry

shrugs.‘Wecanprovethatyouhavegoodtitle.Buttheredoseemtobegapsinthispainting’shistory,asitstands,andiftheyhaveevidencethatitwasremovedinwartime,then…’‘Sixfigures?’shesays,standingandpacingaroundtheroom.‘Ican’tbelievethis.Ican’tbelieve

someonecanjustwalkintomylifeanddemandtotakesomethingthatbelongstome.SomethingI’veownedforever.’‘Theircaseisfarfromwatertight.ButIhavetopointoutthatthepoliticalclimateisinfavourof

claimantsatthemoment.Sotheby’ssoldthirty-eightsuchworkslastyear.Itsoldnoneadecadeearlier.’Shefeelselectrified,hernerveendingsstilljanglingfromtheencounter.‘He’s–they’renothaving

her,’shesays.‘Butthemoney.Youimpliedyouwerestretchedalready.’‘I’llremortgage,’shesays.‘IsthereanythingIcandotokeepthecostsdown?’Henryleansoverhisdesk.‘Ifyouchoosetofightthis,there’salotyoucando.Mostimportantly,the

moreyoucanfindoutaboutthepainting’sprovenance,thestrongerpositionwe’llbein.OtherwiseIhavetoputsomeonehereontoit,andchargeyouanhourlyrate,andthat’swithoutthecostofexpertwitnessesoncewegotocourt.Isuggestthatifyoucandothatwe’llseewhereweareandI’lllookintoinstructingabarrister.’‘I’llstartthesearch.’Shekeepshearingthecertaintyoftheirvoices.Ourcaseisverystrong.Wehaveabodyofprecedent

thatlendsweighttoourcause.SheseesPaul’sface,hisfakeconcern:Itisineverybody’sinterestsforthistobesettledamicably.Shesipsthewhisky,anddeflatesalittle.Shefeelssuddenlyveryalone.‘Henry,whatwouldyoudo?If

itwereyou,Imean.’

Hepresseshisfingertipstogetherandreststhemagainsthisnose.‘Ithinkthisisaterriblyunfairsituation.But,Liv,Iwouldpersonallybecautiousaboutproceedingtocourt.Thesecasescanget…ugly.Itmightbeworthyourwhilejustthinkingfurtheraboutwhetherthereisanywayyoucouldsettle.’ShekeepsseeingPaul’sface.‘No,’shesaysbaldly.‘Heisnothavingher.’‘Evenif–’‘No.’Shefeelshiseyesonherasshegathersupherthingsandleavestheroom.

Pauldialsthenumberforthefourthtime,restshisfingerabovethedialbutton,thenchangeshismindandstickshistelephoneinhisbackpocket.Acrosstheroadamaninasuitisarguingwithatrafficwarden,gesticulatingwildlyasthewardengazesathimimpassively.‘Areyoucomingforlunch?’Janeyappearsatthedoor.‘Thetableisbookedforonethirty.’Shemusthavejustappliedperfume.Itpuncturestheair,evenonhissideofhisdesk.‘Youreallyneed

methere?’Heisnotinthemoodforsmalltalk.Hedoesn’twanttobecharming,todetailthecompany’sastonishingtrackrecordinrecovery.Hedoesn’twanttofindhimselfseatedbesideJaney,tofeelherleaningagainsthimasshelaughs,herkneegravitatingtowardshis.Morepertinently,hedoesnotlikeAndréLefèvre,withhissuspiciouseyesandhisdownturnedmouth.Hehasrarelytakensuchaninstantdisliketoaclient.‘CanIaskwhenyoufirstrealizedthepaintingwasmissing?’hehadasked.‘Wediscoveritthroughanaudit.’‘Soyoudidn’tmissitpersonally?’‘Personally?’Hehadshruggedattheuseoftheword.‘Whyshouldsomeoneelsebenefitfinancially

fromaworkthatshouldbeinourpossession?’‘Youdon’twanttocome?Why?’saysJaney.‘Whatelsehaveyougoton?’‘IthoughtI’dcatchupwithsomepaperwork.’Janeyletshergazerestonhim.Sheiswearinglipstick.Andheels.Shedoeshavegoodlegs,hethinks

absently.‘Weneedthiscase,Paul.AndweneedtogiveAndrétheconfidencethatwe’regoingtowin.’‘InthatcaseIthinkmytimewouldbebetterspentdoingbackgroundthanhavinglunchwithhim.’He

doesn’tlookather.Hisjawseemstohavesetatamulishangle.He’sbeensourwitheveryoneallweek.‘TakeMiriam,’hesays.‘Shedeservesanicelunch.’‘Idon’tthinkourbudgetstretchestotreatingsecretariesasandwhenwefeellikeit.’‘Idon’tseewhynot.AndLefèvremightlikeher.Miriam?Miriam?’Hekeepshisgazesteadilyon

Janey’s,leansbackinhischair.Shepokesherheadaroundthedoor,hermouthhalffulloftunasandwich.‘Yes?’‘WouldyouliketotakemyplaceatalunchwithMonsieurLefèvre?’‘Paul,we–’Janey’sjawclenches.Miriamglancesbetweenthetwoofthem.Sheswallowshermouthful.‘That’sverykind.But…’‘ButMiriamhasasandwich.Andcontractstotypeup.Thankyou,Miriam.’Shewaitsuntilthedoor

closes,pursesherlipsinthought.‘Iseverythingallright,Paul?’‘Everything’sfine.’

‘Well.’Shecannotkeeptheedgefromhervoice.‘IseeIcan’tpersuadeyou.I’lllookforwardtohearingwhatyou’veturneduponthecase.I’msureit’llbeconclusive.’Shestandsthereamomentlongerandthensheleaves.HecanhearhertalkinginFrenchwithLefèvre

astheyheadoutoftheoffice.Paulsitsandstaresaheadofhim.‘Hey,Miriam?’Shereappears,holdingapieceofsandwich.‘Sorry.Thatwas–’‘It’sfine.’Shesmiles,popsabitofescapingbreadbackintohermouth,andaddssomethinghecannot

decipher.Itisnotclearwhethersheheardanythingofthepreviousconversation.‘Anycalls?’Sheswallowsnoisily.‘OnlytheheadoftheMuseumsAssociation,likeIsaidbefore.Doyouwantme

tocallhimbackforyou?’Hissmileissmallanddoesn’tstretchasfarashiseyes.‘No,don’tworry.’Heletsherclosethedoor

andhissigh,althoughsoftandlow,fillsthesilence.

Livtakesthepaintingoffthewall.Sherunsherfingerslightlyovertheoilsurface,feelingthegraduatedwhorlsandstrokes,wonderingatthefactthattheywereplacedtherebytheartist’sownhand,andgazesatthewomanonthecanvas.Thegildedframeischippedinplaces,butshehasalwaysfounditcharming;hasenjoyedthecontrastbetweenwhatwasoldandshabbilyornate,andthecrisp,cleanlinesaroundher.ShehaslikedthefactthatTheGirlYouLeftBehindistheonlycolourfulthingintheroom,antiqueandprecious,glowinglikealittlejewelattheendofherbed.ExceptnowsheisnotjustTheGirl,asharedpieceofhistory,anintimatejokebetweenhusbandand

wife.Sheisnowthewifeofafamousartist,missing,possiblymurdered.Sheisthelastlinktoahusbandinaconcentrationcamp.Sheisamissingpainting,thesubjectofalawsuit,thefuturefocusofinvestigations.Shedoesnotknowhowtofeelaboutthisnewversion:sheonlyknowsthatshehaslostsomepartofheralready.Thepainting…wastakenandpassedintoGermanpossession.AndréLefèvre,hisfaceblanklybelligerent,barelyevenbotheringtoglanceatSophie’simage.And

McCafferty.EverytimesheremembersPaulMcCaffertyinthatmeetingroomherbrainhumswithanger.Sometimesshefeelsasifsheisburningwithit,asifsheispermanentlyoverheating.HowcanshejusthandoverSophie?Livpullsoutherrunningshoesfromtheboxunderthebed,changesintosweatpantsand,shovingher

keyandphoneintoherpocket,setsoffatarun.ShepassesFran,sittingonherupturnedcrate,watchingsilentlyassheheadsoffalongtheriver,and

liftsahandingreeting.Shedoesn’twanttotalk.Itisearlyafternoon,andtheedgesoftheThamesaremottledwithstraymeanderingofficeworkers

goingbackafterlonglunches,groupsofschoolchildren,bossedandherdedbyharassedteachers,boredyoungmotherswithignoredbabies,textingdistractedlyastheypushbuggies.Sheruns,duckinginandoutofthem,slowedonlybyherowntightlungsandtheoccasionalstitch,runninguntilsheisjustanotherbodyinthecrowd,invisible,indistinguishable.Shepushesthroughit.Sherunsuntilhershinsburn,untilsweatformsadarkTacrossherback,untilherfaceglistens.Sherunsuntilithurts,untilshecanthinkofnothingbutthesimple,physicalpain.

SheisfinallywalkingbackalongsideSomersetHousewhenherphonesignalsatextmessage.Shestopsandpullsitfromherpocket,wipingawaythesweatthatstingshereyes.

Liv.Callme.

Livhalfwalks,halfrunstotheedgeofthewater,andthen,beforeshecanthinkaboutit,sheswingsherarminafluidmotionandhurlsherphoneintotheThames.Itisgonewithoutsound,withoutanybodyevennoticing,intotheslate-greyswirlingwatersthatrushtowardsthecentre.

20February1917

Dearestsister

Itisthreeweeksandfourdayssinceyouleft.Idon’tknowifthisletterwillfindyouor,indeed,iftheothersdid;themayorhassetupanewlineofcommunicationandpromiseshewillsendthisononcehegetswordthatitissecure.SoIwait,andIpray.Ithasrainedforfourteendays,turningwhatremainedoftheroadstomudthatsucksatourlegsandpullsthehorses’

shoesfromtheirhoofs.Wehaverarelyventuredoutbeyondthesquare:itistoocoldandtoodifficult,andintruthInolongerwishtoleavethechildren,evenifjustforafewminutes.Édithsatbythewindowforthreedaysafteryouleft,refusingtomove,untilIfearedshewouldbeillandphysicallyforcedhertocometothetableand,later,tobed.Shenolongerspeaks,herfacesetinhollow-eyedwatchfulness,herhandspermanentlyattachedtomyskirtsasifsheisfullyexpectingsomeonetocomeandsnatchmeawaytoo.I’mafraidIhavebarelyhadtimetocomforther.TherearefewerGermanscomingintheeveningsnow,butenoughthatIhavetoworkeverynightuntilmidnightjusttofeedandclearupafterthem.

Auréliendisappeared.Heleftshortlyafteryoudid.IhearfromMadameLouvierthatheisstillinStPéronne,stayingwithJacquesArriègeabovethetabac,butintruthIhavenoappetitetoseehim.HeisnobetterthanKommandantHenckeninhisbetrayalofyou.Forallyourfaithinpeople’sgoodness,IcannotbelievethatifHerrKommandantgenuinelywishedyouwellhewouldhavetornyoufromourembraceinsuchamanner,sothatthewholetownmightbecomeawareofyourallegedsins.Icannotseeanyevidenceofhumanityineitheroftheiractions.Isimplycannot.

Iprayforyou,Sophie.IseeyourfacewhenIwakeinthemorning,andwhenIturnoversomepartofmestartlesthatyouarenotthereontheotherpillow,yourhairtiedinafatplait,makingmelaughandconjuringfoodfromyourimagination.Iturntocallforyouatthebarandthereisjustasilencewhereyoushouldbe.Mimiclimbsuptoyourbedroomandpeersinasifshe,too,expectstofindyou,seatedbeforeyourbureau,writingorgazingintothemiddledistance,yourheadfullofdreams.Doyourememberwhenweusedtostandatthatwindowandimaginewhatlaybeyondit?Whenwedreamedoffairiesandprincessesandthosenoblemenwhomightcometorescueus?Iwonderwhatourchildishselveswouldhavemadeofthisplacenow,withitspockedroads,itsmenlikewraithsinrags,anditsstarvingchildren.

Thetownhasbeensoquietsinceyouleft.Itisasifitsveryspiritleftwithyou.MadameLouviercomesin,perversetothelast,andinsiststhatyournamemuststillbeheard.Sheharanguesanyonewhowilllisten.HerrKommandantisnotamongthehandfulofGermanswhoarrivefortheirmealintheevening.Itrulybelievehecannotmeetmygaze.OrperhapsheknowsIshouldliketorunhimthroughwithmygoodparingknifeandhasdecidedtostayaway.

Littlesnippetsofinformationstillfindtheirwaythrough:ascrapofpaperundermydoortoldofanotheroutbreakofinfluenzanearLille,aconvoyofAlliedsoldierscapturednearDouai,horseskilledformeatontheBelgianborder.NowordfromJean-Michel.Nowordfromyou.

SomedaysIfeelasifIamburiedinamineandcanhearonlytheechoesofvoicesatsomedistance.AllthoseIlove,asidefromthechildren,havebeentakenawayfrommeandInolongerknowwhetheranyofyouarealiveordead.SometimesmyfearforyougrowssogreatthatIfindmyselfparalysed,andIwillbeinthemiddleofstirringsomesouporlayingatableandIhavetoforcemyselftobreathe,totellmyselfImustbestrongforthechildren.Mostofall,Imusthavefaith.WhatwouldSophiedo?Iaskmyselffirmly,andtheanswerisalwaysclear.

Please,belovedsister,takecare.DonotinflametheGermansfurther,eveniftheyareyourcaptors.Donottakerisks,nomatterhowgreattheimpulse.Allthatmattersisthatyoureturntoussafely;youandJean-MichelandyourbelovedÉdouard.Itellmyselfthatthisletterwillreachyou.Itellmyselfthatperhaps,justperhaps,thetwoofyouaretogether,andnotinthewaythatIfearmost.ItellmyselfGodmustbejust,howeverHechoosestotoywithourfuturesthisdarkday.

Staysafe,Sophie.

YourlovingsisterHélène

21

Paulputsdowntheletter,obtainedfromacacheofcorrespondencestockpiledbyresistanceoperativesduringtheFirstWorldWar.ItistheonlypieceofevidencehehasfoundofSophieLefèvre’sfamilyandit,liketheothers,appearsnottohavereachedher.TheGirlYouLeftBehindisnowPaul’sprioritycase.Heploughsthroughhisusualsources:museums,

archivists,auctionhouses,expertsininternationalartcases.Offtherecord,hespeakstolessbenignsources:oldacquaintancesatScotlandYard,contactsfromtheworldofartcrime,aRomanianknownforrecordingalmostmathematicallytheundergroundmovementofawholeswatheofstolenEuropeanart.Hediscoversthesefacts:thatÉdouardLefèvrehad,untilrecently,beentheleastfamousartistofthe

AcadémieMatisse.Thereareonlytwoacademicswhospecializeinhiswork,andneitherofthemknowsanymorethanhedoesaboutTheGirlYouLeftBehind.AphotographandsomewrittenjournalsobtainedbytheLefèvrefamilyhaveturnedupthefactthatthe

paintinghunginfullviewinthehotelknownasLeCoqRougeinStPéronne,atownoccupiedbyGermansduringtheFirstWorldWar.ItdisappearedwithouttracesometimeafterSophieLefèvrewasarrested.Andthenthereisagapofsomethirtyyearsbeforethepaintingreappears,inthepossessionofone

LouanneBaker,whokeptitinherhomeintheUSforthirtyyearsuntilshemovedtoSpain,whereshedied,andDavidHalstonboughtit.Whathappenedtoitbetweenthosedates?Ifitreallywaslooted,wherewasittaken?Whathappened

toSophieLefèvre,whoseemstohavesimplyvanishedfromhistory?Thefactsexist,likethedotsinajoin-the-dotspuzzlebutoneinwhichthepictureneverbecomesclear.ThereismorewrittenaboutSophieLefèvre’spaintingthanthereisabouther.DuringtheSecondWorldWar,lootedtreasureswerekeptinsecurevaultsinGermany,underground,

protected.Theseartworks,millionsofthem,hadbeentargetedwithmilitaryefficiency,aidedbyunscrupulousdealersandexperts.Thiswasnottherandomplunderofsoldiersinbattle:thislootingwassystematic,controlled,regulatedanddocumented.ButthereislittlesurvivingdocumentationfromtheFirstWorldWar,regardinglootedproperty,

especiallyinnorthernFrance.Itmeans,Janeysays,thatthisissomethingofatestcase.Shesaysitwithsomepride.Forthetruthis,thiscaseisvitaltotheircompany.Thereareincreasingnumbersoforganizationsliketheirsspringingup,allsourcingprovenance,listingworksthatrelativesofthedeadhavespentdecadestryingtotrace.Nowthereareno-winno-feefirmsundercuttingthem,promisingtheearthtopeoplewhoarewillingtobelieveanythingtogettheirbelovedobjectback.SeanreportsthatLiv’slawyerhastriedvariouslegalmeanstogetthecasestruckout.Heclaimsthatit

fallsbeyondthestatuteoflimitations,thatthesaletoDavidfromMarianneBakerhadbeen‘innocent’.Foravarietyofcomplicatedreasons,thesehaveallfailed.Theyare,saysSean,cheerfully,headedto

court.‘Lookslikenextweek.WehaveJusticeBerger.He’sonlyeverfoundfortheclaimantinthesecases.Lookinggood!’‘Great,’saysPaul.ThereisanA4photocopyofTheGirlYouLeftBehindpinnedupinhisoffice,amongotherpaintings

missingorsubjecttorestitutionrequests.PaullooksupperiodicallyandwishesthateverytimehedidsoLivHalstonwasn’tlookingbackathim.Paulswitcheshisattentiontothepapersinfrontofhim.‘Thisimageissuchasonewouldnotexpecttofindinahumbleprovincialhotel,’theKommandantwritestohiswifeatonepoint.‘IntruthIcannottakemyeyesfromit.’It?Paulwonders.Orher?

Severalmilesaway,Livisalsoworking.Sherisesatseven,pullsonherrunningshoesandheadsoff,sprintingalongsidetheriver,musicinherears,herheartbeatthumpingalongwithherfootsteps.ShegetshomeafterMoleavesforwork,showers,makesherselfbreakfast,dropsateainwithFran,butnowsheleavestheGlassHouse,spendingherdaysinspecialistartlibraries,inthefuggyarchivesofgalleries,ontheInternet,chasingleads.SheisindailycontactwithHenry,poppinginwheneverheaskstoholdaconference,explainingtheimportanceofFrenchlegaltestimony,thedifficultyoffindingexpertwitnesses.‘Sobasically,’shesays,‘youwantmetocomeupwithconcreteevidenceonapaintingaboutwhichnothinghasbeenrecordedofawomanwhodoesn’tseemtoexist.’Henrysmilesnervouslyather.Hedoesthisalot.Shelivesandbreathesthepainting.SheisblindtotheapproachofChristmas,herfather’splaintive

calls.ShecannotseebeyondherdeterminationthatPaulshouldnottakeit.Henryhasgivenherallthedisclosurefilesfromtheotherside–copiesoflettersbetweenSophieandherhusband,referencestothepaintingandthelittletownwheretheylived.Shereadsthroughhundredsofacademicandpoliticalpapers,newspaperreportsaboutrestitution:

aboutfamiliesdestroyedinDachau,theirsurvivinggrandchildrenborrowingmoneytorecoveraTitian;aPolishfamily,whoseonlysurvivingmemberdiedhappytwomonthsafterthereturnofherfather’slittleRodinsculpture.Nearlyallthesearticlesarewrittenfromthepointofviewoftheclaimant,thefamilywholosteverythingandfoundthegrandmother’spaintingagainsttheodds.Thereaderisinvitedtorejoicewiththemwhentheywinitback.Theword‘injustice’appearsinalmosteveryparagraph.Thearticlesrarelyoffertheopinionofthepersonwhohadboughtitingoodfaithandlostit.AndeverywhereshegoesshedetectsPaul’sfootprints,asifsheisaskingthewrongquestions,looking

inthewrongplaces,asifsheissimplyprocessinginformationthathehasalreadyacquired.Shestandsupandstretches,walkingaroundthestudy.ShehasmovedTheGirlYouLeftBehindontoa

bookshelfwhilesheworks,asifshemightgiveherinspiration.Shefindsherselflookingatherallthetimenow,asifsheisconsciousthattheirtimetogethermaybelimited.Andthecourtdatedrawsevercloser,alwaysthere,likethedrumbeatofadistantbattle.Givemetheanswers,Sophie.Atthebloodyleast,givemeaclue.

‘Hey.’Moappearsatthedoor,eatingapotofyoghurt.Sixweekson,sheisstilllivingintheGlassHouse.Liv

isgratefulforherpresence.Shestretchesandchecksherwatch.‘Isitthreeo’clockalready?God.I’vegotalmostnowheretoday.’

‘Youmightwanttotakealookatthis.’MopullsacopyoftheLondoneveningpaperfromunderherarmandhandsitover.‘Pagethree.’Livopensit.Award-winningArchitect’sWidowInMillion-poundBattleForNazi-lootedArt,theheadlinesays.

Underneathisahalf-pagepictureofDavidandheratacharityeventseveralyearspreviously.Sheiswearinganelectricbluedressandisholdingupachampagneglass,asiftoastingthecamera.NearbyisasmallinsetpictureofTheGirlYouLeftBehindwithacaption:‘Impressionistpaintingworthmillionswas“stolenbyGerman”.’‘Nicedress,’saysMo.TheblooddrainsfromLiv’sface.Shedoesnotrecognizethesmilingpartygoerinthepicture,awoman

fromadifferentlife.‘Oh,myGod…’Shefeelsasifsomeonehasthrownopenthedoorsofherhouse,herbedroom.‘Iguessit’sintheirintereststomakeyoulooklikesomekindofhigh-societywitch.Thatwaytheycan

spintheirpoor-French-victimline.’Livcloseshereyes.Ifshekeepsthemclosed,perhapsitwilljustgoaway.‘It’shistoricallywrong,obviously.Imean,therewerenoNazisintheFirstWorldWar.SoIdoubtif

anyonewilltakeanynotice.Imean,Iwouldn’tworryoranything.’Thereisalongsilence.‘AndIdon’tthinkanyonewillrecognizeyou.Youlookquitedifferentthesedays.Much…’shestrugglesforwords‘…poorer.Andkindofolder.’Livopenshereyes.Theresheis,standingbesideDavid,likesomewealthy,carefreeversionofherself.Mopullsthespoonfromhermouthandinspectsit.‘Justdon’tlookattheonlineversion,okay?Some

ofthereadercommentsareabit…strong.’Livlooksup.‘Oh,youknow.Everyonehasanopinionthesedays.It’sallbullshit.’Moputsthekettleon.‘Hey,are

youokayifRaniccomesoverthisweekend?Heshareshisplacewith,like,fifteenotherpeople.It’squitenicetobeabletostickyourlegsoutinfrontofthetellywithoutaccidentallykickingsomeone’sarse.’

Livworksallevening,tryingtoquellhergrowinganxiety.Shekeepsseeingthatnewspaperreport:theheadline,thesocietywifewithherraisedglassofchampagne.ShecallsHenry,whotellshertoignoreit,thatit’sparforthecourse.Shefindsherselflisteningalmostforensicallytohistone,tryingtoassesswhetherheisasconfidentashesounds.‘Listen,Liv.It’sabigcase.They’regoingtoplaydirty.Youneedtobraceyourself.’Hehasbriefeda

barrister.Hetellshertheman’snameasifsheshouldhaveheardofhim.SheaskshowmuchhecostsandhearsHenryshufflingpapers.Whenhetellsherthesum,shefeelsasiftheairhasbeenpunchedcleanoutofherlungs.Thephoneringsthreetimes;onceitisherfather,tellingherhehasajobinasmalltouringproduction

ofRunforYourWife.Shetellshimabsentlythatshe’spleasedforhim,urgeshimnottorunafteranyoneelse’s.‘ThatisexactlywhatCarolinesaid!’heexclaims,andringsoff.ThesecondcallisKristen.‘Oh,myGod,’shesays,breakinginwithoutevenahello.‘Ijustsawthe

paper.’‘Yes.Notthebestafternoon’sreading.’

ShehearsKristen’shandslidingoverthereceiver,amuffledconversation.‘Svensaysdon’tspeaktoanyoneagain.Justdon’tsayaword.’‘Ididn’t.’‘Thenwheredidtheygetallthatawfulstuff?’‘HenrysaysitprobablycameoutofTARP.It’sintheirintereststoleakinformationthatmakesthecase

soundasbadaspossible.’‘ShallIcomeover?I’mnotdoingmuchatthemoment.’‘It’ssweetofyou,Kristen,butI’mfine.’Shedoesn’twanttotalktoanyone.‘Well,Icancometocourtwithyou,ifyoulike.Orifyouwantedmetoputyoursideofit,I’msureI

havecontacts.PerhapssomethinginHello!?’‘That–no.Thanks.’Livputsdownthephone.Itwillbeeverywherenow.Kristenisafarmore

effectivedisseminatorofinformationthantheeveningpaper.Livisanticipatinghavingtoexplainherselftofriends,acquaintances.Thepaintingisalreadysomehownolongerhers.Itisamatterofpublicrecord,afocusfordiscussion,asymbolofawrong.Assheputsthephonedownitringsimmediately,makingherjump.‘Kristen,I–’‘IsthatOliviaHalston?’Aman’svoice.Shehesitates.‘Yes?’‘MynameisRobertSchiller.I’mtheartscorrespondentforTheTimes.I’msorryifI’mcallingatan

inopportunetime,butI’mputtingtogetherabackgroundpieceonthispaintingofyoursandIwaswonderingifyou–’‘No.No,thankyou.’Sheslamsthephonedown.Shestaresatitsuspiciously,thenremovesthereceiver

fromitscradle,afraidthatitwillringagain.Threetimessheplacesthereceiverbackonthetelephoneandeachtimeitringsstraightaway.Journalistsleavetheirnamesandnumbers.Theysoundfriendly,ingratiating.Theypromisefairness,apologizefortakinguphertime.Shesitsintheemptyhouse,listeningtoherheartthumping.

Moarrivesbackshortlyafteronea.m.andfindsherinfrontofthecomputer,thephoneoffthehook.SheisemailingeverylivingexpertonFrenchturn-of-the-twentieth-centuryart.Iwaswonderingifyouknewanythingabout…;Iamtryingtofillinthehistoryof…;…anythingyouhave,orknow–anythingatall…centuryart.‘Youwanttea?’Mosays,sheddinghercoat.‘Thanks.’Livdoesn’tlookup.Hereyesaresore.Sheknowsshehasreachedthepointwheresheis

merelyflickingblindlybetweenwebsites,checkingandrecheckingheremail,butshecan’tstopherself.Feelingasifsheisdoingsomething,nomatterhowpointless,isbetterthanthealternative.Mositsdownoppositeherinthekitchenandpushesamugtowardsher.‘Youlookterrible.’‘Thanks.’Mowatcheshertypelistlessly,takesasipofhertea,andthenpullsherchairclosertoLiv.‘Okay.So

let’slookatthiswithmyHistoryofArt,BAHons,headon.You’vebeenthroughthemuseumarchives?Auctioncatalogues?Dealers?’Livshutshercomputer.‘I’vedonethemall.’

‘YousaidDavidgotthepaintingfromanAmericanwoman.Couldyounotaskherwherehermothergotitfrom?’Sheshufflesthroughthepapers.‘The…othersidehavealreadyaskedher.Shedoesn’tknow.Louanne

Bakerhadit,andthenweboughtit.That’sallsheknows.That’sallsheeverbloodyneededtoknow.’Shestaresatthecopyoftheeveningpaper,itsintimationsthatsheandDavidweresomehowwrong,

somehowmorallydeficienttohaveownedthepaintingatall.SheseesPaul’sface,hiseyesonheratthelawyer’soffice.Mo’svoiceisuncharacteristicallyquiet.‘Youokay?’‘Yes.No.Ilovethispainting,Mo.Ireallyloveit.Iknowitsoundsstupid,butthethoughtoflosingher

is…It’slikelosingpartofmyself.’Mo’seyebrowsliftaquarterofaninch.‘I’msorry.It’sjust…Findingyourselfinthenewspapersaspublicenemynumberone,it’s…Oh,

bloodyhell,Mo,Idon’tknowwhatonearthI’mdoing.I’mfightingamanwhodoesthisforalivingandI’mscrabblingaroundforscrapsandIhaven’tabloodyclue.’Sherealizes,humiliated,thatsheisabouttocry.Mopullsthefolderstowardsher.‘Gooutside,’shesays.‘Gooutontothedeckandstareattheskyfor

tenminutesandremindyourselfthatultimatelyoursisameaninglessandfutileexistenceandthatourlittleplanetwillprobablybeswallowedbyablackholesothatnoneofthiswillhaveanypointanyway.AndI’llseeifIcanhelp.’Livsniffs.‘Butyoumustbeexhausted.’‘Nah.Ineedtowinddownafterashift.This’llputmetosleepnicely.Goon.’Shebeginstoflick

throughthefoldersonthetable.Livwipeshereyes,pullsonasweaterandstepsoutsideontothedeck.Outhereshefeelscuriously

weightless,intheendlessblackofnight.Shegazesdownatthevastcityspreadbeneathher,andbreathesinthecoldair.Shestretches,feelingthetightnessinhershoulders,thetensioninherneck.Andalways,somewhereunderneath,thesensethatsheismissingsomething;secretsthatfloatjustoutofsight.Whenshewalksintothekitchentenminuteslater,Moisscribblingnotesonherlegalpad.‘Doyou

rememberMrChambers?’‘Chambers?’‘Medievalpainting.I’msureyoudidthatcourse.Ikeepthinkingaboutsomethinghesaidthatstuckwith

me–it’sabouttheonlythingthatdid.Hesaidthatsometimesthehistoryofapaintingisnotjustaboutapainting.It’salsothehistoryofafamily,withallitssecretsandtransgressions.’Motapsherpenonthetable.‘Well,I’mtotallyoutofmydepthhere,butI’mcurious,giventhatshewaslivingwiththemwhenthepaintingdisappeared,whenshedisappeared,andtheyallseemedprettyclose,whythereisnoevidenceanywhereofSophie’sfamily.’

Livsitsupintothenight,goingthroughthethickfilesofpapers,checkinganddouble-checking.ShescanstheInternet,herglassesperchedonhernose.Whenshefinallyfindswhatsheislookingfor,shortlyafterfiveo’clock,shethanksGodforthemeticulousnessofFrenchcivicrecord-keeping.ThenshesitsbackandwaitsforMotowakeup.‘IsthereanywayIcantearyouawayfromRanicthisweekend?’shesays,asMoappearsinthe

doorway,bleary-eyed,herhairablackcrowsettlingonhershoulders.Withoutthethickblackeyeliner,

herfaceseemscuriouslypinkandvulnerable.‘Idon’twanttogorunning,thankyou.No.Oranythingsweaty.’‘YouusedtospeakfluentFrench,right?DoyouwanttocometoPariswithme?’Momakesforthekettle.‘Isthisyourwayoftellingmeyou’veswungtotheotherside?Becausewhile

IloveParis,I’msonotupforladybits.’‘No.It’smywayoftellingyouthatIneedyoursuperiorabilitiesasaFrenchspeakertochatupan

eighty-year-oldman.’‘Myfavouritekindofweekend.’‘AndIcanthrowinacrapone-starhotel.Andmaybeaday’sshoppingatGaleriesLafayette.Window-

shopping.’Moturnsandsquintsather.‘HowcanIrefuse?Whattimeareweleaving?’

22

ShemeetsMoatStPancrasatfivethirtyp.m.,andatthesightofher,wavinglaconically,cigaretteinhandoutsideacafé,sherealizesshe’salmostshamefullyrelievedattheprospectoftwodaysaway.TwodaysawayfromthedeathlyhushoftheGlassHouse.Twodaysawayfromthetelephone,whichshehascometoviewasvirtuallyradioactive:fourteendifferentjournalistshaveleftmessagesofvaryingfriendlinessonheranswer-phone.TwodaysawayfromPaul,whoseveryexistenceremindsherofeverythingshehasgotwrong.ThepreviousnightshehadtoldSvenherplan,andhehadsaidimmediately,‘Canyouaffordit?’‘Ican’taffordanything.I’veremortgagedthehouse.’Sven’ssilencewaspoignant.‘Ihadto.Thelawfirmwantedguarantees.’Thelegalcostsareeatingeverything.Thebarristeralonecostsfivehundredpoundsanhourandhe

hasn’tyetstoodupincourt.‘It’llbefineoncethepaintingismineagain,’shesaysbriskly.Outside,Londonisbathedinaneveningmist;thesunsetshootsorangeflaresacrossthedirty-violetsky.

‘IhopeIdidn’ttearyouawayfromanything,’shesays,astheysettleintotheirseats.‘OnlytheComfortLodgeMonthlySing-a-long.’Moplacesapileofglossymagazinesandsome

chocolateinfrontofthem.‘Andthechordchangesof“We’reGoingToHangOutTheWashingOnTheSiegfriedLine”holdnosurprisesforme.Sowho’sthismanwe’regoingtomeet,andhowdoesherelatetoyourcase?’PhilippeBessetteisthesonofAurélienBessette,youngerbrotherofSophieLefèvre.ItwasAurélien,

Livexplains,wholivedinLeCoqRougeduringtheyearsoftheoccupation.HehadbeentherewhenSophiewastakenaway,andhadstayedinthetownforseveralyearsafterwards.‘Heofallpeoplemightknowhowthepaintingdisappeared.Ispoketothematronofthecarehomewherehelives,andshesaidheshouldbeuptoaconversationashe’sstillquitesharp,butthatIhadtocomeinpersonashe’sprettydeafandcan’tdoitbyphone.’‘Well,gladtohelp.’‘Thankyou.’‘ButyoudoknowIdon’treallyspeakFrench.’Liv’sheadwhipsround.Moispouringasmallbottleofredwineintotwoplasticglasses.‘What?’‘Idon’tspeakFrench.I’mgoodatunderstandinggeneraloldperson’sbabble,though.Imightbeableto

getsomething.’Livslumpsinherseat.‘I’mjoking.Jesus,you’regullible.’Mohandsherthewine,andtakesalongsip.‘Iworryaboutyou

sometimes.Ireallydo.’Afterwardssherememberslittleoftheactualtrainjourney.Theydrinkthewine,andtwomorelittle

bottles,andtheytalk.It’stheclosestthingshe’shadtoanightoutforweeks.Motalksaboutheralienation

fromherparents,whocannotunderstandherlackofambitionorthecarehome,whichsheloves.‘Oh,Iknowwe’rethelowestofthelow,careassistants,buttheoldsaregood.Someofthemarereallysmart,andothersarefunny.Ilikethemmorethanmostpeopleourage.’Livwaitsfor‘presentcompanyexcepted’andtriesnottotakeoffencewhenitdoesn’tcome.ShetellsMo,finally,aboutPaul.AndMoistemporarilysilenced.‘Yousleptwithhimwithout

Googlinghim?’shesays,whensherecoversthepowerofspeech.‘Oh,myGod,whenyousaidyouwereoutofthedatingloopIneverthoughtforaminute…Youdon’tsleepwithsomeonewithoutdoingbackground.Jesus.’Shesitsbackandrefillsherglass.Justbriefly,shelooksoddlycheerful.‘Whoa.Ijustrealized

something:you,LivHalston,mayactuallyturnouttohavehadtheMostExpensiveShagInHistory.’

TheyspendthenightinabudgethotelinaParissuburb,wherethebathroomismouldedfromonepieceofyellowplasticandtheshampooistheexactcolourandscentofwashing-upliquid.Afterastiff,greasycroissantandacupofcoffee,theycalltheresidentialhome.Livpackstheirstuff,herstomachalreadyaknotofnervousanticipation.‘Well,that’stornit,’saysMo,whensheputsdownthephone.‘What?’‘He’snotwell.He’snotseeingvisitorstoday.’Liv,puttingonhermakeup,staresatherinshock.‘Didyoutellthemwe’dcomeallthewayfrom

London?’‘Itoldherwe’dcomefromSydney.Butthewomansaidhewasweakandhe’donlybeasleepifwe

came.I’vegivenhermymobilenumberandshe’spromisedtoringifhepicksup.’‘Whatifhedies?’‘It’sacold,Liv.’‘Buthe’sold.’‘Comeon.Let’sgodrinkinbarsandstareatclotheswecan’tafford.Ifsheringswecanbeinataxi

beforeyoucansayGérardDepardieu.’TheyspendthemorningwanderingaroundtheendlessdepartmentsatGaleriesLafayette,whichare

festoonedwithbaublesandpackedwithChristmasshoppers.Livtriestodistractherself,toenjoythechange,butsheisacutelyconsciousofthepriceofeverything.Sincewhenhadtwohundredpoundsbecomeanacceptablepriceforapairofjeans?Didahundred-poundmoisturizerreallyeradicatewrinkles?Shefindsherselfdroppinghangersasquicklyasshepicksthemup.‘Arethingsreallythatbad?’‘Thebarristerisfivehundredquidanhour.’Mowaitsaminuteforapunchlinethatdoesn’tcome.‘Ouch.Ihopethispainting’sworthit.’‘Henryseemstothinkwe’vegotagooddefence.Hesaystheytalkthetalk.’‘Thenstopworrying,Liv,forGod’ssake.Enjoyyourselfalittle.Comeon–thisistheweekendyou’re

goingtoturnitallaround.’Butshecan’tenjoyherself.She’sheretopickthebrainsofaneighty-year-oldman,whomayormay

notbeuptospeakingtoher.ThecourtcaseisduetostartonMondayandsheneedsgreaterfirepowertogoinwiththanshealreadyhas.‘Mo.’

‘Mm?’Moisholdingupablacksilkdress.Shekeepslookingupatthesecuritycamerasinafaintlyunnervingmanner.‘CanIsuggestsomewhereelse?’‘Sure.Wheredoyouwanttogo?PalaisRoyale?LeMarais?Wecouldprobablyfindabarforyouto

danceon,ifyou’redoingthewholefinding-yourself-againthing.’Shepullstheroadmapfromherhandbagandbeginstounfoldit.‘No.IwanttogotoStPéronne.’

TheyhireacaranddrivenorthfromParis.Modoesnotdrive,soLivtakesthewheel,forcingherselftoremembertostayontheright-handsideoftheroad.Itisyearssinceshedrove.ShefeelstheapproachofStPéronnelikethebeatofadistantdrum.Thesuburbsgivewaytofarmland,hugeindustrialestates,andthen,finally,almosttwohourslater,theflatlandsofthenorth-east.Theyfollowsigns,getbrieflylost,doublebackonthemselvesandthen,shortlybeforefouro’clock,theyaredrivingslowlydownthetown’shighstreet.Itisquiet,thefewmarketstallsalreadypackingupandonlyafewpeopleinthegreystonesquare.‘I’mgasping.Doyouknowwherethenearestbaris?’Theypullover,glancingupatthehotelonthesquare.Livlowersthewindowandstaresupatthebrick

frontage.‘That’sit.’‘That’swhat?’‘LeCoqRouge.That’sthehotelwheretheyalllived.’Sheclimbsoutofthecarslowly,squintingupatthesign.Itlooksasitmighthavedonebackinthe

earlypartofthelastcentury.Thewindowsarebrightlypainted,theflowerboxesfullofChristmascyclamen.Asignswingsfromawrought-ironbracket.Throughanarchwayintoagravelledcourtyard,sheseesseveralexpensivecars.Somethinginsidehertightenswithnervesoranticipation,sheisnotsurewhich.‘It’sMichelin-starred.Excellent.’Livstaresather.‘Duh.EveryoneknowsMichelin-starredrestaurantshavethebest-lookingstaff.’‘And…Ranic?’‘Foreignrules.Everyoneknowsitdoesn’tcountifyou’reinanothercountry.’Moisthroughthedoorandstandingatthebar.Ayoung,impossiblyhandsomemaninastarchedapron

greetsher.LivstandstothesideasMochatsawaytohiminFrench.Livbreathesinthescentsoffoodcooking,beeswax,perfumedrosesinvases,andgazesatthewalls.

Herpaintinglivedhere.AlmostahundredyearsagoTheGirlYouLeftBehindlivedhere,alongwithitssubject.Somestrangepartofherhalfexpectsthepaintingtoappearonawallasifitbelongshere.SheturnstoMo.‘AskhimiftheBessettesstillownthisplace.’‘Bessette?Non.’‘No.ItbelongstoaLatvian,apparently.Hehasachainofhotels.’She’sdisappointed.Shepicturesthisbar,fullofGermans,thered-hairedgirlbusyingherselfbehind

thebar,hereyesflashingresentment.‘Doesheknowaboutthebar’shistory?’Shepullsthephotocopiedpicturefromherbag,unrollsit.Mo

repeatsthis,inrapidFrench.Thebarmanleansover,shrugs.‘He’sonlyworkedheresinceAugust.Hesaysheknowsnothingaboutit.’

Thebarmanspeaksagain,andMoadds:‘Hesaysshe’saprettygirl.’Sheraiseshereyestoheaven.‘Andhesaysyou’rethesecondpersontoaskthesequestions.’‘What?’‘That’swhathesaid.’‘Askhimwhatthemanlookedlike?’Hebarelyneededtosay.Latethirtiesorso,aboutsixfoottall,sprinklingofearlygreyinhisshorthair.

‘Commeungendarme.Heleavehiscard,’thewaitersays,andhandsittoLiv.PaulMcCaffertyDirector,TARP

Itisasifshehascombustedinternally.Again?Youevengotherebeforeme?Shefeelsasifheistauntingher.‘CanIkeepthis?’shesays.‘Maisbiensûr.’Thewaitershrugs.‘ShallIfindyouatable,Mesdames?’Livflushes.Wecan’taffordit.ButMonods,studyingthemenu.‘Yeah.It’sChristmas.Let’shaveoneamazingmeal.’‘But–’‘Mytreat.Ispendmylifeservingfoodtootherpeople.IfI’mgoingtohaveoneblow-out,I’mgoingto

haveithere,inaMichelin-starredrestaurant,surroundedbygood-lookingJean-Pierres.I’veearnedit.And,comeon,Ioweyouone.’Theyeatintherestaurant.Moisgarrulous,flirtswiththewaitingstaff,exclaimsuncharacteristically

overeachcourse,ceremoniallyburnsPaul’sbusinesscardinthetallwhitecandle.Livstrugglestostayengaged.Thefoodisdelicious,yes.Thewaitersareattentive,knowledgeable.It

isfoodNirvana,asMokeepssaying.Butasshesitsinthecrowdedrestaurantsomethingstrangehappens:shecannotseeitasjustadiningroom.SheseesSophieLefèvreatthebar,hearstheechoingthumpofGermanbootsontheoldelmfloorboards.Sheseesthelogfireinthegrate,hearsthemarchingtroops,thedistantboomofguns.Sheseesthepavementoutside,awomandraggedintoanarmytruck,aweepingsister,herheadbentoverthisverybar,prostratewithgrief.‘It’sjustapainting,’Mosaysalittleimpatiently,whenLivturnsdownthechocolatefondantand

confesses.‘Iknow,’Livsays.Whentheyfinallygetbacktotheirhotel,shetakesthefileofdocumentsintotheplasticbathroomand,

asMosleeps,shereadsandreadsbytheharshstrip-light,tryingtoworkoutwhatshehasmissed.

OnSundaymorning,whenLivhaschewedawayallbutoneofhernails,thematroncalls.Shegivesthemanaddressinthenorth-eastofthecity,andtheydrivethereinthelittlehirecar,wrestlingwiththeunfamiliarstreets,thecloggedPériphérique.Mo,whohaddrunkalmosttwobottlesofwinetheeveningbefore,issubduedandtetchy.Livissilenttoo,exhaustedfromlackofsleep,herbrainracingwithquestions.Shehadbeenhalfexpectingsomethingdepressing;some1970sboxinliverishbrickwithuPVC

windowsandanorderlycarpark.Butthebuildingtheypullupoutsideisafour-storeyhouse,itselegantwindowsframedwithshutters,itsfrontagecoveredwithivy.Itissurroundedbyneatlytendedgardens,withapairoftallwrought-irongatesandpavedpathsthatleadintoseparateclosetedareas.

LivbuzzesthedoorandwaitswhileMoreappliesherlipstick–‘Whoareyou?’Livsays,watchingher.‘AnnaNicoleSmith?’Mocackles,andthetensionclears.TheystandinReceptionforseveralminutesbeforeanybodypaysthemanyattention.Throughglass

doorstotheleft,quaveringvoicesareraisedinsong,asashort-hairedyoungwomanplaysanelectricorgan.Inasmalloffice,twomiddle-agedwomenareworkingthroughachart.Finallyoneturnsaround.‘Bonjour.’‘Bonjour,’saysMo.‘Whoarewehereforagain?’‘MonsieurBessette.’MospeakstothewomaninperfectFrench.Shenods.‘English?’‘Yes.’‘Please.Signin.Cleanyourhands.Thencomethisway.’Theywritetheirnamesinabook,thenshepointsthemtowardsanantibacterial-liquiddispenserand

theymakeashowofrubbingitthoroughlyovertheirfingers.‘Niceplace,’Momurmurs,withtheairofaconnoisseur.Thentheyfollowthewoman’sbriskwalkthroughalabyrinthofcorridorsuntilshereachesahalf-opendoor.‘Monsieur?Vousavezdesvisiteurs.’Theywaitawkwardlybythedoorasthewomanwalksinandholdsarapid-firediscussionwithwhat

lookslikethebackofachair.Andthensheemerges.‘Youcangoin,’shesays.Andthen:‘Ihopeyouhavesomethingforhim.’‘ThematronsaidIshouldbringhimsomemacarons.’SheglancesattheexpensivelywrappedboxLivpullsfromherbag.‘Ah,oui,’shesays,andgivesasmallsmile.‘Thesehelikes.’‘They’llbeinthestaffroombeforefiveo’clock,’Momurmurs,assheleaves.PhilippeBessettesitsinawing-backedchair,gazingoutatasmallcourtyardwithafountain;anoxygen

tankonatrolleyislinkedtoasmalltubetapedtohisnostril.Hisfaceisgrey,crumpled,asifithascollapsedinonitself;hisskin,translucentinplaces,revealsthedelicatetracingsofveinsunderneath.Hehasathickshockofwhitehair,andthemovementofhiseyessuggestssomethingsharperthantheirsurroundings.Theywalkaroundthechairuntiltheyarefacinghim,andMostoops,minimizingtheheightdifferential.

Shelooksimmediatelyathome,Livthinks.Asiftheseareherpeople.‘Bonjour,’shesays,andintroducesthem.TheyshakehandsandLivoffersthemacaroons.Hestudies

themforaminute,thentapsthelidofthebox.Livopensthemandoffershimthetray.Hegesturestoherfirst,andwhenshedeclines,heslowlychoosesoneandwaits.‘Hemightneedyoutoputitinhismouth,’Momurmurs.Livhesitates,thenproffersit.Bessetteopenshismouthlikeababybird,thenclosesit,shuttinghiseyes

asheallowshimselftorelishtheflavour.‘TellhimwewouldliketoaskhimsomequestionsaboutthefamilyofÉdouardLefèvre.’Bessettelistens,andsighsaudibly.‘DidyouknowÉdouardLefèvre?’ShegetsMototranslate,waiting.‘Inevermethim.’Hisvoiceisslow,asifthewordsthemselvesareaneffort.

‘Butyourfather,Aurélien,knewhim?’‘Myfathermethimonseveraloccasions.’‘YourfatherlivedinStPéronne?’‘MywholefamilylivedinStPéronne,untilIwaseleven.MyauntHélènelivedinthehotel,myfather

abovethetabac.’‘Wewereatthehotellastnight,’Livsays.Buthedoesn’tseemtoregister.Sheunrollsaphotocopy.

‘Didyourfatherevermentionthispainting?’Hegazesatthegirl.‘ApparentlyitwasinLeCoqRougebutitdisappeared.Wearetryingtofindoutmoreaboutits

history.’‘Sophie,’hesaysfinally.‘Yes,’saysLiv,noddingvigorously.‘Sophie.’Shefeelsafaintflickerofexcitement.Hisgazesettlesontheimage,hiseyessunkenandrheumy,impenetrable,asiftheycarrythejoysand

sorrowsoftheages.Heblinks,hiswrinkledeyelidsclosingathalf-speed,anditislikewatchingsomestrangeprehistoriccreature.Finallyheliftshishead.‘Icannottellyou.Wewerenotencouragedtospeakofher.’LivglancesatMo.‘What?’‘Sophie’sname…wasnotspokeninourhouse.’Livblinks.‘But–butshewasyouraunt,yes?Shewasmarriedtoagreatartist.’‘Myfatherneverspokeofit.’‘Idon’tunderstand.’‘Noteverythingthathappensinafamilyisexplicable.’Theroomfallssilent.Molooksawkward.Livtriestoshiftthesubject.‘So…doyouknowmuchabout

MonsieurLefèvre?’‘No.ButIdidacquiretwoofhisworks.AfterSophiedisappearedsomepaintingsweresenttothe

hotelfromadealerinParis;thiswassometimebeforeIwasborn.AsSophiewasnotthere,Hélènekepttwo,andgavetwotomyfather.Hetoldherhedidn’twantthem,butafterhedied,Ifoundtheminourattic.ItwasquiteasurprisewhenIdiscoveredwhattheywereworth.OneIgavetomydaughter,wholivesinNantes.TheotherIsoldsomeyearsago.Itpaysformetolivehere.This…isaniceplacetolive.So–maybeIthinkmyrelationshipwithmyauntSophiewasagoodone,despiteeverything.’Hisexpressionsoftensbriefly.Livleansforward.‘Despiteeverything?’Theoldman’sexpressionisunreadable.Shewonders,briefly,whetherhehasnoddedoff.Butthenhe

startstospeak.‘Therewastalk…gossip…inStPéronnethatmyauntwasacollaborator.Thiswaswhymyfathersaidwemustnotdiscussher.Easiertoactasifshedidnotexist.NeithermyauntnormyfathereverspokeofherwhenIwasgrowingup.’‘Collaborator?Likeaspy?’Hewaitsamomentbeforeanswering.‘No.ThatherrelationshipwiththeGermanoccupierswas

not…correct.’Helooksupatthetwowomen.‘Itwasverypainfulforourfamily.Ifyoudidnotlivethroughthesetimes,ifyourfamilydidnotcomefromasmalltown,youcannotunderstandhowitwasfor

us.Noletters,nopictures,nophotographs.Fromthemomentshewastakenaway,myauntceasedtoexistformyfather.Hewas…’hesighs‘…anunforgivingman.Unfortunatelytherestofherfamilydecidedtowipeherfromourhistorytoo.’‘Evenhersister?’‘EvenHélène.’Livisstunned.Forsolong,shehasthoughtofSophieasoneoflife’ssurvivors,herexpression

triumphant,heradorationofherhusbandwrittenonherface.ShestrugglestoreconcileherSophiewiththeimageofthisunloved,discardedwoman.Thereisaworldofpainintheoldman’slong,wearybreath.Livfeelssuddenlyguiltyforhavingmade

himrevisitit.‘I’msosorry,’shesays,notknowingwhatelsetosay.Sheseesnowtheywillgetnothinghere.NowonderPaulMcCaffertyhadnotbotheredtocome.Thesilencestretches.Mosurreptitiouslyeatsamacaroon.WhenLivlooksup,PhilippeBessetteis

gazingather.‘Thankyouforseeingus,Monsieur.’Shetoucheshisarm.‘IfindithardtoassociatethewomanyoudescribewiththewomanIsee.I…haveherportrait.Ihavealwayslovedit.’Heliftshisheadafewdegrees.HelooksathersteadilyasMotranslates.‘Ihonestlythoughtshelookedlikesomeonewhoknewshewasloved.Sheseemedtohavespirit.’Thenursingstaffappearinthedoorway,watching.Behindherawomanwithatrolleylooksin

impatiently.Thesmelloffoodseepsthroughthedoorway.Shestandstoleave.Butasshedoesso,Bessetteholdsupahand.‘Wait,’hesays,gesturingtowardsa

bookshelfwithanindexfinger.‘Theonewiththeredcover.’Livrunsherfingersalongthespinesuntilhenods.Shepullsabatteredfolderfromthebookshelf.‘ThesearemyauntSophie’spapers,hercorrespondence.Thereisalittleaboutherrelationshipwith

ÉdouardLefèvre,thingstheydiscoveredhiddenaroundherroom.Nothingaboutyourpainting,asIrecall.Butitmaygiveyouaclearerpictureofher.Atatimewhenhernamewasbeingblackened,itrevealedmyaunttome…ashuman.Awonderfulhumanbeing.’Livopensthefoldercarefully.Postcards,fragileletters,littledrawingsaretuckedwithinit.Shesees

loopinghandwritingonabrittlepieceofpaper,thesignatureSophie.Herbreathcatchesinherthroat.‘Ifounditinmyfather’sthingsafterhedied.HetoldHélènehehadburnedit,burnedeverything.She

wenttohergravethinkingeverythingofSophiewasdestroyed.Thatwasthekindofmanhewas.’Shecanbarelytearhereyesfromthem.‘Iwillcopythemandsendthisstraightbacktoyou,’she

stammers.Hegivesadismissivewaveofhishand.‘WhatusedoIhaveforthem?Icannolongerread.’‘Monsieur–Ihavetoask.Idon’tunderstand.SurelytheLefèvrefamilywouldhavewantedtoseeall

ofthis.’‘Yes.’SheandMoexchangelooks.‘Thenwhydidyounotgiveittothem?’Aveilseemstoloweritselfoverhiseyes.‘Itwasthefirsttimetheyvisitedme.WhatdidIknowabout

thepainting?DidIhaveanythingtohelpthem?Questions,questions…’Heshakeshishead,hisvoicelifting.‘TheycarednothingforSophiebefore.Whyshouldtheyprofitatherexpensenow?Édouard’sfamilycarefornobodybutthemselves.Itisallmoney,money,money.Iwouldbegladiftheylosttheircase.’

Hisexpressionismulish.Theconversationisapparentlyclosed.Thenursehoversatthedoor,signallingmutelywithherwatch.Livknowstheyareonthepointofoutstayingtheirwelcome,butshehastoaskonemorething.Shereachesforhercoat.‘Monsieur–doyouknowanythingaboutwhathappenedtoyourauntSophieaftersheleftthehotel?

Didyoueverfindout?’Heglancesdownatherpictureandrestshishandthere.Hissighemanatesfromsomewheredeep

withinhim.‘ShewasarrestedandtakenbytheGermanstothereprisalcamps.And,likesomanyothers,fromthe

daysheleft,myfamilyneversaworheardofheragain.’

23

1917

Thecattletruckwhinedandjolteditswayalongroadspockedwithholes,occasionallyveeringontothegrassyvergestoavoidthosethatweretoolargetocross.Afinerainmuffledsound,makingthewheelsspininthelooseearth,theengineroaringitsprotestandsendingupclodsofmudasthewheelsstruggledforpurchase.Aftertwoyearsinthequietconfinesofourlittletown,Iwasshockedtoseewhatlife–anddestruction

–laybeyondit.JustafewmilesfromStPéronne,wholevillagesandtownswereunrecognizable,shelledintooblivion,theshopsandhousesjustpilesofgreystoneandrubble.Greatcraterssatintheirmidst,filledwithwater,theirgreenalgaeandplantlifehintingattheirlongstanding,thetownspeoplemuteastheywatcheduspass.Iwentthroughthreetownswithoutbeingabletoidentifywherewewere,andslowlyIgraspedthescaleofwhathadbeentakingplacearoundus.Istaredoutthroughtheswayingtarpaulinflap,watchingthecolumnsofmountedsoldierspasson

skeletalhorses,thegrey-facedmenhaulingstretchers,theiruniformsdarkandwet,theswayingtrucksfromwhichwaryfaceslookedout,withblank,fathomlessstares.Occasionallythedriverstoppedthetruckandexchangedafewwordswithanotherdriver,andIwishedIknewsomeGermansothatImighthavesomeideaofwhereIwasgoing.Theshadowswerefaint,giventherain,butweseemedtobemovingsouth-east.ThedirectionofArdennes,Itoldmyself,strugglingtokeepmybreathingundercontrol.IhaddecidedtheonlywaytocontrolthevisceralfearthatkeptthreateningtochokemewastoreassuremyselfIwasheadingtowardsÉdouard.Intruth,Ifeltnumb.ThosefirstfewhoursinthebackofthetruckIcouldnothaveformedasentenceif

youhadaskedme.Isat,theharshvoicesofmytownspeoplestillringinginmyears,mybrother’sexpressionofdisgustinmymind,andmymouthdriedtodustwiththetruthofwhathadjusttakenplace.Isawmysister,herfacecontortedwithgrief,feltthefiercegripofÉdith’slittlearmsassheattemptedtohangontome.MyfearinthosemomentswassointensethatIthoughtImightdisgracemyself.Itcameinwaves,makingmylegsshake,myteethchatter.Andthen,staringoutattheruinedtowns,Isawthatformanytheworsthadalreadyhappened,andItoldmyselftobecalm:thiswasmerelyanecessarystageinmyreturntoÉdouard.ThiswaswhatIhadaskedfor.Ihadtobelievethat.AnhouroutsideStPéronnetheguardoppositemehadfoldedhisarms,tiltedhisheadbackagainstthe

wallofthetruckandslept.HehadevidentlydecidedIwasnothreat,orperhapshewassoexhaustedthathecouldnotfighttherockingmotionofthevehicleenoughtostayawake.Asthefearcreptuponmeagain,likesomepredatorybeast,Iclosedmyeyes,pressedmyhandstogetheronmybag,andthoughtofmyhusband…

Édouardwaschucklingtohimself.‘What?’Ientwinedmyarmsaroundhisneck,lettinghiswordsfallsoftlyagainstmyskin.‘Iamthinkingofyoulastnight,chasingMonsieurFaragearoundhisowncounter.’Ourdebtshadgrowntoogreat.IhaddraggedÉdouardroundthebarsofPigalle,demandingmoney

fromthosewhoowedhim,refusingtoleaveuntilwewerepaid.Faragehadrefusedandtheninsultedme,soÉdouard,usuallyslowtoanger,hadshotoutahugefistandhithim.Hehadbeenoutcoldevenbeforehestruckthefloor.Wehadleftthebarinuproar,tablesoverturned,glassesflyingaboutourears.Ihadrefusedtorun,butpickedupmyskirtandwalkedoutinanorderlyfashion,pausingtotaketheexactamountÉdouardwasowedfromthetill.‘Youarefearless,littlewife.’‘Withyoubesideme,Iam.’

Imusthavedozedoff,andwokeasthetruckjoltedtoahalt,myheadsmackingagainsttheroofbrace.Theguardwasoutsidethevehicle,talkingtoanothersoldier.Ipeeredout,rubbingmyhead,stretchingmycold,stifflimbs.Wewereinatown,buttherailwaystationhadanewGermannamethatwasunrecognizabletome.Theshadowshadlengthenedandthelightdimmed,suggestingthateveningwasnotfaraway.Thetarpaulinlifted,andaGermansoldier’sfaceappeared.Heseemedsurprisedtofindonlymeinside.Heshouted,andgesturedthatIshouldgetout.WhenIdidn’tmoveswiftlyenough,hehauledatmyarmsothatIstumbled,mybagfallingtothewetground.IthadbeentwoyearssinceIhadseensomanypeopleinoneplace.Thestation,whichcomprisedtwo

platforms,wasateemingmass,mostlysoldiersandprisonersasfarasIcouldsee.Theirarmbandsandstriped,grubbyclothingmarkedouttheprisoners.Theykepttheirheadsdown.Ifoundmyselfscanningtheirfaces,asIwasthrustthroughthem,lookingforÉdouard,butIwaspushedtooquicklyandtheybecameablur.‘Hier!Hier!’AdoorslidsidewaysandIwasshovedintoafreightcarriage,itsboardedsides

revealingashadowymassofbodiesinside.Ifoughttokeepholdofmybagandheardthedoorslambehindmeasmyeyesadjustedtothedimlight.Insidethereweretwonarrowwoodenbenchesalongeachside,nearlyeveryinchcoveredwithbodies.

Moreoccupiedthefloor.Attheedgessomelay,theirheadsrestingonsmallbundlesofwhatmighthavebeenclothing.Everythingwassofilthyitwashardtotell.Theairwasthickwiththefoulsmellsofthosewhohadnotbeenabletowash,orworse,forsometime.‘Français?’Isaid,intothesilence.Severalfaceslookedblanklyatme.Itriedagain.‘Ici,’saidavoiceneartheback.Ibegantomakemywaycarefullydownthelengthofthecarriage,

tryingnottodisturbthosewhoweresleeping.IheardavoicethatmighthavebeenRussian.Itrodonsomeone’shair,andwascursed.FinallyIreachedtherearofthecarriage.Ashaven-headedmanwaslookingatme.Hisfacewasscarred,asifwithsomerecentpox,andhischeekbonesjuttedfromhisfacelikethoseofaskull.‘Français?’hesaid.‘Yes,’Ireplied.‘Whatisthis?Wherearewegoing?’‘Wherearewegoing?’Heregardedmewithastonishment,andthen,whenhegraspedthatmyquestion

wasserious,laughedmirthlessly.

‘Tours,Amiens,Lille.HowwouldIknow?Theykeepusonsomeendlesscross-countrychasesothatnoneofusknowswhereweare.’IwasabouttospeakagainwhenIsawtheshapeonthefloor.AblackcoatsofamiliarthatatfirstI

darednotlookcloser.Isteppedforward,pasttheman,andkneltdown.‘Liliane?’Icouldseeherface,stillbruised,underwhatremainedofherhair.Sheopenedoneeye,asifshedidnottrustherears.‘Liliane!It’sSophie.’Shegazedatme.‘Sophie,’shewhispered.Thensheliftedahandandtouchedmine.‘Édith?’Evenin

herfrailstateIcouldhearthefearinhervoice.‘SheiswithHélène.Sheissafe.’Theeyeclosed.‘Areyousick?’ItwasthenIsawtheblood,dried,aroundherskirt.Herdeathlypallor.‘Hasshebeenlikethisforlong?’TheFrenchmanshrugged,asifhehadseentoomanybodieslikeLiliane’stofeelanythingasdistinctas

compassionnow.‘Shewasheresomehoursagowhenwecameaboard.’Herlipswerechapped,hereyessunken.‘Doesanyonehavewater?’Icalled.Afewfacesturnedtome.TheFrenchmansaidpityingly,‘Youthinkthisisabuffetcar?’Itriedagain,myvoicelifting.‘Doesanyonehaveasipofwater?’Icouldseefacesturningtoeach

other.‘Thiswomanriskedherlifetobringinformationtoourtown.Ifanyonehaswater,please,justafew

drops.’Amurmurwentthroughthecarriage.‘Please!FortheloveofGod!’Andthen,astonishingly,minuteslater,anenamelbowlwaspassedalong.Ithadahalf-inchofwhatmighthavebeenrainwaterinthebottom.IcalledoutmythanksandliftedLiliane’sheadgently,tippingthepreciousdropsintohermouth.TheFrenchmanseemedbrieflyanimated.‘Weshouldholdcups,bowls,anythingoutofthecarriageif

possible,whileitrains.Wedonotknowwhenwewillnextreceivefoodorwater.’Lilianeswallowedpainfully.Ipositionedmyselfonthefloorsothatshecouldrestagainstme.Witha

squealandtheharshgrindingofmetalonrails,thetrainmovedoffintothecountryside.

Icouldnottellyouhowlongwestayedonthattrain.Itmovedslowly,stoppingfrequentlyandwithoutobviousreason.Istaredoutthroughthegapinthesplinteredboards,watchingtheendlessmovementoftroops,prisonersandciviliansthroughmybatteredcountry,holdingthedozingLilianeinmyarms.Theraingrewheavier,andthereweremurmursofsatisfactionastheoccupantspassedroundwatertheyhadgleaned.Iwascold,butgladoftherainandthelowtemperature:Icouldnotimaginehowhellishthiscarriagemightbecomeintheheatwhentheodourswouldworsen.Asthehoursstretched,theFrenchmanandItalked.Iaskedaboutthenumber-plateonhiscap,thered

stripeonhisjacket,andhetoldmehehadcomefromtheZAB–theZivilarbeiterBattalione,prisonerswhowereusedfortheveryworstofjobs,shippedtothefront,exposedtoAlliedfire.Hetoldmeofthetrainshesaweachweek,packedwithboys,womenandyounggirls,criss-crossingthecountrytotheSomme,toEscautandArdennes,toworkasslavelabourfortheGermans.Tonight,hesaid,wewouldlodgeinruinedbarracks,factoriesorschoolsinevacuatedvillages.Hedidnotknowwhetherwewouldbetakentoaprisoncamporaworkbattalion.

‘Theykeepusweakthroughlackoffood,sothatwewillnottrytoescape.Mostarenowgratefulmerelytostayalive.’HeaskedifIhadfoodinmybagandwasdisappointedwhenIhadtosayno.IgavehimahandkerchiefthatHélènehadpacked,feelingobligedtogivehimsomething.Helookedatitslaunderedcottonfreshnessasifhewereholdingspunsilk.Thenhehandeditback.‘Keepit,’hesaid,andhisfaceclosed.‘Useitforyourfriend.Whatdidshedo?’WhenItoldhimofherbravery,thelifelineofinformationshehadbroughttoourtown,helookedather

anew,asifhewerenolongerseeingabodybutahumanbeing.ItoldhimIwasseekingnewsofmyhusband,andthathehadbeensenttoArdennes.TheFrenchman’sfacewasgrave.‘Ispentseveralweeksthere.Youknowthattherehasbeentyphoid?Iwillprayforyouthatyourhusbandhassurvived.’Iswallowedbackalumpoffear.‘Wherearetherestofyourbattalion?’Iaskedhim,tryingtochangethesubject.Thetrainslowedand

wepassedanothercolumnoftrudgingprisoners.Notamanlookedupatthepassingtrain,asiftheywereeachtooashamedoftheirenforcedslavery.Iscannedthefaceofeachone,fearfulthatÉdouardmightbeamongthem.Itwasamomentbeforehespoke.‘Iamtheonlyoneleft.’

Severalhoursafterdarkwedrewintoasiding.ThedoorsslidopennoisilyandGermanvoicesyelledatustogetout.Bodiesunfoldedthemselveswearilyfromthefloor,clutchingenamelbowls,andmadetheirwayalongadisusedtrack.OurpathwaslinedwithGermaninfantry,proddingusintolinewiththeirguns.Ifeltlikeananimaltobeherdedso,asifIwerenolongerhuman.IrecalledthedesperateescapeoftheyoungprisonerinStPéronne,andsuddenlyhadaninklingofwhathadmadehimrun,despitetheknowledgethathewasalmostcertaintofail.IheldLilianeclosetome,supportingherunderthearms.Shewalkedslowly,tooslowly.AGerman

steppedbehindusandkickedather.‘Leaveher!’Iprotested,andhisriflebuttshotoutandcrackedmyheadsothatIstumbledbrieflytothe

ground.Ifelthandspullingmeup,andthenIwasmovingforwardagain,dazed,mysightblurred.WhenIputmyhandtomytemple,itcameawaystickywithblood.Wewereshepherdedintoahuge,emptyfactory.Thefloorcrunchedwithbrokenglass,andastiffnight

breezewhistledthroughthewindows.Inthedistance,wecouldheartheboomofthebigguns,evenseetheoddflashofanexplosion.Ipeeredout,wonderingwherewewere,butoursurroundingswereblanketedintheblackofnight.‘Here,’avoicesaid,andtheFrenchmanwasbetweenus,supportingus,movingustowardsacorner.

‘Look,thereisfood.’Soup,servedbyotherprisonersfromalongtablewithtwohugeurns.Ihadnoteatensinceearlythat

morning.Itwaswatery,filledwithindistinctshapes,butmystomachconstrictedwithanticipation.TheFrenchmanfilledhisenamelbowl,andacupthatHélènehadputintomybag,andwiththreepiecesofblackbread,wesatinacornerandate,givingsipstoLiliane(thefingersofonehandwerebrokensoshecouldnotusethem),wipingthebowlwithourfingerstoretrieveeverylasttrace.‘Thereisnotalwaysfood.Perhapsourluckischanging,’theFrenchmansaid,butwithoutconviction.

Hedisappearedtowardsthetablewiththeurnswhereacrowdwasalreadycongregatinginthehopeofmore,andIcursedmyselffornotbeingswiftenoughtogo.IwasafraidtoleaveLiliane,evenfora

moment.Minuteslaterhereturned,thebowlfilled.Hestoodbesideus,thenhandedittomeandpointedatLiliane.‘Here,’hesaid.‘Sheneedsstrength.’Lilianeliftedherhead.Shelookedathimasifshecouldnotrememberwhatitwastobetreatedwith

kindness,andmyeyesfilledwithtears.TheFrenchmannoddedatus,asifwewereinanotherworldandhewascourteouslybiddingusgoodnight,thenwithdrewtowherethemenslept.IsatandIfedLilianeBéthune,sipbysip,asIwouldhavedoneachild.Whenshehadconsumedthesecondbowl,shegaveashakysigh,restedherheadagainstmeandfellasleep.Isatthereinthedark,surroundedbyquietlymovingbodies,somecoughing,someweeping,hearingtheaccentsoflostRussians,EnglishmenandPoles.ThroughthefloorIfelttheoccasionalvibrationassomedistantshellhithome,avibrationthatnobodyelseseemedtofindremarkable.Ilistenedtothedistantguns,andthemurmuringoftheotherprisoners,andasthetemperaturedroppedIbegantoshiver.Ipicturedmyhome,Hélènesleepingbesideme,littleÉdith,herhandswoundintomyhair.AndIweptsilentlyinthedarkness,untilfinally,overcomebyexhaustion,I,too,fellasleep.

Iwoke,andforseveralsecondsIdidnotknowwhereIwas.Édouard’sarmwasaroundme,hisweightagainstme.Therewasatinycrackintime,throughwhichreliefflooded–hewashere!–beforeIrealizedthatitwasnotmyhusbandpressingagainstme.Aman’shand,furtiveandinsistent,wassnakingitswayinsidemyskirt,shieldedbythedark,perhapsbyhisbeliefinmyfearandexhaustion.Ilayrigid,mymindturningtocold,hardfuryasIunderstoodwhatthisintruderfelthecouldtakefromme.ShouldIscream?WouldanyonecareifIdid?WouldtheGermanstakeitasanotherexcusetopunishme?AsImovedmyarmslowlyfromitspositionhalfunderneathme,myhandbrushedagainstashardofglass,coldandsharp,whereithadbeenblastedfromthewindows.Iclosedmyfingersarounditandthen,almostbeforeIcouldconsiderwhatIwasdoing,Ihadspunontomysideandhaditsjaggededgepressedagainstthethroatofmyunknownassailant.‘TouchmeagainandIwillrunthisthroughyou,’Iwhispered.Icouldsmellhisstalebreathandfeelhis

shock.Hehadnotexpectedresistance.Iwasnotevensureheunderstoodmywords.Butheunderstoodthatsharpedge.Heliftedhishands,agestureofsurrender,perhapsofapology.Ikepttheglasspressedwhereitwasforamomentlonger,amessageofmyintent.InthenearpitchdarkmygazebrieflymethisandIsawthathewasafraid.He,too,hadfoundhimselfinaworldwheretherewerenorules,noorder.Ifitwasaworldwherehemightassaultastranger,itwasalsoaworldwhereshemightslithisthroat.ThemomentIreleasedthepressurehescrambledtohisfeet.Icouldjustmakeouthisshapeasitstumbledacrossthesleepingbodiestotheothersideofthefactory.Ituckedtheglassfragmentintomyskirtpocket,satupright,myarmsshieldingLiliane’ssleepingform,

andwaited.

ItseemedIhadbeenasleepamatterofminuteswhenwewerewokenbyshouting.Germanguardsweremovingthroughthemiddleoftheroom,hittingsleeperswiththebuttsoftheirriflestorousethem,kickingwiththeirboots.Ipushedmyselfupright.Painshotthroughmyhead,andIstifledacry.ThroughblurredvisionIsawthesoldiersmovingtowardsusandpulledatLiliane,tryingtogetheruprightbeforetheycouldhitus.Intheharshbluelightofdawn,Icouldseeoursurroundingsclearly.Thefactorywasenormousand

semi-derelict,agaping,splinteredholeatthecentreoftheroof,beamsandwindowsscatteredacrossthe

floor.Atthefarendthetrestletableswereservingsomethingthatmighthavebeencoffee,andahunkofblackbread.IliftedLiliane–Ihadtogetheracrossthatvastspacebeforethefoodranout.‘Wherearewe?’shesaid,peeringoutoftheshatteredwindow.AdistantboomtolduswemustbeneartheFront.‘Ihavenoidea,’Isaid,filledwithreliefthatshefeltwellenoughtoengageinsomesmallconversation

withme.Wegotthecupfilledwithcoffee,andsomeintheFrenchman’sbowl.Ilookedforhim,anxiousthatwe

mightbedeprivinghim,butaGermanofficerwasalreadydividingthemenintogroups,andsomeofthemwerefilingawayfromthefactory.LilianeandIwereorderedintoaseparategroupofmainlywomen,anddirectedtowardsacommunalwatercloset.Indaylight,Icouldseethedirtingrainedintheotherwomen’sskin,thegreylicethatcrawledfreelyupontheirheads.Iitched,andlookeddowntoseeoneonmyskirt.Ibrusheditoffwithasenseoffutility.Iwouldnotescapethem,Iknew.Itwasimpossibletospendsomuchtimeinclosecontactwithothersandavoidthem.Theremusthavebeenthreehundredwomentryingtowashandusethelavatoryinaspacedesignedfor

twelvepeople.BythetimeIcouldgetLilianeanywhereclosetothecubicles,webothretchedatwhatwefound.Wecleanedourselvesatthecold-waterpumpasbestwecould,followingtheleadoftheotherwomen:theybarelyremovedtheirclothestowash,andglancedaboutwarily,asifwaitingforsomesubterfugebytheGermans.‘Sometimestheyburstin,’Lilianesaid.‘Itiseasier–andsafer–tostayclothed.’WhiletheGermanswerebusywiththemen,Iscoutedaroundoutsideintherubblefortwigsandpieces

ofstring,thensatwithLiliane.Inthewaterysunlight,Iboundthebrokenfingersofherlefthandtosplints.Shewassobrave,barelywincingevenwhenIknewImustbehurtingher.Shehadstoppedbleeding,butstillwalkedgingerly,asifshewereinpain.Idarednotaskwhathadhappenedtoher.‘Itisgoodtoseeyou,Sophie,’shesaid,examiningherhand.Somewhereinthere,Ithought,theremightstillbeashadowofthewomanIknewinStPéronne.‘I

neverwassogladtoseeanotherhumanbeing,’Isaid,wipingherfacewithmycleanhandkerchief,andImeantit.Themenweresentonaworktask.Wecouldseetheminthedistance,queuingforshovelsand

pickaxes,formedintocolumnstomarchtowardstheinfernalnoiseonthehorizon.IsaidasilentprayerthatourcharitableFrenchmanwouldstaysafe,thenofferedupanother,asIalwaysdid,forÉdouard.Thewomen,meanwhile,weredirectedtowardsarailwaycarriage.Myheartsankatthethoughtofthenextlengthy,stinkingjourney,butthenIscoldedmyself.ImaybeonlyhoursfromÉdouard,Ithought.Thismaybethetrainthattakesmetohim.Iclimbedaboardwithoutcomplaint.Thiscarriagewassmaller,yettheyseemedtoexpectallthree

hundredwomentogetintoit.Therewassomeswearingandafewmuffledargumentsasweattemptedtosit.LilianeandIfoundasmallspaceonthebench,mesittingatherfeet,andIstuffedmybagunderneathit,jammingitin.Iregardedthatbagwithjealouspropriety,asifitwereababy.Someoneyelpedasashellburstcloseenoughtomakethetrainrattle.‘TellmeaboutÉdith,’shesaid,asthetrainpulledoff.‘She’singoodspirits.’Iputasmuchreassuranceintomyvoiceaspossible.‘Sheeatswell,sleeps

peacefully,andsheandMimiarenowinseparable.Sheadoresthebaby,andheadoreshertoo.’AsI

talked,paintingapictureofherdaughter’slifeinStPéronne,hereyesclosed.Icouldnottellifitwaswithrelieforgrief.‘Isshehappy?’Iansweredcarefully:‘Sheisachild.Shewantshermaman.ButsheknowssheissafeatLeCoq

Rouge.’Icouldnottellhermore,butthatseemedtobeenough.IdidnottellheraboutÉdith’snightmares,aboutthenightsshehadsobbedforhermother.Lilianewasnotstupid:Isuspectedsheknewthosethingsinherheartalready.WhenIhadfinished,shestaredoutofthewindowforalongtime,lostinthought.‘And,Sophie,whatbroughtyoutothis?’sheasked,eventuallyturningbacktome.TherewasprobablynobodyelseintheworldwhowouldunderstandbetterthanLiliane.Isearchedher

face,fearfulevennow.Buttheprospectofbeingabletosharemyburdenwithanotherhumanbeingwastoogreatalure.Itoldher.ItoldherabouttheKommandant,thenightIhadgonetohisbarracks,andthedealIhad

offeredhim.Shelookedatmeforalongtime.Shedidn’ttellmeIwasafool,orthatIshouldnothavebelievedhim,orthatmyfailuretodoastheKommandanthadwishedhadbeenlikelytobringaboutmydeath,ifnotthatofthoseIloved.Shedidn’tsayanythingatall.‘Idobelievehewillkeephissideofthings.IdobelievehewillbringmetoÉdouard,’Isaid,withas

muchconvictionasIcouldmuster.Shereachedouthergoodhandandsqueezedmine.

Atdusk,inasmallforest,thetraingroundtoajudderinghalt.Wewaitedforittomoveoffagain,butthistimetheslidingdoorsopenedattherear,andtheoccupants,manyofwhomhadonlyjustfallenasleep,mutteredcomplaints.IwashalfdozingandwoketoLiliane’svoiceinmyear.‘Sophie.Wakeup.Wakeup.’AGermanguardstoodinthedoorway.Ittookmeamomenttorealizehewascallingmyname.I

jumpedup,rememberingtograbmybag,andmotionedforLilianetocomewithme.‘Karten,’hedemanded.LilianeandIpresentedouridentitycards.Hecheckedournamesonalist,and

pointedtowardsatruck.Weheardthedisappointedhissoftheotherwomenasthedoorsslammedbehindus.LilianeandIwerepushedtowardsthetruck.Ifeltherlagalittle.‘What?’Isaid.Herexpressionwas

cloudedwithdistrust.‘Idon’tlikethis,’shesaid,glancingbehindher,asthetrainbegantomoveaway.‘It’sgood,’Iinsisted.‘Ithinkthismeanswearebeingsingledout.IthinkthisistheKommandant’s

doing.’‘ThatiswhatIdon’tlike,’shesaid.‘Also–listen–Icannotheartheguns.WemustbemovingawayfromtheFront.Thisisgood,surely?’Welimpedtothebackofthetruck,andIhelpedheraboard,scratchingthebackofmyneck.Ihadbegun

toitch,detectedlicebeneathmyclothing.Itriedtoignorethem.Ithadtobeagoodsignthatwehadbeenremovedfromthetrain.‘Havefaith,’Isaid,andsqueezedherarm.‘Ifnothingelsewehaveroomtomoveourlegsatlast.’Ayoungguardclimbedinattheback,andglaredatus.Itriedtosmile,toreassurehimthatIwas

unlikelytoattempttoescape,buthelookedatmewithdisgust,andplacedhisriflebetweenuslikeawarning.IrealizedthenthatI,too,probablysmeltunwashed,thatforcedintosuchcloseproximitymy

ownhairmightsoonbecrawlingwithinsects,andIbusiedmyselfwithsearchingmyclothingandpickingoutthoseIfound.ThetruckpulledawayandLilianewincedateveryjolt.Withinafewmilesshehadfallenasleepagain,

exhaustedbypain.Myownheadthrobbed,andIwasgratefulthatthegunsseemedtohavestopped.Havefaith,Iwilledusbothsilently.Wewerealmostanhourontheopenroad,thewintersunslowlydippingbehindthedistantmountains,

thevergesglintingwithicecrystals,whenthetarpaulinflippedup,revealingaflashofroadsign.Imusthavebeenmistaken,Ithought.Ileanedforward,liftingtheedgeoftheflapsothatImightnotmissthenext,squintingagainstthelight.Andthereitwas.Mannheim.Theworldseemedtostoparoundme.‘Liliane?’Iwhispered,andshookherawake.‘Liliane.Lookout.Whatdoyousee?’Thetruckhad

slowedtomakeitswayaroundsomecraters,soasshepeeredoutIknewshemustseeit.‘Wearemeanttobegoingsouth,’Isaid.‘SouthtoArdennes.’NowIcouldseethattheshadowswere

behindus.Weweredrivingeast,andhadbeenforsometime.‘ButÉdouardisinArdennes.’Icouldn’tkeepthepanicfrommyvoice.‘Ihadwordthathewasthere.WeweremeanttobegoingsouthtoArdennes.South.’Lilianelettheflapdrop.Whenshespoke,shedidn’tlookatme.Herfacehadleachedofthelittle

colourithadhadleft.‘Sophie,wecannolongerhearthegunsbecausewehavecrossedtheFront,’shesaiddully.‘WearegoingintoGermany.’

24

Thetrainhumswithgoodcheer.AgroupofwomenatthefarendofCarriageFourteenburstsintopealsofnoisylaughter.Amiddle-agedcoupleintheseatsopposite,perhapsonthewayhomefromsomecelebratoryChristmastrip,havebedeckedthemselvesintinsel.Theracksarebulgingwithpurchases,theairthickwiththescentsofseasonalfood–ripecheeses,wine,expensivechocolate.ButforMoandLivthejourneybacktoEnglandissubdued.Theysitinthecarriageinnearsilence;Mo’shangoverhaslastedallday,andmustapparentlyberemediedwithmoresmall,overpricedbottlesofwine.Livreadsandre-readshernotes,translatingwordbywordwithherlittleEnglish–Frenchdictionarybalancedonhertray-table.TheplightofSophieLefèvrehascastalongshadowoverthetrip.Shefeelshauntedbythefateofthe

girlshehadalwaysthoughtofasglowinglytriumphant.Hadshereallybeenacollaborator?Whathadbecomeofher?Astewardpushesatrolleydowntheaisle,offeringmoredrinksandsugarysnacks.Sheissolostin

Sophie’slifethatshebarelylooksup.Theworldofabsenthusbands,oflonging,ofnearstarvationandfearoftheGermansseemssuddenlymorerealtoherthanthisone.ShesmellsthewoodsmokeinLeCoqRouge,hearsthesoundoffeetonthefloor.Everytimeshecloseshereyes,herpaintingmorphsintotheterrifiedfaceofSophieLefèvre,hauledbysoldiersintoawaitingtruck,disownedbythefamilysheloved.Thepagesarebrown,fragileanddrawmoisturefromherfingertips.Thereareearlylettersfrom

ÉdouardtoSophie,whenhejoinstheRégimentd’InfanterieandshemovestoStPéronnetobewithhersister.Édouardmisseshersomuch,hewrites,thatsomenightshecanbarelybreathe.Hetellsherthatheconjuresherinhishead,paintspicturesofherinthecoldair.Inherwritings,Sophieenviesherimaginaryself,praysforherhusband,scoldshim.Shecallshimpoilu.Theimageofthempromptedbyherwordsissostrong,sointimatethat,evenstrugglingwithherFrenchtranslation,Livfeelsalmostbreathless.Sherunsherfingeralongthefadedscript,marvellingthatthegirlintheportraitwasresponsibleforthesewords.SophieLefèvreisnolongeraseductiveimageinachippedgildedframe:shehasbecomeaperson,aliving,breathing,three-dimensionalbeing.Awomanwhotalksaboutlaundry,shortagesoffood,thefitofherhusband’suniform,herfearsandfrustrations.Sherealizes,again,thatshecannotletSophie’spaintinggo.Livflicksthroughtwosheets.Herethetextismoredense,andinterruptedbyaformalsepia-tinted

photographofÉdouardLefèvre,gazingintothemiddledistance.October1914

TheGareduNordwasheaving,aboilingseaofsoldiersandweepingwomen,theairthickwithsmokeandsteamandtheanguishedsoundsofgoodbye.IknewÉdouardwouldn’twantmetocry.Besides,thiswouldonlybeashortseparation;allthenewspaperssaidasmuch.‘Iwanttoknoweverythingyou’redoing,’Isaid.‘Makelotsofsketchesforme.Andbesuretoeatproperly.Anddon’tdo

anythingstupid,likegettingdrunkandfightingandgettingyourselfarrested.Iwantyouhomeasquicklyaspossible.’

HemademepromisethatHélèneandIwouldbecareful.‘Ifyougetwindthattheenemylineismovinganywheretowardsyou,promisemeyouwillcomestraightbacktoParis.’

WhenInodded,hesaid,‘Don’tgivemethatsphinxface,Sophie.Promisemeyouwillthinkofyourselffirst.IwillnotbeabletofightifIbelieveyoumightbeindanger.’

‘YouknowI’mmadeofstrongstuff.’

Heglancedbehindhimattheclock.Somewhereinthedistanceatrainletoutapiercingwhistle.Steam,thestenchofburnedoil,rosearoundus,brieflyobscuringthecrowdsontheplatform.Ireacheduptoadjusthisbluesergekepi.ThenIstoodbacktolookathim.Whatamanmyhusbandis!Agiantamongmen.Hisshoulderssobroadinhisuniform,halfaheadtallerthananyoneelsethere.Heissuchahugephysicalpresence;tolookathimmademyheartswell.Idon’tthinkIbelievedeventhenthathewasactuallyleaving.

Hehadfinishedalittlegouachepaintingofmetheweekbefore.Hepattedhistoppocketnow.‘Iwillcarryyouwithme.’

Itouchedmyheartwithmyhand.‘Andyouwithme.’IwassecretlyenviousthatIhadn’toneofhim.

Iglancedaroundme.Carriagedoorswereopeningandclosing,handsreachingpastus,fingersentwiningforthelasttime.

‘I’mnotgoingtowatchyougo,Édouard,’Itoldhim.‘Ishallclosemyeyesandkeeptheimageofyouasyoustandbeforeme.’

Henodded.Heunderstood.‘Beforeyougo,’hesaidsuddenly.Andthenhesweptmetohimandkissedme,hismouthpressedagainstmine,hisbigarmspullingmetight,tighttohim.Iheldhim,myeyessqueezedshut,andIbreathedhimin,absorbingthescentofhim,asifIcouldmakethattraceofhimlastforhisentireabsence.ItwasasifonlythenIbelievedhewasactuallygoing.Myhusbandwasgoing.Andthen,whenitbecametoomuch,Ipushedmyselfaway,myfacerigidlycomposed.

Ikeptmyeyesclosed,andgrippedhishand,notwantingtoseewhateverwasonhisface,andthenIturnedswiftly,straight-backed,andpushedmywaythroughthecrowds,awayfromhim.

Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’twanttoseehimactuallygetonthetrain.Ihaveregrettediteverydaysince.

ItwasonlywhenIgothomethatIreachedintomypocket.Ifoundapieceofpaperhemusthaveslippedintherewhileheheldme:alittlecaricatureofthetwoofus,himahugebearinhisuniform,grinning,hisarmaroundme,petiteandnarrow-waisted,myfacestraightandsolemn,myhairpulledneatlybehindmyhead.Underneathithehadwritten,inhislooping,cursivescript:‘Ineverknewrealhappinessuntilyou.’

Livblinks.Sheplacesthepapersneatlyinthefolder.Shesits,thinking.ThensheunrollsthepictureofSophieLefèvre,thatsmiling,complicitface.HowcouldMonsieurBessetteberight?Howcouldawomanwhoadoredherhusbandlikethatbetrayhim,notjustwithanothermanbutwithanenemy?Itseemsincomprehensible.Livrollsupthephotocopyandplaceshernotesbackinsideherbag.Mopullsoffherearphones.‘So.HalfanhourtoStPancras.Doyouthinkyougotwhatyouwanted?’Sheshrugs.Shecannotspeakpastthehugelumpthathasriseninherthroat.Mo’shairisscrapedbackintojet-blackfurrowsfromherface,hercheeksmilkpale.‘Younervous

abouttomorrow?’Livswallowsandflashesaweaksmile.Shehasthoughtaboutalmostnothingelseforthepastsix

weeks.‘Forwhatit’sworth,’Mosays,asifshehasbeenthinkingaboutitforsometime,‘Idon’tthink

McCaffertysetyouup.’‘What?’‘Iknowloadsofcrappy,mendaciouspeople.He’snotoneofthem.’Shepicksatapieceofskinonher

thumb,thensays,‘IthinkFatejustdecidedtoplayareallysickjokeanddumpyoubothonopposingsides.’‘Buthedidn’thavetocomeaftermypainting.’Moliftsaneyebrow.‘Really?’

LivstaresoutofthewindowasthetrainrollstowardsLondon,fightinganewlumpinherthroat.Acrossthetable,thecouplebedeckedintinselareleaningagainsteachother.Theyhavefallenasleep,

theirhandsentwined.

Latersheisnotentirelysurewhatmakesherdoit.MoannouncesatStPancrasthatsheisheadingovertoRanic’shouse,leavingLivwithinstructionsnottostayontheInternetallnightlookingupobscurerestitutioncases,andtopleasestickthatCamembertinthefridgebeforeitescapesandpoisonsthewholehouse.Livstandsintheteemingconcourse,holdingaplasticbagofstinkingcheeseandwatchingthelittledarkfigureassheheadstowardstheUnderground,abagslungnonchalantlyoverhershoulder.ThereissomethingbothjauntyandsolidinthewayMotalksaboutRanic;asensethatsomethinghasshiftedforbothofthem.ShewaitsuntilMohasvanishedintothecrowd.Thecommuterswasharoundandpasther,astepping-

stoneinastreamofpeople.Theyareallinpairs,armslinked,chatting,castingfond,excitedlooksateachother,orifalone,headdown,determinedlyheadinghometothepersontheylove.Sheseesweddingbands,engagementrings,hearssnatchesofmurmuredconversationsabouttraintimes,last-minutepintsofmilk,andCanyoupickmeupfromthestation?Afterwardsshewillthinksensiblyaboutthemanypeoplewhodreadthepartnertheyreturnto,lookforexcusesnottoboardthetrain,hideinbars.Butfornowtheboredpeople,themiserablepeople,theotherlonelypeopleareinvisible.Shereadsthecrowdasifitcanonlybeanaffronttohersinglestate.Iwasoneofyouonce,shethinks,andcan’tquiteimaginewhatitwouldbeliketobeoneofthemagain.Ineverknewrealhappinessuntilyou.Thedepartureboardflickersitsnewdestinations,theglass-frontedshopspackedwithlateChristmas

shoppers.Isiteverpossibletobethepersonyouoncewere?shewonders.Andbeforeshecanbecompletelyparalysedbytheanswer,Livtakesholdofhersuitcaseandhalfwalks,halfrunstotheUndergroundstation.

ThereisapeculiarqualitytothesilenceintheflatwhenJakehasgonebacktohismother.Itisasolid,weightything,entirelydifferentfromthequietthatoccurswhenhegoestoafriend’sforafewhours.Theacutestillnessofhishomeinthosehoursis,hesometimesthinks,tingedwithguilt;asenseoffailure.Itisweigheddownbytheknowledgethatthereisnochancehissonwillcomebackforatleastfourdays.Paulfinishesclearingupthekitchen(JakehadbeenmakingchocolateKrispiecakes–puffedriceisscatteredundereverykitchenappliance)–thensits,staringattheSundaypaperhepicksupeachweekoutofhabitandinvariablyfailstoread.IntheearlydaysafterLeonieleft,hedreadedtheearlymorningsmost.Hehadn’tknownhowmuchhe

lovedtheirregularpadoflittleJake’sbarefeetandthesightofhim,hishairstandingonend,hiseyeshalfclosed,appearingintheirbedroomtodemandtoclimbinbetweenthem.Theexquisiteicychillofhisfeet;thewarm,yeastyscentofhisskin.Thatvisceralsense,oncehissonhadburrowedintothemiddleoftheirbed,thatallwaswellwiththeworld.Andthen,afterthey’dgone,thoseearlymonthsofwakingupalone,feelingasifeachmorningsimplyheraldedanotherdayhewouldmissofhisson’slife.Anotherseriesoflittleadventuresoraccidents,themosaicofunremarkableeventsthatwouldhelpturnhimintowhohewouldbecome–andthatPaulwouldhavenopartof.

Paulwasbetteratmorningsnow(notleastbecause,atnine,Jakerarelywokeupbeforehedid)butthefirstfewhoursafterhe’dgonebacktoLeoniestillhadthepowertodisarm.He’llironsomeshirts.Maybegotothegym,thentakeashowerandeat.Thosefewthingswillgivethe

eveningashape.Acoupleofhoursoftelevision,maybeaflickthroughhisfiles,justtomakesureeverything’sshipshapeforthecase,andthenhe’llsleep.He’sjustfinishingtheshirtswhenthetelephonerings.‘Hey,’saysJaney.‘Whoisthis?’hesays,eventhoughheknowsexactlywhoitis.‘It’sme,’shesays,tryingtokeeptheslightaffrontfromhervoice.‘Janey.JustthoughtI’dcheckinand

seehowwe’refixedfortomorrow.’‘We’regood,’hesays.‘Seanhasbeenthroughallthepaperwork.Thebarristerisprepped.We’reas

goodaswecanbe.’‘Didwegetanymoreontheinitialdisappearance?’‘Notmuch.Butwehaveenoughthird-partycorrespondencetohangaprettylargequestionmarkover

it.’Thereisashortsilenceattheotherendoftheline.‘BriggandSawston’saresettinguptheirowntracingagency,’shesays.‘Who?’‘Theauctionhouse.Anotherstringtotheirbow,apparently.Theyhavebigbackerstoo.’‘Damn.’Paulgazesatthepileofpaperworkonhisdesk.‘They’vealreadystartedspeakingtootheragenciesaboutstaff.They’repickingoffex-membersofthe

ArtandAntiquesSquadapparently.’Hehearsthehiddenquestion.‘Anyonewithabackgroundindetectivework.’‘Well,theyhaven’tapproachedme.’Thereisabriefsilence.Hewondersifshebelieveshim.‘Wehavetowinthiscase,Paul.Weneedtomakesurewe’reoutthereinfront.Thatwe’rethego-to

peopleforfindingandreturninglosttreasures.’‘Igetit,’hesays.‘Ijust…Iwantyoutoknowhowimportantyouare.Tothecompany,Imean.’‘LikeIsaid,Janey,nobody’sapproachedme.’Anotherbriefsilence.‘Okay.’Shetalksonforabit,tellinghimaboutherweekend,thetriptoherparents’,aweddingshe’s

beeninvitedtoinDevon.Shetalksabouttheweddingforsolongthathewondersifshe’spluckingupthecouragetoinvitehim,andhechangesthesubjectfirmly.Finallysheringsoff.Paulputsonsomemusic,turnsupthevolumeinanattempttodrownthenoiseofthestreetbelow.He

hasalwayslovedthebuzz,thevitalityoflivingintheWestEnd,buthehaslearnedovertheyearsthat,ifhe’snotintherightframeofmind,itsin-your-facerevelryservesonlytoheightentheinherentmelancholyofSundaynight.Hepressesthevolumebutton.Heknowswhyitis,buthewon’tacknowledgeit.There’slittlepointinthinkingaboutsomethingyoucan’tchange.Hehasjustfinishedwashinghishairwhenhebecomesdimlyawareofthedoorbuzzer.Heswears,

fumblesforatowelandwipeshisface.Hewouldgodownstairsinatowelbuthehasafeelingit’sJaney.

Hedoesn’twanthertothinkthisisaninvitation.Heisalreadyrehearsinghisexcusesasheheadsdownthestairs,hisT-shirtstickingtohisdampskin.Sorry,Janey,I’mjustonmywayout.Yeah.Wemustdiscussthisatwork.Weshouldcallameeting,geteveryoneinvolved.Janey.Ithinkyou’regreat.Butthisreallyisn’tagoodidea.I’msorry.Heopensthefrontdoorwiththislastonealmostonhislips.Butitisn’tJaney.LivHalstonstandsinthemiddleofthepavement,clutchingaweekendbag.Aboveher,stringsof

festivelightsbejewelthenightsky.Shedropsherholdallatherfeet,andherpale,seriousfacegazesupathimasifshehasbrieflyforgottenwhatshehadwantedtosay.‘Thecasestartstomorrow,’hesays,whenshestilldoesn’tspeak.Hecan’tstoplookingather.‘Iknow.’‘We’renotmeanttotalktoeachother.’‘No.’‘Wecouldbothgetinalotoftrouble.’Hestandsthere,waiting.Herexpressionissotense,framedbythecollarofherthickblackcoat,her

eyesflickeringasifamillionconversationsaretakingplaceinsideherthathecannotknow.Hebeginsanapology.Butshespeaksfirst.‘Look.Iknowthisprobablydoesn’tmakeanysense,butcouldwepossiblyforgetaboutthecase?Just

foroneevening?’Hervoiceistoovulnerable.‘Couldwejustbetwopeopleagain?’Itistheslightcatchinhervoicethatbreakshim.PaulMcCaffertymakesasiftospeak,thenleans

forwardandpicksuphersuitcase,draggingitintothehallway.Beforeeitherofthemcanchangetheirmind,hepullshertohim,wrapshisarmstightlyaroundherandstaysthereuntiltheoutsideworldgoesaway.

‘Hey,sleepyhead.’Shepushesherselfupright,slowlyregisteringwheresheis.Paulissittingonthebed,pouringcoffee

intoamug.Hehandsittoher.Heseemsastonishinglyawake.Theclocksays6:32a.m.‘Ibroughtyousometoasttoo.Ithoughtyoumightwanttimetogohomebefore…’Before…Thecase.Shetakesamomenttoletthisthoughtpenetrate.Hewaitswhilesherubshereyes,thenleans

overandkissesherlightly.Hehasbrushedhisteeth,shenotes,andfeelsbrieflyself-consciousthatshehasn’t.‘Ididn’tknowwhatyouwantedonyourtoast.Ihopejam’sokay.’Hepicksitoffthetray.‘Jake’s

choice.Ninety-eightpercentsugarorsomething.’‘Thankyou.’Sheblinksattheplateonherlap.Shecannotrememberthelasttimeanybodybroughther

breakfastinbed.Theygazeateachother.Oh,my,shethinks,rememberingthepreviousnight.Allotherthoughts

disappear.And,asifhecanreadhermind,Paul’seyescrinkleatthecorners.‘Areyou…comingbackin?’shesays.Heshiftsovertoher,sothathislegs,warmandsolid,areentwinedinhers.Shemovessothathecan

placehisarmaroundhershoulders,thenleansintohimandcloseshereyes,justrelishingthefeelofit.Hesmellswarmandsleepy.Shejustwantstorestherfaceagainsthisskinandstaythere,breathinghimin

untilherlungsareentirelyfulloftinymoleculesofPaul.Shehasasuddenrecollectionofaboyshedatedasateenager;shehadadoredhim.Whentheyhadfinallykissed,shehadbeenshockedtofindthathisskin,hishair,allofhim,hadsmeltwrong.Itwasasifsomefundamentalpartofhimwaschemicallycomposedtorepelher.Paul’sskin–shecouldjustliethereandinhaleit,likereallygoodscent.‘Youokay?’‘Betterthanokay,’shesays.Shetakesasipofcoffee.‘IhaveanewloveforSundayevenings.Ican’timaginewhy.’‘Sundayeveningsaredefinitelyunderrated.’‘Asareunexpectedvisitors.IwasalittleworriedyouwereJehovah’sWitnesses.’Hethinks.

‘AlthoughifJehovah’sWitnessesdidwhatyoudidlastnightI’mguessingthey’dgetalotbetterreception.’‘Youshouldtellthem.’‘Imayjustdothat.’Thereisalongsilence.Theylistentothedustcartreversingoutside,themuffledclashofthebins,

eatingtoastincompanionablesilence.‘Imissedyou,Liv,’hesays.Shetiltsherheadandrestsagainsthim.Outside,twopeoplearetalkingloudlyinItalian.Hermuscles

achepleasurably,asifshehasletgoofsomelong-heldtensionthatshehadbarelybeenawareof.Shefeelslikesomeoneshehadforgotten.ShewonderswhatMowouldsayaboutthis,thensmileswhensherealizessheknowstheanswer.AndthenPaul’svoicebreaksintothesilence:‘Liv–I’mafraidthiscaseisgoingtobankruptyou.’Shestaresathermugofcoffee.‘Liv?’‘Idon’twanttotalkaboutthecase.’‘I’mnotgoingtotalkaboutitinany…detail.IjusthavetotellyouI’mworried.’Shetriestosmile.‘Well,don’tbe.Youhaven’twonyet.’‘Evenifyouwin.It’salotofmoneyonlegalfees.I’vebeenhereafewtimessoIhaveagoodidea

whatit’scostingyou.’Heputsdownhismug,takesherhandinhis.‘Look.LastweekItalkedtotheLefèvrefamilyinprivate.Myfellowdirector,Janey,doesn’tevenknowaboutit.Iexplainedalittleofyoursituation,toldthemhowmuchyoulovethepainting,howunwillingyouaretolethergo.AndIgotthemtoagreetoofferyouapropersettlement.Aserioussettlement,agoodsixfigures.Itwouldcoveryourlegalfeessofarandthensome.’Livstaresattheirhands,herownenfoldedinhis.Hermoodevaporates.‘Areyou…tryingtopersuade

metobackdown?’‘Notforthereasonsyouthink.’‘Whatdoesthatmean?’Hegazesaheadofhim.‘Ifoundstuff.’Somepartofhergrowsverystill.‘InFrance?’Hecompresseshismouthasiftryingtoworkouthowmuchtotellher.‘Ifoundanoldnewspaper

article,writtenbytheAmericanjournalistwhoownedyourpainting.ShetalksabouthowshewasgivenyourpaintingfromastoreofstolenartworknearDachau.’

‘So?’‘Sotheseworkswereallstolen.Whichwouldlendweighttoourcasethatthepaintingwasobtained

illegallyandtakenintoGermanpossession.’‘That’sabigassumption.’‘Ittaintsanylateracquisition.’‘Soyousay.’‘I’mgoodatmyjob,Liv.We’rehalfwaythere.Andifthere’sfurtherevidence,youknowI’mgoingto

findit.’Shefeelsherselfgrowingrigid.‘Ithinktheimportantwordthereis“if”.’Sheremovesherhandfrom

his.Heshiftsroundtofaceher.‘Okay.ThisiswhatIdon’tget.Asidefromwhatismorallyrightandwrong

here,Idon’tgetwhyareallysmartwomanwhoisinpossessionofapaintingthatcostalmostnothing,andnowknowsthatithasadubiouspast,wouldn’tagreetohanditbackinreturnforalotofmoney.Ahellofalotmoremoneythanshepaidforit.’‘It’snotaboutthemoney.’‘Oh,comeon,Liv.I’mpointingouttheobvious,here.Whichisthatifyougoaheadwiththiscaseand

youlose,youstandtolosehundredsofthousandsofpounds.Maybeevenyourhome.Allyoursecurity.Forapainting?Really?’‘Sophiedoesn’tbelongwiththem.Theydon’t…theydon’tcareabouther.’‘SophieLefèvrehasbeendeadforeighty-oddyears.I’mprettysureit’snotgoingtomakeany

differencetoheronewayortheother.’Livslidesoutofthebed,castsaroundforhertrousers.‘Youreallydon’tunderstand,doyou?’She

haulsthemon,zippingthemupfuriously.‘God.YouaresonotthemanIthoughtyouwere.’‘No.I’mamanwho,surprisingly,doesn’twanttoseeyouloseyourhousefornothing.’‘Oh,no.Iforgot.You’rethemanwhobroughtthiscrapintomyhouseinthefirstplace.’‘Youthinksomeoneelsewouldn’thavedonethisjob?It’sastraightforwardcase,Liv.Thereare

organizationslikeoursallovertheplacewhowouldhaverunwithit.’‘Arewefinished?’Shefastensherbra,pullsherjumperoverherhead.‘Ah,hell.Look.Ijustwantyoutothinkaboutit.I–Ijustdon’twantyoutoloseeverythingonamatter

ofprinciple.’‘Oh.Soallthisisaboutlookingoutforme.Right.’Herubshisforehead,asifhe’stryingtokeephistemper.Andthenheshakeshishead.‘Youknow

what?Idon’tthinkthisisaboutthepaintingatall.Ithinkthisisaboutyourinabilitytomoveon.GivingupthepaintingmeansleavingDavidinthepast.Andyoucan’tdothat.’‘I’vemovedon!YouknowImovedon!Whatthehelldoyouthinklastnightwasabout?’Hestaresather.‘Youknowwhat?Idon’tknow.Ireallydon’tknow.’Whenshepushespasthimtoleavehedoesn’ttrytostopher.

25

Twohourslater,LivsitsinthetaxiwatchingHenrydemolishacoffeeandaDanishpastry,herstomachinknots.‘Gottogetthekidstoschool,’hesays,sprayingcrumbsthroughhislegs.‘Neverhavetimeforbreakfast.’Sheisinadarkgreytailoredjacket,aflashofbrightblueshirtunderneathit.Shewearstheseclothes

likearmour.Shewantstosaysomethingbutherjawappearstohavewireditselfshut.Shenolongerhasnerves:sheisonegiantnerve.Ifsomeonetouchedhershemighttwang.‘Guaranteedthatjustasyousitdownwithamugofcoffeeoneofthemwillcomeindemandingtoastor

porridgeorwhatnot.’Shenodsmutely.ShekeepshearingPaul’svoice.Theseworkswereallstolen.‘IthinkforaboutayearIatewhateverIcouldgrabfromthebreadbinonthewayout.Gotquitefondof

rawcrumpets,actually.’Therearepeopleoutsidethecourt.Asmallcrowdismillinginfrontofthemainsteps.Atfirstshe

thinksitmustbeagroupofsightseers–butHenryreachesforherarmasshestepsoutofthetaxi.‘Oh,Christ.Keepyourheaddown,’hesays.‘What?’Asherfootmeetsthepavement,theairisfilledwithblindingflashes.Sheisbrieflyparalysed.Then

Henry’sarmispropellingherforward,pastthejostlingmen’selbows,herownnameshoutedinherear.SomeonethrustsapieceofpaperintoherfreehandandshecanhearHenry’svoice,thefainttoneofpanicasthecrowdseemstoclosearoundher.Sheissurroundedbyajumbleofjackets,andthedark,fathomlessreflectionofhugelenses.‘Standback,everybody,please.Standback.’Sheglimpsestheflashofbrassonapoliceman’suniform,shutshereyesandfeelsherselfshovedsideways,Henry’sgriptighteningonherarm.Thentheyareinthesilentcourts,headingthroughSecurity,andsheisontheotherside,blinkingathim

inshock.‘Whatthehellwasthat?’Sheisbreathinghard.Henrysmootheshishair,andturnstopeeroutthroughthedoors.‘Thenewspapers.I’mafraidthecase

seemstohaveattractedanawfullotofattention.’Shestraightensherjacket,thenlooksround,justintimetoseePaulstridinginthroughtheSecurity.He

iswearingapaleblueshirtanddarktrousersandlooksutterlyunruffled.Nobodyhasbotheredhim.Astheireyesmeetshegiveshimalookofmutefury.Hisstrideslows,justafraction,buthisexpressiondoesnotalter.Heglancesbehindhim,hispaperstuckedunderhisarm,andcontinuesinthedirectionofCourtTwo.Itisthenthatsheseesthepieceofpaperinherhand.Sheunfoldsitcarefully.ThepossessionofthatwhichtheGermanstookisaCRIME.EndthesufferingoftheJewishpeople.Returnwhatisrightfullytheirs.BringjusticebeforeitisTOOLATE.

‘What’sthat?’Henrypeersoverhershoulder.‘Whydidtheygivemethis?Theclaimantsaren’tevenJewish!’sheexclaims.‘Ididwarnyouthatwartimelootingisaveryinflammatorysubject.I’mafraidyoumayfindallsortsof

interestgroupslatchingontoit,whetherthey’redirectlyaffectedornot.’‘Butthisisridiculous.Wedidn’tstealthedamnpainting.It’sbeenoursforoveradecade!’‘Comeon,Liv.Let’sheadovertoCourtTwo.I’llgetsomeonetofetchyousomewater.’

Thepressareaispacked.Sheseesthereporters,wedgedinbesideeachother,mutteringandjoking,flippingthroughtheday’snewspapersbeforethejudgearrives;aherdofpredators,relaxedbutintent,watchingfortheirprey.Shescansthebenchesforanybodysherecognizesfromthescrum.Shewantstostandupandshoutatthem.Thisisagametoyou,isn’tit?Justtomorrow’sfish-and-chippaper.Herheartisracing.Thejudge,Henrysays,settlingintohisseat,hasexperienceinsuchcasesandisscrupulouslyfair.He

isuncharacteristicallyvaguewhensheaskshimhowmanytimeshehasruledinfavourofthecurrentowners.Eachsideisweigheddownwithfatfilesofdocumentation,listsofexpertwitnesses,statementson

obscurelegalpointsofFrenchlaw.Henry,jokingly,hassaidthatLivnowknowssomuchaboutspecialistlitigationthathemightofferherajobafterwards.‘Imayneedit,’shesaysgrimly.‘Allrise.’‘Herewego.’Henrytouchesherelbow,givesherareassuringsmile.TheLefèvres,twoelderlymen,arealreadyseatedalongthebenchwithSeanFlaherty,watchingthe

proceedingsinsilenceastheirbarrister,ChristopherJenks,outlinestheircase.Shestaresatthem,takingintheirdourexpressions,thewaytheycrosstheirarmsovertheirchests,asifpredisposedtodissatisfaction.MauriceandAndréLefèvrearethetrusteesoftheremainingworksandlegacyofÉdouardLefèvre,heexplainstothecourt.Theirinterest,hesays,isinsafeguardinghiswork,andprotectinghislegacyforthefuture.‘Andliningtheirpockets,’shemutters.Henryshakeshishead.Jenksstrollsupanddownthecourtroom,onlyoccasionallyreferringtonotes,hiscommentsdirectedat

thejudge.AsLefèvre’spopularityhadincreasedinrecentyears,hisdescendantshadconductedanauditofhisremainingworks,whichuncoveredreferencestoaportraitentitledTheGirlYouLeftBehind,whichhadoncebeeninthepossessionoftheartist’swife,SophieLefèvre.Aphotographandsomewrittenjournalshaveturnedupthefactthatthepaintinghunginfullviewinthe

hotelknownasLeCoqRougeinStPéronne,atownoccupiedbytheGermansduringtheFirstWorldWar.TheKommandantinchargeofthetown,oneFriedrichHencken,isrecordedashavingadmiredthe

workonseveraloccasions.LeCoqRougewasrequisitionedbytheGermansfortheirpersonaluse.SophieLefèvrehadbeenvocalinherresistancetotheiroccupation.SophieLefèvrehadbeenarrestedandremovedfromStPéronneinearly1917.Ataroundthesame

time,thepaintinghaddisappeared.These,Jenksclaims,aresuggestiveenoughofcoercion,ofa‘tainted’acquisitionofamuch-loved

painting.Butthis,hesaysemphatically,isnottheonlysuggestionthatthepaintingwasobtainedillegally.EvidencejustobtainedrecordsitsappearanceduringtheSecondWorldWarinGermany,at

Berchtesgaden,atastoragefacilityknownastheCollectionPoint,usedforstolenandlootedworksofart

thathadfallenintoGermanpossession.Hesaysthewords‘stolenandlootedworksofart’twice,asiftoemphasizehispoint.Here,Jenkssays,thepaintingmysteriouslyarrivedinthepossessionofanAmericanjournalist,LouanneBaker,whospentadayattheCollectionPointandwroteaboutitforanAmericannewspaper.Herreportsofthetimementionthatshereceiveda‘gift’or‘memento’fromtheevent.Shekeptthepaintingatherhome,afactconfirmedbyherfamily,untilitwassoldtenyearsagotoDavidHalston,who,inturn,gaveitasaweddingpresenttohiswife.ThisisnotnewtoLiv,whohasseenalloftheevidenceunderfulldisclosure.Butshelistenstothe

historyofherpaintingreadaloudincourtandfindsithardtoassociateherportrait,thelittlepaintingthathashungserenelyonherbedroomwall,withsuchtrauma,suchgloballysignificantevents.Sheglancesatthepressbench.Thereportersappearrapt,asdoesthejudge.Shethinks,absently,thatif

herwholefuturedidnotdependonthis,shewouldprobablyberapttoo.Alongthebench,Paulisleaningback,hisarmscrossedcombatively.Livletshergazetravelsideways,andhelooksstraightbackather.Sheflushesslightly,turnsaway.She

wondersifhewillbehereforeverydayofthecase,andifitispossibletokillamaninapackedcourtroom.ChristopherJenksisstandingbeforethem.‘YourHonour,itisdeeplyunfortunatethatMrsHalstonhas

unwittinglybeendrawnintoaseriesofhistoricwrongs,butwrongstheyare.Itisourcontentionthatthispaintinghasbeenstolentwice:oncefromthehomeofSophieLefèvre,andthen,duringtheSecondWorldWar,fromherdescendantsbyitsillegalgiftingfromtheCollectionPoint,duringaperiodinEuropesochaoticthatthemisdemeanourwentunrecorded,and,untilnow,undiscovered.‘Butthelaw,bothundertheGenevaConventionandcurrentrestitutionlegislation,saysthatthese

wrongsmustbeputright.Itisourcasethatthispaintingshouldberestoredtoitsrightfulowners,theLefèvrefamily.Thankyou.’Henry’sface,besideher,isexpressionless.LivgazestowardsthecorneroftheroomwhereaprintedimageofTheGirlYouLeftBehind,

reproducedtoactualsize,sitsonasmallstand.Flahertyhadaskedforthepaintingtobeplacedinprotectiveholdingwhileitsfatewasdecided,butHenryhadtoldherthatshewasundernoobligationtoagreetothat.Still,itisunnervingtoseeTheGirlhere,outofplace,hergazesomehowseemingtomockthe

proceedingsbeforeher.Athome,Livfindsherselfwalkingintothebedroomsimplytolookather,theintensityofhergazeheightenedbythepossibilitythatsoonshewillneverbeabletolookatheragain.Theafternoonstretches.Theairinthecourtroomslowsandexpandswiththecentralheating.

ChristopherJenkstakesaparttheirattempttotime-bartheclaimwiththeforensicefficiencyofaboredsurgeondissectingafrog.Occasionallyshelooksuptohearphraseslike‘transferoftitle’and‘incompleteprovenance’.Thejudgecoughsandexamineshisnotes.Paulmurmurstothewomandirectorfromhiscompany.Wheneverhedoes,shesmiles,showingperfect,tinywhiteteeth.NowChristopherJenksbeginstoread:‘15January1917

TodaytheytookSophieLefèvre.Suchasightyouneversaw.ShewasmindingherownbusinessdowninthecellarsofLeCoqRougewhentwoGermanscameacrossthesquareanddraggedherupthestepsandhauledherout,asifshewereacriminal.Hersisterbeggedandcried,asdidtheorphanedchildofLilianeBéthune,awholecrowdroseupandprotested,buttheysimplybrushedthemasidelikeflies.Twoelderlypeoplewereactuallyknockedtothefloorinthecommotion.Iswear,monDieu,iftherearetobejustrewardsinournextlifetheGermanswillpaydearly.

Theycartedthegirloffinacattletruck.Themayortriedtostopthem,butheisafeeblecharacter,thesedays,weakenedbythedeathofhisdaughter,andtoopronetolyingdownwiththeBoche.Theyfailtotakehimseriously.WhenthevehiclefinallydisappearedhewalkedintothebarofLeCoqRougeandannouncedwithgreatpompositythathewouldtakeitupatthehighestpossiblelevel.Noneofuslistened.Herpoorsister,Hélène,wept,herheadonthecounter,herbrotherAurélienranoff,likeascaldeddog,andthechildthatSophiehadseenfittotakein–thechildofLilianeBéthune–stoodinthecornerlikealittlepaleghost.

‘Eh,Hélènewilllookafteryou,’Itoldher.Ibentdownandpressedacoinintoherhand,butshelookedatitasifshedidn’tknowwhatitwas.Whenshestaredatmehereyeswerelikesaucers.‘Youmustnotfear,child.Hélèneisagoodwoman.Shewilltakecareofyou.’

IknowtherewassomecommotionwithSophieLefèvre’sbrotherbeforesheleft,butmyearsarenotgood,andinthenoiseandchaosImissedtheheartofit.Still,Ifearshehasbeenill-usedbytheGermans.IknewthatoncetheydecidedtotakeoverLeCoqRougethegirlwasdonefor,butsheneverwouldlistentome.Shemusthaveoffendedtheminsomeway;shealwayswasthemoreimpetuousone.Icannotcondemnherforit:IsuspectiftheGermanswereinmyhouseIwouldoffendthemtoo.

Yes,IhadmydifferenceswithSophieLefèvre,butmyheartisheavytonight.Toseehershovedontothatcattletruckasifshewerealreadyacarcass,toimagineherfuture…Thesearedarkdays.TothinkIshouldhavelivedtoseesuchsights.Somenightsitishardnottobelieveourlittletownisbecomeaplaceofmadness.’

Inhislow,sonorousvoice,ChristopherJenksendshisreading.Thecourtroomisstill,onlythesoundofthestenographeraudibleinthesilence.Overheadafanwhirslazily,failingtodisplacetheair.‘“IknewthatoncetheydecidedtotakeoverLeCoqRougethegirlwasdonefor.”’Ladiesand

gentlemen,IthinkthisdiaryentrytellsusprettyconclusivelythatanyrelationshipSophieLefèvrehadwiththeGermansinStPéronnewasnotaparticularlyhappyone.’Hestrollsthroughthecourtroomlikesomeonetakingtheaironabeachfront,casuallystudyingthe

photocopiedpages.‘Butthisisnottheonlyreference.Thesamelocalresident,VivienneLouvier,hasproventobea

remarkabledocumenteroflifeinthelittletown.Andifwegobackseveralmonths,shewritesthefollowing:‘TheGermansaretakingtheirmealsatLeCoqRouge.TheyhavetheBessettesisterscookingthemfoodsorichthatthesmelldriftsaroundthesquareanddrivesusallhalfmadwithlonging.ItoldSophieBessette–orLefèvreasshenowis–intheboulangeriethatherfatherwouldnothavestoodforit,butshesaysthereisnothingshecando.’

Heliftshishead.‘“Nothingshecando”.TheGermanshaveinvadedtheartist’swife’shotel,forcedhertocookforthem.Shehastheenemyactuallyinherhome,andsheisutterlypowerless.Allcompellingstuff.Butthisisnottheonlyevidence.AsearchoftheLefèvrearchiveunearthedaletterwrittenbySophieLefèvretoherhusband.Itapparentlyneverreachedhim,butIbelievethatwillproveirrelevant.’Heholdsupthepaper,asifstrugglingtoseeitinthelight.‘HerrKommandantisnotasfoolishasBeckenbauerbutunnervesmemore.HestaresatyourportraitofmeandIwanttotellhimhehasnoright.Thatpainting,aboveallothers,belongstoyouandme.Doyouknowthemostpeculiarthing,Édouard?Heactuallyadmiresyourwork.Heknowsofit,knowsthatoftheMatisseSchool,ofWeberandPurrmann.HowstrangeithasbeentofindmyselfdefendingyoursuperiorbrushworktoaGermanKommandant!ButIrefusetotakeitdown,nomatterwhatHélènesays.Itremindsmeofyou,andofatimewhenwewerehappytogether.

Itremindsmethathumankindiscapableofloveandbeautyaswellasdestruction.

Iprayforyoursafeandswiftreturn,mydearest.

Yoursever,Sophie’

‘“Thatpainting,aboveallothers,belongstoyouandme.”’Jenksletsthathangintheair.‘So,thisletter,foundlongafterherdeath,tellsusthatthepaintingmeant

anawfullottotheartist’swife.ItalsotellsusprettyconclusivelythataGermanKommandanthadhiseye

onit.Notonlythat,butthathehadagoodideaofthemarketasawhole.Hewas,ifyoulike,anaficionado.’Herollsouttheword,emphasizingeachsyllable,asifitwerethefirsttimehehadusedit.‘Andhere,thelootingoftheFirstWorldWarwouldseemtobeaprecursortothatoftheSecond.Here

wehaveeducatedGermanofficers,knowingwhattheywant,knowingwhatmayholdvalue,andearmarkingit–’‘Objection.’AngelaSilver,Liv’sQC,isonherfeet.‘Thereisavastdifferencebetweensomebody

admiringapaintingandhavingknowledgeoftheartist,andactuallytakingit.MylearnedfriendhasnotprovidedanyevidencewhatsoeverthattheKommandanttookthepainting,simplythatheadmiredit,andthatheatehismealsinthehotelwhereMadameLefèvrelived.Allofthesethingsarecircumstantial.’Thejudgemutters,‘Sustained.’ChristopherJenkswipeshisbrow.‘Iamsimplyattemptingtopaintapicture,ifyoulike,oflifewithin

thetownofStPéronnein1916.It’simpossibletounderstandhowapaintingmightbetakenintosomebody’scustodywithoutunderstandingtheclimateofthetime,andhowtheGermanshadcarteblanchetorequisition,ortakewhattheyliked,fromanyhousethattheychose.’‘Objection.’AngelaSilverstudieshernotes.‘Irrelevant.Thereisnoevidencetosuggestthatthis

paintingwasrequisitioned.’‘Sustained.Keeptothepoint,MrJenks.’‘Merelytrying,again,to…paintapicture,mylord.’‘LeavethepaintingtoLefèvre,ifyouwill,MrJenks.’Thereisalowmurmuroflaughteraroundthe

courtroom.‘ImeantodemonstratethatthereweremanyvaluableitemsrequisitionedbyGermantroopsthatwent

unrecorded,justastheywerenot“paidfor”,aspromisedbytheGermanleadersofthetime.ImentionthegeneralclimateforsuchbehaviourbecauseitisourcontentionthatTheGirlYouLeftBehindwasonesuchitem.’‘“HestaresatyourportraitofmeandIwanttotellhimhehasnoright.”’Well,itisourcase,Your

Honour,thatKommandantFriedrichHenckenfelthehadeveryrightindeed.AndthatthispaintingdidnotleaveGermanpossessionforanotherthirtyyears.’PaullooksatLiv.Shelooksaway.SheconcentratesontheimageofSophieLefèvre.Fools,sheseemstosay,herimpenetrablegaze

appearingtotakeineverypersonthere.Yes,thinksLiv.Yes,weare.

Theyadjournathalfpastthree.AngelaSilveriseatingasandwichinherchambers.Herwigliesonthetablebesideher,andamugofteastandsonherdesk.Henrysitsopposite.Theytellherthatthefirstdayhadgoneastheyhadexpected.Butthetangoftensionhangsinthe

atmosphere,likesaltintheairmilesfromthecoast.LivshufflesherphotocopiedpileoftranslationsasHenryturnstoAngela.‘Liv,didn’tyousaythatwhenyouspoketoSophie’snephew,hementionedsomethingaboutherbeing

disgraced?Iwonderedwhetheritwouldbeworthpursuingthatline.’‘Idon’tunderstand,’shesays.Theyarebothlookingatherexpectantly.Silverfinisheshermouthfulbeforeshespeaks.‘Well,ifshewasdisgraced,doesn’tthatsuggesther

relationshipwiththeKommandantmighthavebeenconsensual?Thethingis,ifwecanprovethatitwas,

ifwecansuggestthatshewashavinganextra-maritalaffairwithaGermansoldier,wecanalsoclaimtheportraitmighthavebeenagift.Itwouldn’tbebeyondtherealmsofpossibilitythatsomeoneinthethroesofaloveaffairwouldgiveherloveraportraitofherself.’‘ButSophiewouldn’t,’Livsays.‘Wedon’tknowthat,’saysHenry.‘Youtoldmethatafterherdisappearancethefamilyneverspokeof

heragain.Surelyifshewasblameless,theywouldhavewantedtorememberher.Insteadsheseemstobecloakedinsomesortofshame.’‘Idon’tthinkshecouldhavehadaconsensualrelationshipwiththeKommandant.Lookatthis

postcard.’Livreopensherfile.‘“Youaremylodestarinthisworldofmadness.”That’sthreemonthsbeforesheissupposedtohavehadthis“collaboration”.Ithardlysoundslikeahusbandandwifewhodon’tloveeachother,doesit?’‘That’scertainlyahusbandwholoveshiswife,yes,’saysHenry.‘Butwehavenoideawhethershe

returnedthatlove.ShecouldhavebeenmadlyinlovewithaGermansoldieratthistime.Shecouldhavebeenlonelyormisguided.Justbecauseshelovedherhusband,itdoesn’tmeanshewasn’tcapableoffallinginlovewithsomeoneelseoncehe’dgoneaway.’Livpushesherhairbackfromherface.‘Itfeelshorrible,’shesays,‘likeblackeninghername.’‘Hernameisalreadyblackened.Herfamilydon’thaveadecentwordtosayabouther.’‘Idon’twanttousehernephew’swordsagainsther,’shesays.‘He’stheonlyonewhoseemstocare

abouther.I’mjust–I’mjustnotconvincedwe’vegotthefullstory.’‘Thefullstoryisunimportant.’AngelaSilverscrewsuphersandwichboxandthrowsitneatlyintothe

wastepaperbin.‘Look,MrsHalston,ifyoucanprovethatsheandtheKommandanthadanaffairitwillwhollyimproveyourchancesofretainingthepainting.Aslongastheothersidecansuggestthepaintingwasstolen,orobtainedcoercively,itweakensyourcase.’Shewipesherhands,andreplacesthewigonherhead.‘Thisishardball.Andyoucanbettheothersideareplayingthatway.Ultimately,it’saboutthis:howbadlydoyouwanttokeepthispainting?’Livsitsatthetable,herownsandwichuntouchedasthetwolawyersgetuptoleave.Shestaresatthe

notesinfrontofher.ShecannottarnishSophie’smemory.Butshecannotletherpaintinggo.Moreimportantly,shecannotletPaulwin.‘I’lltakeanotherlook,’shesays.

26Iamnotafraid,althoughitisstrangetohavethemhere,eatingandtalking,underourveryroof.Theyarelargelypolite,solicitousalmost.AndIdobelieveHerrKommandantwillnottolerateanymisdemeanorsonthemen’spart.Soouruneasytrucehasbegun…

TheoddthingisthatHerrKommandantisaculturedman.HeknowsofMatisse!OfWeberandPurrmann!CanyouimaginehowstrangeitistodiscussthefinerpointsofyourbrushworkwithaGerman?

Wehaveeatenwelltonight.HerrKommandantcameintothekitchenandinstructedustoeattheleftoverfish.LittleJeancriedwhenitwasfinished.Ipraythatyouhavefoodenough,whereveryouare…

Livreadsandre-readsthesefragments,tryingtofillinthespacesbetweenherwords.Itishardtofindachronology–Sophie’swritingsareonstrayscrapsofpaper,andinplacestheinkhasfaded–butthereisadefinitethawinginherrelationshipwithFriedrichHencken.Shehintsatlongdiscussions,randomkindnesses,thathekeepsgivingthemfood.SurelySophiewouldnothavediscussedartoracceptedmealsfromsomeonesheconsideredabeast.Themoreshereads,theclosershefeelstotheauthorofthesescraps.Shereadsthetaleofthepig-baby,

translatingittwicetomakesureshehasreaditright,andwantstocheeratitsoutcome.Sherefersbacktohercourtcopies,MadameLouvier’ssniffydescriptionsofthegirl’sdisobedience,hercourage,hergoodheart.Herspiritseemstoleapfromthepage.Shewishes,briefly,shecouldtalktoPaulaboutit.Sheclosesthefoldercarefully.Andthenshelooksguiltilytothesideofherdesk,whereshekeepsthe

papersshedidnotshowHenry.TheKommandant’seyesareintense,shrewd,andyetsomehowveiled,asifdesignedtohidehistruefeelings.Iwasafraidthathemightbeabletoseemyowncrumblingcomposure.

Therestofthepaperismissing,rippedaway,orperhapsbrokenoffwithage.‘Iwilldancewithyou,HerrKommandant,’Isaid.‘Butonlyinthekitchen.’

Andthenthereisthescrapofpaper,inhandwritingthatisnotSophie’s.‘Onceitisdone,’itreads,simply,‘itcannotbeundone.’Thefirsttimeshereadit,Liv’shearthaddroppedsomewheretoherfeet.Shereadsandre-readsthewords,picturesawomanlockedinasecretiveembracewithaman

supposedtobeherenemy.Andthensheclosesthefolderandtucksitcarefullybackunderherpileofpapers.

‘Howmanytoday?’‘Four,’shesays,handingovertheday’shaulofpoison-penletters.Henryhastoldhernottoopen

anythingwithhandwritingshedoesnotrecognize.Hisstaffwilldoit,andreportanythatarethreatening.Shetriestobesanguineaboutthisnewdevelopment,butsecretlysheflincheseverytimesheseesanunfamiliarletternow;theideathatallthisunfocusedhateisoutthere,justwaitingforatarget.Shecannolongertype‘TheGirlYouLeftBehind’intoasearchengine.Therewereoncetwohistoricalreferencesbutnowtherearewebversionsofnewspaperreportsfromacrosstheglobe,reproducedbyinterest

groups,andInternetchat-roomsdiscussingherandPaul’sapparentselfishness,theirinherentdisregardforwhatisright.Thewordsspringoutlikeblows:Looted.Stolen.Robbed.Bitch.Twice,someonehasposteddogexcrementthroughtheletterboxinthelobby.Therewasonlyoneprotesterthismorning,adishevelledmiddle-agedwomaninabluemackintosh,

whoinsistedonhandingheranotherhome-madeleafletabouttheHolocaust.‘Thisisreallynothingtodowithmeorthiscase,’Livhadsaid,thrustingitbackather.‘Ifyoudonothingyouarecomplicit.’Thewoman’sfacewashewnbyfury.Henryhadpulledheraway.‘There’snopointinengaging,’hehadsaid.Oddly,thathadn’tlessenedher

vaguesenseofguilt.Thosearetheovertsignsofdisapproval.Therearelessobviousoutcomesfromtheongoingcourtcase.

Theneighboursnolongersayacheeryhello,butnodandlookattheirshoesastheypass.Therehavebeennoinvitationsthroughherdoorsincethecasewasrevealedinthenewspapers.Nottodinner,aprivateview,oroneofthearchitecturaleventsthatshewashabituallyinvitedto,evenifsheusuallyrefused.Atfirstshethoughtallthiswascoincidence;nowsheisstartingtowonder.Thenewspapersreportheroutfiteachday,describingheras‘sombre’,sometimes‘understated’and

always‘blonde’.Theirappetiteforallaspectsofthecaseseemsendless.Shedoesnotknowifanyonehastriedtoreachherforcomment:hertelephonehasbeenunpluggedfordays.ShegazesalongthepackedbenchesattheLefèvres,theirfacesclosedandseeminglysetinexpressions

ofresignedbelligerence,justastheywereonthefirstday.ShewonderswhattheyfeelwhentheyhearhowSophiewascastoutfromherfamily,alone,unloved.Dotheyfeeldifferentlyabouthernow?Ordotheynotregisterherpresenceattheheartofthis,justseeingthepoundsigns?Paulsitseachdayatthefarendofthebench.Shedoesn’tlookathimbutshefeelshispresencelikean

electricalpulse.ChristopherJenkstakesthefloor.Hewill,hetellsthecourt,outlinethelatestpieceofevidencethat

TheGirlYouLeftBehindis,infact,lootedart.Itisanunusualcase,hesays,inthatinvestigationssuggesttheportraitwasobtainedbytaintedmeans,notoncebuttwice.Theword‘tainted’neverfailstomakeherwince.‘Thecurrentownersofthepainting,theHalstons,purchaseditfromtheestateofoneLouanneBaker.

“TheFearlessMissBaker”,asshewasknown,wasawarreporterin1945,oneofaselectfewsuchwomen.TherearenewspapercuttingsfromtheNewYorkRegisterthatdetailherpresenceatDachauattheendoftheSecondWorldWar.TheyprovideavividrecordofherpresenceasAlliedtroopsliberatedthecamp.’Livwatchesthemalereportersscribblingintently.‘SecondWorldWarstuff,’Henryhadmurmured,as

theysatdown.‘ThepressloveaNazi.’TwodayspreviouslyshehadsworntwoofthemwereplayingHangman.‘OnecuttinginparticulartellshowMsBakerspentonedayaroundthetimeoftheliberationatavast

warehouseknownastheCollectionPoint,housedinformerNaziofficesnearMunichinwhichUStroopsstoreddisplacedworksofart.’Hetellsthestoryofanotherreporter,whowasgivenapaintingtothankherforhelpingtheAlliesatthistime.Ithadbeenthesubjectofaseparatelegalchallenge,andhadsincegonebacktoitsoriginalowners.Henryshakeshishead,atinygesture.

‘M’lord,Iwillnowhandroundcopiesofthisnewspaperarticle,datedthesixthofNovember1945,entitled“HowIbecametheGovernorofBerchtesgaden”,which,wecontend,demonstrateshowLouanneBaker,ahumblereporter,came,byextremelyunorthodoxmeans,toownamodernmasterpiece.’Thecourthushesandthejournalistsleanforwards,pensreadiedagainsttheirnotebooks.Christopher

Jenksbeginstoread:‘Wartimepreparesyouforalotofthings.ButlittlepreparedmeforthedayIfoundmyselfGovernorofBerchtesgaden,andofGoering’shaulofsomeonehundredmilliondollars’worthofstolenart.’

Theyoungreporter’svoiceechoesacrosstheyears,plucky,capable.ShecomesashorewiththeScreamingEaglesonOmahaBeach.SheisstationedwiththemnearMunich.Sherecordsthethoughtsofyoungsoldierswhohaveneverbeforespenttimefromhome,thesmoking,thebravado,thesurreptitiouswistfulness.Andthenonemorningshewatchesthetroopsgoout,headedforaprisoner-of-warcampsomemilesaway,andfindsherselfinchargeoftwomarinesandafiretruck.‘“TheUSArmycouldnotalloweventhepossibilityofanaccidentwhilesuchtreasureswereinitscustody.”’ShetellsofGoering’sapparentpassionforart,theevidenceofyearsofsystematiclootingwithinthebuilding’swalls,herreliefwhentheUSArmycamebackandshecouldrelinquishresponsibilityforitshaul.AndthenChristopherJenkspauses.‘WhenIleft,thesergeanttoldmeIcouldtakewithmeasouvenir,asathank-youforwhathesaidwasmy“patrioticduty”.Idid,andIstillhaveittoday–alittlemementoofthestrangestdayofmylife.’

Hestands,raisinghiseyebrows.‘Somesouvenir.’AngelaSilverisonherfeet.‘Objection.ThereisnothinginthatarticlethatsaysthemementowasThe

GirlYouLeftBehind.’‘Itisanextraordinarycoincidencethatshementionsbeingallowedtoremoveanitemfromthe

warehouse.’‘Thearticledoesnotatanypointstatethattheitemwasapainting.Letalonethisparticularpainting.’‘Sustained.’AngelaSilverisatthebench.‘Mylord,wehaveexaminedtherecordsfromBerchtesgadenandthereis

nowrittenrecordofthispaintinghavingcomefromtheCollectionPointstoragefacility.Itappearsonnoneofthelistsorinventoriesfromthattime.Itisthereforespeciousformycolleagueheretomaketheassociation.’‘Ithasalreadybeendocumentedherethatduringwartimetherearealwaysthingsthatgounrecorded.

Wehaveheardexperttestimonythatthereareworksofartthatwereneverrecordedashavingbeenstolenduringwartimethathavelaterturnedouttobeso.’‘Mylord,ifmylearnedfriendisstatingthatTheGirlYouLeftBehindwasalootedpaintingat

Berchtesgaden,thentheburdenofproofstillfallsontheclaimantstoestablishbeyonddoubtthatthispaintingwasactuallythereinthefirstplace.Thereisnohardevidencethatitformedpartofthatcollection.’Jenksshakeshishead.‘InhisownstatementDavidHalstonsaidthatwhenheboughtitLouanne

Baker’sdaughtertoldhimshehadacquiredthepaintingin1945inGermany.Shecouldoffernoprovenanceandhedidn’tknowenoughabouttheartmarkettobeawarethatheshouldhavedemandedit.‘ItseemsextraordinarythatapaintingthathaddisappearedfromFranceduringatimeofGerman

occupation,thatwasrecordedashavingbeencovetedbyaGermanKommandant,shouldthenreappearin

thehomeofawomanwhohadjustreturnedfromGermany,wasonrecordassayingshehadbroughthomewithherapreciousmementofromthattripandwouldnevergothereagain.’Thecourtroomissilent.Alongthebench,adark-hairedwomaninlimegreenisalert,leaningforwards,

herbig,gnarledhandsrestingonthebackofthebenchinfrontofher.Livwonderswhereshehasseenherbefore.Thewomanshakesherheademphatically.Therearelotsofolderpeopleinthepublicbenches:howmanyofthemrememberthiswarpersonally?Howmanylostpaintingsoftheirown?AngelaSilveraddressesthejudge.‘Again,m’lord,thisisallcircumstantial.Therearenospecific

referencesinthisarticletoapainting.Amemento,asitisreferredtohere,couldhavebeensimplyasoldier’sbadgeorapebble.Thiscourtmustmakeitsjudgmentsolelyonevidence.Innotonepieceofthisevidencedoesshespecificallyrefertothispainting.’AngelaSilversits.‘CanwecallMarianneAndrews?’Thewomaninlimegreenstandsheavily,makesherwaytothestandand,afterbeingswornin,gazes

aroundher,blinkingslightly.Hergriponherhandbagturnsheroversizedknuckleswhite.Livstartswhensherememberswhereshehasseenherbefore:asun-bakedback-streetinBarcelona,nearlyadecadepreviously,herhairblondeinsteadoftoday’sravenblack.MarianneJohnson.‘MrsAndrews.YouaretheonlydaughterofLouanneBaker.’‘MsAndrews.Iamawidow.And,yes,Iam.’LivrecallsthatstrongAmericanaccent.AngelaSilverpointstothepainting.‘MsAndrews.Doyourecognizethepainting–thecopyofthe

painting–thatsitsinthecourtbeforeyou?’‘Icertainlydo.Thatpaintingsatinourdrawingroommywholechildhood.It’scalledTheGirlYou

LeftBehind,andit’sbyÉdouardLefèvre.’Shepronouncesit‘LeFever’.‘MsAndrews,didyourmotherevertellyouaboutthesouvenirshereferstoinherarticle?’‘No,ma’am.’‘Sheneversaiditwasapainting?’‘No,ma’am.’‘Didsheevermentionwherethepaintingcamefrom?’‘Nottome,no.ButI’djustliketosaythereisnowayMomwouldhavetakenthatpaintingifshe’d

thoughtitbelongedtoavictimofthosecamps.Shejustwasn’tlikethat.’Thejudgeleansforward.‘MsAndrews,wehavetostaywithintheboundariesofwhatisknown.We

cannotascribemotivestoyourmother.’‘Well,youallseemtobe.’Shehuffs.‘Youdidn’tknowher.Shebelievedinfairplay.Thesouvenirs

shekeptwerethingslikeshrunkenheadsoroldgunsorcarnumber-plates.Thingsthatnobodywouldhavecaredfor.’Shethinksforaminute.‘Well,okay,theshrunkenheadsmighthavebelongedtosomeoneonce,butyoucanbettheydidn’twantthemback,right?’Thereisarippleoflaughteraroundthecourtroom.‘ShewasreallyveryupsetbywhathappenedinDachau.Shecouldbarelytalkaboutitforyears

afterwards.Iknowshewouldnothavetakenanythingifshethoughtitmightbehurtingoneofthosepoorsoulsfurther.’‘SoyoudonotbelievethatyourmothertookthispaintingfromBerchtesgaden?’‘Mymothernevertookathingfromanyone.Shepaidherway.Thatwashowshewas.’

Jenksstands.‘Thisisallverywell,MsAndrews,butasyou’vesaid,youhavenoideahowyourmothergotthispainting,doyou?’‘LikeIsaid,Iknowshewasn’tathief.’Livwatchesthejudgeashescribblesinhisnotes.ShelooksatMarianneAndrews,grimacingasher

mother’sreputationisdestroyedinfrontofher.ShelooksatJaneyDickinson,smilingwithbarelyconcealedtriumphattheLefèvrebrothers.ShelooksatPaul,whoisleaningforward,hishandsclaspedoverhisknees,asifheispraying.Livturnsawayfromtheimageofherpainting,andfeelsanewweight,likeablanket,settleoverher,

shuttingoutthelight.

‘Hey,’shecalls,assheletsherselfin.ItishalfpastfourbutthereisnosignofMo.Shewalksthroughtothekitchenandpicksupthenoteonthekitchentable:‘GonetoRanic’s.Backtomorrow.Mo’.Livletsthenotefallandreleasesasmallsigh.ShehasbecomeusedtoMopotteringaroundthehouse–

thesoundofherfootsteps,distanthumming,abathrunning,thesmelloffoodwarmingintheoven.Thehousefeelsemptynow.Ithadn’tfeltemptybeforeMocame.Mohasbeenalittledistantfordays.LivwondersifshehasguessedwhathappenedafterParis.Which

bringsher,likeeverything,backtoPaul.ButthereislittlepointinthinkingaboutPaul.Thereisnopost,exceptamail-shotforfittedkitchens,andtwobills.Shetakesoffhercoatandmakesherselfamugoftea.Sheringsherfather,whoisout.Hisbooming

answer-phonemessageurgeshertoleavehernameandnumber.‘Youmust!We’dLOVEtohearfromyou!’Sheflicksontheradio,butthemusicistooirritating,thenewstoodepressing.Shedoesn’twanttogoonline:thereareunlikelytobeanyemailsofferingworkandsheisafraidtoseesomethingaboutthecourtcase.Shedoesn’twantthepixelatedfuryofamillionpeoplewhodon’tknowhertoslideacrosshercomputerandintoherhead.Shedoesn’twanttogoout.Comeon,shescoldsherself.You’restrongerthanthis.ThinkwhatSophiehadtocopewith.Livputsonsomemusic,justtotaketheedgeoffthesilence.Sheloadssomelaundryintothemachine,

togiveasemblanceofdomesticnormality.Andthenshepicksupthepileofenvelopesandpapersshehasignoredforthelasttwoweeks,pullsupachairandstartstoploughthroughthem.Thebillssheputsinthemiddle;thefinaldemandstotheright.Ontheleftsheputsanythingthatisnot

urgent.Bankstatementssheignores.Statementsfromherlawyersgoinapilebythemselves.Shehasalargenotepadonwhichsheentersacolumnoffigures.Sheworksherwaymethodically

throughthelist,addingsumsandsubtractingthem,scoringthroughandputtingherworkingsontheedgeofthepage.Shesitsbackinherchair,surroundedbytheblacksky,andstaresatthefiguresforalongtime.Eventuallysheleansback,gazingupthroughtheskylight.Itisasdarkasifitweremidnight,butwhen

shechecksherwatch,it’snotyetsixo’clock.Shegazesatthestraight,blamelesslinesofDavid’screation,thewaytheyframeahugeexpanseofglitteringsky,whicheverangleshechoosestolookfrom.Shegazesatthewalls,atthethermicglassinterlaidwithspecialsheetsofimpossiblythininsulatingmaterialthathehadsourcedfromCaliforniaandChinasothatthehousewouldbequietandwarm.Shegazesatthealabasterconcretewallonwhichshehadoncescrawled‘WHYDON’TYOUBUGGEROFF?’inmarkerpenwhensheandDavidhadarguedaboutheruntidinessintheearlydaysoftheir

marriage.Despitetheattentionsofseveralspecialistremovers,youcanstillmakeouttheghostlyoutlineofthosewordsiftheatmosphericconditionsareright.Shegazesoutatthesky,visiblethroughatleastoneclearwallineveryroom,sothattheGlassHousewouldalwaysfeelasifitweresuspendedinspace,highabovetheteemingstreets.ShewalksthroughtoherbedroomandgazesattheportraitofSophieLefèvre.Asever,Sophie’seyes

meetsherswiththatdirectstare.Today,however,shedoesnotappearimpassive,imperious.TodayLivthinksshecandetectnewknowledgebehindherexpression.Whathappenedtoyou,Sophie?Shehasknownshewillhavetomakethisdecisionfordays.Shehasprobablyalwaysknownit.And

yetitstillfeelslikeabetrayal.Sheflicksthroughthetelephonebook,picksupthereceiveranddials.‘Hello?Isthattheestateagent?’

27

‘Soyourpaintingdisappearedwhen?’‘1941.Maybe1942.It’sdifficult,becauseeveryoneinvolvedis,youknow,dead.’Theblondewoman

laughsmirthlessly.‘Yeah,soyousaid.Andcanyougivemeafulldescription?’Thewomanpushesafolderacrossthetable.‘Thisiseverythingwehave.Mostofthefactswereinthe

letterIsentyouinNovember.’Paulflicksthroughthefolder,tryingtorecallthedetails.‘SoyoulocateditinagalleryinAmsterdam.

Andyou’vemadeaninitialapproach…’Miriamknocksonthedoorandenters,bearingcoffee.Hewaitsasshedistributesthetwocupsand

nodsapologetically,backingoutagain,asifshehasdonesomethingamiss.Hemouthsathank-you,andshewinces.‘Yes,Iwrotethemaletter.Whatdoyouthinkit’sworth?’‘I’msorry?’‘Whatdoyouthinkit’sworth?’Paullooksupfromhisnotes.Thewomanisleaningbackinherchair.Herfaceisbeautiful,clear-

skinnedanddefined,notyetrevealingthefirstsignsofage.Butitisalso,henoticesnow,expressionless,asifshehasgrownusedtohidingherfeelings.Orperhapsit’sBotox.Hestealsaglanceatherthickhair,knowingthatLivcoulddetectimmediatelyifitwasentirelyherown.‘BecauseaKandinskywouldfetchalotofmoney,right?That’swhatmyhusbandsays.’Paulpickshiswordscarefully.‘Well,yes,iftheworkcanbeproventobeyours.Butthat’sallsome

wayoff.Canwejustgetbacktotheissueofownership?Doyouhaveanyproofofwherethepaintingwasobtained?’‘Well,mygrandfatherwasfriendswithKandinsky.’‘Okay.’Hetakesasipofhiscoffee.‘Doyouhaveanydocumentaryevidence?’Shelooksblank.‘Photographs?Letters?Referencestothetwoofthembeingfriends?’‘Oh,no.Butmygrandmothertalkedaboutitoften.’‘Isshestillalive?’‘No.Isaidsointheletter.’‘Forgiveme.Whatwasyourgrandfather’sname?’‘AntonPerovsky.’Shespellsouthissurname,pointingathisnotesasshedoesso.‘Anysurvivingmembersofthefamilywhomightknowaboutit?’‘No.’‘Doyouknowiftheworkhaseverbeenexhibited?’‘No.’

He’dknownitwouldbeamistaketostartadvertising,thatitwouldleadtoflakycaseslikethis.ButJaneyhadinsisted.‘Weneedtobeproactive,’shehadsaid,hervocabularyskewedbymanagement-speak.‘Weneedtostabilizeourmarketshare,consolidateourreputation.Weneedtobealloverthismarketlikeabadsuit.’ShehadcompiledalistofalltheothertracingandrecoverycompaniesandsuggestedtheysendMiriamtotheircompetitorsasafakeclient,toseetheirmethods.Shehadappearedcompletelyunmovedwhenhehadtoldherthiswascrazy.‘You’vedoneanybasicsearchesonitshistory?Google?Artbooks?’‘No.IassumedthatwaswhatI’dbepayingyoufor.You’rethebestinthebusiness,yes?Youfoundthis

Lefèvrepainting.’Shecrossesherlegs,glancesatherwatch.‘Howlongdothesecasestake?’‘Well,it’sapiece-of-stringquestion.Somewecanresolvefairlyswiftly,ifwehavethedocumented

historyandprovenance.Otherscantakeyears.I’msureyou’veheardthatthelegalprocessitselfcanbequiteexpensive.It’snotsomethingIwouldurgeyoutoembarkuponlightly.’‘Andyouworkoncommission?’‘Itvaries,butwetakeasmallpercentageofthefinalsettlement,yes.Andwehaveanin-houselegal

departmenthere.’Heflicksthroughthefolder.Thereisnothinginitotherthanafewpicturesofthepainting,asignedaffidavitfromAntonPerovskysayingthatKandinskyhadgivenhimapaintingin1938.Theyweredrivenfromtheirhomein1941andneversawitagain.ThereisaletterfromtheGermangovernmentacknowledgingtheclaim.ThereisaletterfromtheRijksmuseuminAmsterdamgentlydenyingthatit’sinitspossession.It’saprettythinskeletontohangaclaimon.Heistryingtocalculatewhetherithasanymeritatallwhenshespeaksagain:‘Iwenttoseethenew

firm.BriggandSawston’s?Theysaidthey’dchargeonepercentlessthanyou.’Paul’shandstillsonthepaper.‘I’msorry?’‘Commission.Theysaidthey’dchargeonepercentlessthanyoutorecoverthepainting.’Paulwaitsamomentbeforehespeaks.‘MissHarcourt,weoperateareputablebusiness.Ifyouwantus

touseouryearsofskill,experienceandcontactstotraceandpotentiallyrecoveryourfamily’sbelovedworkofart,Iwillcertainlyconsiderthatandgiveyoumybestadviceastowhetheritwillbepossible.ButI’mnotgoingtosithereandhagglewithyou.’‘Well,it’salotofmoney.IfthisKandinskyisworthmillions,it’sinourintereststogetthebestdeal

possible.’Paulfeelsatighteninginhisjaw.‘Ithink,giventhatyoudidn’tevenknowyouhadalinktothis

paintingeighteenmonthsago,ifwedorecoverit,you’relikelytogetaverygooddealindeed.’‘Isthisyourwayofsayingyouwon’tconsideramore…competitivefee?’Shelooksathimblankly.

Herfaceisimmobile,butherlegscrosselegantly,aslingbackdanglingfromherfoot.Awomanusedtogettingwhatshewants,anddoingsowithoutengagingashredoffeelingoremotion.Paulputsdownhispen.Heclosesthefileandpushesittowardsher.‘MissHarcourt.Itwasniceto

meetyou.ButIthinkwe’redonehere.’Thereisapause.Sheblinks.‘I’msorry?’‘Idon’tthinkyouandIhaveanythingmoretosaytoeachother.’

Janeyiscrossingtheoffice,holdingupaboxofChristmaschocolateswhenshestopsatthecommotion.‘YouaretherudestmanIhaveevermet,’MissHarcourtishissingathim.Herexpensivehandbagis

tuckedunderherleftarm,andheisthrustingherfolderoflettersatherasheshepherdshertowardsthe

door.‘Iverymuchdoubtthat.’‘Ifyouthinkthisisanywaytorunabusinessthenyou’remoreofafoolthanIthoughtyouwere.’‘Thenit’sjustaswellyou’renotentrustingmewiththeepicsearchforthepaintingyouclearlyloveso

much,’hesaystonelessly.Hepullsopenthedoor,andinacloudofexpensiveperfume,MissHarcourtisgone,shoutingsomethingunintelligibleasshereachesthestairs.‘Whatthehellwasthat?’saysJaney,ashestridespastheronhiswaybacktohisoffice.‘Don’t.Justdon’t,okay?’hesays.Heslamshisdoorbehindhimandsitsdownathisdesk.Whenhe

finallyliftshisheadfromhishands,thefirstthingheseesistheportraitofTheGirlYouLeftBehind.

HedialshernumberstandingonthecornerofGoodgeStreet,outsidetheUndergroundstation.HehaswalkedallthewayupMaryleboneRoadthinkingaboutwhathewillsay,andwhensheanswers,itallfallsaway.‘Liv?’Thefaintpausebeforesheanswerstellshimsheknowswhoitis.‘Whatdoyouwant,Paul?’Hertone

isclipped,wary.‘BecauseifthisisaboutSophie–’‘No.It’snothingtodowith…Ijust–’Heliftsahandtohishead,gazesaroundhimatthebustling

street.‘Ijustwantedtoknow…ifyouwereokay.’Anotherlongpause.‘Well.I’mstillhere.’‘Iwasthinking…maybewhenthisisover,thatwe…couldmeet…’Hehearshisvoice,tepidand

feeble,unlikehimself.Hiswords,herealizessuddenly,areinadequate,nomatchforthechaoshehasunleashedinherlife.Whathadshedonetodeservethis,afterall?Soheranswer,whenitfinallycomes,isnotreallyasurprise.‘I–Ican’treallythinkbeyondthenextcourtdaterightnow.Thisisjust…toocomplicated.’Thereisanothersilence.Abusroarspast,squealingandacceleratinginanimpotentrage,drowning

sound,andhepressesthephonetohisear.Hecloseshiseyes.Shedoesnotattempttofillthesilence.‘So…areyougoingawayforChristmas?’‘No.’Becausethiscourtcasehaseatenallmymoney,hehearshersilentresponse.Becauseyoudidthisto

me.‘Meneither.Well,I’llgoovertoGreg’s.Butit’s–’‘Likeyousaidbefore,Paul,weprobablyshouldn’tevenbespeakingtoeachother.’‘Right.Well,I’m–I’mgladyou’reokay.Iguessthat’sallIwantedtosay.’‘I’mfine.’Thistimethesilenceisexcruciating.‘’Bye,then.’‘Goodbye,Paul.’Shehangsup.PaulstandsatthejunctionofTottenhamCourtRoad,thephonelimpinhishand,thetinnysoundof

Christmascarolsinhisears,thenshovesitintohispocketandwalksslowlybacktowardstheoffice.

28

‘Sothisisthekitchen.Asyoucansee,therearespectacularviewsonthreesidesovertheriverandthecityitself.TotherightyoucanseeTowerBridge,downthereistheLondonEye,andonsunnydaysyoucanpressabuttonhere–isthatright,MrsHalston?–andsimplyopentheroof.’Livwatchesasthecouplegazeupwards.Theman,abusinessmaninhisfifties,wearsthekindof

spectaclesthatbroadcasthisdesignerindividuality.Poker-facedsincehearrived,it’spossibleheassumesthatanyfaintexpressionofenthusiasmmightdisadvantagehimshouldhedecidetomakeanoffer.Butevenhecannothidehissurpriseattherecedingglassceiling.Withabarelyaudiblehumtheroof

slidesbackandtheygazeupintotheinfiniteblue.Wintryairsinksgentlyintothekitchen,liftingthetopsheetsfromthepileofpaperworkonthetable.‘Don’tthinkwe’llleaveitopentoolong,eh?’Theyoungestateagent,whohasnottiredofthis

mechanisminthethreeviewingssofarthismorning,shiverstheatrically,thenwatcheswithbarelyconcealedsatisfactionastheroofclosesneatly.Thewoman,petiteandJapanese,hernecksecuredbyanintricatelyknottedscarf,nudgesherhusbandandmurmurssomethingintohisear.Henodsandlooksupagain.‘Andtheroof,aswithmuchofthehouse,ismadeofspecialglass,whichretainsheattothesame

degreeasyouraverageinsulatedwall.It’sactuallymoreeco-friendlythananormalterracedhouse.’Thesetwodon’tlookasiftheyhaveeversetfootinanormalterracedhouse.TheJapanesewoman

walksaroundthekitchen,openingandclosingthedrawersandcupboards,studyingtheinteriorswiththeintensityofasurgeonabouttodiveintoanopenwound.Liv,standingmutebythefridge,findssheischewingtheinsideofhercheek.Shehadknownthiswould

neverbeeasy,butshehadnotrealizedshewouldfeelquitesouncomfortable,soguiltyaboutthesepeopletrailingthrough,inspectingherbelongingswithunfeeling,acquisitiveeyes.Shewatchesthemtouchingtheglasssurfaces,runningtheirfingersalongtheshelving,talkinginlowvoicesaboutputtingpicturesupand‘softeningitallabit’,andwantstopushthemoutofthefrontdoor.‘Alltheappliancesaretopoftherangeandincludedwiththesale,’theestateagentsays,openingher

fridgedoor.‘Theoven,inparticular,isalmostunused,’avoiceadds,fromthedoorway.Moiswearingglittery

purpleeye-shadow,andherparkaovertheComfortLodgeCareHometunic.Theestateagentisalittlestartled.‘I’mMrsHalston’spersonalassistant,’shesays.‘You’llhavetoexcuseus.It’salmosttimeforher

meds.’Theestateagentsmilesawkwardly,andhurriesthecoupletowardstheatrium.MopullsLivtoone

side.‘Let’sgetacoffee,’shesays.‘Ineedtobehere.’‘No,youdon’t.Thisismasochism.Comeon,grabyourcoat.’

It’sthefirsttimeshehasseenMoindays.Livfeelsunexpectedreliefatherpresence.Sherealizesshehascravedthevagueimpressionofnormalitythatnowcomeswithafive-footGothinpurpleeye-shadowandawipe-cleantunic.Herlifehasbecomestrangeanddislocated,fixatedonacourtroomwithitstwoduellingbarristers,itssuggestionsandrefutations,itswarsandlootingKommandants.Heroldlifeandherownroutineshavebeenreplacedbyakindofhousearrest,hernewworldcentredaroundthewaterfountainonthesecondflooroftheHighCourt,theunforgivingbenchseats,thejudge’speculiarhabitofstrokinghisnosebeforehespeaks.Theimageofherportraitonitsstand.Paul.Amillionmilesawayontheclaimants’bench.‘Youreallyokayaboutsellingup?’Monodsinthedirectionofthehouse.Livopenshermouthtospeak,thendecidesthatifshebeginstotalkabouthowshereallyfeelsshe’ll

neverstop.She’llbehere,burblingandrailing,untilnextChristmas.ShewantstotellMothattherearepiecesaboutthecaseinthenewspaperseveryday,hernamebandiedaboutwithinthemuntilithasbecomealmostmeaninglesstoseeit.Thewordstheftandfairnessandcrimeappearinthemall.Shewantstotellherthatshenolongerruns:amanhadwaitedoutsidetheblockjusttospitather.Shewantstotellherthedoctorhasgivenhersleepingpillsthatshe’safraidtouse.Whensheexplainedhersituationinhisconsultationroomshewonderedifshesawdisapprovalinhisexpressiontoo.‘I’mfine,’shesays.Mo’seyesnarrow.‘Really.It’sjustbricksandmortar,afterall.Well,glassandconcrete.’‘Ihadaflatonce,’Mosays,stillstirringhercoffee.‘ThedayIsoldit,Isatonthefloorandcriedlikea

baby.’Liv’smugstillshalfwaytoherlips.‘Iwasmarried.Itdidn’tworkout.’Moshrugs.Andbeginstotalkabouttheweather.ThereissomethingdifferentaboutMo.It’snotthathermannerisevasiveexactly,butthereissome

kindofinvisiblebarrier,aglasswall,betweenthem.Perhapsit’smyfault,Livthinks.I’vebeensopreoccupiedwithmoneyandthecourtcasethatI’vehardlyaskedanythingaboutMo’slife.‘Youknow,IwasthinkingaboutChristmas,’shebegins,afterapause.‘IwaswonderingifRanic

wantedtostayoverthenightbefore.Selfishreasons,really.’Shesmiles.‘Ithoughtyoutwomighthelpmewiththefood.I’veneveractuallycookedaChristmasdinnerbefore,andDadandCarolineareactuallyprettygoodcookssoIdon’twanttomessitup.’Shehearsherselfbabbling.Ijustneedsomethingtolookforwardto,shewantstosay.Ijustwanttosmilewithouthavingtothinkaboutwhichmusclestouse.Molooksdownatherhand.Atelephonenumberinbluebirotrawlsitswayalongherleftthumb.

‘Yeah.Aboutthat…’‘Iknowwhatyousaidaboutitbeingcrowdedathisplace.SoifhewantstostayChristmasnighttoo

it’stotallyfine.It’llbeanightmaretryingtogetataxihome.’Sheforcesabrightsmile.‘Ithinkit’llbefun.Ithink…Ithinkweallcoulddowithsomefun.’‘Liv,he’snotcoming.’‘What?’‘He’snotcoming.’Mopursesherlips.‘Idon’tunderstand.’

WhenMospeaks,thewordsemergecarefully,asifshe’sconsideringtheramificationsofeachone.‘RanicisBosnian.HisparentslosteverythingintheBalkans.Yourcourtcase–thisshitisrealtohim.He–hedoesn’twanttocomeandcelebrateinyourhouse.I’msorry.’Livstaresather,thensnorts,andpushesthesugarbowlacrossthetable.‘Yeah.Right.Youforget,Mo.

I’velivedwithyoutoolong.’‘What?’‘MrsGullible.Well,you’renotgettingmethistime.’ButModoesn’tlaugh.Shedoesn’tevenmeethereyes.AsLivwaits,sheadds,‘Okay,well,ifwe’re

doingthis…’shetakesabreath‘…I’mnotsayingIagreewithRanicbutIdosortofthinkyoushouldhandthepaintingbacktoo.’‘What?’‘Look,Icouldn’tgiveamonkey’swhoitbelongsto,butyou’regoingtolose,Liv.Everyoneelsecan

seeit,evenifyoucan’t.’Livstaresather.‘Ireadthepapers.Theevidenceisstackingupagainstyou.Ifyoukeepfightingyou’regoingtolose

everything.Andforwhat?Someoldblobsofoiloncanvas?’‘Ican’tjusthandherover.’‘Whythehellnot?’‘Thosepeopledon’tcareaboutSophie.Theyjustseepoundsigns.’‘ForChrissakes,Liv,it’sapainting.’‘It’snotjustapainting!Shewasbetrayedbyeveryonearoundher.Shehadnobodyattheend!And

she’s…she’sallI’vegotleft.’Molooksathersteadily.‘Really?I’dlikeawholeheapofyournothingthen.’Theireyeslock,andslideaway.ArushofbloodpricklesaroundLiv’sneck.Motakesalongbreath,leansforward.‘Igetthatyouhavetrustissuesrightnowbecauseofthewhole

Paulthing,butyouneedtotakeastepbackfromitall.Andhonestly?It’snotlikethere’sanyoneelsearoundwho’sgoingtosaythistoyou.’‘Well,thanks.I’llrememberthatthenexttimeI’mopeningupthemorningbundleofhatemail,or

showinganotherstrangeraroundmyhome.’Thelookthatpassesbetweenthetwowomenisunexpectedlycold.Itsettlesintothesilencebetween

them.Mo’smouthcompresses,holdingbackaburstdamofwords.‘Right,’shesaysfinally.‘Well,then,Imightaswelltellyou,seeingasthisprobablycouldn’tgetany

moreawkward.I’mmovingout.’Sheleansdownandfiddleswithhershoesothathervoiceemerges,muffled,fromnearthetabletop.‘I’mgoingtostaywithRanic.It’snotthecourtcase.Asyousaid,mestayingatyourswasnevergoingtobealong-termthing.’‘That’swhatyouwant?’‘Ithinkit’sbest.’Livisgluedtoherchair.Twomensitatthenexttable,notbreakingofftheirconversation.One

registerstheatmosphere:hiseyesslideoverandawayagain.‘I’m,youknow,gratefulforthe…thatyouletmestaysolong.’

Livblinkshard,looksaway.Herstomachhurts.Theconversationatthenexttablediestoanawkwardsilence.Motakesalastswigofcoffeeandpusheshercupaway.‘Well.Iguessthat’sit,then.’‘Right.’‘I’llheadofftomorrow,ifthat’sokay.I’vegotalateshifttonight.’‘Fine.’Shetriestokeephertoneeven.‘It’sbeen…enlightening.’Shedoesn’tmeanittosoundas

sarcasticasitdoes.Mowaitsjustamomentlongerbeforeshestands,haulsherjacketonandpullsthestrapofherrucksack

overhershoulder.‘Justathought,Liv.AndIknowit’snotlikeIevenknewhimoranything.Butyoutalkedsomuchabout

him.Here’sthething.Ikeepwondering:whatwouldDavidhavedone?’Hisnamehitsthesilencelikeasmallexplosion.‘Seriously.IfyourDavidhadstillbeenalive,andthishadallblownupthen–allthestuffaboutthe

painting’shistory,whereitmighthavecomefrom,whatthatgirlandherfamilymighthavesuffered–whatdoyouthinkhewouldhavedone?’Leavingthatthoughtsuspendedinthestillair,Moturnsandwalksoutofthecafé.

Svenringsassheleavesthecafé.Hisvoiceisstrained.‘Canyoustopbytheoffice?’‘It’snotagreattime,Sven.’Sherubsathereyes,gazesupattheGlassHouse.Herhandsarestill

trembling.‘It’simportant.’Heputsdownthephonebeforeshecansayanythingelse.Livturnsawayfromherhomeandheadstowardstheoffice.Shewalkseverywherenow,herhead

down,ahatpulledlowoverherears,avoidingtheeyesofstrangers.Twiceonthewayshehastowipetearssurreptitiouslyfromthecornersofhereyes.ThereareonlyacoupleofpeopleleftintheofficesofSolbergHalstonwhenshearrives:Nisha,a

youngwomanwithageometricbob,andamanwhosenameshecannotremember.TheylookpreoccupiedsoLivwalksthroughthegleaminglobbytoSven’sofficewithoutsayinghello.Thedoorisopen,andasshegoesin,hestandstocloseitbehindher.Hekisseshercheekbuthedoesn’tofferhercoffee.‘How’sthecasegoing?’‘Notgreat,’shesays.Sheisirritatedbytheperfunctorywayinwhichhehassummonedher.Hermind

stillhumswithMo’sfinalcomment:whatwouldDavidhavedone?AndthenshenoticeshowgreySvenlooks,almosthollowedout,andtheslightlyfixedwayinwhichhe

isstaringatthenotepadinfrontofhim.‘Iseverythingokay?’shesays.Shehasamomentofpanic.PleasesaythatKristenisokay,thatthechildrenareallfine.‘Liv,Ihaveaproblem.’Shesits,herbagonherknee.‘TheGoldsteinbrothershavepulledout.’‘What?’‘They’vepulledthecontract.Becauseofyourcase.SimonGoldsteinrangmethismorning.They’ve

beenfollowingthenewspapers.Hesays…hesayshisfamilylosteverythingtotheNazis,andheandhisbrothercan’tbelinkedtosomeonewhothinksthat’sokay.’

Theworldstillsaroundthem.Shelooksupathim.‘But–buthecan’tdothat.I’mnot–I’mnotpartofthecompany,surely?’‘You’restillanhonorarydirector,Liv,andDavid’snameisverymuchpartofyourdefencecase.

Simonisactivatingaclauseinthesmallprint.Byfightingthiscaseagainstallreasonableevidence,youareapparentlybringingthecompanynameintodisrepute.Itoldhimitwasgrosslyunreasonable,andhesayswecancontestit,buthehasverydeeppockets.Iquote:“Youcanfightme,Sven,butIwillwin.”They’regoingtoaskanotherteamtofinishthejob.’Sheisstunned.TheGoldsteinbuildinghadbeentheapotheosisofDavid’slife’swork:thethingthat

wouldcommemoratehim.ShestaresatSven’sprofile,soresolutelyunmoving.Helooksasifhehasbeencarvedfromstone.‘He

andhisbrother…appeartohaveverystrongviewsontheissueofrestitution.’‘But–butthisisn’tfair.Wedon’tevenknowthewholetruthaboutthepaintingyet.’‘That’snotthepoint.’‘Butwe–’‘Liv,I’vebeenonthisallday.Theonlywayinwhichtheyarepreparedtocontinueworkingwithour

companyisif…’hetakesabreath‘…isiftheHalstonnameisnolongerassociatedwithit.Thatwouldmeanyourelinquishingyourhonorarydirectorship.Andachangeofnameforthecompany.’Sherepeatsthewordssilentlyinherheadbeforeshespeaks,tryingtomakesenseofthem.‘Youwant

David’snameerasedfromthepractice.’‘Yes.’Shestaresatherknees.‘I’msorry.Irealizethishascomeasashock.Butithastoustoo.’Athoughtoccurstoher.‘Andwhatwouldhappentomyworkwiththekids?’Heshakeshishead.‘I’msorry.’Itisasiftheverycoreofherhasfrozen.Thereisalongsilence,andwhenshespeaksshedoesso

slowly,hervoiceunnaturallyloudinthesilentoffice.‘SoyoualldecidedthatbecauseIdon’twanttojusthandoverourpainting,thepaintingDavidboughtlegitimatelyyearsago,wemustbedishonestsomehow.Andthenyouwanttoeraseusfromhischarityandhisbusiness.YoueraseDavid’snamefromthebuildinghecreated.’‘That’sarathermelodramaticwayofputtingit.’ForthefirsttimeSvenlooksawkward.‘Liv,thisisan

incrediblydifficultsituation.ButifIsidewithyourcaseeveryoneinthiscompanystandstolosetheirjobs.YouknowhowmuchwehavetiedupintheGoldsteinbuilding.SolbergHalstoncannotsurviveiftheypulloutnow.’Heleansforwardoverthedesk.‘Billionaireclientsarenotexactlythickontheground.AndIhaveto

thinkaboutourpeople.’Outsidehisofficesomeoneissayinggoodbye.Thereisabriefburstoflaughter.Insidetheofficethe

silenceisstifling.‘SoifIhandedherover,wouldtheykeepDavid’snameonthebuilding?’‘That’ssomethingIhaven’tdiscussed.Possibly.’‘Possibly.’Livdigeststhis.‘AndifIsayno?’Sventapshispenonthedesk.

‘Wewilldissolvethecompanyandsetupanewone.’‘AndtheGoldsteinswouldgowiththat.’‘It’spossible,yes.’‘Soitdoesn’tactuallymatterwhatIsay.Thisisbasicallyacourtesycall.’‘I’msorry,Liv.It’sanimpossiblesituation.I’minanimpossiblesituation.’Livsitsthereforamomentlonger.Then,withoutaword,shegetsupandwalksoutofSven’soffice.

Itisoneinthemorning.Livstaresattheceiling,listeningtoMomovingaroundinthespareroom,thezippingofaholdall,theheavythumpasit’sstackedbesideadoor.Shehearsalavatoryflushing,thesoftpadoffootsteps,thenthesilencethattellsofsleep.Shehaslainthereconsideringwhethertoheadacrossthecorridor,totrytopersuadeMonottoleave,butthewordsthatshufflethemselvesinherheadrefusetofallintoanykindofusefulorder.Shethinksofahalf-finishedglassbuildingseveralmilesaway,thenameofwhosearchitectwillbeburiedasdeeplyasitsfoundations.Shereachesoverandpicksupthemobilephonebyherbed.Shestaresatthelittlescreeninthehalf-

light.Therearenonewmessages.Lonelinesshitsherwithanalmostphysicalforce.Thewallsaroundherfeelinsubstantial,offerno

protectionagainstanunfriendlyworldbeyond.ThishouseisnottransparentandpureasDavidhadwished:itsemptyspacesarecoldandunfeeling,itscleanlinesknottedwithhistory,itsglasssurfacesobscuredbythetangledentrailsoflives.Shetriestoquellthewavesofvaguepanic.ShethinksaboutSophie’spapers,aboutaprisonerloaded

ontoatrain.Ifsheshowsthemtothecourt,sheknows,shemightstillbeabletosavethepaintingforherself.AndifIdo,shethinks,SophiewillbeonrecordforeverasawomanwhosleptwithaGerman,who

betrayedhercountryaswellasherhusband.AndIwillbenobetterthanthetownspeoplewhohungherouttodry.Onceitisdone,itcannotbeundone.

29

1917

Inolongerweptforhome.Icouldnotsayhowlongwehadbeentravelling,forthedaysandnightsmerged,andsleephadbecomeafleeting,sporadicvisitor.SomemilesoutsideMannheimmyheadhadbeguntoache,swiftlyfollowedbyafeverthatleftmealternatelyshiveringandfightingtheurgetoshedwhatfewclothesremained.Lilianesatbesideme,wipingmyforeheadwithherskirt,helpingmewhenwestopped.Herfacewasdrawnwithtension.‘I’llbebettersoon,’Ikepttellingher,forcingmyselftobelievethatthiswasjustapassingcold,theinevitableoutcomeofthepastfewdays,thechillair,theshock.Thetruckbuckedandwheeledaroundthepotholes,thecanvasbillowed,allowinginspattersofice-

coldrain,andtheyoungsoldier’sheadbobbed,hiseyesopeningwiththebiggerjoltsandfixingonuswithasuddenglareasiftowarnustoremainwhereweshouldbe.IdozedagainstLiliane,andwokeperiodically,watchingthelittletriangleofcanvasthatexposed

brieflythelandscapewehadleftbehind.Iwatchedthebombedandpittedbordersgivewaytomoreorderlytowns,wherewholerowsofhousesexistedwithoutvisibledamage,theirblackbeamsstridentagainstwhiterender,theirgardensfilledwithprunedshrubsandwell-tendedvegetablepatches.Wepassedvastlakes,bustlingtowns,woundourwaythroughdeepforestsoffirtrees,wherethevehiclewhinedanditstyresstruggledforpurchaseinmudtracks.LilianeandIweregivenlittle:cupsofwaterandhunksofblackbread,thrownintothebackasonewouldhurlscrapstopigs.AndthenasIgrewmorefeverishIcaredlessaboutthelackoffood.Thepaininmystomachwas

smotheredbyotherpains;myhead,myjoints,thebackofmyneck.MyappetitedisappearedandLilianehadtourgemetoswallowwaterovermysorethroat,remindingmethatImusteatwhiletherewasfood,thatIhadtostaystrong.Everythingshesaidhadanedge,asifshealwaysknewfarmorethanshechosetoletonaboutwhatawaitedus.Witheachstophereyeswidenedwithanxiety,andevenasmythoughtscloudedwithillness,herfearbecameinfectious.WhenLilianeslept,herfacetwitchedwithnightmares.Sometimesshewokeclawingattheairand

makingindistinguishablesoundsofanguish.IfIcould,Ireachedacrosstotouchherarm,tryingtobringherbackgentlytothelandofthewaking.Sometimes,staringoutattheGermanlandscape,IwonderedwhyIdid.SinceIhaddiscoveredwewerenolongerheadingforArdennesmyownfaithhadbeguntodesertme.

TheKommandantandhisdealsnowseemedamillionmilesaway;mylifeatthehotel,withitsgleamingmahoganybar,mysisterandthevillagewhereIhadgrownup,hadbecomedreamlike,asifIhadimagineditalongtimeago.Ourrealitywasdiscomfort,cold,pain,ever-presentfear,likeabuzzinginmyhead.Itriedtofocus,torememberÉdouard’sface,hisvoice,butevenhefailedme.Icouldconjurelittle

piecesofhim:thecurlofhissoftbrownhaironhiscollar,hisstronghands,butIcouldnolongerbringthemtogetherintoacomfortingwhole.IwasmorefamiliarnowwithLiliane’sbrokenhandrestinginmyown.Istaredatit,withmyhome-madesplintsonherbruisedfingers,andtriedtoremindmyselfthattherewasapurposetoallthis:thattheverypointoffaithwasthatitmustbetested.Itbecameharder,witheverymile,tobelievethis.Theraincleared.Westoppedinasmallvillageandtheyoungsoldierunfoldedhislonglimbsstiffly

andclimbedout.TheenginestalledandweheardGermanstalkingoutside.Iwondered,briefly,ifImightaskthemforsomewater.Mylipswereparched,andmylimbsfeeble.Liliane,acrossfromme,satverystill,likearabbitscentingtheairfordanger.Itriedtothinkpastmy

throbbingheadandgraduallybecameawareofthesoundsofamarket:thejovialcalloftraders,thesoft-spokennegotiationsofwomenandstallholders.JustforamomentIclosedmyeyesandtriedtoimaginethattheGermanaccentswereFrench,andthatthesewerethesoundsofStPéronne,thebackdroptomychildhood.Icouldpicturemysister,herpannierunderherarm,pickinguptomatoesandaubergines,feelingtheirweightandgentlyputtingthemback.Icouldalmostfeelthesunonmyface,smellthesaucisson,thefromagerie,seemyselfwalkingslowlythroughthestalls.Thentheflapliftedandawoman’sfaceappeared.ItwassostartlingthatIletoutaninvoluntarygasp.ShestaredatmeandforasecondIthoughtshewas

goingtoofferusfood–butsheturned,herpalehandstillholdingupthecanvas–andshoutedsomethinginGerman.Lilianescrambledacrossthebackofthetruckandpulledmewithher.‘Coveryourhead,’shewhispered.‘What?’Beforeshecouldsayanythingelse,astoneshotthroughthebackandlandedastingingblowonmyarm.

Iglanceddown,confused,andanotherlanded,crackingthesideofmyhead.Iblinked,andthree,fourmorewomenappeared,theirfacestwistedwithhate,theirfistsloadedwithstones,rottingpotatoes,piecesofwood,whatevermissilescametohand.‘Huren!’LilianeandIhuddledinthecorner,tryingtocoverourheadsasthearmamentsraineddownonus,my

head,myhandsstingingattheimpact.Iwasabouttoshoutbackatthem:whywouldyoudothis?Whathavewedonetoyou?Butthehatredintheirfacesandvoiceschilledme.Thesewomentrulydespisedus.Theywouldripusapart,givenachance.Fearroselikebileinmythroat.UntilthatmomentIhadnotfeltitasaphysicalthing,acreaturethatcouldshakemysenseofwhoIwas,blastmythoughts,loosenmybowelwithterror.Iprayed–Iprayedforthemtogo,foritalltostop.AndthenwhenIdaredtoglanceupIglimpsedtheyoungsoldierwhohadsatintheback.Hewasstandingofftothesideandlightingacigarette,calmlysurveyingthemarketsquare.ThenIfeltfury.Thebombardmentcontinuedforwhatwasprobablyminutesbutfeltlikehours.Afragmentofbrick

struckmymouthandItastedtheironslimeofbloodonmylip.Lilianedidn’tcryout,butsheflinchedinmyarmsaseachmissilemadecontact.Iheldontoherasiftherewerenothingelsesolidinmyuniverse.Thensuddenly,abruptly,itstopped.Myearsceasedringingandawarmtrickleofbloodeasedintothe

cornerofmyeye.Icouldjustmakeoutaconversationoutside.Thentheenginecharged,theyoungsoldierclimbednonchalantlyintothebackandthevehiclelurchedforwards.

Asobofrelieffilledmychest.‘Sonsofwhores,’IwhisperedinFrench.Lilianesqueezedmyhandwithhergoodone.Heartsthumping,wemoved,trembling,backontoourbenches.Aswefinallypulledoutofthelittletown,theadrenalinslowlydrainedfrommybodyandIfoundmyselfalmostbone-deadwithexhaustion.Iwasafraidtosleepthen,afraidofwhatmightcomenext,butLiliane,hereyesrigidlyopen,wasscanningthetinypatchoflandscapevisiblethroughthecanvas.Someselfishpartofmeknewshewouldlookoutforme,thatshewouldnotsleepagain.Ilaidmyheadonthebench,andasmyheartbeatfinallyreturnedtonormalIclosedmyeyesandallowedmyselftosinkintonothingness.

Therewassnowatthenextstop:ableakplainwithonlyasmallcopseandaderelictshedtobreaktheflatlandscape.Wewerehauledoutintotheduskandshovedtowardsthetrees,mutelyinstructed,withthewaveofagun,astowhatweshoulddo.Therewasnothingleftinme.Shiveringandfeverish,Icouldbarelystand.Lilianelimpedofftotherelativeprivacyoftheshed,andasIwatchedher,thelandscapeswayedaroundme.Isankdownintothesnow,vaguelyawareofthemenstampingtheirfeetbythetruck.Partofmerelishedtheicycoolagainstmyhotlegs.Iletthecoldairsettleonmyskin,thebloodcoolinmyveins,enjoyingthebriefsensationofbeinganchoredagaintotheearth.Ilookedupattheinfinitesky,throughwhichtinyglitteringstarswereemerging,untilIfeltdizzy.Imademyselfrecallthenights,somanymonthsago,whenIhadbelievedhemightbeoutthere,lookingatthesamestars.Andthen,withmyfinger,Ireacheddownintothecrystallinesurfaceandwrote:ÉDOUARD.Afteramoment,Iwroteitagainontheothersideofme,asiftopersuademyselfthathewasreal,

somewhere,andthathe–andwe–hadexisted.Iwroteit,myblue-tingedfingerspressingintothesnow,untilIhadsurroundedmyselfwithit.Édouard.Édouard.Édouard.Iwrotehisnameten,twentytimes.ItwasallIcouldsee.IwasinagreatringofÉdouards,alldancingupatme.Itwouldbesoeasytotipoverhere,tositinmyPalaceofÉdouardandletitallgo.Ileanedbackalittleandbegantolaugh.Lilianecameoutfrombehindtheshedandstopped.IsawherstaringatmeandinherfaceIsaw

suddenlythesameexpressionthatHélènehadonceworn,akindofexhaustion,notfromwithinbutfromwearinesswiththeworld,afleetingindecisionastowhetherthiswasabattleshestillhadtheenergytofight.Andsomethingpulledmeback.‘I–I–myskirtiswet,’Isaid.ItwastheonlysensiblethingIcouldthinkoftosay.‘It’sjustsnow.’Shepulledmeupbymyarm,brushedoffthesnowand,withherlimpingandme

swaying,wemadeourwaybackpasttheincurioussoldiersandtheirgunsandclimbedintothetruck.

Light.Lilianewaslookingintomyeyes,herhandovermymouth.Iblinkedandinvoluntarilybuckedagainsther,butsheliftedherfingertoherlips.ShewaiteduntilInodded,toshowIunderstood,andassheremovedherhandIrealizedthatthetruckhadstoppedagain.Wewereinaforest.Snowblanketedthegroundinpiebaldpatches,stillingmovementandstiflingsound.Shepointedattheguard.Hewasfastasleep,lyingacrossthebench,hisheadrestingonhiskitbag.He

wassnoring,completelyvulnerable,hisholstervisible,severalinchesofneckbareabovehiscollar.Ifoundmyhandreachinginvoluntarilyintomypocket,fingeringtheshardofglass.‘Jump,’whisperedLiliane.‘What?’‘Jump.Ifwekeeptothatdip,there,wherethereisnosnow,wewillleavenofootprints.Wecanbe

hoursawaybythetimetheywakeup.’

‘ButweareinGermany.’‘IspeakalittleGerman.Wewillfindourwayout.’Shewasanimated,filledwithconviction.Idon’tthinkIhadseenhersoalivesinceStPéronne.I

blinkedatthesleepingsoldier,thenbackatLiliane,whowasnowcarefullyliftingtheflap,peeringoutatthebluelight.‘Buttheywillshootusiftheycatchus.’‘Theywillshootusifwestay.Andiftheydon’tshootusitwillbeworse.Come.Thisisourchance.’

Shemouthedtheword,motioningsilentlyformetopickupmybag.Istood.Peeredoutatthewoods.Andstopped.‘Ican’t.’Sheturnedtome.Shestillcarriedherbrokenhandclosetoherchest,asiffearfulanythingwouldbrush

againstit.Icouldseenowindaylightthescratchesandbruisesonherfacewherethemissileshadcaughtherthepreviousday.Iswallowed.‘WhatiftheyaretakingmetoÉdouard?’Lilianestaredatme.‘Areyouinsane?’shewhispered.‘Come,Sophie.Come.Thisisourchance.’‘Ican’t.’Sheduckedinagain,glancingnervouslyatthesleepingsoldier,thengrabbedmywristwithhergood

hand.Herexpressionwasfierceandshespokeasonewouldtoaparticularlystupidchild.‘Sophie.TheyarenottakingyoutoÉdouard.’‘TheKommandantsaid–’‘He’saGerman,Sophie!Youhumiliatedhim.Yourevealedhimaslessofaman!Youthinkhewill

repaythatwithkindness?’‘It’safainthope,Iknow.Butit’s…allIhaveleft.’Asshestaredatme,Ipulledmybagtowardsme.

‘Look,yougo.Takethis.Takeeverything.Youcandoit.’Lilianegrabbedthebagandpeeredoutoftherear,thinking.Shereadiedherselfasifworkingout

wherebesttogo.Iwatchedtheguardnervously,fearfulthathewouldwake.‘Go.’Icouldn’tunderstandwhyshewouldn’tmove.Sheturnedtowardsmeslowly,inanguish.‘IfIescape,

theywillkillyou.’‘What?’‘Foraidingmyescape.Theywillkillyou.’‘Butyoucan’tstay.Youwerecaughtdistributingresistancematerial.Mypositionisdifferent.’‘Sophie.Youweretheonlypersonwhotreatedmeasahuman.Icannothaveyourdeathonmy

conscience.’‘I’llbefine.Ialwaysam.’LilianeBéthunestaredatmydirtyclothes,mythin,feverishbody,nowshiveringinthechillmorning

air.Shestoodthereforthelongesttime,thensatdownheavily,droppingthebagasifshenolongercaredwhoheardit.Ilookedatherbutsheavertedhereyes.Webothjumpedasthetruck’senginejoltedintolife.Iheardashout.Thetruckmovedoffslowly,bumpingoverapotholesothatwebothbangedheavilyagainsttheside.Thesoldierletoutagutturalsnore,buthedidnotstir.Ireachedforherarm,hissing,‘Liliane,go.Whileyoucan.Youstillhavetime.Theywillnothearyou.’

Butsheignoredme.Shepushedthebagtowardsmewithherfootandsatdownbesidetheslumberingsoldier.Sheleanedbackagainstthesideofthetruckandstaredintonothing.Thetruckemergedfromtheforestontoanopenroadandwetravelledthenextfewmilesinsilence.In

thedistanceweheardshots,sawothermilitaryvehicles.Weslowedaswepassedacolumnofmen,trudgingalongingrey,raggedclothes.Theirheadsweredown.Theywerelikespectres,notevenlikerealpeople.IwatchedLilianewatchingthemandfeltherpresenceinthetrucklikeadeadweight.Shemighthavemadeit,ifitwerenotforme.Wemighthavemadeittogether.Asmythoughtsgainedclarity,IrealizedIhadprobablydestroyedherlastchancetobereunitedwithherdaughter.‘Liliane–’Sheshookherhead,asifshedidnotwanttohearit.Wedroveon.Theskiesdarkenedanditbegantorainagain,afreezingsleet,whichbitmyskinin

dropletsasitslicedthroughthegapsintheroof.Myshiveringbecameviolent,andwitheverybump,painshotthroughmybodyasiffromabolt.IwantedtotellherIwassorry.IwantedtotellherIknewIhaddonesomethingterribleandselfish.Ishouldhavegrantedherherchance.Shewasright:IhadbeenfoolingmyselftothinktheKommandantwouldrewardmeforwhatIhaddone.Finallyshespoke.‘Sophie?’‘Yes?’Iwassodesperateforhertotalktome.Imusthavesoundedpatheticallyeager.Sheswallowed,hergazefixedonhershoes.‘If…ifanythinghappenstome,doyouthinkHélènewill

lookafterÉdith?Imean,reallylookafterher?Loveher?’‘Ofcourse.Hélènecouldnomorefailtoloveachildthanshecould…Idon’tknow–jointheBoche.’

Itriedtosmile.IwasdeterminedtomakemyselfappearlessillthanIfelt,totrytoreassureherthatgoodmightstillhappen.Ishiftedonmyseat,tryingtoforcemyselfupright.EveryboneinmybodyhurtasIdidso.‘Butyoumustn’tthinklikethat.Wewillsurvivethis,Liliane,andthenyouwillgohometoyourdaughter.Maybeevenwithinmonths.’Liliane’sgoodhandliftedtothesideofherface,tracingalividredscarthatranfromthecornerofher

eyebrowalonghercheek.Sheseemeddeepinthought,alongwayfromme.Iprayedthatmycertaintyhadreassuredheralittle.‘Wehavesurvivedsofar,haven’twe?’Icontinued.‘Wearenolongerinthathellishcattletruck.And

wehavebeenbroughttogether.Surelythefatesmusthavelookedkindlyuponustodothat.’Sheremindedme,suddenly,ofHélèneinthedarkerdays.Iwantedtoreachacrosstoher,touchher

arm,butIwastooweak.Icouldbarelystayuprightonthewoodenbenchasitwas.‘Youhavetokeepfaith.Thingscanbegoodagain.Iknowit.’‘Youreallythinkwecangohome?ToStPéronne?Afterwhatweeachdid?’Thesoldierbegantopushhimselfupright,wipinghiseyes.Heseemedirritated,asifourconversation

hadwokenhim.‘Well…maybenotstraightaway,’Istammered.‘ButwecanreturntoFrance.Oneday.Thingswillbe

–’‘Weareinnoman’slandnow,youandI,Sophie.Thereisnohomeleftforus.’Lilianeliftedherheadthen.Hereyeswerehugeanddark.Shewas,Isawnow,completely

unrecognizableastheglossycreatureIhadseenstruttingpastthehotel.Butitwasnotjustthescarsandbruisesthatalteredherappearance:somethingdeepinhersoulhadbeencorrupted,blackened.

‘YoureallythinkprisonerswhoendupinGermanyevercomeoutagain?’‘Liliane,pleasedon’ttalklikethat.Please.Youjustneed…’Myvoicetailedaway.‘DearestSophie,withyourfaith,yourblindoptimisminhumannature.’Shehalfsmiledatme,andit

wasaterrible,bleakthing.‘Youhavenoideawhattheywilldotous.’Andwiththat,beforeIcouldsayanotherword,shewhippedthegunfromthesoldier’sholster,pointed

ittothesideofherheadandpulledthetrigger.

30

‘Sowethoughtwemighttakeinamoviethisafternoon.AndthismorningJakey’sgoingtohelpmewalkthedogs.’Gregdrivesbadly,dippinghisfootonandofftheaccelerator,apparentlyintimewiththemusic,sothatPaul’supperbodylurchesforwardatoddintervalsallthewaydownFleetStreet.‘CanIbringmyNintendo?’‘No,youcannotbringyourNintendo,Screen-boy.You’llwalkintoatreelikeyoudidlasttime.’‘I’mtrainingtowalkupthem,likeSuperMario.’‘Nicetry,SmallFry.’‘Whattimeareyoucomingback,Dad?’‘Mm?’Inthepassengerseat,Paulisscanningthenewspapers.Therearefouraccountsofthepreviousday’s

eventsincourt.TheheadlinessuggestanimpendingvictoryforTARPandtheLefèvres.Hecannotrememberthelasttimehefeltlesselatedbyawinningverdict.‘Dad?’‘Damn.Thenews.’Hecheckshiswatch,leansforward,fiddleswiththedial.‘SurvivorsofGermanconcentrationcampshavecalledonthegovernmenttofast-tracklegislationthat

wouldaidthereturnofworksofartlootedduringwartime…‘Sevensurvivorshavediedthisyearalonewhilewaitingforlegalprocessestoreturntheirfamilies’

possessions,accordingtolegalsources,asituationthathasbeendescribedas“atragedy”.‘ThecallcomesasthecaseofapaintingallegedlylootedduringtheFirstWorldWarcontinuesatthe

HighCourt–’Paulleansforward.‘HowdoIturnthisup?’Wherearetheygettingthisstuff?‘YouwanttotryPac-man.Nowtherewasacomputergame.’‘What?’‘Dad?Whattime?’‘Holdon,Jake.Ineedtolistentothis.’‘–Halston,whoclaimsherlatehusbandboughtthepaintingingoodfaith.Thecontroversialcase

illustratesthedifficultiesforalegalsystemfacinganincreasingnumberofcomplexrestitutioncasesoverthepastdecade.TheLefèvrecasehasattractedattentionacrosstheglobe,withsurvivors’groups…’‘Jesus.PoorMissLiv.’Gregshakeshishead.‘What?’‘Iwouldn’twanttobeinhershoes.’‘What’sthatsupposedtomean?’‘Well,allthatstuffinthepapers,ontheradio–it’sgettingprettyhardcore.’‘It’sjustbusiness.’Greggiveshimthelookheturnsoncustomerswhoasktorunatab.

‘It’scomplicated.’‘Yeah?Ithoughtyousaidthesethingswerealwaysblackandwhite.’‘Youwanttobackoff,Greg?OrmaybeIshouldstopbylaterandtellyouhowtorunyourbar.Seehow

thatgoes.’GregandJakeraisetheireyebrowsateachother.It’ssurprisinglyirritating.Paulswivelsinhisseat.‘Jake,I’llcallyouoncewe’reoutofcourt,okay?We’llgotothepicturesor

somethingtonight.’‘Butwe’redoingthatthisafternoon.Gregjusttoldyou.’‘HighCourt’scomingupontheright.YouwantmetodoaU-turn?’Gregsignalsleftandpullsupso

dramaticallythattheyalllurchforwards.Ataxiswervespastthem,blaringitsdisapproval.‘I’mnotsureIshouldbestoppinghere.IfIgetaticketyou’llpayit,right?Hey–isn’tthather?’‘Who?’Jakeleansforward.PaullooksacrosstheroadatthecrowdoutsidetheHighCourt.Theopenareatothefrontofthesteps

ispackedwithpeople.Thethronghasgrownoverthepastdays,butevenshroudedinmisthecandetectsomethingdifferentaboutittoday:acholericatmosphere,itsparticipants’facessetinexpressionsofbarelyconcealedantipathy.‘Uh-oh,’saysGreg,andPaulfollowsthedirectionofhisgaze.Acrosstheroad,Livisapproachingthecourtentrance,herhandstightaroundherbag,herheaddown

asifsheisdeepinthought.Sheglancesup,andassheunderstandsthenatureofthedemonstrationbeforeher,apprehensioncrossesherface.Someoneshoutshername:Halston.Thecrowdtakesasecondtoregister,andshepicksupspeed,triestohurrypast,buthernameisrepeated,alowmurmur,whichswells,becomesanaccusation.Henry,justvisibleontheothersideoftheentrance,walksbrisklyacrossthepavingtowardsherasif

hecanalreadyseewhatishappening.Liv’sstridefaltersandheleapsforward,butthecrowdsurgesandshifts,splittingbriefly,andswallowsher,likesomegiantorganism.‘Christ.’‘Whatthe–’Pauldropshisfilesandleapsoutofthecar,sprintingacrosstheroad.Hehurlshimselfintothemass

andfightshiswaytothecentre.Itisamaelstromofhandsandbanners,thesounddeafening.Theword‘THEFT’flashesinfrontofhimonafallingbanner.Heseesacameraflash,glimpsesLiv’shair,grabsforherarmandhearshershoutoutinfright.Thecrowdsurgesforwardandalmostknockshimoffhisfeet.HespotsHenryontheothersideofher,pushestowardshim,swearingatamanwhograbsathiscoat.Uniformedofficersinneontabardsappear,pullingtheprotestersaway.‘Breakitup.GETBACK.GETBACK.’Hisbreathcatchesinhischest,someonethumpshimhardinthekidneys,andthentheyarefree,movingswiftlyupthesteps,Livbetweenthemlikeadoll.Withthecrackleandwhistleofapoliceradio,theyareusheredinbyburlyofficers,throughthesecuritybarriersandintothemutedpeaceandsafetyoftheotherside.Thecrowd,denied,yellsitsprotestfromoutside,thesoundechoingoffthewalls.Liv’sfeaturesarebleachedwhite.Shestandsmute,onehandliftedinfrontofherface,hercheek

scratched,herhairhalfoutofitsponytail.‘Jesus.Wherewereyou?’Henrystraightenshisjacketangrily,shoutingattheofficers.‘Wherewas

Security?Youshouldhaveforeseenthis!’

Theofficerisnoddingathimdistractedly,onehandraised,theotherholdinghisradioinfrontofhismouthasheissuesinstructions.‘Thisissimplynotacceptable!’‘Areyouokay?’Paulreleasesher.Shenods,stepsblindlyawayfromhim,asifshehasonlyjust

realizedheisthere.Herhandsareshaking.‘Thankyou,MrMcCafferty,’Henrysays,adjustinghiscollar.‘Thankyoufordivingin.Thatwas…’

Hetrailsoff.‘CanwegetLivadrink?Somewheretositdown?’‘Oh,God,’saysLiv,quietly,peeringathersleeve.‘Somebodyspatonme.’‘Here.Takeitoff.Justtakeitoff.’Paulliftshercoatfromhershoulders.Sheappearssuddenlysmaller,

hershouldersbowedasifbytheweightofhatredoutside.Henrytakesitfromhim.‘Don’tworryaboutit,Liv.I’lltelloneofmystafftogetitcleaned.Andwe’ll

makesureyoucanleaveviathebackentrance.’‘Yes,madam.We’llgetyououtthebacklater,’thepolicemansays.‘Likeacriminal,’shesaysdully.‘Iwon’tletthathappentoyouagain,’Paulsays,takingasteptowardsher.‘Really.I’m–I’msosorry.’Sheglancesupathim,hereyesnarrowandshetakesastepbackwards.‘What?’‘WhyshouldItrustyou?’BeforehecanreplyHenryisatherelbowandsheisgone,shepherdeddownthecorridorandintothe

courtbyherlegalteam,somehowtoosmallinherdarkjacket,blindtothefactthatherponytailisstillhalfoutofitsband.

Paulwalksslowlyacrosstheroad,straighteninghisshouldersinhisjacket.Gregisstandingbyhiscar,holdingouthisscatteredfilesandleatherbriefcase.Ithasstartedtorain.‘Youokay?’Henods.‘Isshe?’‘Uh…’Paulglancesbacktowardsthecourt,rubsathishair.‘Sortof.Look.I’vegottogoin.I’llsee

youbothlater.’Greglooksathim,thenatthecrowd,whichisnowaloose,tamething,peoplemillingaroundand

chattingasifthelasttenminuteshadn’thappened.Hisexpressionisuncharacteristicallycold.‘So,’hesays,asheclimbsbackintothecar,‘thatwholeI’m-on-the-side-of-the-angelsthing,how’sitworkingoutforyou?’Hedoesn’tlookatPaulashedrivesaway.Jake’sface,paleagainstthebackwindscreen,gazes

impassivelyathimuntilthecardisappearsfromview.

Janeyisathissideashewalksupthestepstowardsthecourtroom.Herhairisneatlypinned,andsheiswearingbrightredlipstick.‘Touching,’shesays.Hepretendshehasn’theardher.SeanFlahertydumpshisfoldersonabenchandpreparestogothroughSecurity.‘Thisisgettingabit

outofhand.Neverseenanythinglikeit.’

‘Yeah,’saysPaul,rubbinghisjaw.‘It’salmostlike…Oh,Idon’tknow.Likeallthisinflammatorycrapbeingfedtothemediaishavinganeffect.’HeturnstoJaney.‘Meaning?’saysJaney,coolly.‘Meaningthatwhoeverisbriefingjournalistsandwindingupinterestgroupsobviouslycouldn’tgivea

flyingfuckhowunpleasantthisisgoingtoget.’‘Whereasyouareallchivalry.’Janeylooksbackathimsteadily.‘Janey?Didyouhaveanythingtodowiththatprotest?’Thepauseisjustananosecondtoolong.‘Don’tberidiculous.’‘JesusChrist.’Sean’sgazeflickersbetweenthem,asifheisonlyjustregisteringthatawholeseparateconversationis

takingplacebeforehim.Heexcuseshimself,mutteringaboutbriefingthebarrister.AnditisjustPaulandJaneyinthelongstonecorridor.Herunsahandthroughhishair,gazesbacktowardsthecourtroom.‘Idon’tlikethis.Idon’tlikethisat

all.’‘It’sbusiness.Andyounevermindedbefore.’Sheglancesatherwatch,thenoutofthewindow.The

Strandisnotvisiblefrombackhere,butthechantingoftheprotesterscanstillbeheard,barelymuffledbythebuildings.Herarmsarefoldedacrossherchest.‘Anyway,Idon’tthinkyoucanexactlyplaytheinnocent.’‘Meaning?’‘Youwanttotellmewhat’sgoingon?WithyouandMrsHalston?’‘Nothing’sgoingon.’‘Don’tinsultmyintelligence.’‘Okay.Nothingthat’sanyofyourbusiness.’‘Ifyou’rehavingarelationshipwiththesubjectofourclaim,Ithinkthat’sverymuchmybusiness.’‘Iamnotinarelationshipwithher.’Janeymovesclosertohim.‘Don’tfuckmearound,Paul.YouapproachedtheLefèvresbehindmyback,

tryingtonegotiateasettlement.’‘Yeah.Iwasgoingtotalktoyouabout–’‘Isawthatlittledisplayoutthere.Andyoutrytocutadealforher,daysbeforetheruling?’‘Okay.’Paulremoveshisjacketandsitsdownheavilyonabench.‘Okay.’Shewaits.‘IhadabriefrelationshipwithherbeforeIrealizedwhoshewas.Itendedwhenwediscoveredwe

wereonopposingsides.That’sit.’Janeystudiessomethinghighupinthevaultedceiling.Whenshespeaksagainherwordsarecasual.

‘Areyouplanningongettingtogetherwithheragain?Afterthisisover?’‘That’snobody’sbusiness.’‘Thehellitis.Ineedtoknowthatyou’vebeenworkingashardasyoucanforme.Thatthiscasehasn’t

beencompromised.’Hisvoiceexplodesintotheemptyspace.‘We’rewinning,aren’twe?Whatmoredoyouwant?’

Thelastofthelegalteamisgoingintocourt.Sean’sfaceappearsaroundtheheavyoakdoor,andhemouthsatthemtocomein.Paultakesadeepbreath.Hemakeshisvoiceconciliatory.‘Look.Personalstuffaside,Idothinkit

wouldbetherightthingtosettle.We’dstillbe–’Janeyreachesforherfolders.‘Wearenotgoingtosettle.’‘But–’‘Whyonearthwouldwe?We’reabouttowinthemosthigh-profilecasethiscompanyhasever

handled.’‘We’redestroyingsomeone’slife.’‘Shedestroyedherownlifethedayshedecidedtofightus.’‘Weweretakingwhatshebelievedwashers.Ofcourseshewasgoingtofightus.Comeon,Janey,this

isaboutfairness.’‘Thisisn’taboutfairness.Nothing’saboutfairness.Don’tberidiculous.’Sheblowshernose.When

sheturnstohim,hereyesglitter.‘Thiscaseisscheduledfortwomoredaysincourt.Providednothinguntowardhappens,SophieLefèvrewillgobackafterthattoherrightfulplace.’‘Andyou’resosureyouknowwherethatis.’‘Yes,Iam.Asshouldyoube.AndnowIsuggestwegoinbeforetheLefèvreswonderwhatonearth

we’restilldoingouthere.’Hewalksintothecourtroom,hisheadbuzzing,ignoringtheglareoftheclerk.Hesitsandtakesafew

deepbreaths,tryingtoclearhisthoughts.Janeyisdistracted,deepinconversationwithSean.Ashisheartratesteadies,heremembersaretireddetectiveheusedtotalktowhenhewasfirstinLondon,amanwhosefacehadsetinwryfoldsofamusementatthewaysoftheworld.‘Allthatcountsisthetruth,McCafferty,’hewouldsay,justbeforethebeerturnedhisconversationtoblather.‘Withoutityou’rebasicallyjustjugglingpeople’sdaftideas.’Hepullshisnotepadfromhisjacketandscribblesafewwords,beforefoldingthepapercarefullyin

half.Heglancessideways,thentapsthemaninfrontofhim.‘Canyoupassthistothatsolicitorplease?’Hewatchesasthescrapofwhitepapermakesitswaydowntothefront,alongthebenchtothejuniorsolicitor,thentoHenry,whoglancesatitandpassesittoLiv.Shegazesatitwarily,asifreluctanttoopenit.Andthenhewatchesasshedoesso,hersudden,intense

stillnessasshedigestswhatitsays.IWILLFIXTHIS.

Sheturnsandhereyesseekhimout.Whenshefindshimherchinliftsslightly.WhyshouldItrustyou?Timeseemstostop.Shelooksaway.‘TellJaneyIhadtogo.Urgentmeeting,’hesays,toSean.Paulstandsandbeginstofighthiswayout.

Afterwards,heisunsurewhatleadshimthere.Theflat,inamansionblockbehindMaryleboneRoad,islinedwithsalmon-pinkwallpapertowhichpearlescentswirlsaddafaintpeachyglitter.Thecurtainsarepink.Thesofasareadeeprose.Thewallsarecoveredwithshelves,uponwhichlittlechinaanimalsjostleforspacewithtinselandChristmascards.Agoodnumberarepink.Andthere,standingbeforehiminapairofslacksandacardigan,isMarianneAndrews.Inhead-to-toelimegreen.

‘You’reoneofMrFlaherty’speople.’Shestoopsalittle,asifsheistoobigforthedoorframe.ShehaswhatPaul’smotherwouldhavecalled‘bigbones’:theyjutfromherjointslikeacamel’s.‘I’msorrytolandonyourdoorsteplikethis.Iwantedtotalktoyou.Aboutthecase.’Shelooksasifsheisabouttoturnhimaway,andthensheraisesalargehand.‘Oh,youmightaswell

comein.ButIwarnyou,I’masmadasacutsnakeathowyoualltalkedaboutMom,likeshewassomekindofcriminal.Thenewspapersarenobetter.I’vehadcallstheselastfewdaysfromfriendsbackhomewho’veseenthestoryandthey’retryingtoimplyshedidsomethingterrible.IjustgotoffthephonetomyoldfriendMyrafromhighschoolandIhadtotellherthatMomdidmoreusefulthingsinsixmonthsthanthatdarnedwoman’shusbanddidsittingonhisfatoldbacksideinhisthirtyyearsattheBankofAmerica.’‘I’msure.’‘Oh,Ibetyouare,honey.’Shebeckonshiminside,hergaitstiffandshuffling.‘Momwasasocial

progressive.Shewroteabouttheplightofworkers,displacedchildren.Shewashorrifiedbywar.ShewouldnomorestealsomethingthanshewouldhaveaskedGoeringoutforadate.Now,Isupposeyou’regoingtowantadrink?’Paulacceptsadietcolaandsettlesinoneofthelow-slungsofas.Throughthewindowthesoundof

distantrush-hourtrafficdriftsinontheoverheatedair.Alargecatthathehadinitiallymistakenforacushionunfurlsitselfandjumpsintohislap,whereitkneadshisthighsinsilentecstasy.MarianneAndrewssitsbackandlightsacigarette.Shetakesatheatricalbreath.‘Isthataccent

Brooklyn?’‘NewJersey.’‘Hmph.’Sheaskshimhisoldaddress,nodsasiftoaffirmherfamiliaritywithit.‘Youbeenherelong?’‘Sevenyears.’‘Six.Cameoverwithmybesthusband,Donald.HepassedoverlastJuly.’Andthen,hervoice

softeningslightly,shesays,‘Well,anyway,howcanIhelpyou?I’mnotsureIhavemuchmorethanwhatIsaidincourt.’‘Idon’tknow.IguessI’mjustwonderingifthere’sanything,anythingatall,wemighthavemissed.’‘Nope.LikeItoldMrFlaherty,Ihavenoideawherethepaintingcamefrom.Tobehonest,whenMom

reminiscedaboutherreportingdaysshepreferredtotalkaboutthetimeshegotlockedinanaircraftlavatorywithJFK.And,youknow,PopandIweren’tmuchinterested.Believeme,youhearoneoldreporter’stales,you’veheardthemall.’Paulglancesaroundtheapartment.Whenhelooksback,hereyesarestillonhim.Sheregardshim

carefully,blowsasmokeringintothestillair.‘MrMcCafferty.Areyourclientsgoingtocomeaftermeforcompensationifthecourtdecidesthepaintingwasstolen?’‘No.Theyjustwantthepainting.’MarianneAndrewsshakesherhead.‘Ibettheydo.’Sheuncrossesherknees,wincingasifitcausesher

discomfort.‘Ithinkthiswholecasestinks.Idon’tlikethewaymymom’snameisbeingdraggedthroughthemud.OrMrHalston’s.Helovedthatpainting.’Paullooksdownatthecat.‘ItisjustpossibleMrHalstonhadagoodideaofwhatitwasreallyworth.’‘Withrespect,MrMcCafferty,youweren’tthere.Ifyou’retryingtoimplythatIshouldfeelcheated,

you’retalkingtothewrongwoman.’

‘Youreallydon’tcareaboutitsvalue?’‘IsuspectyouandIhavedifferentdefinitionsoftheword“value”.’Thecatlooksupathim,itseyesgreedyandfaintlyantagonisticatthesametime.MarianneAndrewsstubsouthercigarette.‘AndIfeelplainsickaboutpoorOliviaHalston.’Hehesitates,andthenhesayssoftly,‘Yeah.Metoo.’Sheraisesaneyebrow.Hesighs.‘Thiscaseis…tricky.’‘Nottootrickytochasethepoorgirltobankruptcy?’‘Justdoingmyjob,MsAndrews.’‘Yeah.IthinkMomheardthatphraseafewtimestoo.’Itissaidgently,butitbringscolourtohischeeks.Shelooksathim,foraminute,thensuddenlyletsoutagreathah!,frighteningthecat,whichleapsoff

hislap.‘Oh,forgoodness’sakes.Doyouwantsomethingabitstronger?BecauseIcoulddowitharealdrink.I’msurethatsunissomewhereneartheyardarm.’Shegetsupandwalksovertoacocktailcabinet.‘Bourbon?’‘Thanks.’Hetellsherthen,thebourboninhishand,theaccentofhishomelandinhisears,hiswordscomingout

infitsandstarts,asiftheyhadnotexpectedtobreakthesilence.Hisstorystartswithastolenhandbagandendswithanall-too-abruptgoodbyeoutsideacourtroom.Newpartsofitemerge,withouthisawareness.Hisunexpectedhappinessaroundher,hisguilt,thispermanentbadtemperthatseemstohavegrownaroundhim,likebark.Hedoesn’tknowwhyheshouldunburdenhimselftothiswoman.Hedoesn’tknowwhyheexpectsher,ofallpeople,tounderstand.ButMarianneAndrewslistens,hergenerousfeaturesgrimacinginsympathy.‘Well,that’ssomemess

you’vegotyourselfinto,MrMcCafferty.’‘Yeah.Igetthat.’Shelightsanothercigarette,scoldsthecat,whichisyowlingplaintivelyforfoodintheopen-plan

kitchen.‘Honey,Ihavenoanswersforyou.Eitheryou’regoingtobreakherheartbytakingthatpaintingorshe’sgoingtobreakyoursbylosingyouyourjob.’‘Orweforgetthewholething.’‘Andbreakbothyourhearts.’Herwordslayitbare.Theysitthereinsilence.Outsidetheairisthickwiththesoundofbarelymoving

traffic.Paulsipshisdrink,thinking.‘MsAndrews,didyourmotherkeephernotebooks?Herreporting

notebooks?’MarianneAndrewslooksup.‘IdidbringthembackfromBarcelonabutI’mafraidIhadtothrowalot

out.They’dbeeneatentonothingbytermites.Oneoftheshrunkenheadstoo.PerilsofabriefmarriageinFlorida.Although…’Shestandsup,usingherlongarmsforleverage.‘You’vemademethinkofsomething.Imaystillhaveabunchofheroldjournalsinthehallcupboards.’‘Journals?’‘Diaries.Whatever.Oh,Ihadacrazyideathatsomeonemightwanttowriteherbiographyoneday.She

didsomanyinterestingthings.Maybeoneofmygrandchildren.I’malmostsurethere’saboxofher

cuttingsandsomejournalsoutthere.Letmegetthekeyandwe’llgohavealook.’

PaulfollowsMarianneAndrewsoutintothecommunalhallway.Breathinglaboriously,sheleadshimdowntwoflightstowherethestairsarenolongercarpeted,andatrancheofbicycleslinesthewalls.‘Ourapartmentsareprettysmall,’MarianneAndrewssays,waitingasPaulpullsopenaheavyfire

door,‘sosomeofusrentsparecaretaker’scupboards.They’relikegolddust.MrChuanextdoorofferedmefourthousandpoundstotakeovertheleaseforthisonelastyear.Fourthousand!Itoldhimhe’dhavetotrebleit,andthensome.’Theycometoatallbluedoor.Shechecksthroughherringofkeys,mutteringtoherselfuntilshefinds

theoneshewants.‘Here,’shesays,flickingaswitch.Insidethedimlightbulbrevealsalongdarkcupboard.Onesideislinedwithmetalgarageshelves,andtheflooristhickwithcardboardboxes,pilesofbooks,anoldlamp.Itsmellsofoldnewspapersandjarsofbeeswax.‘Ishouldreallyclearitallout.’Mariannesighs,wrinklinghernose.‘Butsomehowthere’salways

somethingmoreinterestingtodo.’‘Youwantmetogetanythingdown?’Mariannehugsherself.‘Youknowwhat,honey?WouldyoumindverymuchifIleftyoutodigaround?

Allthedustaggravatesmyasthma.There’snothingthereofanyvalue.Youjustlockupandgivemeashoutifyoufindanything.Oh,andifyoufindatealbluehandbagwithagoldclasp,bringthatup.I’dlovetoknowwhereitdisappearedto.’Paulspendsanhourinthecrampedcupboard,movingboxesoutintothedimlylithallwaywhenhe

suspectstheymightbeuseful,pilingthemupagainstthewall.Therearenewspapersdatingbackto1941,theirpagesyellowedandcornersmissing.ThetinywindowlessroomislikeaTardis.Itscontentspileupinthehallwayasitempties–suitcasesfullofoldmaps,aglobe,hatboxes,moth-eatenfurcoats,anotherleatheryshrunkenhead,grimacingathimwithitsfouroversizedteeth.Hestacksthemallagainstthewall,coveringtheheadwithatapestrycushioncover.Dustcoatshishands,settlesintothecreasesofhisface.TherearemagazineswithNewLookskirts,picturesoftheCoronation,reel-to-reeltapes.Hetakesthemout,placingthemonthefloorbesidehim.Hisclothesbecomegreywithdirt,hiseyesgritty.Hefindsahandfulofnotebooks,helpfullydatedonthefrontcovers:1968,Nov.1969,1971.HereadsabouttheplightofstrikingfiremeninNewJersey,thetrialsofthePresident.Occasionallytherearenotesscrawledinthemargins:‘Dean!DanceFriday7p.m.’or‘TellMikethatFrankiecalled’.Thereisnothingrelevanttowartime,ortothepainting.Heworksmethodicallythrougheachbox,checkingbetweentheleavesofeverybook,scanningthe

contentsofeveryfolder.Heopenseveryboxandcrate,pilingitscontentsupandthenreplacingthemneatly.Anoldstereo,twoboxesofoldbooks,ahatboxofsouvenirs.Itiseleveno’clock,twelveo’clock,halfpast.Helooksdownathiswatch,realizingit’shopeless.Paulstraightens,dustinghishandsonhistrousers,keentoescapetheairless,clutteredspace.Helongs

suddenlyforthebarewhitenessofLiv’shouse,itscleanlines,itsairiness.Hehasemptiedthewholething.Whereverthetruthistobefound,it’snotinthisoverstuffedcupboard

justnorthoftheA40.Andthen,neartheback,hespiesthestrapofanoldleathersatchel,driedoutandsnappedintwo,likeathinsliceofbeefjerky.Hereachesundertheshelvingsystemandpullsatit.

Hesneezestwice,wipeshiseyes,thenliftstheflap.InsidearesixhardboundA4exercisebooks.Heopensone,andseestheintricatecopperplatehandwritingonthefirstpage.Hiseyesflickuptothedate.1941.Heopensanother:1944.Heracesthroughthem,droppingeachinhishastetofindit–andthereitis,thesecondtolast:1945.Hestumblesoutintothehall,wherethelightisbrighter,andleafsthroughthepagesundertheneon

strip-light.30April1945

Well,todaysuredidn’tturnoutlikeIexpected.Fourdaysago,LtColDaneshadtoldmeIcouldgointoKonzentrationslagerDachau…

Paulreadsonforafewmorelines,andcursestwice,withincreasingvehemence.Hestandsimmobile,theweightofwhatheisholdingbecomingmoresignificantwitheverysecond.Heflicksthroughthepagesandcursesagain.Hismindraces.Hecouldstuffthisbackintothefarcornerofthecupboard,gobacktoMarianne

Andrewsrightnow,tellherhehadfoundnothing.Hecouldwinhiscase,collecthisbonus.HecouldgiveSophieLefèvretoherlegalowners.Or…HeseesLiv,headdown,batteredbyatideofpublicopinion,theharshwordsofstrangers,impending

financialruin.Heseesherbracinghershoulders,herponytailaskew,asshewalksintoanotherdayincourt.Heseesherslowsmileofpleasurethefirsttimetheyhadkissed.Ifyoudothis,youcannotgoback.PaulMcCaffertydropsthebookandthesatchelbesidehisjacketandstartsstackingtheboxesinside

thecupboard.

Sheappearsatthedoorwayasheclearsthelastoftheboxesaway,sweatinganddustyafterhisexertions.Sheissmokingacigaretteinalongholder,likea1920sflapper.‘Goodness–Iwasbeginningtowonderwhathadhappenedtoyou.’Hestraightens,wipeshisbrow.‘Ifoundthis.’Heliftsthetealbluehandbag.‘Youdid?Oh,you’readarling!’Sheclapsherhandstogether,takesitfromhimandsmoothesit

lovingly.‘IwassoafraidI’dleftitsomewhere.I’msuchaclutterbrain.Thankyou.Thankyousomuch.Heavenknowshowyoufounditinallthischaos.’‘Ifoundsomethingelsetoo.’Hergazeslidesupwards.‘YoumindifIborrowthese?’Heholdsupthesatchelwiththejournalsinit.‘IsthatwhatIthinkitis?Whatdotheysay?’‘Theysay…’hetakesabreath,exhales‘…thatthepaintingwasindeedgiftedtoyourmother.’‘Itoldyouall!’MarianneAndrewsexclaims.‘Itoldyoumymotherwasn’tathief!Itoldyouallalong.’Thereisalongsilence.‘Andyou’regoingtogivethemtoMrsHalston,’shesaysslowly.‘I’mnotsurethatwouldbewise.Thisjournalwilleffectivelyloseusourcase.’Herexpressionclouds.‘Whatareyousaying?Thatyou’renotgoingtogivethemtoher?’

‘That’sexactlywhatI’msaying.’Hereachesintohispocketforapen.‘ButifIleavethemhere,there’snothingtostopyougivingthemto

her,right?’Hescribblesanumberandhandsittoher.‘That’shercell.’Theygazeateachotherforaminute.Shebeams,asifsomethinghasbeenreasserted.‘I’lldothat,Mr

McCafferty.’‘MsAndrews?’‘Marianne.Forgoodness’sakes.’‘Marianne.Bestkeepthistoourselves.Idon’tthinkitwouldgodownwellincertainquarters.’Shenodsfirmly.‘Youwereneverhere,youngman.’She’sseeminglystruckbyathought.‘Youdon’t

evenwantmetotellMrsHalston?Thatitwasyouwho…’Heshakeshishead,popshispenbackinhispocket.‘Ithinkthatshipmayhavesailed.Seeingherwin

willbeenough.’Hestoopsandkisseshercheek.‘TheimportantoneisApril1945.Thejournalwiththebentcorner.’‘April1945.’Hefeelsalmostdizzywiththeenormityofwhathehasdone.TARP,theLefèvres,willnowlosethe

case.Theyhaveto,basedonwhathehasseen.Isitstillabetrayalifyou’redoingitfortherightreasons?Heneedsadrink.Heneedssomeair.Something.HaveIgonecrazyhere?AllhecanseeisLiv’sface,herrelief.Hewantstoseethatsmilebreakingoutagain,slowandwide,asifsurprisedbyitsownarrival.Hepicksuphisjackettoleave,holdsoutthecupboardkeys.Mariannetoucheshiselbow,haltinghim.

‘Youknow,I’lltellyousomethingaboutbeingmarriedfivetimes.Ormarriedfivetimesandstillfriendswithmysurvivingex-husbands.’Shecountsthemongnarledfingers.‘Thatwouldbethree.’Hewaits.‘Itteachesyoudamnallaboutlove.’Paulbeginstosmile,butshehasn’tfinished.Hergriponhisarmissurprisinglystrong.‘Whatitdoes

teachyou,MrMcCafferty,isthatthere’sawholelotmoretolifethanwinning.’

31

Henrymeetsheratthereargateofthecourts.Heisspeakingthroughacloudofpainauchocolatcrumbs.Hisfaceispink,andheisalmostincomprehensible.‘Shewon’tgiveittoanyoneelse.’‘What?Whowon’t?’‘She’satthefrontentrance.Come.Come.’Beforeshecanaskanymore,Henryispropellingherthroughthebackofthecourts,throughanetwork

ofcorridorsandflightsofstonestairs,outtothesecurityareaatthetopofthemainentrance.MarianneAndrewsiswaitingbythebarriers,dressedinapurplecoatandawidetartanhairband.SheseesLivandletsoutatheatricalsighofrelief.‘Lord,you’reahardwomantogetholdof,’shescolds,assheholdsoutamusty-smellingsatchel.‘I’vebeencallingandcallingyou.’‘I’msorry,’Livsays,blinking.‘Idon’tanswermyphoneanymore.’‘It’sinthere.’Mariannepointstothejournal.‘Everythingyouneed.April1945.’Livstaresattheoldbooksinherhand.Andlooksupindisbelief.‘EverythingIneed?’‘Thepainting,’theolderwomansays,exasperated.‘Forgoodness’sakes,child.It’snotarecipefor

prawngumbo.’Eventsmoveatsomespeed.Henryrunstothejudge’schambersandrequestsabriefadjournment.The

journalsarephotocopied,highlighted,theircontentssenttotheLefèvres’lawyersundertheruleofdisclosure.LivandHenrysitinacorneroftheoffice,scanningthebookmarkedpages,whileMariannetalksnon-stopwithsomeprideofhowshehadalwaysknownhermomwasnotathiefandhowthatdarnedMrJenkscouldgoboilhishead.Ajuniorlawyerbringscoffeeandsandwiches.Liv’sstomachistootauttoeat.Theysituntouchedin

theircardboardpacket.Shekeepsstaringatthejournal,unabletobelievethatthisdog-earedbookmightholdtheanswertoherproblems.‘Whatdoyouthink?’shesays,whenAngelaSilverandHenryhavefinishedtalking.‘Ithinkitcouldbegoodnews,’hesays.Hissmilebelieshiscautiouswords.‘Itseemsfairlystraightforward,’Angelasays.‘Ifwecanprovethatthelasttwoexchangeswere

innocent,andthereisinconclusiveevidenceforthefirstexchange,thenweare,astheysay,backinthegame.’‘Thankyousomuch,’Livsays,notdaringtobelievethisturnofevents.‘Thankyou,MsAndrews.’‘Oh,Icouldnotbemoredelighted,’Mariannesays,wavingacigaretteintheair.Nobodyhasbothered

totellhernottosmoke.Sheleansforward,placesabonyhandonLiv’sknee.‘Andhefoundmyfavouritehandbag.’‘I’msorry?’Theoldwoman’ssmilefalters.Shebusiesherselfwithrefixingabrooch.‘Oh,nothing.Takenonotice

ofme.’

Livkeepsstaringather,asthefaintflushofcolourdiesdown.‘Don’tyouwantthesesandwiches?’Mariannesaysbriskly.Thephonerings.‘Right,’saysHenry,whenheputsdownthereceiver.‘Iseveryoneokay?MsAndrews

–areyoureadytoreadsomeofthisevidencetothecourt?’‘Ihavemybestreadingglassesinmybag.’‘Right.’Henrytakesadeepbreath.‘Thenit’stimetogoin.’30April1945

Well,todaysuredidn’tturnoutlikeIexpected.Fourdaysago,LtColDaneshadtoldmeIcouldgointoKonzentrationslagerDachauwiththem.He’snotabadguy,Danes.Alittlesniffyatfirstabouthacks,asmostofthemare,butsinceIcameashorewiththeScreamingEaglesatOmahaBeach,andhe’sworkedoutI’mnotsomegreenhousewifewho’sgoingtopresshimforcookierecipes,he’sbackedoffalittle.The102ndAirbornecallmeanhonoraryfellownow,saythatwhenIhavemyarmbandon,I’mjustoneofthem.So,thedealwas,Iwasgoingtofollowthemintothecamp,writemypieceaboutthefolksinside,maybegetafewinterviewswithsomeoftheprisonersabouttheconditions,andthenfile.WRGSradiowantedashortpiecetoo,soIhadmytapeallwoundupandready.Well,thereIwas,readyat6a.m.,armbandonandalmostshipshape,anddarnedifhedidn’tknockonmydoor.‘Why,

Lieutenant,’Ijoked.Iwasstillfixingmyhair.‘Younevertoldmeyoucared.’It’sarunningjokewithus.Hesayshe’sgotpairsofmarchingbootsolderthanIam.

‘Changeofplan,Toots,’hesays.Hewassmoking,whichwasunlikehim.‘Ican’ttakeyou.’

Myhandsstilledonmyhead.‘Youarekiddingme,right?’TheRegister’seditorwasalllinedupforthispiece.They’dclearedmetwopagesandnoads.

‘Louanne,it’s…it’sbeyondwhatwethoughtwe’dfind.I’munderorderstoletnobodythroughtilltomorrow.’

‘Oh,comeon.’

‘Seriously.’Heloweredhisvoice.‘YouknowI’dhaveyouintherewithme.But,well,youwouldn’tbelievewhatwesawinthereyesterday…I’vebeenupallnight,meandtheboys.Thereareoldladies,kidswalkingroundinthere,like…Imean,littlekids…’Heshookhisheadandlookedawayfromme.He’sabigman,Danes,andIswearhewasabouttosoblikeababy.‘Therewasatrainoutside,andthebodieswerejust…thousandsofthem…Itain’thuman.That’sforsure.’

Ifhewastryingtoputmeoffithadtheoppositeeffect.‘Yougottagetmeinthere,Lieutenant.’

‘I’msorry.Strictestorders.Look,onemoreday,Louanne.ThenI’llgiveyoualltheaccessyouneed.You’llbetheonlyreporterinthere,Ipromise.’

‘Yeah.Andyou’llstilllovemeafterwards.Oh,comeon…’

‘Louanne,nobodybutthemilitaryandtheRedCrossisgoinginorcomingouttoday.IneedeverymanIhavetohelpout.’

‘Helpoutwithwhat?’

‘TakingtheNazisintocustody.Helpingtheprisoners.StoppingourmenkillingthoseSSbastardsforwhattheyseen.YoungMaslowicz,whenhesawwhattheydonetothePoles,hewaslikeamadman,crying,goingcrazy.Ihadtoputanon-comonhisgun.SoIgottahaveanairtightguard.And–’hegulped‘–wegottaworkoutwhattodowiththebodies.’

‘Bodies?’

Heshookhishead.‘Yeah,bodies.Thousandsofthem.Theymadebonfires.Bonfires!Youwouldn’tbelieve…’Heblewouthischeeks.‘Anyway,Toots.ThisiswhereIneedtoaskyouafavour.’

‘Youneedtoaskmeafavour?’

‘Ineedtoleaveyouinchargeofthestoragefacility.’

Istaredathim.

‘There’sawarehouse,outontheedgeofBerchtesgaden.Weopenedituplastnightandit’sprettymuchstackedtothegillswithworksofart.TheNazis,Goering,havelootedstufflikeyouwouldn’tbelieve.Thetopbrassreckonsthere’sahundredmilliondollars’worthofstuffinthere,mostofitstolen.’

‘Whathasthisgottodowithme?’

‘IneedsomeoneIcantrusttowatchoverit,justfortoday.You’llhaveafirecrewatyourdisposal,andtwomarines.It’schaosinthetown,andIneedtomakesurenobodygoesinthereandnobodygoesout.There’ssomeserioushaulinthere,

Toots.Idon’tknowmuchaboutart,butit’slike–Idon’tknow–theMonaLisaorsomething.’

Doyouknowhowdisappointmenttastes?Likeironfilingsincoldcoffee.That’swhatItastedwhenoldDanesdrovemedowntothefacility.AndthatwasbeforeIfoundoutthatMargueriteHigginshadgotintothecampsthepreviousday,withBrigadierGeneralLinden.

Itwasn’tawarehouseassuch,moreahugegreyslabofamunicipalbuilding,likeahugeschoolortownhall.Hepointedmetowardshistwomarines,whosalutedme,andthentheofficenearthemaindoorwhereIwastosit.Ihavetosay,Icouldn’tsaynotohim,butItookitallwithbadgrace.Itwassoobvioustomethattherealstorywasgoingondowntheroad.Theboys,normallycheerfulandfulloflife,wereinhuddles,smokingandwhey-faced.Theirsuperiorstalkedquietlywithshocked,seriousexpressions.Iwantedtoknowwhatthey’dfoundthere,horrificasitmightbe.Ineededtobeinthere,bringingthestoryout.AndIwasafraid:everydaythatslippedbymadeiteasierforthetopbrasstodeclinemyrequest.Everydaythatpassedgavemycompetitorsachance.

‘So,Krabowskiherewillgetyouanythingyouneed,andRogersonwillcontactmeifyouhaveanytrouble.Youokay?’

‘Sure.’Iputmyfeetuponthedeskandsighedtheatrically.

‘It’sadeal.Youdothisforme,andI’llgetyouintheretomorrow,Toots.Ipromise.’

‘Ibetyousaythattoallthegirls,’Isaid.But,foronce,hedidn’tevencrackasmile.

Isattherefortwohours,watchingthroughtheofficewindow.Itwasawarmday,thesunbouncingoffthestonesidewalks,buttherewasastrangefeeltoitthatseemedtodropthetemperature.Militaryvehicleswhinedupanddownthemainstreet,packedwithsoldiers.Germansoldiers,theirhandsontheirheads,weremarchedintheoppositedirection.SmallhuddlesofGermanwomenandchildrenstoodstockstillonstreetcorners,apparentlywonderingwhatwastobecomeofthem.(LaterIheardtheywerecalledintohelpburythedead.)Andallthewhile,inthedistance,theshrillsirenofambulancestoldofunseenhorrors.HorrorsIwasmissing.

Idon’tknowwhyDaneswassoworried:nobodyseemedtogivethisbuildingasecondlook.Ibeganapiece,screwedupthepaper,dranktwocupsofcoffeeandsmokedhalfapackofcigarettes,andmymoodgrewdarkeranddarker.Ibegantowonderifthiswasn’tallarusejusttokeepmeawayfromtheaction.

‘Comeonthen,Krabowski,’Isaid,finally.‘Showmearoundthisjoint.’

‘Ma’am,Idon’tknowifwe–’hebegan.

‘Youheardthelieutenantcolonel,Krabowski.Thelady’sinchargetoday.Andshe’stellingyoutoshowheraround.’

HegavemethekindoflookmydogusedtogivemewhenhethoughtIwasgoingtokickhimuptheyou-know-what.ButheexchangedawordwithRogersonandoffwewent.

Itdidn’tlooklikemuchatfirst.Justrowsandrowsofwoodenstackingsystems,aloadofgrey,military-issueblanketsslungoverthecontents.ButthenIwentcloserandpulledapaintingoutofoneoftheracks:amodernpieceofahorseagainstanabstractlandscape,inaheavilygildedframe.Itscolours,eveninthedimlightofthevastroom,glowedliketreasure.Iturneditoverinmyhands.ItwasaBraque.Istaredatitforamoment,thenplaceditcarefullybackinitsrackandkeptwalking.Ibegantopullthingsoutatrandom:medievalicons,Impressionistworks,hugeRenaissancecanvases,theframesdelicate,insomecasessupportedbyspeciallybuiltcrates.IranmyfingersoveraPicasso,astonishedatmyownfreedomtophysicallytouchartIhadpreviouslyseenonlyinmagazinesoronthewallsofgalleries.

‘Oh,myGod,Krabowski.Youseenthis?’

Helookedatit.‘Um…yes,ma’am.’

‘Youknowwhatitis?It’saPicasso.’

Hewascompletelyblank.

‘APicasso?Thefamousartist?’

‘Idon’treallyknowmuchaboutart,ma’am.’

‘Andyoureckonyourkidsistercouldhavedonebetter,right?’

Heshotmearelievedsmile.‘Yes,ma’am.’

Iputitback,andpulledoutanother.Itwasaportraitofalittlegirl,herhandsfoldedneatlyinherskirts.Ontheback,itread:‘Kira,1922’.

‘Arealltheroomsherelikethis?’

‘Therearetworoomsupstairswithstatuesandmodelsandstuffinsteadofpaintings.But,basically,yes.Thirteenroomsofpaintings,ma’am.Thisisoneofthesmallest.’

‘Oh,mygoodLord.’Igazedaroundmeatthedustyshelves,stackedinneatlinesbackintothedistance,andthendownattheportraitinmyhands.Thelittlegirlstaredsolemnlybackatme.Youknow,itonlyreallyhitmethenthateveryoneofthesepaintingshadbelongedtosomeone.Everyonehadhungonsomeone’swall,beenadmiredbysomeone.Areallivepersonhadsatforit,orsavedmoneyforit,orpaintedit,orhopedtohanditdowntotheirchildren.ThenIthoughtofwhatDaneshadsaidaboutdisposingofthebodiesafewmilesaway.Ithoughtofhishaunted,craggyface,andIshuddered.

Iplacedthepictureofthelittlegirlcarefullybackontherack,andcovereditwithablanket.‘Comeon,Krabowski,let’sgobackdownstairs.Youcanfindmeadecentcupofcoffee.’

Themorningstretchedacrosslunchandthenintotheafternoon.Thetemperaturerose,andtheairaroundthewarehousegrewstill.IwroteafeaturefortheRegisteronthewarehouse,andIinterviewedKrabowskiandRogersonforalittleWoman’sHomeCompanionpieceonyoungsoldiers’hopesfortheirreturnhome.ThenIsteppedoutsidetostretchmylegsandsmokeacigarette.IclimbeduponthebonnetofthearmyJeepandsatthere,themetalwarmbeneathmycottonslacks.Theroadswerealmostcompletelysilent.Therewerenobirds,novoices.Eventhesirensseemedtohavestopped.AndthenIlookedupandsquintedagainstthesunasawomancamewalkinguptheroadtowardsme.

Shemovedlikeitrequiredsomeeffort,withapronouncedlimp,eventhoughshecouldn’thavebeenmorethansixty.Sheworeaheadscarf,despitethewarmday,andhadabundleunderherarm.Whenshesawmeshestoppedandglancedaround.Shesawmyarmband,whichIhadforgottentotakeoffwhenmytripoutgotcancelled.

‘Englische?’

‘American.’

Shenodded,asifthiswereacceptabletoher.‘Hieristwherethepaintingsarestored,ja?’

Isaidnothing.Shedidn’tlooklikeaspy,butIwasn’tsurehowmuchinformationIshouldgiveout.Strangetimes,andall.

Shepulledthebundlefromunderherarm.‘Please.Takethis.’

Isteppedback.

Shestaredatmeforamoment,thenremovedthecoverings.Itwasapainting,aportraitofawomanfromthebriefglimpseIgot.

‘Please.Takethis.Putinthere.’

‘Lady,whywouldyouwanttoputyourpaintinginthere?’

Sheglancedbehindher,asifshewereembarrassedtobethere.

‘Please.Justtakeit.Idon’twantitinmyhouse.’

Itookthepaintingfromher.Itwasagirl,aboutmyage,withlongreddishhair.Shewasn’tthemostbeautiful,buttherewassomethingaboutherthatmeantyoucouldn’ttearyourdarnedeyesaway.

‘Isthisyours?’

‘Itwasmyhusband’s.’Isawthensheshouldhavehadoneofthosepowder-puffgrandmotherfaces,allcushionsandkindness,butwhenshelookedatthepaintinghermouthjustsetinthisthinoldline,likeshewasfullofbitterness.

‘Butthisisbeautiful.Whydoyouwanttogivesuchaprettythingaway?’

‘Ineverwantedherinmyhouse,’thewomansaid.‘Myhusbandmademe.ForthirtyyearsIhavehadtohavethatwoman’sfaceinmyhouse.WhenIamcooking,cleaning,whenIamsittingwithmyhusband,Ihavehadtolookather.’

‘It’sonlyapainting,’Itoldher.‘Youcan’tbejealousofapainting.’

Shebarelyheardme.‘Shehasmockedmefornearlythirtyyears.MyhusbandandIwereoncehappy,butshedestroyedhim.AndIhavehadtoendurethatfacehauntingmeeverysingledayofourmarriage.NowheisdeadIdon’thavetohaveherstaringatme.Shecanfinallygobacktowherevershebelongs.’

AsIlooked,shewipedathereyeswiththebackofahand.‘Ifyoudon’twanttotakeit,’shespat.‘Thenburnit.’

Itookit.WhatelsecouldIhavedone?

Well,I’mbackatmydesknow.Daneshasbeenin,ghostlywhite,promisingI’llgowithhimtomorrow.‘Yousureyouwanttoseethis,though,Toots?’hesaid.‘It’snotpretty.I’mnotsureit’sasightforalady.’

‘Sincewhendidyoustartcallingmealady?’Ijoked,buthewasalloutofjokes.Danessatdownheavilyontheedgeofmybunkandsankhisheadintohishands.AndasIstaredathim,hisbigoldshouldersbegantoshake.Istoodthere,notknowingwhattodo.FinallyIpulledacigarettefrommybag,lititandhandedittohim.Hetookit,signalledhisthankswithapalm,andwipedathiseyes,hisheadstilldown.

Ifeltalittlenervousthen,andbelieveme,Inevergetnervous.

‘Just…thanksfortoday,that’sall.Theboyssaidyoudidafinejob.’

Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’ttellhimaboutthepainting.IsupposeIshouldhavedone,butitdidn’tbelonginthedarnwarehouse,afterall.Itwasn’tanythingtodowiththedarnwarehouse.ThatoldGermanwomancouldn’tgivetwohootswhathappenedtoitaslongasitwasn’tlookingatheranymore.

Becauseyouknowwhat?Isecretlyliketheideathatyoucouldhaveapaintingsopowerfulitcouldshakeupawholemarriage.Andshe’skindofpretty.Ican’tstoplookingather.Giveneverythingelsethatseemstobegoingonaroundhere,it’snicetohavesomethingbeautifultolookat.

ThecourtroomisincompletesilenceasMarianneAndrewsclosesthejournalinfrontofher.Livhasbeenconcentratingsohardthatshefeelsalmostfaint.ShestealsalooksidewaysdownthebenchandseesPaul,hiselbowsonhisknees,hisheadtippedforward.BesidehimJaneyDickinsonisscribblingfuriouslyintoanotepad.Ahandbag.AngelaSilverisonherfeet.‘Soletusgetthisstraight,MsAndrews.ThepaintingyouknowasThe

GirlYouLeftBehindwasnotinside,andneverhadbeeninside,thestoragefacilitywhenyourmotherwasgivenit.’‘No,ma’am.’‘Andjusttoreiterate,whilethestoragefacilitywasfulloflootedworksofart,stolenworksofart,this

particularpaintingwasgiventoyourmother,notevenwithinthefacility.’‘Yes,ma’am.ByaGermanlady.Likeherjournalsays.’‘YourHonour,thisjournal,inLouanneBaker’sownhand,provesbeyonddoubtthatthispaintingwas

neverintheCollectionPoint.Thepaintingwassimplygivenawaybyawomanwhohadneverwantedit.Givenaway.Forwhateverreason–abizarresexualjealousy,anhistoricresentment,wewillneverknow.Thesalientpointhere,however,isthatthispainting,which,aswehear,wasalmostdestroyed,wasagift.‘YourHonour,ithasbecomeverycleartheselasttwoweeksthattheprovenanceofthispaintingis

incomplete,asitisformanypaintingsthathaveexistedforthebestpartofaturbulentcentury.Whatcannowbeprovenbeyonddoubt,however,isthatthepainting’slasttwotransferswereuntainted.DavidHalstonboughtitlegitimatelyforhiswifein1997,andshehasthereceipttoproveit.LouanneBaker,whoowneditbeforehim,wasgivenitin1945,andwehaveherwrittenword,thewordofawomanrenownedforhonestyandaccuracy,toproveit.Forthisreason,wecontendthatTheGirlYouLeftBehindmustremainwithitscurrentowner.Toremoveitsurelymakesamockeryofthelaw.’AngelaSilversits.Paullooksupather.Inthebriefmomentthathecatcheshereye,Livissureshecan

detectafaintsmile.

Thecourtadjournsforlunch.Marianneissmokingonthebacksteps,herbluehandbagloopedoverherelbow,gazingoutontothegreystreet.‘Wasn’tthatmarvellous?’shesaysconspiratorially,whensheseesLivapproaching.‘Youwerebrilliant.’‘Oh,my,Ihavetoconfess–Ididenjoyit.They’llhavetoeattheirwordsaboutmymothernow.Iknew

shewouldneverhavetakenathingthatdidn’tbelongtoher.’Shenods,tapstheashoffhercigarette.‘Theycalledher“TheFearlessMissBaker”,youknow.’Livleansovertherailinsilence.Shepullsuphercollaragainstthecold.Mariannesmokestherestof

hercigaretteinlong,hungrygulps.

‘Itwashim,wasn’tit?’Livsaysfinally,lookingstraightahead.‘Oh,honey,IpromisedIwouldn’tsayaword.’Marianneturnstoherandpullsaface.‘Icouldhave

kickedmyselfthismorning.Butofcourseitwas.Thepoormanisnutsaboutyou.’

ChristopherJenksstands.‘MsAndrews.Asimplequestion.Didyourmotheraskthisastonishinglygenerousoldwomanhername?’MarianneAndrewsblinks.‘Ihavenoidea.’LivcannottakehereyesoffPaul.Youdidthisforme?sheaskshimsilently.Oddly,henolongermeets

hergaze.HesitsbesideJaneyDickinsonlookinguncomfortable,checkinghiswatch,andglancingtowardsthedoor.Shecannotthinkwhatshewillsaytohim.‘It’sanextraordinarygifttoacceptwithoutknowingwhoyouaregettingitfrom.’‘Well,crazygift,crazytimes.Iguessyouhadtobethere.’Thereisalowrippleoflaughterinthecourtroom.MarianneAndrewsshimmiesslightly.Livdetects

unfulfilledstageambitions.‘Indeed.Haveyoureadallyourmother’sjournals?’‘Oh,goodGod,no,’shesays.‘There’sthirtyyears’worthofstuffinthere.We–I–onlyfoundthem

lastnight.’Hergazebrieflyflickerstowardsthebench.‘Butwefoundtheimportantbit.ThebitwhereMomwasgiventhepainting.That’swhatIbroughtinhere.’Sheplacesgreatemphasisontheword‘given’,glancingsidewaysatLiv,andnoddingtoherselfasshesaysit.‘Thenyouhaven’tyetreadLouanneBaker’s1948journal?’Thereisashortsilence.LivisawareofHenryreachingforhisownfiles.Jenksholdsouthishandandthesolicitorhandshimapieceofpaper.‘Mylord,mayIaskyoutoturnto

thejournalentryfortheeleventhofMay1948,entitled“HouseMoves”?’‘Whataretheydoing?’Liv’sattentionisfinallydrawnbacktothecase.SheleansintowardsHenry,

whoisscanningthepages.‘I’mlooking,’hewhispers.‘InitLouanneBakerdiscussesherhouseholdmovefromNewark,inEssexCounty,toSaddleRiver.’‘That’sright,’saysMarianne.‘SaddleRiver.That’swhereIgrewup.’‘Yes…You’llseeherethatshediscussesthemoveinsomedetail.Shetalksoftryingtofindher

saucepans,thenightmareofbeingsurroundedbyunpackedboxes.Ithinkwecanallidentifywiththat.But,perhapsmostpertinently,shewalksaroundthenewhousetrying…’hepauses,asifensuringhereadsthewordsverbatim‘…“tryingtofindtheperfectspottohangLiesl’spainting”.’Liesl.Livwatchesthejournalistsriflethroughtheirnotes.Butsherealizeswithasickeningfeelingthatshe

alreadyknowsthename.‘Bollocks,’saysHenry.Jenksknowsthenametoo.SeanFlaherty’speoplearewayaheadofthem.Theymusthavehadawhole

teamreadingthejournalsthroughlunchtime.‘IwouldnowliketodrawYourHonour’sattentiontorecordskeptbytheGermanArmyduringthe

FirstWorldWar.TheKommandantwhowasstationedatStPéronnefrom1916,themanwhobroughthistroopsintoLeCoqRouge,wasamancalledFriedrichHencken.’Hepausestoletthatsinkin.‘The

recordsstatethattheKommandantstationedthereatthetime,theKommandantwhosoadmiredthepaintingofÉdouardLefèvre’swife,wasoneFriedrichHencken.‘AndnowIwouldliketoshowtothecourtthe1945censusrecordsoftheareaaroundBerchtesgaden.

FormerKommandantFriedrichHenckenandhiswife,Liesl,settledthereafterhisretirement.JuststreetsawayfromtheCollectionPointstoragefacility.Shewasalsorecordedaswalkingwithapronouncedlimp,givenachildhoodboutofpolio.’TheirQCisonherfeet.‘Again,thisiscircumstantial.’‘MrandMrsFriedrichHencken.MyLord,itisourcontentionthatKommandantFriedrichHencken

tookthepaintingfromLeCoqRougein1917.Heremovedittohishome,seeminglyagainstthewillofhiswife,whomightreasonablyhaveobjectedtosucha–apotentimageofanotherwoman.Itstayedthereuntilhisdeath,uponwhichMrsHenckenwassokeentodisposeofitthatshetookitafewstreetsawaytotheplacesheknewheldamillionpiecesofartwork,aplacewhereitwouldbeswallowedupandneverbeseenagain.’AngelaSilversitsdown.Jenkscontinues–thereisanewenergyabouthimnow:‘MsAndrews.Let’sgobacktoyourmother’s

memoriesofthistime.Couldyoureadthefollowingparagraph,please?This,fortherecord,comesfromthesamejournalentry.Init,LouanneBakerapparentlyfindswhatshebelievesistheperfectspotforTheGirl,asshecallsthepainting.’‘AssoonasIputherinthatfrontparlour,shelookedcomfortable.She’snotindirectsunlightthere,butthesouth-facingwindow,withitswarmlight,makeshercoloursglow.Sheseemshappyenough,anyhow!’

Mariannereadsslowlynow,unfamiliarwiththesewordsofhermother’s.SheglancesupatLiv,andhereyesholdanapology,asifshecanalreadyseewherethisisgoing.‘Ibangedthenailsinmyself–Howardalwaysdoesknockoutafist-sizedchunkofplasterwhenhedoesit–butasIwasabouttohangher,somethingmademeturnthepaintingoverandtakeanotherlookatthebackofit.Anditmademethinkofthatpoorwoman,andhersad,embitteredoldface.AndIrememberedsomethingI’dforgottensincethewar.‘Ialwaysassumeditwassomethingoutofnothing.ButasLieslhandedoverthepainting,shebrieflysnatcheditback,as

ifshe’dchangedhermind.Thensherubbedatsomethingontheback,likeshewastryingtorubsomethingoff.Sherubbeditandrubbedit,likeacrazywoman.SherubbedsohardIthoughtsheactuallyhurtherfingers.’

Thecourtroomisstill,listening.‘Well,Ilookedatthebackofitjustnow,justasIlookedatitthen.Anditwastheonethingthatreallymademewonderwhetherthatpoorwomanhadbeeninherrightmindwhenshehandeditover.Becauseitdoesn’tmatterhowlongyoustareatthebackofthatpainting–asidefromthetitle–thereistrulynothingthere,justasmudgeofchalk.‘Isitwrongtotakesomethingfromsomeonenotintheirrightmind?Istillhaven’tworkeditout.Truthfully,theworld

seemedsoinsanebackthen–withwhatwasgoingoninthecamps,andgrownmenweeping,andmeinchargeofabilliondollars’worthofotherpeople’sthings–thatoldLieslandherbleedingknucklesscrubbingawayatnothingseemedactuallyprettynormal.’

‘YourHonour,wewouldsuggestthatthis–andLiesl’sfailuretogiveherlastname–isprettyclearevidenceofsomebodytryingtodisguiseorevendestroyanysignofwherethepaintinghadcomefrom.Well,shecertainlysucceeded.’Ashepauses,amemberofhislegalteamcrossesthecourtandhandshimapieceofpaper.Hereadsit

andtakesabreath.Hiseyesscanthecourtroom.‘GermancensusrecordswehavejustobtainedshowthatSophieLefèvrecontractedSpanishinfluenza

shortlyaftershearrivedatthecampsatStröhen.Shediedthereshortlyafterwards.’

Livhearshiswordsthroughabuzzinginherears.Theyvibratewithinher,liketheaftershockofaphysicalblow.‘YourHonour,aswehaveheardinthiscourt,agreatinjusticewasdonetoSophie.Andagreat

injusticehasbeendonetoherdescendants.Herhusband,herdignity,herfreedomandultimatelyherlifeweretakenfromher.Stolen.Whatremained–herimage–was,accordingtoalltheevidence,takenfromherfamilybytheverymanwhohaddoneherthegreatestwrong.‘Thereisonlyonewaytoredressthiswrong,belatedasitmightbe–thepaintingmustbereturnedto

theLefèvrefamily.’Shebarelytakesintherestofhiswords.Paulsitswithhisforeheadinhispalms.Shelooksoverat

JaneyDickinson,andwhenthewomanmeetshereye,sherealizeswithafaintshockthatforsomeotherparticipants,too,thiscaseisnolongerjustaboutapainting.

EvenHenryisdowncastwhentheyleavethecourt.Livfeelsasiftheyhaveallbeenrunoverbyajuggernaut.Sophiediedinthecamps.Sickandalone.Neverseeingherhusbandagain.ShelooksatthesmilingLefèvresacrossthecourt,wantingtofeelgeneroustowardsthem.Wantingto

feelasifsomegreatwrongisabouttoberighted.ButsherecallsPhilippeBessette’swords,thefactthatthefamilyhadbannedeventhementionofhername.Shefeelsasif,forasecondtime,Sophieisabouttobehandedovertotheenemy.Shefeels,weirdly,bereaved.‘Look,whoknowswhatthejudgewilldecide,’Henrysays,asheseeshertotherearsecurityarea.

‘Trynottodwellonittoomuchovertheweekend.There’snothingmorewecandonow.’Shetriestosmileathim.‘Thanks,Henry,’shesays.‘I’ll–callyou.’Itfeelsstrangeouthere,inthewintrysunlight,asiftheyhavespentmuchlongerthananafternooninthe

confinesofthecourt.Shefeelsasifshehascomeherestraightfrom1945.Henryhailsataxiforher,thenleaves,noddingfarewell.Itisthenthatsheseeshim,standingatthesecuritygate.Helooksasifhehasbeenwaitingthereforher,andwalksstraightover.‘I’msorry,’hesays,hisfacegrim.‘Paul,don’t–’‘Ireallythought–I’msorryforeverything.’Hiseyesmeethers,onefinaltime,andhewalksaway,blindtothecustomersexitingtheSevenStars

pub,thelegalassistantsdraggingtheirtrolleysoffiles.Sheseesthestooptohisshoulders,theuncharacteristicdipofhisheadanditisthis,ontopofeverythingelsethathashappenedtoday,thatfinallysettlessomethingforher.‘Paul!’Shehastoyelltwicetobeheardoverthesoundofthetraffic.‘Paul!’Heturns.Shecanseethepointsofhisirisesevenfromhere.‘Iknow.’Hestandsverystillforaminute,atallman,alittlebroken,inagoodsuit.‘Iknow.Thank

you…fortrying.’Sometimeslifeisaseriesofobstacles,amatterofputtingonefootinfrontoftheother.Sometimes,she

realizessuddenly,itissimplyamatterofblindfaith.‘Wouldyou…wouldyouliketogoforthatdrinksometime?’Sheswallows.‘Now,even?’Heglancesathisshoes,thinking,thenupatheragain.‘Wouldyougivemeoneminute?’

Hewalksbackupthestepsofthecourt.SheseesJaneyDickinsondeepinconversationwithherlawyer.Paultouchesherelbow,andthereisabriefexchangeofwords.Shefeelsanxious–alittlevoicenagging:Whatishetellinghernow?–andsheturnsaway,climbingintothetaxi,tryingtoquellit.Whenshelooksupagainthroughthewindow,heiswalkingbrisklybackdownthesteps,windingascarfaroundhisneck.JaneyDickinsonisstaringatthetaxi,herfileslimpinherarms.Heopensthedoor,andclimbsin,slammingitshut.‘Iquit,’hesays.Heletsoutabreath,reachesover

forherhand.‘Right.Wherearewegoing?’

32

Greg’sfacebetraysnothingasheanswersthedoor.‘Helloagain,MissLiv,’hesays,asifherappearanceonthedoorstepisentirelytobeexpected.HestepsbackintothehallwayasPaulpeelshercoatfromhershoulders,shushingthedogs,whichrushtogreether.‘I’veruinedtherisotto,butJakesaysitdoesn’tmatterashedoesn’tlikemushroomsanyway.Sowe’rethinkingmaybepizza.’‘Pizzasoundsgreat.Andmytreat,’saysPaul.‘Itmaybeourlastforawhile.’TheyhadheldhandsinstunnedsilencehalfwaydownFleetStreet.‘Ilostyouyourjob,’she’dsaid

finally.‘Andyourbigbonus.Andyourchancetobuyabiggerflatforyourson.’Hehadgazedstraightaheadofhim.‘Youdidn’tlosemeanyofit.Iwalked.’Gregraisesaneyebrow.‘Abottleofredhasbeenopeninthekitchensincearoundhalfpastfour.This

hasnothingwhatsoevertodowithmelookingaftermynephewfortheday.Doesit,Jake?’‘Gregsaysit’salwayswineo’clockinthishouse,’aboy’svoicecallsfromtheotherroom.‘Tattle-tale,’Gregcallsback.AndthenhesaystoLiv,‘Oh,no.Ican’tletyoudrink.Lookwhat

happenedlasttimeyougotdrunkinourcompany.Youturnedmysensiblebigbrotherintoatragic,mooningadolescent.’‘AndthisiswhereIremindyouyetagainthatmooningmeanssomethingquitedifferentinthiscountry,’

Paulsays,steeringhertowardsthekitchen.‘Liv,you’dbetteracclimatizeforaminute.Greg’sideaofinteriordecoratingisbasicallyTooMuchIsNotEnough.Hedoesn’tdominimalist.’‘Istampmypersonalityonmylittlehouse,and,no,itisnotatabularasa.’‘It’sbeautiful,’shesays,ofthecolourfulwalls,theboldprintsandtinyphotographsthatsurroundher.

Shefeelsoddlyateaseinthislittlerailwayman’scottage,withitsblaringmusic,incalculablenumbersoflovedthingsoneveryshelfandcrammedintoeverywall-space,andachildwholiesonaruginfrontofthetelevision.‘Hey,’saysPaul,goingintothelivingroom,wheretheboyflipsontohisbacklikeapuppy.‘Dad.’HeglancesatherandshefightstheurgetodropPaul’shandwhenheseeshimregisteringit.

‘Areyouthegirlfromthismorning?’hesays,afteraminute.‘Ihopeso.Unlesstherewasanotherone.’‘Idon’tthinkso,’saysJake.‘Ithoughttheyweregoingtosquashyou.’‘Yes,Isortofdidtoo.’Hestudiesherforaminute.‘Mydadputonperfumethelasttimehesawyou.’‘Aftershave,’saysPaul,andstoopstokisshim.‘Tattle-tale.’SothisisMiniPaul,shethinks,andtheideaispleasing.‘ThisisLiv.Liv,thisisJake.’Sheliftsahand.‘Idon’tknowmanypeopleyourage,soI’llprobablysayhorriblyuncoolthings,but

it’sverygoodtomeetyou.’‘That’sokay.I’musedtoit.’

Gregappearsandhandsheraglassofredwine.Hiseyesdartbetweenthem.‘Sowhatdoesthismean?Isthereanententecordialebetweenourwarringfactions?Areyoutwonow…secretcollaborators?’Livblinksathischoiceofwords.SheturnstolookatPaul.‘Idon’tcareaboutthejob,’hehadsaidquietly,hishandclosingaroundhers.‘Ionlyknowthatwhen

I’mnotwithyouI’mmeanandmadateverything.’‘No,’shesays,andshefindsshe’sgrinning.‘Hejustrealizedhewasonthewrongsideallalong.’

WhenAndy,Greg’sboyfriend,arrivesatElwinStreettherearefiveofthemsquashedintothelittlehouse,butitneverfeelscrowded.Liv,seatedaroundasmalltowerofpizzaslices,thinksofthecoldGlassHouseontopofthewarehouseanditseemssuddenlysolinkedtothecourtcase,toherownunhappiness,thatshedoesnotwanttogohome.ShedoesnotwanttolookatSophie’sface,knowingwhatisabouttohappen.Shesitsinthemidstof

thesenear-strangers,playinggamesorlaughingattheirfamilyjokes,andgraspsthathersenseofconstantsurprisecomesfromthediscoverythat,despiteitall,sheishappy;happyinawaythatshecannotrememberbeingforyears.AndthereisPaul.Paul,wholooksphysicallybatteredbytheday’sevents,asifhe,nother,haslost

everything.Wheneverheturnstolookathersomethingrealignsitself,asifherbodyhastoattuneitselftothepossibilityofbeinghappyagain.Youokay?hislookasks.Yes,herssays,andshemeansit.‘SowhathappensonMonday?’Gregsays,astheysitaroundthetable.Hehasbeenshowingthem

swatchesoffabricforanewcolourschemeinthebar.Thetableisstrewnwithcrumbsandhalf-emptyglassesofwine.‘Youhavetohandoverthepainting?Areyoudefinitelygoingtolose?’LivlooksatPaul.‘Iguessso,’shesays.‘Ijusthavetogetmyheadaroundtheideaof…lettingher

go.’Anunexpectedlumprisestoherthroat,andshesmiles,willingittogoaway.Gregreachesoutahandtoher.‘Oh,honey,I’msorry.Ididn’twanttoupsetyou.’Sheshrugs.‘I’mfine.Really.She’snotmineanymore.Ishouldhaveunderstoodthatagesago.I

supposeI…didn’twanttoseewhatwasinfrontofmyface.’‘Atleastyoustillhaveyourhouse,’Gregsays.‘Paultoldmeit’samazing.’HecatchesPaul’swarning

glance.‘What?She’snotmeanttoknowyou’vebeentalkingabouther?Whatarewe?Fifth-graders?’Paullooksbrieflysheepish.‘Ah,’shesays.‘Notreally.No,Idon’t.’‘What?’‘It’sunderoffer.’Paulgoesverystill.‘Ihavetosellittomeetthelegalfees.’‘You’llhaveenoughovertobuysomewhereelse,right?’‘Idon’tknowyet.’‘Butthathouse–’‘–wasalreadymortgagedtothehilt.Andneedswork,apparently.Ihaven’tdoneanythingtoitsince

Daviddied.Apparentlyamazingimportedglasswiththermicqualitiesdoesn’tlastforever,eventhoughDavidthoughtitwould.’

Paul’sjawtightens.Hepushesbackhischairabruptlyandleavesthetable.LivlooksatGregandAndy,thenatthedoor.‘Garden,probably,’saysGreg,raisinganeyebrow.‘It’sthesizeofapockethandkerchief.Youwon’t

losehim.’Andthen,asshestands,hemurmurs,‘It’sterriblysweethowyoukeepdemolishingmybigbrother.IwishI’dhadyourskillswhenIwasfourteen.’

Heisstandingonthelittlepatio,whichiscrammedwithterracottapotsofstragglyplants,madespindlyinthewinterfrosts.Heisturnedawayfromher,hishandsrammedintohispockets.Helookscrushed.‘Soyoudidloseeverything.Becauseofme.’‘Likeyousaid,ifithadn’tbeenyouitwouldhavebeensomeoneelse.’‘WhatwasIthinking?WhatthefuckwasIthinking?’‘Youwerejustdoingyourjob.’Heliftsahandtohisjaw.‘Youknowwhat?Youreallydonothavetomakemefeelbetter.’‘I’mfine.Really.’‘Howcanyoube?Iwouldn’tbe.I’dbemadas…Ah,Jesus.’Hisvoiceexplodeswithfrustration.Shewaits,thentakeshishand,pullshimtothelittletable.Theironworkischilly,eventhroughher

clothes,andshescrapesherchairforward,placesherkneesbetweenhis,waitinguntilsheissureheislistening.‘Paul.’Hisfaceisrigid.‘Paul.Lookatme.Youneedtounderstandthis.Theworstthingthatcouldhavehappenedtomealready

happened.’Helooksup.Sheswallows,knowingthatthesearethewordsthatstall;thatmaysimplyrefusetoemerge.‘Four

yearsagoDavidandIwenttobedlikeitwasanyothernight,brushingourteeth,readingourbooks,chattingaboutarestaurantweweregoingtothenextday…andwhenIwokeupthenextmorninghewastherebesideme,cold.Blue.Ididn’t…Ididn’tfeelhimgo.Ididn’tevengettosay…’Thereisashortsilence.‘Canyouimagineknowingyousleptthroughthepersonyoulovemostdyingnexttoyou?Knowingthat

theremighthavebeensomethingyoucouldhavedonetohelphim?Tosavehim?Notknowingifhewaslookingatyou,silentlybeggingyouto–’Thewordsfail,herbreathcatches,afamiliartidethreatenstowashoverher.Hereachesouthishandsslowly,enfoldsherswithinthemuntilshecanspeakagain.‘Ithoughttheworldhadactuallyended.Ithoughtnothinggoodcouldeverhappenagain.Ithought

anythingmighthappenifIwasn’tvigilant.Ididn’teat.Ididn’tgoout.Ididn’twanttoseeanyone.ButIsurvived,Paul.Muchtomyownsurprise,Igotthroughit.Andlife…well,lifegraduallybecameliveableagain.’Sheleansclosertohim.‘Sothis…thepainting,thehouse…IthitmewhenIheardwhathappenedto

Sophie.It’sjuststuff.Theycouldtakeallofit,frankly.Theonlythingthatmattersispeople.’Shelooksdownathishands,andhervoicecracks.‘Allthatreallymattersiswhoyoulove.’Hedoesn’tspeak,butdipshisheadsothatitcomestorestagainsthers.Theysitthereinthewintry

garden,breathingintheinkyair,listeningtothemuffledsoundofhisson’slaughtercomingfromthehouse.Downthestreetshecanheartheacousticsofearlyeveninginthecity,theclatterofpansindistant

kitchens,televisionsfiringup,acardoorslamming,adogbarkingatsomeunseenoutrage.Lifeinitsmessy,vitalentirety.‘I’llmakeituptoyou,’hesaysquietly.‘Youalreadyhave.’‘No.Iwill.’Therearetearsonhercheeks.Shehasnoideahowtheygotthere.Hisblueeyesaresuddenlycalm.He

takesherfaceinhishandsandkissesher,kissesthetearsaway,hislipssoftagainstherskin,promisingafuture.Hekissesheruntiltheyarebothsmilingandshehaslostallfeelinginherfeet.‘Ishouldgohome.Thebuyersarecomingtomorrow,’shesays,reluctantlyunwindingfromhim.AcrosstowntheGlassHousestandsempty.Thethoughtofreturningtoitisstillunappealing.Shehalf

waitsforhimtoprotest.‘Doyou…doyouwanttocomewithme?Jakecouldsleepinthespareroom.Icouldopenandshuttheroofforhim.Mightwinmeafewpoints.’Helooksaway.‘Ican’t,’hesaysbaldly.Andthen:‘ImeanI’dloveto.Butit’s…’‘WillIseeyouovertheweekend?’‘I’vegotJake,but…sure.We’llworksomethingout.’Heseemsoddlydistracted.Sheseesthedoubtthatshadowshisface.Willwereallybeabletoforgive

whatwehavecosteachother?shethinks,fleetingly,andfeelsachillthathasnothingtodowiththecold.‘I’lldriveyouhome,’hesays.Andthemomentpasses.

Thehouseissilentwhensheletsherselfin.Shelocksthedoor,putsherkeysonthesideandwalksintothekitchen,herfootstepsechoingacrossthelimestonefloor.Shefindsithardtobelievesheonlyleftherethismorning:itfeelsasifawholelifetimehaspassed.Shepressesthebuttononheranswer-phone.Amessagefromtheestateagent,puffedwithself-

importance,announcingthatthebuyersaretosendintheirarchitectthefollowingday.Hehopessheiswell.Afeaturewriterfromanobscureartsmagazine,wantinganinterviewabouttheLefèvrecase.Thebankmanager.Reassuringlyoblivioustothemediafrenzy.Pleasecanshecallatherearliest

conveniencetodiscussheroverdraftsituation?Thisishisthirdattempttocontacther,headdspointedly.Onefromherfather,sendingbigkisses.Carolinesaysfuckthelotofthem.Livcanjustmakeoutadistantthumpingbassfromtheapartmentbelow,theslammingfrontdoorsand

laughterthataretheacousticsofanordinaryFridaynightout.Itisareminderthatelsewheretheworldturnsregardless;thatthereislifebeyondthisstrangehiatus.Theeveningstretches.Sheputsonthetelevision,butthereisnothingshewantstowatch,soinsteadshe

showersandwashesherhair.Shelaysoutclothesforthenextday,andeatssomecrackersandcheese.Butheremotionsdonotsettle:theyjangle,likearailofemptycoathangers.Sheisexhausted,but

pacesthehouse,unabletositstill.ShekeepstastingPaulonherlips,hiswordsinherears.Sheconsiderscallinghim,briefly,butwhenshepullsoutherphone,herfingersstallonthebuttons.Whatwouldshesay,afterall?Ijustwantedtohearyourvoice.Shewalksthroughtothespareroom,whichisimmaculate,empty,asifnobodyhadeverstayedthere.

Shewalksaroundit,lightlytouchingthetopsofthechair,thechestofdrawersasshepasses.Shenolongerfeelscomfortedbysilenceandemptiness.ShepicturesMo,curledupwithRanicinanovercrowdedhousefullofnoise,liketheoneshehasjustleft.

Finallyshemakesherselfamugofteaandwalksthroughtoherbedroom.Shesitsinthemiddleofherbed,leansbackagainstthepillowsandstudiesSophieinhergildedframe.Isecretlyliketheideathatyoucouldhaveapaintingsopowerfulitcouldshakeupawhole

marriage.Well,Sophie,shethinks,youshookupawholelotmorethanthat.Shegazesatthepaintingshehas

lovedforalmostadecadeandfinallysheallowsherselftothinkaboutthedaysheandDavidhadboughtit,thewaytheyhadheldheraloftintheSpanishsunshine,hercoloursbouncinginthewhitelight,reflectingthefuturetheybelievedtheyhadtogether.Sheremembersthemhangingitinthisroomontheirhomecoming;thewayshehadgazedatTheGirl,wonderingwhatDavidsawinherselfthatmirroredtheimageandfeelingsomehowmorebeautifulforwhathehadseen.Youlooklikeshedoeswhenyou–Sheremembersaday,intheearlyweeksafterhisdeath,whenshehadraisedherheaddullyfromher

damppillowandSophiehadseemedtobelookingstraightather.This,too,isbearable,herexpressionhadsaid.Youmaynotknowitnow.Butyouwillsurvive.ExceptSophiehadn’t.Livfightsthesuddenlumpinherthroat.‘I’msosorryforwhathappenedtoyou,’shesays,intothe

silentroom.‘Iwishitcouldhavebeendifferent.’Suddenlyoverwhelmedwithsadness,shestands,walksovertothepaintingandturnsitroundsothat

shecannolongerseeit.Perhapsit’sagoodthingshe’sleavingthishouse:thespaceonthewallwouldhavebeenaconstantreminderofherfailure.ItalreadyfeelsoddlysymbolicofthewaySophieherselfwaseffectivelyrubbedout.Andjustassheisabouttoreleaseit,shestops.Thestudy,overthesepastweeks,hasgrownmessyandchaotic,pilesofpapersspillingoverevery

surface.Shemovesarounditwithnewpurpose,placingtheminneatpiles,infolders,securingeachwithanelasticband.Shedoesn’tknowwhatshewilldowiththemoncethecaseisover.Finally,sheseeksouttheredfolderthatPhilippeBessettegaveher.Sheflicksthroughthedelicatesheetsofpaperuntilshefindsthetwopiecessheislookingfor.Shechecksthem,thentakesthemintothekitchen.Shelightsacandle,andholdsthepieces,oneata

time,overtheflickeringflame,untilthereisnothingleftbutashes.‘There,Sophie,’shesays.‘Ifnothingelse,youcanhavethatoneonme.’Andnow,shethinks,forDavid.

33

‘Ithoughtyou’dbeheadedoffbynow.Jake’sasleepinfrontofAmerica’sFunniestHomeVideos.’Gregwalksintothekitchenbare-footandyawning.‘Youwantmetoputupthecampbed?It’skindoflatetobedragginghimhome.’‘Thatwouldbegreat.’Paulbarelylooksupfromhisfiles.Hislaptopisproppedopeninfrontofhim.‘Whatareyoudoinggoingoverthoseagain?TheverdictisdueMonday,surely?And–um–didn’tyou

justquityourjob?’‘There’ssomethingI’vemissed.Iknowit.’Paulrunshisfingerdownthepage,flickingimpatientlyto

thenext.‘Ihavetocheckthroughtheevidence.’‘Paul.’Gregpullsupachair.‘Paul,’hesays,alittlelouder‘What?’‘It’sdone,bro.Andit’sokay.She’sforgivenyou.You’vemadeyourbiggesture.Ithinkyoushouldjust

leaveitnow.’Paulleansback,dragshishandsoverhiseyes.‘Youthinkso?’‘Seriously?Youlookkindofmanic.’Paultakesaswigofhiscoffee.Itiscold.‘Itwilldestroyus.’‘What?’‘Livlovedthatpainting,Greg.Anditwilleatawayather,thefactthatI’m…responsiblefortakingit

fromher.Maybenotnow,maybenoteveninayearortwo.Butitwillhappen.’Gregleansbackagainstthekitchenunit.‘Shecouldsaythesameaboutyourjob.’‘I’mokayaboutthejob.ItwastimeIgotoutofthatplace.’‘AndLivsaidshewasokaywiththepainting.’‘Yeah.Butshe’sbackedintoacorner.’WhenGregshakeshisheadinfrustration,heleansforwardover

hisfiles.‘Iknowhowthingscanchange,Greg,howthethingsyouswearwon’tbotheryouatthestartcaneatawayatthegoodstuff.’‘But–’‘AndIknowhowlosingthethingsyoulovecanhauntpeople.Idon’twantLivtolookatmeoneday

andbefightingthethought:You’retheguywhoruinedmylife.’Gregpadsacrossthekitchenandputsthekettleon.Hemakesthreecupsofcoffee,andhandsoneto

Paul.Heputshishandonhisbrother’sshoulderashepreparestotaketheothertwothroughtothelivingroom.‘Iknowyouliketofixstuff,bigbrotherofmine.Buthonestly?Inthiscaseyou’rejustgoingtohavetohopetoGoditallworksout.’Pauldoesn’thearhim.‘Listofowners,’heismutteringtohimself.‘ListofcurrentownersofLefèvre’s

work.’

EighthourslaterGregwakestofindasmallboy’sfaceloomingoverhim.‘I’mhungry,’itsays,andrubsitsnosevigorously.‘YousaidyouhadCocoPopsbutIcan’tfindthem.’‘Bottomcupboard,’hesaysgroggily.Thereisnolightbetweenthecurtains,henotesdistantly.‘Andyoudon’thaveanymilk.’‘What’sthetime?’‘Quartertoseven.’‘Ugh.’Gregburrowsdownundertheduvet.‘Eventhedogsdon’tgetupthisearly.Askyourdadtodo

it.’‘He’snothere.’Greg’seyesopenslowly,fixonthecurtains.‘Whatdoyoumeanhe’snothere?’‘He’sgone.Thesleeping-bag’sstillrolledupsoIdon’tthinkhesleptonthesofa.Canweget

croissantsfromthatplacedowntheroad?Thechocolateones?’‘I’mgettingup.I’mgettingup.I’mup.’Hehaulshimselfintoanuprightposition,rubshishead.‘AndPiratehasweedonthefloor.’‘Oh.Good.Saturday’sofftoaflyingstart.’

Paulisindeednottherebuthehasleftanoteonthekitchentable:itisscribbledonthebackofalistofcourtevidence,andplacedontopofascatteredpileofpapers.Hadtogo.PlscanyouhangontoJake.Willcall.

‘Iseverythingokay?’Jakesays,studyinghisface.Themugonthetableisringedwithblackcoffee.Theremainingpaperslookasiftheyhavesuffereda

smallexplosion.‘It’sallfine,SmallFry,’Gregsays,rufflinghishair.Hefoldsthenote,putsitintohispocket,and

beginsdraggingthefilesandpapersintosomesortoforder.‘Itellyouwhat,Ivotewemakepancakesforbreakfast.Whatdoyousaywepullourcoatsonoverthesepyjamasandheaddowntothecornershopforsomeeggs?’WhenJakeleavestheroom,hegrabshismobilephoneandstabsoutatext.

Ifyouareovertheregettinglaidrightthisminute,youowemeBIGTIME.

Hewaitsafewminutesbeforestuffingitintohispocket,butthereisnoreply.

Saturdayis,thankfully,busy.Livwaitsinforthebuyerstocomeandmeasureup,thenfortheirbuildersandarchitecttoexaminetheapparentlyendlessworkthatneedsdoing.Shemovesaroundthesestrangersinherhome,tryingtostriketherightbalancebetweenaccommodatingandfriendly,asbefitsthesellerofthehouse,andnotreflectinghertruefeelings,whichwouldinvolveshouting,‘GOAWAY,’andmakingchildishhandgesturesatthem.Shedistractsherselfbypackingandcleaning,deploystheconsolationsofsmalldomestictasks.Shethrowsouttwobin-bagsofoldclothes.Sheringsseveralrentalagents,andwhenshetellsthemtheamountshecanaffordthereisalengthy,scornfulsilence.‘Haven’tIseenyousomewherebefore?’saysthearchitect,assheplacesthephonebackinitscradle.‘No,’shesayshurriedly.‘Idon’tthinkso.’Pauldoesnotcall.

Thatafternoonsheheadsovertoherfather’s.‘CarolinehasthrownyouthemostspectacularpotforChristmas,’heannounces.‘You’regoingtoloveit.’‘Oh,good,’shesays.TheyeatsaladandaMexicandishforlunch.Carolinehumstoherselfwhileeating.Liv’sfatherisup

foracar-insuranceadvert.‘ApparentlyIhavetoimitateachicken.Achickenwithano-claimsbonus.’Shetriestofocusonwhatheissaying,butshekeepsthinkingaboutPaul,replayingthepreviousdayin

herhead.Sheissecretlysurprisedthathehasn’trung.Oh,God.I’mturningintooneofthoseclingygirlfriends.Andwe’venotevenbeenofficiallytogetherfortwenty-fourhours.Shehastolaughat‘officially’.ReluctanttogobacktotheGlassHouse,shestaysatherfather’sformuchlongerthanusual.Heseems

delighted,drinkstoomuch,pullsoutblack-and-whitepicturesofherthathefoundwhilesortingthroughadrawer.Thereissomethingoddlygroundingaboutgoingthroughthem:thereminderthattherewasawholelifebeforethiscase,beforeSophieLefèvreandahouseshecannotaffordandanawful,finaldayloomingincourt.‘Suchabeautifulchild.’Theopen,smilingfaceinthepicturemakesherwanttocry.Herfatherputshisarmaroundher.‘Don’t

betooupsetonMonday.Iknowit’sbeentough.Butwe’reterriblyproudofyou,youknow.’‘Forwhat?’shesays,blowinghernose.‘Ifailed,Dad.MostpeoplethinkIshouldn’thaveeventried.’Herfatherpullshertohim.Hesmellsofredwineandapartofherlifethatseemsamillionyearsago.

‘Justforcarryingon,really.Sometimes,mydarlinggirl,that’sheroicinitself.’

It’salmostfourthirtywhenshecallshim.It’sbeenalmosttwenty-fourhours,sherationalizes.Andsurelythenormalrulesfordatingdon’tapplyifsomeonehasjustgivenuphalftheirlifeforyou.Herheartquickensalittleasshedials:she’salreadyanticipatingthesoundofhisvoice.Shepicturesthem,laterthatevening,curleduponhissofainthecrowdedlittleflat,maybeplayingcardswithJakeontherug.Buttheanswer-phonecutsinafterthreerings.Livhangsupquickly,oddlyunsettled,thencursesherselfforbeingchildish.Shegoesforarun,showers,makesteaforFran(‘Thelastoneonlyhadtwosugars’),sitsbythephone

andfinallydialshisnumberagainatsixthirty.Againitgoesstraighttotheanswer-phone.Shedoesn’thavealandlinenumberforhisflat.Shouldshejustgothere?HecouldbeatGreg’s.But,sherealizes,shedoesn’thaveanumberforGreg’seither.ShehadbeensodisorientedbyFriday’seventswhentheyhadarrivedtherethatshe’snotevensureoftheexactaddress.Thisisridiculous,shetellsherself.He’llcall.Hedoesn’t.Ateightthirty,knowingshecan’tfacespendingtherestoftheeveninginthehouse,shegetsup,pullson

hercoatandgrabsherkeys.

It’sashortwalktoGreg’sbar,evenshorterifyouhalfruninyourtrainers.Shepushesopenthedoorandishitbyawallofnoise.Onthesmallstagetotheleftamandressedasawomanissingingraucouslytoadiscobeat,accompaniedbyloudcatcallsfromaraptcrowd.Attheotherend,thetablesarepacked,thespacesbetweenthemthickwithtaut,tightlycladbodies.

Ittakesherafewminutestospothim,movingswiftlyalongthebar,atea-towelslungoverhisshoulder.Shesqueezesthroughtothefront,halfwedgedundersomebody’sarmpit,andshoutshisname.Ittakesseveralgoesforhimtohearher.Thenheturns.Hersmilefreezes:hisexpressionisoddly

unwelcoming.‘Well,thisisafinetimetoturnup.’Sheblinks.‘I’msorry?’‘Nearlynineo’clock?Areyouguyskiddingme?’‘Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.’‘I’vehadhimallday.Andywasmeanttogoouttonight.Insteadhe’shadtocanceljusttostayhomeand

babysit.Icantellyouhe’snothappy.’Livstrugglestohearhimoverthenoiseinthebar.Gregholdsupahand,andleansforwardtotake

someone’sorder.‘Imean,youknowwelovehim,right?’hesays,whenhereturns.‘Welovehimtodeath.Buttreatingus

likesomekindofdefaultbabysitteris–’‘I’mlookingforPaul,’shesays.‘He’snotwithyou?’‘No.Andhe’snotansweringhisphone.’‘Iknowhe’snotansweringhisphone.Ithoughtthatwasbecausehewaswith–Oh,thisiscrazy.Come

throughthebar.’Heliftsthehatchsothatshecansqueezein,holdshishandsuptotheroarofcomplaintfromthosewaiting.‘Twominutes,guys.Twominutes.’Inthetinycorridortothekitchen,thebeatthumpsthroughthewalls,makingLiv’sfeetvibrate.‘But

wherehashegone?’shesays.‘Idon’tknow.’Greg’sangerhasevaporated.‘Wewokeuptoanotethismorningsayinghe’dhadtogo.

Thatwasit.Hewaskindofweirdlastnightafteryouleft.’‘Whatdoyoumean,weird?’Helooksshifty,asifhe’salreadysaidtoomuch.‘What?’‘Nothimself.Hetakesthisstuffprettyseriously.’Hebiteshislip.‘What?’Greglooksawkward.‘Well,he–hesaidhethoughtthispaintingwasgoingtoruinanychancethetwo

ofyouhadofhavingarelationship.’Livstaresathim.‘Youthinkhe’s…’‘I’msurehedidn’tmean–’ButLivisalreadypushingherwayoutthroughthebar.

Emptyofanything,Sundaylastsforever.Livsitsinherstillhouse,herphonesilent,herthoughtsspinningandhumming,andwaitsfortheendoftheworld.Sheringshismobilenumberonemoretime,thenendsthecallabruptlywhentheanswer-phonekicks

in.He’sgonecold.Ofcoursehehasn’t.He’shadtimetothinkabouteverythinghe’sthrowingawaybysidingwithme.

Youhavetotrusthim.ShewishesMowerethere.Thenightcreepsin,theskiesthickening,smotheringthecityinadensefog.Shefailstowatch

television,sleepsinweird,disjointedsnatches,andwakesatfourwithherthoughtscongealinginatoxictangle.Athalfpastfiveshegivesup,runsabathandliesinitforsometime,staringupthroughtheskylightattheobliviousdark.Sheblow-driesherhaircarefully,andputsonagreyblouseandpinstripedskirtthatDavidhadoncesaidhelovedonher.Theymadeherlooklikeasecretary,he’dobserved,asifthatmightbeagoodthing.Sheaddssomefakepearlsandherweddingring.Shedoeshermakeupcarefully.Sheisgratefulforthemeanstoconcealtheshadowsunderhereyes,hersallow,exhaustedskin.Hewillcome,shetellsherself.Youhavetohavefaithinsomething.Aroundher,theworldwakesupslowly.TheGlassHouseisshroudedinmist,emphasizinghersenseof

isolationfromtherestofthecity.Beneathit,queuesoftraffic,visibleonlyastinyilluminateddotsofredbrakelights,moveslowly,likebloodincloggedarteries.Shedrinkssomecoffee,andeatshalfapieceoftoast.TheradiotellsoftrafficjamsinHammersmith,andaplottopoisonapoliticianinUkraine.Whenshehasfinished,shetidiesandwipesthekitchensothatitgleams.ThenshepullsanoldblanketfromtheairingcupboardandwrapsitcarefullyaroundTheGirlYouLeft

Behind.Shefoldsitasifshewerewrappingapresent,keepingthepictureturnedawayfromhersothatshedoesn’thavetoseeSophie’sface.

Franisnotinherbox.She’ssittingonanupturnedbucket,gazingoutacrossthecobblestotheriver,untanglingapieceoftwinethatiswrappedseveralhundredtimesaroundahugeclumpofsupermarketcarrierbags.ShelooksupasLivapproaches,withtwomugs,thenatthesky.Ithassunkaroundtheminthick

droplets,mufflingsound,endingtheworldattheriver’sedge.‘Notrunning?’‘Nope.’‘Notlikeyou.’‘Nothing’slikeme,apparently.’Livhandsoveracoffee.Frantakesasip,gruntswithpleasure,thenlooksather.‘Don’tstandtherelike

alemon,then.Takeaseat.’LivglancesaroundbeforesherealizesthatFranispointingtowardsasmallmilkcrate.Shepullsit

overandsitsdown.Apigeonwalksacrossthecobblestowardsher.Franreachesintoacrumpledpaperbagandthrowsitacrust.It’soddlypeacefulouthere,hearingtheThameslapgentlyattheshore,thedistantsoundsoftraffic.Livthinkswrylyofwhatthenewspaperswouldsayiftheycouldseethesocietywidow’sbreakfastcompanion.Abargeemergesthroughthemistandfloatssilentlypast,itslightsdisappearingintothegreydawn.‘Yourfriendleft,then.’‘Howdoyouknow?’‘Sitherelongenoughyougettoknoweverything.Youlisten,see?’Shetapsthesideofherhead.

‘Nobodylistensanymore.Everyoneknowswhattheywanttohear,butnobodyactuallylistens.’Shestopsforaminute,asifrememberingsomething.‘Isawyouinthenewspaper.’Livblowsonhercoffee.‘IthinkthewholeofLondonhasseenmeinthenewspaper.’

‘I’vegotit.Inmybox.’Shegesturestowardsthedoorway.‘Isthatit?’ShepointstothebundleLivisholdingunderherarm.‘Yes.’Shetakesasip.‘Yes,itis.’ShewaitsforFrantoaddherowntakeonLiv’scrime,tolistthe

reasonswhysheshouldneverhaveattemptedtokeepthepainting,butitdoesn’tcome.Insteadshesniffs,looksoutattheriver.‘That’swhyIdon’tlikehavingtoomuchstuff.WhenIwasintheshelterpeoplewasalwaysnickingit.

Didn’tmatterwhereyouleftit–underyourbed,inyourlocker–they’dwaittillyouwasgoingout,andthenthey’djusttakeit.Itgotso’syoudidn’twanttogoout,justforfearoflosingyourstuff.Imaginethat.’‘Imaginewhat?’‘Whatyoulose.Justtryingtohangontoafewbits.’LivlooksatFran’scraggy,weatheredface,suddenlysuffusedwithpleasureassheconsidersthelife

sheisnolongermissingouton.‘It’sakindofmadness,’Fransays.Livstaresalongthegreyriver,andhereyesfillunexpectedlywithtears.

34

Henryiswaitingforherbytherearentrance.Therearetelevisioncameras,aswellastheprotestersatthefrontoftheHighCourtforthelastday.Hehadwarnedhertherewouldbe.Sheemergesfromthetaxi,andwhenheseeswhatsheiscarrying,hissmileturnsintoagrimace.‘IsthatwhatI…Youdidn’thavetodothat!Ifitgoesagainstuswe’dhavemadethemsendasecurityvan.JesusChrist,Liv!Youcan’tjustcarryamulti-million-poundworkofartaroundlikealoafofbread.’Liv’shandsaretightaroundit.‘IsPaulhere?’‘Paul?’He’shurryinghertowardsthecourts,likeadoctorferryingasickchildintoahospital.‘McCafferty.’‘McCafferty?Notaclue.’Heglancesagainatthebundle.‘Bloodyhell,Liv.Youcouldhavewarned

me.’ShefollowshimthroughSecurityandintothecorridor.Hecallstheguardoverandmotionstothe

painting.Theguardlooksstartled,nods,andsayssomethingintohisradio.Extrasecurityisapparentlyonitsway.OnlywhentheyactuallyenterthecourtroomdoesHenrybegintorelax.Hesits,letsoutalongbreath,rubsathisfacewithbothpalms.ThenheturnstoLiv.‘Youknow,it’snotoveryet,’hesays,smilingruefullyatthepainting.‘Hardlyavoteofconfidence.’Shesaysnothing.Shescansthecourtroom,whichisfastfillingaroundthem.Aboveherinthepublic

gallerythefacespeerdownather,speculativeandimpassive,asifsheherselfisontrial.Shetriesnottomeetanyone’seye.ShespiesMarianneintangerine,herplasticearringsamatchingshade,andtheoldwomangivesalittlewaveandanencouragingthumbs-up;afriendlyfaceinaseaofblankstares.SheseesJaneyDickinsonsettleintoaseatfurtheralongthebench,exchangingafewwordswithFlaherty.Theroomfillswiththesoundofshufflingfeet,politeconversation,scrapingchairsanddroppedbags.Thereporterschatcompanionablytoeachother,swiggingatpolystyrenecupsofcoffeeandsharingnotes.Someonehandssomeoneelseasparepen.She’stryingtoquellarisingsenseofpanic.It’snineforty.Hereyesstraytowardsthedoorsagainandagain,watchingforPaul.Havefaith,shethinks.Hewillcome.Shetellsherselfthesamethingatninefifty,andninefifty-two.Andthenatninefifty-eight.Justbefore

teno’clock,thejudgeenters.Thecourtroomrises.Livfeelsasuddenpanic.He’snotcoming.Afterallthis,he’snotcoming.Oh,God,Ican’tdothisifhe’snothere.Sheforcesherselftobreathedeeplyandcloseshereyes,tryingtocalmherself.Henryispagingthroughhisfiles.‘Youokay?’Hermouthappearstohavefilledwithpowder.‘Henry,’shewhispers,‘canIsaysomething?’‘What?’‘CanIsaysomething?Tothecourt?It’simportant.’‘Now?Thejudgeisabouttoannouncehisverdict.’‘Thisisimportant.’‘Whatdoyouwanttosay?’

‘Justaskhim.Please.’Hisfaceshowsincredulity,butsomethinginherexpressionconvinceshim.Heleansforward,

mutteringtoAngelaSilver.SheglancesbehindheratLiv,frowning,andafterashortexchange,shestandsandasksforpermissiontoapproachthebench.ChristopherJenksisinvitedtojointhem.Asbarristersandjudgeconsultquietly,Livfeelsherpalmsbeginningtosweat.Herskinprickles.She

glancesaroundheratthepackedcourtroom.Theairofquietantagonismisalmostpalpable.Herhandstightenonthepainting.ImagineyouareSophie,shetellsherself.Shewouldhavedoneit.Finallythejudgespeaks.‘ApparentlyMrsOliviaHalstonwouldliketoaddressthecourt.’Heglancesatherfromoverthetop

ofhisspectacles.‘Goahead,MrsHalston.’Shestands,andmakesherwaytothefrontofthecourt,stillclutchingthepainting.Shehearseach

footsteponthewoodenfloor,isacutelyawareofalltheeyesuponher.Henry,perhapsstillfearfulaboutthepainting,standsafewfeetfromher.Shetakesadeepbreath.‘IwouldliketosayafewwordsaboutTheGirlYouLeftBehind.’Shepauses

forasecond,registeringthesurpriseonthefacesaroundher,andcontinues,hervoicethin,waveringslightlyinthesilence.Itseemstobelongtosomeoneelse.‘SophieLefèvrewasabrave,honourablewoman.Ithink–Ihopethishasbecomeclearthroughwhat’s

beenheardincourt.’SheisvaguelyawareofJaneyDickinson’sface,scratchingsomethinginhernotebook,themutteredboredomofthebarristers.Sheclosesherfingersaroundtheframe,andforcesherselftokeepgoing.‘Mylatehusband,DavidHalston,wasalsoagoodman.Areallygoodman.Ibelievenowthat,hadhe

knownSophie’sportrait,thepaintingheloved,hadthis–thishistory,hewouldhavegivenitbacklongago.Mycontestingthiscasehascausedhisgoodnametoberemovedfromthebuildingthatwashislifeandhisdream,andthatisasourceofimmenseregrettome,becausethatbuilding–theGoldstein–shouldhavebeenhismemorial.’Sheseesthereporterslookup,therippleofinterestthatpassesovertheirbench.Severalofthem

consult,startscribbling.‘Thiscase–thispainting–hasprettymuchdestroyedwhatshouldhavebeenhislegacy,justasit

destroyedSophie’s.Inthiswaytheyhavebothbeenwronged.’Hervoicebeginstobreak.Sheglancesaroundher.‘ForthatreasonIwouldlikeitonrecordthatthedecisiontofightwasminealone.IfIhavebeenmistaken,I’msoverysorry.That’sall.Thankyou.’Shetakestwoawkwardstepstotheside.Sheseesthereportersscribblingfuriously,onecheckingthe

spellingofGoldstein.Twosolicitorsonthebencharetalkingurgently.‘Nicemove,’saysHenry,softly,leaningintoher.‘You’dhavemadeagoodlawyer.’Ididit,shetellsherselfsilently.Davidispubliclylinkedtohisbuildingnow,whatevertheGoldsteins

do.Thejudgeasksforsilence.‘MrsHalston.Haveyoufinishedpre-emptingmyverdict?’hesayswearily.Livnods.Herthroathasdried.Janeyiswhisperingtoherlawyer.‘Andthisisthepaintinginquestion,isit?’‘Yes.’Sheisstillholdingittightlytoher,likeashield.

Heturnstothecourtclerk.‘Cansomeonearrangeforittobeplacedinsafecustody?I’mnotentirelysureitshouldbesittingouthere.MrsHalston?’Livholdsoutthepaintingtothecourtclerk.Justforamomentherfingersseemoddlyreluctantto

releaseit,asifherinnerselfhasdecidedtoignoretheinstruction.Whenshefinallyletsgo,theclerkstandsthere,brieflyfrozen,asifshehashandedhimsomethingradioactive.I’msorry,Sophie,shesays,and,suddenlyexposed,thegirl’simagestaresbackather.Livwalksunsteadilybacktoherseat,theemptyblanketballedunderherarm,barelyhearingthe

growingcommotionaroundher.Thejudgeisinconversationwithbothbarristers.Severalpeoplemakeforthedoors,evening-paperreportersperhaps,andabovethemthepublicgalleryisalivewithdiscussion.Henrytouchesherarm,mutteringsomethingabouthowshehasdoneagoodthing.Shesits,andgazesdownatherlap,attheweddingringshetwistsroundandroundherfinger,and

wondershowitispossibletofeelsoempty.Andthenshehearsit.‘Excuseme?’Itisrepeatedtwicebeforeitcanbeheardoverthemêlée.Shelooksup,followingtheswivellinggaze

ofthepeoplearoundher,andthere,inthedoorway,isPaulMcCafferty.Heiswearingablueshirtandhischinisgreywithstubble,hisexpressionunreadable.Hewedgesthe

dooropen,andslowlypullsawheelchairintothecourtroom.Helooksaround,seekingherout,andsuddenlyitisjustthetwoofthem.Youokay?hemouths,andshenods,lettingoutabreathshehadn’trealizedshewasholding.Hecallsagain,justaudibleabovethenoise.‘Excuseme?YourHonour?’Thegavelcracksagainstthedesklikeagunshot.Thecourtfallssilent.JaneyDickinsonstandsand

turnstoseewhatishappening.Paulispushinganelderlywomaninawheelchairdownthecentralaisleofthecourt.Sheisimpossiblyancient,hunchedoverlikeashepherd’scrook,herhandsrestingonasmallbag.Anotherwoman,neatlydressedinnavy,hurriesinbehindPaul,consultswithhiminwhispers.He

gesturestowardsthejudge.‘Mygrandmotherhassomeimportantinformationregardingthiscase,’thewomansays.Shespeaks

withastrongFrenchaccent,andasshewalksdownthecentreaisle,sheglancesawkwardlytothepeopleoneitherside.Thejudgethrowsuphishands.‘Whynot?’hemuttersaudibly.‘Everyoneelseseemstowanttohavea

say.Let’sseeifthecleanerwouldliketoexpressherview,whydon’twe?’Thewomanwaits,andhesays,exasperated,‘Oh,forgoodness’sake,Madame.Doapproachthe

bench.’Theyexchangeafewwords.Thejudgecallsoverthetwobarristers,andtheconversationextends.‘Whatisthis?’Henrykeepssaying,besideLiv.‘Whatonearthisgoingon?’Ahushsettlesoverthecourt.‘Itappearsweshouldhearwhatthiswomanhastosay,’thejudgesays.Hepicksuphispenandleafs

throughhisnotes.‘I’mwonderingifanybodyhereisgoingtobeinterestedinsomethingasmundaneasanactualverdict.’

Theoldwoman’schairiswheeledroundandpositionednearthefrontofthecourt.ShespeaksherfirstwordsinFrench,andhergranddaughtertranslates.‘Beforethefutureofthepaintingisdecided,thereissomethingyoumustknow.Thiscaseisbasedona

falsepremise.’Shepauses,stoopingtoheartheoldwoman’swords,thenstraightensupagain.‘TheGirlYouLeftBehindwasneverstolen.’Thejudgeleansforwardalittle.‘Andhowwouldyouknowthis,Madame?’LivliftsherfacetolookupatPaul.Hisgazeisdirect,steadyandoddlytriumphant.Theolderwomanliftsahand,asiftodismisshergranddaughter.Sheclearsherthroatandspeaks

slowlyandclearly,thistimeinEnglish.‘BecauseIamthepersonwhogaveittoKommandantHencken.MynameisÉdithBéthune.’

35

1917

Iwasunloadedsometimeafterdawn.Idon’tknowhowlongwehadbeenontheroad:feverhadinvadedmesomydaysandmydreamshadbecomejumbledandIcouldnolongerbesurewhetherIstillexisted,orwhether,likeaspectre,Iflittedinandoutofsomeotherreality.WhenIclosedmyeyes,Isawmysisterpullinguptheblindsofthebarwindow,turningtomewithasmile,thesunilluminatingherhair.IsawMimilaughing.IsawÉdouard,hisface,hishands,heardhisvoiceinmyear,softandintimate.Iwouldreachouttotouchhim,buthewouldvanish,andIwouldwakeonthefloorofthetruck,myeyeslevelwithasoldier’sboots,myheadthumpingpainfullyaswepassedovereveryrutintheroad.IsawLiliane.Herbodywasoutthere,somewhereontheHannoverroad,wheretheyhadtossedit,cursing,asifshe

wereasandbag.Ihadspentthehourssincespeckledwithherbloodandworse.Myclotheswerecolouredwithit.Itasteditonmylips.ItlaycongealedandstickyonthefloorfromwhichInolongerhadtheenergytoraisemyself.Inolongerfeltthelicethatateme.Iwasnumb.IfeltnomorealivethanLiliane’scorpse.Thesoldieroppositesatasfarawayfrommeaspossible,furiousatthestainingofhisuniform,atthe

dressing-downhehadreceivedfromhissuperiorforLiliane’stheftofhisgun,hisfaceturnedtothecanvassheetingthatletinairfromoutside.Isawhislook:itspokeofrevulsion.Iwasnolongerahumanbeingtohim.ItriedtorememberwhenIhadbeenmorethanathing,wheneveninatownfullofGermansIhadpossesseddignity,commandedsomerespect,butitwashard.Mywholeworldseemedtohavebecomethistruck.Thishardmetalfloor.Thiswoollensleeve,withitsdarkredstain.Thetruckrumbledandlurchedthroughthenight,stoppingbriefly.Idriftedinandoutofconsciousness,

wokenonlybypainortheferocityofmyfever.Ibreathedinthecoldair,cigarettesmoke,heardthemenspeakinthefrontofthecabandwonderedifIwouldeverhearaFrenchvoiceagain.Andthen,atdawn,itjudderedtoahalt.Iopenedmysoreeyes,unabletomove,listeningtotheyoung

soldierscramblingoutofthetruck.Iheardhimstretchwithagroan,theclickofacigarettelighter,Germanvoicesinlowconversation.Iheardthevigorous,indelicatesoundofmenrelievingthemselves,birdsong,andtherustleofleaves.IknewthenthatIwoulddiethere,andintruthInolongercared.Mywholebodyglowedwithpain;myskinpricklingwithfever,myjointsaching,myheadthick.The

canvasflapattherearwasliftedandthebackopened.Aguardorderedmeout.Icouldbarelymove,buthepulledatmyarm,asonewouldarecalcitrantchild.MybodywassolightthatIalmostflewacrossthebackofthetruck.

Themorningwashungwithmist,andthroughitIcouldseeabarbed-wirefence,thevastgates.Abovethem,itsaid:‘STRÖHEN’.Iknewwhatitwas.AnotherguardmotionedatmetostaywhereIwas,andwalkedovertoasentrybox.Therewasa

discussion,andoneofthemleanedoutandlookedatme.BeyondthegatesIcouldseerowuponrowoflongfactorysheds.Itwasableak,featurelessplacewithanairofmiseryandfutilitythatwasalmostpalpable.Awatchtowerwithacrow’sneststoodateachcorner,topreventescape.Theyneedn’thaveworried.Doyouknowhowitfeelstoresignyourselftoyourfate?Itisalmostwelcome.Therewastobeno

morepain,nomorefear,nomorelonging.Itisthedeathofhopethatcomesasthegreatestrelief.Soon,IcouldholdÉdouardtome.Wewouldbejoinedinthenextlife,becauseIknewsurelythatifGodwasgoodHewouldnotbesocruelastodepriveusofthisconsolation.Ibecamedimlyawareofafiercediscussioninthesentrybox.Amanemergedanddemandedmy

papers.Iwassoweakittookmethreeattemptstopullthemfrommypocket.Hemotionedtometoholdupmyidentitycard.AsIwascrawlingwithlice,hedidnotwanttotouchme.HetickedsomethingonhislistandbarkedinGermantotheguardholdingme.Theyhadashort

conversation.ItfadedinandoutandIwasnolongersurewhetheritwasthemloweringtheirvoicesormymindbetrayingme.Iwasasmildandobedientasalambnow;athing,readytogowheretheyinstructedme.Inolongerwishedtothink.Inolongerwishedtoimaginewhatnewhorrorslayahead.Feverbuzzedinmyheadandmyeyesburned.Iwassoweary.IheardLiliane’svoiceandknewdistantlythatwhileIlivedIshouldstillbeafraid:Youhavenoideawhattheywilldotous.ButsomehowIcouldnotrousemyselftofear.Iftheguardhadnotbeenbesideme,holdingmyarm,Imightjusthavedroppedtotheground.Thegatesopenedtoletavehicleout,andclosedagain.Idriftedinandoutoftime.Myeyesclosedand

IhadabriefvisionofsittinginacaféinParis,myheadtiltedback,feelingthesunonmyface.Myhusbandwasseatedbesideme,hisroaroflaughterfillingmyears,hishugehandreachingformineonthetable.Oh,Édouard,Iweptsilently,asIshiveredinthechilldawnair.Iprayyouescapedthispain.Iprayit

waseasyforyou.Iwaspulledforwardagain.Someonewasshoutingatme.Istumbledonmyskirts,somehowstill

clutchingmybag.ThegatesopenedagainandIwasshovedroughlyforwardsintothecamp.AsIreachedthesecondsentrypost,theguardstoppedmeagain.Justputmeintheshed.Justletmeliedown.Iwassotired.IsawLiliane’shand,theprecise,premeditatedwayshehadliftedtheguntothesideof

herhead.Hereyes,lockedonmineinthelastsecondsofherlife.Theywerelimitlessblackholes,windowsonanabyss.Shefeelsnothingnow,Itoldmyself,andsomestillfunctioningpartofmeacknowledgedthatwhatIfeltwasenvy.AsIputmycardbackintomypocketmyhandbrushedagainstthejaggededgeoftheglassfragment,

andIfeltaflickerofrecognition.Icouldbringthatpointuptomythroat.Iknewthevein,justhowmuchpressuretoapply.IrememberedhowthepighadbuckledinStPéronne:onebriskswipeandhiseyeshadclosedinwhatseemedlikeaquietecstasy.Istoodthereandletthethoughtsolidifyinmyhead.IcoulddoitbeforetheyevenrealizedwhatIhaddone.Icouldfreemyself.

Youhavenoideawhattheywilldotous.Myfingersclosed.AndthenIheardit.Sophie.AndthenIknewthatreleasewascoming.Ilettheshardfallfrommyfingers.Sothiswasit,thesweet

voiceofmyhusbandleadingmehome.Ialmostsmiledthen,sogreatwasmyrelief.IswayedalittleasIletitechothroughme.Sophie.AGermanhandspunmeroundandpushedmebacktowardsthegate.Confused,Istumbledandglanced

behindme.AndthenIsawtheguardcomingthroughthemist.Infrontofhimwasatall,stoopedman,clutchingabundletohisstomach.Isquinted,awaretherewassomethingfamiliarabouthim.ButthelightwasbehindhimandIcouldnotsee.Sophie.Itriedtofocus,andsuddenlytheworldgrewstill,everythingsilentaroundme.TheGermanswere

mute,theenginesstopped,thetreesthemselvesceasedwhispering.AndIcouldseethattheprisonerwaslimpingtowardsme,hissilhouettestrange,hisshouldersskinandbone,buthisstridedetermined,asifamagnetwerepullinghimtome.AndIbegantotrembleconvulsively,asifmybodyknewbeforeIdid.‘Édouard?’Myvoiceemergedasacroak.Icouldnotbelieveit.Idarednotbelieveit.‘Edouard?’Andhewasshuffling,halfrunningtowardsmenow,theguardquickeninghisstridebehindhim.AndI

stoodfrozen,stillafraidthatthiswassometerribletrick,thatIwouldwakeandfindmyselfinthebackofthetruck,abootbesidemyhead.Please,God,Youcouldnotbesocruel.Andhestopped,afewfeetfromme.Sothin,hisfacehaggard,hisbeautifulhairshaven,scarsuponhis

face.But,oh,God,hisface.Hisface.MyÉdouard.Itwastoomuch.Myfacetiltedheavenwards,mybagfellfrommyhands,andIsanktowardstheground.AndasIdid,Ifelthisarmsclosearoundme.‘Sophie.MySophie.Whathavetheydonetoyou?’

ÉdithBéthuneleansbackinherwheelchairinthesilentcourtroom.Aclerkbringshersomewater,andshenodsherthanks.Eventhereportershavestoppedwriting:theysitthere,pensstilled,mouthshalfopen.‘Weknewnothingofwhathadhappenedtoher.Ibelievedherdead.Anewinformationnetworksprang

upseveralmonthsaftermymotherwastakenaway,andwereceivednewsthatshewasamonganumberofpeopletohavediedinthecamps.Hélènecriedforaweekatthenews.‘AndthenonemorningIhappenedtocomedowninthedawn,readytostartpreparingfortheday–I

helpedHélèneinthekitchen–andIsawaletter,pushedunderthedoorofLeCoqRouge.Iwasabouttopickitup,butHélènewasbehindmeandsnatcheditawayfirst.‘“Youdidn’tseethis,”shesaid,andIwasshocked,becauseshehadneverbeensosharpwithme

before.Herfacehadgonecompletelywhite.“Doyouhearme?Youdidn’tseethis,Édith.Youarenottotellanyone.NotevenAurélien.EspeciallynotAurélien.”‘Inodded,butIrefusedtomove.Iwantedtoknowwhatwasinit.Hélène’shandsshookwhenshe

openedtheletter.Shestoodagainstthebar,herfaceilluminatedbythemorninglight,andherhandstrembledsohardIwasnotsurehowshecouldpossiblyreadthewords.Andthenshedrooped,herhandpressedtohermouth,andshebegantosobsoftly.“Oh,thankGod,oh,thankGod.”

‘TheywereinSwitzerland.Theyhadfalseidentitycards,giveninlieuof“servicestotheGermanstate”,andweretakentoaforestneartheSwissborder.SophiewassosickbythenthatÉdouardhadcarriedherthelastfifteenmilestothecheckpoint.TheywereinformedbytheguardwhodrovethemthattheywerenottocontactanybodyinFrance,orriskexposureofthosewhohadhelpedthem.Theletterwassigned“MarieLeville”.’Shelookedaroundheratthecourt.‘TheyremainedinSwitzerland.WeknewthatshecouldneverreturntoStPéronne,sohighwasfeeling

abouttheGermanoccupation.Ifshehadturnedup,questionswouldhavebeenasked.And,ofcourse,bythenIhadgraspedwhohadhelpedthemescapetogether.’‘Whowasthis,Madame?’Shepursesherlips,asifevennowitcostshertosayit.‘KommandantFriedrichHencken.’‘Forgiveme,’saysthejudge.‘Itisanextraordinarytale.ButIdon’tunderstandhowthisrelatestothe

lossofthepainting.’ÉdithBéthunecomposesherself.‘Hélènedidnotshowmetheletter,butIknewitpreoccupiedher.She

wasjumpywhenAurélienwasnear,althoughhespentbarelyanytimeatLeCoqRougeafterSophieleft.Itwasasifhecouldnotbeartobethere.Butthentwodayslater,whenhehadgoneout,andasthelittleonessleptinthenextroom,shecalledmeintoherbedroom.“Édith,Ineedyoutodosomethingforme.”‘Shewasseatedonthefloor,Sophie’sportraitsupportedbyonehand.Shestaredattheletterinher

hand,asifcheckingsomething,shookherheadslightly,andthen,withchalk,sheinscribedseveralwordsontheback.Shesatbackonherheels,asifconfirmingthatshehadgotitright.Shewrappeditcarefullyinablanketandhandeditovertome.“HerrKommandantisshootinginthewoodsthisafternoon.Ineedyoutotakethistohim.”‘“Never.”Ihatedthatmanwithapassion.Hehadbeenresponsibleforthelossofmymother.‘“DoasIsay.IneedyoutotakethistoHerrKommandant.”‘“No.”Iwasnotafraidofhimthen–hehadalreadydonetheworstthingimaginabletome–butI

wouldnotspendamomentinhiscompany.‘Hélènestaredatme,andIthinkshecouldseehowseriousIwas.Shepulledmetoher,andIhave

neverseenherlookmoredetermined.“Édith,theKommandantistohavethispainting.YouandImaywishhimdead,butwemustobserve…”shehesitated“…Sophie’swishes.”‘“Youtakeit.”‘“Icannot.IfIdothetownwilltalk,andwecannotriskmyownnamebeingdestroyedasmysister’s

was.Besides,Aurélienwillguesssomethingisgoingon.Andhemustnotknowthetruth.Nobodymustknow,forhersafetyandours.Willyoudoit?”‘Ihadnochoice.Thatafternoon,whenHélènegavemethesignal,Itookthepaintingundermyarmand

Iwalkeddownthealleyway,throughthewastelandandtothewoods.Itwasheavyandtheframedugintomyunderarm.Hewastherewithanotherofficer.Thesightofthemwiththeirgunsintheirhandsmademykneesknockwithfear.Whenhesawme,heorderedtheothermanaway.Iwalkedthroughthetreesslowly,myfeetcoldontheicyforestfloor.HelookedalittleunsettledasIapproached,andIrememberthinking,Good.IhopeIunsettleyouforever.‘“Didyouwishtospeakwithme?”hesaid.

‘Ididn’twanttohanditover.Ididn’twanthimtohaveasinglething.Hehadalreadytakenthetwomostpreciousthingsinmylife.Ihatedthatman.AndIthinkthatwaswhenIgottheidea.“AuntHélènesaysI’mtogivethistoyou.’‘Hetookthepicturefromme,andunwrappedit.Heglancedatit,uncertain,andthenheturneditover.

Whenhesawwhatwaswrittenontheback,somethingstrangehappenedtohisface.Itsoftened,justforamoment,andhispaleblueeyesappearedmoist,asifhewouldcrywithgladness.‘“Danke,”hesaidsoftly.“Dankeschön.”’‘HeturneditovertogazeuponSophie’sface,thenreverseditagain,readingthewordstohimself.

“Danke,”hesaidsoftly,toherorme,Iwasn’tsure.‘Icouldn’tbeartoseehishappiness,hisutterrelief,whenhehadruinedanychanceofhappinessfor

me.Ihatedthatmanmorethananyone.Hehaddestroyedeverything.AndIheardmyvoice,clearasabellinthestillair.“Sophiedied,”Isaid.“Shediedafterwereceivedherinstructiontogiveyouthepainting.ShediedoftheSpanishfluinthecamps.”‘Heactuallyjoltedwithshock.“What?”‘Idon’tknowwhereitcamefrom.Ispokefluently,withoutfearofwhatmightresult.“Shedied.

Becauseofbeingtakenaway.Justaftershesentthemessagetogivethistoyou.”‘“Areyousure?”Hisvoicecracked.“Imeantheremayhavebeenreports–”‘“Quitesure.Ishouldprobablynothavetoldyou.It’sasecret.”‘Istoodthere,myheartlikeastone,andIwatchedhimstaringatthepainting,hisfaceactuallyageing,

physicallysaggingwithgrief,beforeme.‘“Ihopeyoulikethepainting,”Isaid,andthenIwalkedslowlybackthroughthewoodstowardsLe

CoqRouge.Idon’tbelieveIwaseverafraidofanythingagain.‘HerrKommandantspentanotherninemonthsinourtown.ButhenevercametoLeCoqRougeagain.I

feltitlikeavictory.’Thecourtroomissilent.ThereportersaregazingatÉdithBéthune.Itisasifhistoryhassuddenlycome

tolifehere,inthissmallchamber.Thejudge’svoice,thistime,isgentle.‘Madame.Couldyoutelluswhatwaswrittenonthebackofthepainting?Itappearstobequitea

salientpointinthismatter.Canyourememberitclearly?’ÉdithBéthunelooksaroundheratthepackedbenches.‘Oh,yes.Irememberitveryclearly.Iremember

itbecauseIcouldn’tworkoutwhatitmeant.Itsaid,inchalk:‘PourHerrKommandant,quicomprendra:paspris,maisdonné.’Shepauses.‘ToHerrKommandant,whowillunderstand:nottaken,butgiven.’

36

Livhearsthenoiseriseup,likeacloudofbirds,aroundher.Sheseesthejournalistscrowdingroundtheoldlady,theirpenswavinglikeantennae,thejudgetalkingurgentlywiththelawyers,banginghisgavelinvain.Shestaresupatthepublicgallery,attheanimatedfaces,andhearsthestrangetrickleofapplausethatmightbefortheoldwomanorforthetruth:sheisn’tsure.Paulisfightinghiswaythroughthecrowd.Whenhegetstoherhepullshertohim,hisheaddipped

againsthers,hisvoiceinherear.‘She’syours,Liv,’hesays,andhisvoiceisthickwithrelief.‘She’syours.’‘Shelived,’shesays,andsheislaughingandcryingatthesametime.‘Theyfoundeachother.’Fromhis

arms,shegazesaroundheratthechaos,andsheisnolongerafraidofthecrowd.Peoplearesmiling,asifthishasbeenagoodresult;asifsheisnolongertheenemy.SheseestheLefèvrebrothersstandtoleave,theirfacesassombreascoffin-bearers,andisfloodedwithreliefthatSophiewillnotbereturningtoFrancewiththem.SheseesJaney,gatheringherthingsslowly,herfacefrozen,asifshecannotbelievewhathasjusttakenplace.‘Howaboutthat?’Henryclapsahandonhershoulder,hisfacewreathedinsmiles.‘Howaboutthat?

Noone’sevenlisteningtopooroldBerger’sverdict.’‘C’mon,’saysPaul,placingaprotectivearmaroundhershoulders.‘Let’sgetyououtofhere.’Theclerkappears,pushinghiswaythroughtheseaofpeople.Hestandsinfrontofher,blockingher

path,slightlybreathlesswiththeeffortofhisshortjourney.‘Here,madam,’hesays,andhandsherthepainting.‘Ibelievethisisyours.’Liv’sfingersclosearoundthegildedframe.SheglancesdownatSophie,herhairvibrantinthedull

lightofthecourt,hersmileasinscrutableasever.‘Ithinkitwouldbebestifwetookyououtthebackway,’theclerkadds,andasecurityguardappearsbesidehim,propellingthemtowardsthedoor,alreadyspeakingintohiswalkie-talkie.Paulmakesasiftostepforward,butsheputsahandonhisarm,stoppinghim.‘No,’saysLiv.Shetakes

abreathandstraightenshershoulders,sothatsheseemsjustalittlebittaller.‘Notthistime.We’regoingoutthroughthefront.’

Epilogue

Between1917and1922AntonandMarieLevillelivedinasmallhouseclosetotheedgeofalakeintheSwisstownofMontreux.Theywereaquietcouple,notfondofentertaining,butapparentlymostcontentineachother’scompany.MadameLevilleworkedasawaitressinalocalrestaurant.Sheisrememberedasefficientandfriendlybutassomeonewhodidnotvolunteerconversation(‘Ararequalityinawoman,’theproprietorwouldremark,withasidewayslookathiswife).Everyeveningataquarterpastnine,AntonLeville,atall,dark-hairedmanwithanoddlyshambolic

gait,couldbeseenwalkingthefifteenminutestotherestaurant,wherehewouldtiphishatthroughtheopendoortothemanager,thenwaitoutsideuntilhiswifeemerged.Hewouldholdouthisarm,shewouldtakeit,andtheywouldwalkbacktogether,slowingoccasionallytoadmirethesunsetonthelakeoraparticularlydecorativeshopwindow.This,accordingtotheirneighbours,wastheroutinefortheireveryworkingdayandtheyrarelydeviatedfromit.OccasionallyMadameLevillewouldpostparcels,littlegifts,toanaddressinnorthernFrance,butapartfromthattheyseemedtohavelittleinterestinthewiderworld.Atweekendsthecoupletendedtoremainathome,emergingoccasionallytogotoalocalcaféwhere,if

itweresunnyenough,theywouldspendseveralhoursplayingcardsorsittingbesideeachotherincompanionablesilence,hislargehandoverhersmallerone.‘MyfatherwouldjoketoMonsieurLevillethatMadamewouldnotblowawayonthebreezeifhewere

toreleaseherjustforaminute,’saidAnnaBaertschi,whohadgrownupnextdoor.‘Myfatherusedtotellmymotherthathethoughtitwasalittleimproper,tobehangingontoyourwifeinpublicso.’LittlewasknownofMonsieurLeville’sownaffairs,otherthanthatheappearedtosufferfrompoor

health.Hewasassumedtohavesomekindofprivateincome.Heonceofferedtopaintportraitsoftwooftheneighbours’children,butgivenhisstrangechoiceofcoloursandunconventionalbrushwork,theywerenotterriblywellreceived.Mosttownspeopleagreedprivatelythattheypreferredtheneaterbrushworkandmorelifelikeimages

ofMonsieurBlumdownbythewatchmaker’s.

TheemailarrivesonChristmasEve.Okay.SoIofficiallysuckatpredictions.Andpossiblyfriendship.ButIwouldreallyliketoseeyou,ifyouhaven’tbeenusingmyhanded-downskillstobuildvoodoodollsofme(thisisentirelypossible,Ihavehadsomeseriousheadacheslately.Ifitwasyou,Ioffermygrudgingadmiration).

ThethingwithRanicisn’treallyworkingout.Turnsoutsharingatwo-bedroomflatwithfifteenmaleEasternEuropeanhotelworkersisn’tsuchablast.Whoknew?IgotanewplacethroughGumtreewithanaccountantwhohasavampirethinggoingonandseemstothinkthatlivingwithsomeonelikemewillgivehimstreetcred.Ithinkhe’salittledisappointedthatIhaven’tfilledhisfridgewithroadkillandofferedhimahome-growntattoo.Butit’sokay.Hehassatellitetellyandit’stwominutes’walkfromthecarehomesoInolongerhaveanexcusetomissMrsVincent’sbagchange(don’task).

Anyway.I’mreallygladyougottokeepyourpicture.Truly.AndI’msorryIdon’thaveadiplomacybutton.Imissyou.

Mo

‘Inviteher,’saysPaul,peeringoverhershoulder.‘Life’stooshort,right?’Shedialsthenumberbeforesheeventhinksaboutit.‘So,whatareyoudoingtomorrow?’shesays,beforeMocanspeak.‘Isthisatrickquestion?’‘Doyouwanttocomeover?’‘Andmisstheannualbitchfestthatismyparents,afaultyremotecontrolandtheChristmaseditionof

theRadioTimes?Areyoukiddingme?’‘You’reexpectedatten.I’mcookingforfivethousand,apparently.Ineedpotato-basedhelp.’‘I’llbethere.’Mocan’thideherdelight.‘Imayevenhavegotyouapresent.OnethatIactuallybought.

Oh.ButIhavetoslopeoffaroundsix-ishjusttodosomesingingstufffortheolds.’‘Youdohaveaheart.’‘Yeah.Yourlastskewermusthavemissed.’

BabyJeanMontpellierdiedfrominfluenzainthelastmonthsofthewar.HélèneMontpellierwentintoshock,cryingneitherwhentheundertakercametotakehislittlebodynorwhenitwaslaidintheearth.Shecontinuedtobehavewithasemblanceofnormality,openingthebarofLeCoqRougeattheallottedhoursanddismissingalloffersofhelp,butshewas,themayorrecalled,inhisjournalsofthetime,‘awomanfrozen’.ÉdithBéthune,whohadsilentlytakenovermanyofHélène’sresponsibilities,describesanafternoon

severalmonthslaterwhenalean,tired-lookingmaninuniformarrivedatthedoor,hisleftarminasling.Édithwasdryingglasses,andwaitedforhimtoenter,buthejuststoodonthestep,gazinginwithastrangeexpression.Sheofferedhimaglassofwater,andthen,whenhestilldidnotstepinside,shehadasked,‘ShouldIfetchMadameMontpellier?’‘Yes,child,’hehadreplied,bowinghishead.Hisvoicehadbrokenslightlyashespoke.‘Yes.Please.’ShetellsofHélène’sfalteringstepsintothebar,herdisbelievingface,andhowshehaddroppedher

broom,gatheredherskirtsandhurledherselfathim,likeamissile,hercriesloudenoughtoechothroughtheopendooranddownthestreetsofStPéronne,causingeventhoseneighbourshardenedbytheirownlossestolookupfromwhatevertheyweredoinganddabtheireyes.Sherememberssittingonthestairsoutsidetheirbedroom,listeningtotheirmuffledsobsastheywept

fortheirlostson.Sheremarks,withoutself-pity,thatdespiteherfondnessforJean,sheherselfremaineddry-eyed.Afterthedeathofhermother,shesays,shenevercriedagain.HistoryrecordsthatinalltheyearsthatLeCoqRougewasownedandrunbytheMontpellierfamily,it

closeditsdoorsonlyonce:forathree-weekperiodduring1925.TownspeoplerememberthatHélène,Jean-Michel,MimiandÉdithtoldnobodythattheyweregoingawaybutsimplypulleddowntheshutters,lockedthedoorsanddisappeared,leavingan‘envacances’signonthedoor.Thishadledtonosmalldegreeofconsternationwithinthelittletown,twolettersofcomplainttothelocalpaper,andagooddealofextracustomforLeBarBlanc.Onthefamily’sreturn,whenaskedwhereshehadbeen,HélènehadrepliedthattheyhadtravelledtoSwitzerland.‘WeconsidertheairtheretobeparticularlygoodforHélène’shealth,’MonsieurMontpelliersaid.‘Oh,itcertainlyis,’Hélènereplied,withasmallsmile.‘Most…restorative.’

MadameLouvierisrecordedasremarkinginherdiarythatitwasonethingforhotelierstodisappearonawhimtoforeigncountries,withoutsomuchasaby-your-leave,butquiteanotherforthemtocomebacklookingquitesopleasedwiththemselvesabouthavingdoneso.IneverknewwhathappenedtoSophieandÉdouard.IknowtheywereinMontreuxupto1926butHélènewastheonlyoneinregularcontactandshediedsuddenlyin1934.AfterthatmyletterscamebackmarkedReturntoSender.

ÉdithBéthuneandLivhaveexchangedfourletters,tradinglong-hiddeninformation,fillinginthegaps.LivhasbegunwritingabookaboutSophie,havingbeenapproachedbytwopublishers.Itis,frankly,terrifying,butPaulasksherwhoismorequalifiedtowriteit.Theolderwoman’shandwritingisfirmforsomeoneofheradvancedyears,thecopperplateevenly

spacedandforward-slanting.Livshiftsclosertothebedsidelighttoreadit.Iwrotetoaneighbour,whosaidshehadheardÉdouardhadfallenill,butcouldoffernoevidence.Overtheyearsothersuchcommunicationsledmetobelievetheworst;somerememberedhimbecomingill,somerememberedSophieastheonewhosehealthfailed.Someonesaidtheyhadjustdisappeared.Mimithoughtsheheardhermothersaytheyhadgonesomewherewarmer.IhadmovedsomanytimesbythenthatSophiewouldhavehadnowayofcontactingmeherself.Iknowwhatgoodsensewouldhavemebelieveoftwofrailpeoplewhosebodieshadbeensopunishedbystarvationand

imprisonment.ButIhavealwayspreferredtothinkthatseven,eightyearsafterthewar,freeofresponsibilityforanybodyelse,perhapstheyfinallyfeltsafeenoughtomoveon,andsimplypackedupanddidso.Iprefertoimaginethattheywereoutthere,perhapsinsunnierclimes,ashappyastheyhadbeenonourholiday,contentintheirowncompany.

Aroundherthebedroomisevenemptierthanusual,readyforhermovethefollowingweek.ShewillstayinPaul’slittleflat.Shemaygetherownplace,butneitherofthemseemstobeinanyhurrytopursuethatconversation.Shegazesdownathimsleepingbesideher,stillstruckbyhowhandsomeheis,theshapeofhim,the

simplejoyofhavinghimthere.ShethinksofsomethingherfatherhadsaidwhenhecameforChristmas,seekingheroutinthekitchenanddryingdishesasshewashed,whiletheothersplayednoisyboardgamesinthefrontroom.Shehadlookedup,struckbyhisuncharacteristicsilence.‘Youknow,IthinkDavidwouldhaveratherlikedhim.’Hedidn’tlookather,butcontinuedwithhis

drying.Shewipeshereyes,asshedoesoftenwhenshethinksaboutthis(sheisgiddilyemotionalatthe

moment),andturnsbacktotheletter.Iamanoldwomannow,soitmaynothappeninmylifetime,butIbelievethatonedayawholeseriesofpaintingswillemergewithunknownprovenance,beautifulandstrange,theircoloursunexpectedandrich.Theywillfeatureared-hairedwomanintheshadeofapalmtree,orperhapsgazingoutintoayellowsun,herfacealittleolder,thathairperhapsstreakedwithgrey,buthersmilewideandhereyesfulloflove.

Livlooksupattheportraitoppositeherbed,andtheyoungSophiegazesbackather,washedwiththepalegoldofthelamplight.Shereadstheletterasecondtime,studyingthewords,thespacesbetweenthem.ShethinksbacktoÉdithBéthune’sgaze:steadyandknowing.Andthenshereadsitagain.‘Hey.’Paulrollsoversleepilytowardsher.Hereachesoutanarmandpullshertohim.Hisskinis

warm,hisbreathsweet.‘Whatyoudoing?’‘Thinking.’‘Thatsoundsdangerous.’Livputstheletterdown,andburrowsundertheduvetuntilsheisfacinghim.‘Paul.’‘Liv.’

Shesmiles.Shesmileseverytimeshelooksathim.Andshetakesalittlebreath.‘Youknowhowgoodyouareatfindingstuff…’

Acknowledgements

ThisbookowesagreatdealtoHelenMcPhail’sexcellentbookTheLongSilence:civilianlifeundertheGermanoccupationofnorthernFrance,1914–1918,aboutalargelyunrecorded(atleastinthiscountry)cornerofFirstWorldWarhistory.IwouldalsoliketothankJeremyScott,partneratLipmanKaras,forhisgenerousexperthelponthe

issueofrestitution,andforansweringmymanyquestionswithpatience.Ihavehadtotweakcertainlegalpointsandproceduresforthesakeoftheplot,andanyerrorsordeviationsfromactualpracticeare,ofcourse,myown.Thankstomypublishers,Penguin,especiallyLouiseMoore,MariEvans,ClareBowron,Katya

Shipster,ElizabethSmith,CelineKelly,VivianeBasset,RaewynDavies,RobLeylandandHazelOrme.ThankyoutoGuySandersforresearchhelpbeyondthecallofduty.ThankyoutoallatCurtisBrown,mostespeciallymyagentSheilaCrowley,butalsoincludingJonny

Geller,KatieMcGowan,TallyGarner,SamGreenwood,SvenVanDamme,AliceLutyens,SophieHarrisandRebeccaRitchie.Innoparticularorder,IalsowishtothankSteveDoherty,DrewHazell,DamianBarr,ChrisLuckley,

mywriting‘family’atWritersblockandtheastonishinglysupportivewritersofTwitter.Toomanytomentionhere.Mostthanks,asever,toJimMoyes,andLizzieandBrianSanders,andtomyfamily,Saskia,Harryand

Lockie–andtoCharlesArthur,proofreader,plot-tweakerandlong-sufferingwriters’ear.Nowyouknowwhatit’slike…

Hejustwantedadecentbooktoread...

Nottoomuchtoask,isit?Itwasin1935whenAllenLane,ManagingDirectorofBodleyHeadPublishers,stoodonaplatformatExeterrailwaystationlookingforsomethinggoodtoreadonhis

journeybacktoLondon.Hischoicewaslimitedtopopularmagazinesandpoor-qualitypaperbacks–thesamechoicefacedeverydaybythevastmajorityofreaders,fewofwhomcouldaffordhardbacks.Lane’s

disappointmentandsubsequentangerattherangeofbooksgenerallyavailableledhimtofoundacompany–andchangetheworld.

Webelievedintheexistenceinthiscountryofavastreadingpublicforintelligentbooksatalowprice,andstakedeverythingonit’

SirAllenLane,1902–1970,founderofPenguinBooks

Thequalitypaperbackhadarrived–andnotjustinbookshops.LanewasadamantthathisPenguinsshouldappearinchainstoresandtobacconists,andshouldcostnomorethanapacketofcigarettes.

Readinghabits(andcigaretteprices)havechangedsince1935,butPenguinstillbelievesinpublishingthebestbooksforeverybodytoenjoy.Westillbelievethatgooddesigncostsnomorethanbaddesign,andwestillbelievethatqualitybookspublishedpassionatelyandresponsiblymaketheworldabetter

place.

Sowhereveryouseethelittlebird–whetherit’sonapieceofprize-winningliteraryfictionoracelebrityautobiography,politicaltourdeforceorhistoricalmasterpiece,aserial-killerthriller,referencebook,worldclassicorapieceofpureescapism–youcanbetthatitrepresentstheverybestthatthe

genrehastooffer.

Whateveryouliketoread–trustPenguin.

www.penguin.co.uk

Jointheconversation:

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PENGUINBOOKSPublishedbythePenguinGroupPenguinBooksLtd,80Strand,LondonWC2R0RL,EnglandPenguinGroup(USA)Inc.,375HudsonStreet,NewYork,NewYork10014,USAPenguinGroup(Canada),90EglintonAvenueEast,Suite700,Toronto,Ontario,CanadaM4P2Y3(adivisionofPearsonPenguinCanadaInc.)PenguinIreland,25StStephen’sGreen,Dublin2,Ireland(adivisionofPenguinBooksLtd)PenguinGroup(Australia),250CamberwellRoad,Camberwell,Victoria3124,Australia(adivisionofPearsonAustraliaGroupPtyLtd)PenguinBooksIndiaPvtLtd,11CommunityCentre,PanchsheelPark,NewDelhi–110017,IndiaPenguinGroup(NZ),67ApolloDrive,Rosedale,Auckland0632,NewZealand(adivisionofPearsonNewZealandLtd)PenguinBooks(SouthAfrica)(Pty)Ltd,BlockD,RosebankOfficePark,181JanSmutsAvenue,ParktownNorth,Gauteng2193,SouthAfrica

PenguinBooksLtd,RegisteredOffices:80Strand,LondonWC2R0RL,England

www.penguin.com

Firstpublished2012

Copyright©JojoMoyes,2012Allrightsreserved

Themoralrightoftheauthorhasbeenasserted

TypesetbyPalimpsestBookProductionLimited,Falkirk,Stirlingshire

ISBN:978-0-141-96919-0

PROLOGUE

2007

Whenheemergesfromthebathroomsheisawake,proppedupagainstthepillowsandflickingthroughthetravelbrochuresthatwerebesidehisbed.SheiswearingoneofhisT-shirts,andherlonghairistousledinawaythatpromptsreflexivethoughtsofthepreviousnight.Hestandsthere,enjoyingthebriefflashback,rubbingthewaterfromhishairwithatowel.Shelooksupfromabrochureandpouts.Sheisprobablyslightlytoooldtopout,butthey’vebeengoing

outashortenoughtimeforitstilltobecute.‘Dowereallyhavetodosomethingthatinvolvestrekkingupmountains,orhangingoverravines?It’s

ourfirstproperholidaytogether,andthereisliterallynotonesingletripinthesethatdoesn’tinvolveeitherthrowingyourselfoffsomethingor–’shepretendstoshudder‘–wearingfleece.’Shethrowsthemdownonthebed,stretcheshercaramel-colouredarmsaboveherhead.Hervoiceis

husky,testamenttotheirmissedhoursofsleep.‘HowaboutaluxuryspainBali?Wecouldliearoundonthesand…spendhoursbeingpampered…longrelaxingnights…’‘Ican’tdothosesortsofholidays.Ineedtobedoingsomething.’‘Likethrowingyourselfoutofaeroplanes.’‘Don’tknockittillyou’vetriedit.’Shepullsaface.‘Ifit’sallthesametoyou,IthinkI’llstickwithknockingit.’Hisshirtisfaintlydampagainsthisskin.Herunsacombthroughhishairandswitchesonhismobile

phone,wincingatthelistofmessagesthatimmediatelypushesitswaythroughontothelittlescreen.‘Right,’hesays.‘Gottogo.Helpyourselftobreakfast.’Heleansoverthebedtokissher.Shesmells

warmandperfumedanddeeplysexy.Heinhalesthescentfromthebackofherhair,andbrieflyloseshistrainofthoughtasshewrapsherarmsaroundhisneck,pullinghimdowntowardsthebed.‘Arewestillgoingawaythisweekend?’Heextricateshimselfreluctantly.‘Dependswhathappensonthisdeal.It’sallabitupintheairatthe

moment.There’sstillapossibilityImighthavetobeinNewYork.NicedinnersomewhereThursday,eitherway?Yourchoiceofrestaurant.’Hismotorbikeleathersareonthebackofthedoor,andhereachesforthem.Shenarrowshereyes.‘Dinner.WithorwithoutMrBlackBerry?’‘What?’

‘MrBlackBerrymakesmefeellikeMissGooseberry.’Thepoutagain.‘Ifeellikethere’salwaysathirdpersonvyingforyourattention.’‘I’llturnitontosilent.’‘WillTraynor!’shescolds.‘Youmusthavesometimewhenyoucanswitchoff.’‘Iturneditofflastnight,didn’tI?’‘Onlyunderextremeduress.’Hegrins.‘Isthatwhatwe’recallingitnow?’Hepullsonhisleathers.AndLissa’sholdonhis

imaginationisfinallybroken.Hethrowshismotorbikejacketoverhisarm,andblowsherakissasheleaves.Therearetwenty-twomessagesonhisBlackBerry,thefirstofwhichcameinfromNewYorkat

3.42am.Somelegalproblem.Hetakestheliftdowntotheundergroundcarpark,tryingtoupdatehimselfwiththenight’sevents.‘Morning,MrTraynor.’Thesecurityguardstepsoutofhiscubicle.It’sweatherproof,eventhoughdownherethereisno

weathertobeprotectedfrom.Willsometimeswonderswhathedoesdownhereinthesmallhours,staringattheclosed-circuittelevisionandtheglossybumpersof£60,000carsthatnevergetdirty.Heshouldershiswayintohisleatherjacket.‘What’sitlikeoutthere,Mick?’‘Terrible.Rainingcatsanddogs.’Willstops.‘Really?Notweatherforthebike?’Mickshakeshishead.‘No,sir.Notunlessyou’vegotaninflatableattachment.Oradeathwish.’Willstaresathisbike,thenpeelshimselfoutofhisleathers.NomatterwhatLissathinks,heisnota

manwhobelievesintakingunnecessaryrisks.Heunlocksthetopboxofhisbikeandplacestheleathersinside,lockingitandthrowingthekeysatMick,whocatchesthemneatlywithonehand.‘Stickthosethroughmydoor,willyou?’‘Noproblem.Youwantmetocallataxiforyou?’‘No.Nopointbothofusgettingwet.’MickpressesthebuttontoopentheautomaticgrilleandWillstepsout,liftingahandinthanks.The

earlymorningisdarkandthunderousaroundhim,theCentralLondontrafficalreadydenseandslowdespitethefactthatitisbarelyhalfpastseven.Hepullshiscollaruparoundhisneckandstridesdownthestreettowardsthejunction,fromwhereheismostlikelytohailataxi.Theroadsareslickwithwater,thegreylightshiningonthemirroredpavement.Hecursesinwardlyashespiestheothersuitedpeoplestandingontheedgeofthekerb.Sincewhendid

thewholeofLondonbegingettingupsoearly?Everyonehashadthesameidea.Heiswonderingwherebesttopositionhimselfwhenhisphonerings.ItisRupert.‘I’monmywayin.Justtryingtogetacab.’Hecatchessightofataxiwithanorangelightapproaching

ontheothersideoftheroad,andbeginstostridetowardsit,hopingnobodyelsehasseen.Abusroarspast,followedbyalorrywhosebrakessqueal,deafeninghimtoRupert’swords.‘Can’thearyou,Rupe,’heyellsagainstthenoiseofthetraffic.‘You’llhavetosaythatagain.’Brieflymaroonedontheisland,thetrafficflowingpasthimlikeacurrent,hecanseetheorangelightglowing,holdsuphisfreehand,hopingthatthedrivercanseehimthroughtheheavyrain.‘YouneedtocallJeffinNewYork.He’sstillup,waitingforyou.Weweretryingtogetyoulastnight.’

‘What’stheproblem?’‘Legalhitch.Twoclausesthey’restallingonundersection…signature…papers…’Hisvoiceis

drownedoutbyapassingcar,itstyreshissinginthewet.‘Ididn’tcatchthat.’Thetaxihasseenhim.Itisslowing,sendingafinesprayofwaterasitslowsontheoppositesideof

theroad.HespiesthemanfurtheralongwhosebriefsprintslowsindisappointmentasheseesWillmustgettherebeforehim.Hefeelsasneakingsenseoftriumph.‘Look,getCallytohavethepaperworkonmydesk,’heyells.‘I’llbethereintenminutes.’Heglancesbothwaysthenduckshisheadasherunsthelastfewstepsacrosstheroadtowardsthecab,

theword‘Blackfriars’alreadyonhislips.Therainisseepingdownthegapbetweenhiscollarandhisshirt.Hewillbesoakedbythetimehereachestheoffice,evenwalkingthisshortdistance.Hemayhavetosendhissecretaryoutforanothershirt.‘AndweneedtogetthisduediligencethingworkedoutbeforeMartingetsin–’Heglancesupatthescreechingsound,therudeblareofahorn.Heseesthesideoftheglossyblacktaxi

infrontofhim,thedriveralreadywindingdownhiswindow,andattheedgeofhisfieldofvisionsomethinghecan’tquitemakeout,somethingcomingtowardshimatanimpossiblespeed.Heturnstowardsit,andinthatsplitsecondherealizesthatheisinitspath,thatthereisnowayheis

goingtobeabletogetoutofitsway.Hishandopensinsurprise,lettingtheBlackBerryfalltotheground.Hehearsashout,whichmaybehisown.Thelastthingheseesisaleatherglove,afaceunderahelmet,theshockintheman’seyesmirroringhisown.Thereisanexplosionaseverythingfragments.Andthenthereisnothing.

1

2009

Thereare158footstepsbetweenthebusstopandhome,butitcanstretchto180ifyouaren’tinahurry,likemaybeifyou’rewearingplatformshoes.Orshoesyouboughtfromacharityshopthathavebutterfliesonthetoesbutneverquitegriptheheelattheback,therebyexplainingwhytheywereaknock-down£1.99.Iturnedthecornerintoourstreet(68steps),andcouldjustseethehouse–afour-bedroomedsemiinarowofotherthree-andfour-bedroomedsemis.Dad’scarwasoutside,whichmeanthehadnotyetleftforwork.Behindme,thesunwassettingbehindStortfoldCastle,itsdarkshadowslidingdownthehilllike

meltingwaxtoovertakeme.WhenIwasachildweusedtomakeourelongatedshadowshavegunbattles,ourstreettheO.K.Corral.Onadifferentsortofday,Icouldhavetoldyouallthethingsthathadhappenedtomeonthisroute:whereDadtaughtmetorideabikewithoutstabilizers;whereMrsDohertywiththelopsidedwigusedtomakeusWelshcakes;whereTreenastuckherhandintoahedgewhenshewaselevenanddisturbedawasp’snestandweranscreamingallthewaybacktothecastle.Thomas’stricyclewasupturnedonthepathand,closingthegatebehindme,Idraggeditunderthe

porchandopenedthedoor.Thewarmthhitmewiththeforceofanairbag;Mumisamartyrtothecoldandkeepstheheatingonallyearround.Dadisalwaysopeningwindows,complainingthatshe’dbankruptthelotofus.HesaysourheatingbillsarelargerthantheGDPofasmallAfricancountry.‘Thatyou,love?’‘Yup.’Ihungmyjacketonthepeg,whereitfoughtforspaceamongsttheothers.‘Whichyou?Lou?Treena?’‘Lou.’Ipeeredroundtheliving-roomdoor.Dadwasfacedownonthesofa,hisarmthrustdeepbetweenthe

cushions,asiftheyhadswallowedhislimbwhole.Thomas,myfive-year-oldnephew,wasonhishaunches,watchinghimintently.‘Lego.’Dadturnedhisfacetowardsme,pucefromexertion.‘Whytheyhavetomakethedamned

piecessosmallIdon’tknow.HaveyouseenObi-WanKenobi’sleftarm?’‘ItwasontopoftheDVDplayer.IthinkheswappedObi’sarmswithIndianaJones’s.’‘Well,apparentlynowObican’tpossiblyhavebeigearms.Wehavetohavetheblackarms.’

‘Iwouldn’tworry.Doesn’tDarthVaderchophisarmoffinepisodetwo?’IpointedatmycheeksothatThomaswouldkissit.‘Where’sMum?’‘Upstairs.Howaboutthat?Atwo-poundpiece!’Ilookedup,justabletohearthefamiliarcreakoftheironingboard.JosieClark,mymother,neversat

down.Itwasapointofhonour.Shehadbeenknowntostandonanoutsideladderpaintingthewindows,occasionallypausingtowave,whiletherestofusatearoastdinner.‘Willyouhaveagoatfindingthisbloodyarmforme?He’shadmelookingforhalfanhourandI’ve

gottogetreadyforwork.’‘Areyouonnights?’‘Yeah.It’shalffive.’Iglancedattheclock.‘Actually,it’shalffour.’Heextractedhisarmfromthecushionsandsquintedathiswatch.‘Thenwhatareyoudoinghomeso

early?’Ishookmyheadvaguely,asifImighthavemisunderstoodthequestion,andwalkedintothekitchen.Granddadwassittinginhischairbythekitchenwindow,studyingasudoku.Thehealthvisitorhadtold

usitwouldbegoodforhisconcentration,helphisfocusafterthestrokes.IsuspectedIwastheonlyonetonoticehesimplyfilledoutalltheboxeswithwhatevernumbercametomind.‘Hey,Granddad.’Helookedupandsmiled.‘Youwantacupoftea?’Heshookhishead,andpartiallyopenedhismouth.‘Colddrink?’Henodded.Iopenedthefridgedoor.‘There’snoapplejuice.’Applejuice,Irememberednow,wastooexpensive.

‘Ribena?’Heshookhishead.‘Water?’Henodded,murmuredsomethingthatcouldhavebeenathankyouasIhandedhimtheglass.Mymotherwalkedintotheroom,bearingahugebasketofneatlyfoldedlaundry.‘Aretheseyours?’

Shebrandishedapairofsocks.‘Treena’s,Ithink.’‘Ithoughtso.Oddcolour.IthinktheymusthavegotinwithDaddy’splumpyjamas.You’rebackearly.

Areyougoingsomewhere?’‘No.’Ifilledaglasswithtapwateranddrankit.‘IsPatrickcomingroundlater?Heranghereearlier.Didyouhaveyourmobileoff?’‘Mm.’‘Hesaidhe’safterbookingyourholiday.Yourfathersayshesawsomethingonthetelevisionaboutit.

Whereisityouliked?Ipsos?Kalypsos?’‘Skiathos.’‘That’stheone.Youwanttocheckyourhotelverycarefully.Doitontheinternet.HeandDaddy

watchedsomethingonthenewsatlunchtime.Apparentlythey’rebuildingsites,halfofthosebudgetdeals,

andyouwouldn’tknowuntilyougotthere.Daddy,wouldyoulikeacupoftea?DidLounotofferyouone?’Sheputthekettleonthenglancedupatme.It’spossibleshehadfinallynoticedIwasn’tsayinganything.‘Areyouallright,love?Youlookawfullypale.’Shereachedoutahandandfeltmyforehead,asifIweremuchyoungerthantwenty-six.‘Idon’tthinkwe’regoingonholiday.’Mymother’shandstilled.HergazehadthatX-raythingthatithadheldsinceIwasakid.‘Areyouand

Pathavingsomeproblems?’‘Mum,I–’‘I’mnottryingtointerfere.It’sjust,you’vebeentogetheranawfullongtime.It’sonlynaturalifthings

getabitstickyeverynowandthen.Imean,meandyourfatherwe–’‘Ilostmyjob.’Myvoicecutintothesilence.Thewordshungthere,searingthemselvesonthelittleroomlongafterthe

soundhaddiedaway.‘Youwhat?’‘Frank’sshuttingdownthecafe.Fromtomorrow.’IheldoutahandwiththeslightlydampenvelopeI

hadgrippedinshocktheentirejourneyhome.All180stepsfromthebusstop.‘He’sgivenmemythreemonths’money.’

Thedayhadstartedlikeanyotherday.EveryoneIknewhatedMondaymornings,butInevermindedthem.IlikedarrivingearlyatTheButteredBun,firingupthehugeteaurninthecorner,bringinginthecratesofmilkandbreadfromthebackyardandchattingtoFrankaswepreparedtoopen.Ilikedthefuggybacon-scentedwarmthofthecafe,thelittleburstsofcoolairasthedooropenedand

closed,thelowmurmurofconversationand,whenquiet,Frank’sradiosingingtinnilytoitselfinthecorner.Itwasn’tafashionableplace–itswallswerecoveredinscenesfromthecastleuponthehill,thetablesstillsportedFormicatops,andthemenuhadn’talteredsinceIstarted,apartfromafewchangestothechocolatebarselectionandtheadditionofchocolatebrowniesandmuffinstotheicedbuntray.ButmostofallIlikedthecustomers.IlikedKevandAngelo,theplumbers,whocameinmost

morningsandteasedFrankaboutwherehismeatmighthavecomefrom.IlikedtheDandelionLady,nicknamedforhershockofwhitehair,whoateoneeggandchipsfromMondaytoThursdayandsatreadingthecomplimentarynewspapersanddrinkingherwaythroughtwocupsoftea.Ialwaysmadeanefforttochatwithher.Isuspecteditmightbetheonlyconversationtheoldwomangotallday.Ilikedthetourists,whostoppedontheirwalkupanddownfromthecastle,theshrieking

schoolchildren,whostoppedbyafterschool,theregularsfromtheofficesacrosstheroad,andNinaandCherie,thehairdressers,whoknewthecaloriecountofeverysingleitemTheButteredBunhadtooffer.Eventheannoyingcustomers,likethered-hairedwomanwhoranthetoyshopanddisputedherchangeatleastonceaweek,didn’ttroubleme.Iwatchedrelationshipsbeginandendacrossthosetables,childrentransferredbetweendivorcees,the

guiltyreliefofthoseparentswhocouldn’tfacecooking,andthesecretpleasureofpensionersatafriedbreakfast.Allhumanlifecamethrough,andmostofthemsharedafewwordswithme,tradingjokesorcommentsoverthemugsofsteamingtea.Dadalwayssaidheneverknewwhatwasgoingtocomeoutofmymouthnext,butinthecafeitdidn’tmatter.

Franklikedme.Hewasquietbynature,andsaidhavingmetherekepttheplacelively.Itwasabitlikebeingabarmaid,butwithoutthehassleofdrunks.Andthenthatafternoon,afterthelunchtimerushhadended,andwiththeplacebrieflyempty,Frank,

wipinghishandsonhisapron,hadcomeoutfrombehindthehotplateandturnedthelittleClosedsigntofacethestreet.‘Nownow,Frank,I’vetoldyoubefore.Extrasarenotincludedintheminimumwage.’Frankwas,as

Dadputit,asqueerasabluegnu.Ilookedup.Hewasn’tsmiling.‘Uh-oh.Ididn’tputsaltinthesugarcellarsagain,didI?’HewastwistingateatowelbetweenhistwohandsandlookedmoreuncomfortablethanIhadever

seenhim.Iwondered,briefly,whethersomeonehadcomplainedaboutme.Andthenhemotionedtometositdown.‘Sorry,Louisa,’hesaid,afterhehadtoldme.‘ButI’mgoingbacktoAustralia.MyDad’snottoogood,

anditlookslikethecastleisdefinitelygoingtostartdoingitsownrefreshments.Thewriting’sonthewall.’IthinkIsattherewithmymouthactuallyhangingopen.AndthenFrankhadhandedmetheenvelope,

andansweredmynextquestionbeforeitleftmylips.‘Iknowweneverhad,youknow,aformalcontractoranything,butIwantedtolookafteryou.There’sthreemonths’moneyinthere.Weclosetomorrow.’

‘Threemonths!’Dadexploded,asmymotherthrustacupofsweetteaintomyhands.‘Well,that’sbigofhim,givenshe’sworkedlikearuddyTrojaninthatplaceforthelastsixyears.’‘Bernard.’Mumshothimawarninglook,noddingtowardsThomas.Myparentsmindedhimafter

schooleverydayuntilTreenafinishedwork.‘Whatthehellisshesupposedtodonow?Hecouldhavegivenhermorethanaday’sbloodynotice.’‘Well…she’lljusthavetogetanotherjob.’‘Therearenobloodyjobs,Josie.YouknowthataswellasIdo.We’reinthemiddleofabloody

recession.’Mumshuthereyesforamoment,asifcomposingherselfbeforeshespoke.‘She’sabrightgirl.She’ll

findherselfsomething.She’sgotasolidemploymentrecord,hasn’tshe?Frankwillgiveheragoodreference.’‘Oh,feckingmarvellous…“LouisaClarkisverygoodatbutteringtoast,andadabhandwiththeold

teapot.”’‘Thanksforthevoteofconfidence,Dad.’‘I’mjustsaying.’IknewtherealreasonforDad’sanxiety.Theyreliedonmywages.Treenaearnednexttonothingatthe

flowershop.Mumcouldn’twork,asshehadtolookafterGranddad,andGranddad’spensionamountedtoalmostnothing.Dadlivedinaconstantstateofanxietyabouthisjobatthefurniturefactory.Hisbosshadbeenmutteringaboutpossibleredundanciesformonths.Thereweremurmuringsathomeaboutdebtsandthejugglingofcreditcards.Dadhadhadhiscarwrittenoffbyanuninsureddrivertwoyearspreviously,andsomehowthishadbeenenoughforthewholeteeteringedificethatwasmyparents’financestofinallycollapse.Mymodestwageshadbeenalittlebedrockofhousekeepingmoney,enoughtohelpseethefamilythroughfromweektoweek.

‘Let’snotgetaheadofourselves.ShecanheaddowntotheJobCentretomorrowandseewhat’sonoffer.She’sgotenoughtogetbyfornow.’TheyspokeasifIweren’tthere.‘Andshe’ssmart.You’resmart,aren’tyou,love?Perhapsshecoulddoatypingcourse.Gointoofficework.’Isatthere,asmyparentsdiscussedwhatotherjobsmylimitedqualificationsmightentitlemeto.

Factorywork,machinist,rollbutterer.ForthefirsttimethatafternoonIwantedtocry.Thomaswatchedmewithbig,roundeyes,andsilentlyhandedmehalfasoggybiscuit.‘Thanks,Tommo,’Imouthedsilently,andateit.

Hewasdownattheathleticsclub,asIhadknownhewouldbe.MondaystoThursdays,regularasastationtimetable,Patrickwasthereinthegymorrunningincirclesaroundthefloodlittrack.Imademywaydownthesteps,huggingmyselfagainstthecold,andwalkedslowlyoutontothetrack,wavingashecamecloseenoughtoseewhoitwas.‘Runwithme,’hepuffed,ashegotcloser.Hisbreathcameinpaleclouds.‘I’vegotfourlapstogo.’Ihesitatedjustamoment,andthenbegantorunalongsidehim.ItwastheonlywayIwasgoingtoget

anykindofconversationoutofhim.Iwaswearingmypinktrainerswiththeturquoiselaces,theonlyshoesIcouldpossiblyrunin.Ihadspentthedayathome,tryingtobeuseful.I’mguessingitwasaboutanhourbeforeIstartedtoget

undermymother’sfeet.MumandGranddadhadtheirroutines,andhavingmethereinterruptedthem.Dadwasasleep,ashewasonnightsthismonth,andnottobedisturbed.Itidiedmyroom,thensatandwatchedtelevisionwiththesounddownandwhenIremembered,periodically,whyIwasathomeinthemiddleofthedayIhadfeltanactualbriefpaininmychest.‘Iwasn’texpectingyou.’‘Igotfedupathome.Ithoughtmaybewecoulddosomething.’Helookedsidewaysatme.Therewasafinefilmofsweatonhisface.‘Thesooneryougetanotherjob,

babe,thebetter.’‘It’salloftwenty-fourhourssinceIlostthelastone.AmIallowedtojustbeabitmiserableand

floppy?Youknow,justfortoday?’‘Butyou’vegottolookatthepositiveside.Youknewyoucouldn’tstayatthatplaceforever.Youwant

tomoveupwards,onwards.’PatrickhadbeennamedStortfoldYoungEntrepreneuroftheYeartwoyearspreviously,andhadnotyetquiterecoveredfromthehonour.Hehadsinceacquiredabusinesspartner,GingerPete,offeringpersonaltrainingtoclientsovera40-milearea,andtwoliveriedvansontheHP.Healsohadawhiteboardinhisoffice,onwhichhelikedtoscrawlhisprojectedturnoverwiththickblackmarkers,workingandreworkingthefiguresuntiltheymetwithhissatisfaction.Iwasneverentirelysurethattheyboreanyresemblancetoreallife.‘Beingmaderedundantcanchangepeople’slives,Lou.’Heglancedathiswatch,checkinghislaptime.

‘Whatdoyouwanttodo?Youcouldretrain.I’msuretheydoagrantforpeoplelikeyou.’‘Peoplelikeme?’‘Peoplelookingforanewopportunity.Whatdoyouwanttobe?Youcouldbeabeautician.You’re

prettyenough.’Henudgedmeasweran,asifIshouldbegratefulforthecompliment.‘Youknowmybeautyroutine.Soap,water,theoddpaperbag.’Patrickwasbeginningtolookexasperated.Iwasstartingtolagbehind.Ihaterunning.Ihatedhimfornotslowingdown.

‘Look…shopassistant.Secretary.Estateagent.Idon’tknow…theremustbesomethingyouwanttodo.’Buttherewasn’t.Ihadlikeditinthecafe.IlikedknowingeverythingtherewastoknowaboutThe

ButteredBun,andhearingaboutthelivesofthepeoplewhocamethroughit.Ihadfeltcomfortablethere.‘Youcan’tmopearound,babe.Gottogetoverit.Allthebestentrepreneursfighttheirwaybackfrom

rockbottom.JeffreyArcherdidit.SodidRichardBranson.’Hetappedmyarm,tryingtogetmetokeepup.‘IdoubtifJeffreyArcherevergotmaderedundantfromtoastingteacakes.’Iwasoutofbreath.AndI

waswearingthewrongbra.Islowed,droppedmyhandsdownontomyknees.Heturned,runningbackwards,hisvoicecarryingonthestill,coldair.‘Butifhehad…I’mjustsaying.

Sleeponit,putonasmartsuitandheaddowntotheJobCentre.OrI’lltrainyouuptoworkwithme,ifyoulike.Youknowthere’smoneyinit.Anddon’tworryabouttheholiday.I’llpay.’Ismiledathim.Heblewakissandhisvoiceechoedacrosstheemptystadium.‘Youcanpaymebackwhenyou’re

backonyourfeet.’

ImademyfirstclaimforJobseeker’sAllowance.Iattendeda45-minuteinterview,andagroupinterview,whereIsatwithagroupoftwentyorsomismatchedmenandwomen,halfofwhomworethesameslightlystunnedexpressionIsuspectedIdid,andtheotherhalftheblank,uninterestedfacesofpeoplewhohadbeenheretoomanytimesbefore.IworewhatmyDaddeemedmy‘civilian’clothes.Asaresultoftheseefforts,Ihadenduredabriefstintfillinginonanightshiftatachickenprocessing

factory(ithadgivenmenightmaresforweeks),andtwodaysatatrainingsessionasaHomeEnergyAdviser.IhadrealizedprettyquicklythatIwasessentiallybeinginstructedtobefuddleoldpeopleintoswitchingenergysuppliers,andtoldSyed,mypersonal‘adviser’thatIcouldn’tdoit.HehadbeeninsistentthatIcontinue,soIhadlistedsomeofthepracticesthattheyhadaskedmetoemploy,atwhichpointhehadgoneabitquietandsuggestedwe(itwasalways‘we’eventhoughitwasprettyobviousthatoneofushadajob)trysomethingelse.Ididtwoweeksatafastfoodchain.Thehourswereokay,Icouldcopewiththefactthattheuniform

mademyhairstatic,butIfounditimpossibletosticktothe‘appropriateresponses’script,withits‘HowcanIhelpyoutoday?’andits‘Wouldyoulikelargefrieswiththat?’Ihadbeenletgoafteroneofthedoughnutgirlscaughtmedebatingthevaryingmeritsofthefreetoyswithafour-year-old.WhatcanIsay?Shewasasmartfour-year-old.IalsothoughttheSleepingBeautiesweresappy.NowIsatatmyfourthinterviewasSyedscannedthroughthetouchscreenforfurtheremployment

‘opportunities’.EvenSyed,whoworethegrimlycheerfuldemeanourofsomeonewhohadshoehornedthemostunlikelycandidatesintoajob,wasstartingtosoundalittleweary.‘Um…Haveyoueverconsideredjoiningtheentertainmentindustry?’‘What,asinpantomimedame?’‘Actually,no.Butthereisanopeningforapoledancer.Several,infact.’Iraisedaneyebrow.‘Pleasetellmeyouarekidding.’‘It’sthirtyhoursaweekonaself-employedbasis.Ibelievethetipsaregood.’‘Please,pleasetellmeyouhavenotjustadvisedmetogetajobthatinvolvesparadingaroundinfront

ofstrangersinmyunderwear.’

‘Yousaidyouweregoodwithpeople.Andyouseemtolike…theatrical…clothing.’Heglancedatmytights,whichweregreenandglittery.Ihadthoughttheywouldcheermeup.ThomashadhummedthethemetunefromTheLittleMermaidatmeforalmostthewholeofbreakfast.Syedtappedsomethingintohiskeyboard.‘Howabout“adultchatlinesupervisor”?’Istaredathim.Heshrugged.‘Yousaidyoulikedtalkingtopeople.’‘No.Andnotosemi-nudebarstaff.Ormasseuse.Orwebcamoperator.Comeon,Syed.Theremustbe

somethingIcandothatwouldn’tactuallygivemydadaheartattack.’Thisappearedtostumphim.‘There’snotmuchleftoutsideflexi-hourretailopportunities.’‘Night-timeshelfstacking?’Ihadbeenhereenoughtimesnowtospeaktheirlanguage.‘There’sawaitinglist.Parentstendtogoforit,becauseitsuitstheschoolhours,’hesaid

apologetically.Hestudiedthescreenagain.‘Sowe’rereallyleftwithcareassistant.’‘Wipingoldpeople’sbottoms.’‘I’mafraid,Louisa,you’renotqualifiedformuchelse.Ifyouwantedtoretrain,I’dbehappytopoint

youintherightdirection.Thereareplentyofcoursesattheadulteducationcentre.’‘Butwe’vebeenthroughthis,Syed.IfIdothat,IlosemyJobseekermoney,right?’‘Ifyou’renotavailableforwork,yes.’Wesatthereinsilenceforamoment.Igazedatthedoors,wheretwoburlysecuritymenstood.I

wonderediftheyhadgotthejobthroughtheJobCentre.‘I’mnotgoodwitholdpeople,Syed.Mygranddadlivesathomesincehehadhisstrokes,andIcan’t

copewithhim.’‘Ah.Soyouhavesomeexperienceofcaring.’‘Notreally.Mymumdoeseverythingforhim.’‘Wouldyourmumlikeajob?’‘Funny.’‘I’mnotbeingfunny.’‘Andleavemelookingaftermygranddad?Nothanks.That’sfromhim,aswellasme,bytheway.

Haven’tyougotanythinginanycafes?’‘Idon’tthinkthereareenoughcafeslefttoguaranteeyouemployment,Louisa.WecouldtryKentucky

FriedChicken.Youmightgetonbetterthere.’‘BecauseI’dgetsomuchmoreoutofofferingaBargainBucketthanaChickenMcNugget?Idon’tthink

so.’‘Well,thenperhapswe’llhavetolookfurtherafield.’‘Thereareonlyfourbusestoandfromourtown.Youknowthat.AndIknowyousaidIshouldlookinto

thetouristbus,butIrangthestationanditstopsat5pm.Plusit’stwiceasexpensiveasthenormalbus.’Syedsatbackinhisseat.‘Atthispointinproceedings,Louisa,Ireallyneedtomakethepointthatasa

fitandableperson,inordertocontinuequalifyingforyourallowance,youneed–’‘–toshowthatI’mtryingtogetajob.Iknow.’HowcouldIexplaintothismanhowmuchIwantedtowork?Didhehavetheslightestideahowmuch

Imissedmyoldjob?Unemploymenthadbeenaconcept,somethingdroninglyreferredtoonthenewsinrelationtoshipyardsorcarfactories.Ihadneverconsideredthatyoumightmissajoblikeyoumisseda

limb–aconstant,reflexivething.Ihadn’tthoughtthataswellastheobviousfearsaboutmoney,andyourfuture,losingyourjobwouldmakeyoufeelinadequate,andabituseless.Thatitwouldbehardertogetupinthemorningthanwhenyouwererudelyshockedintoconsciousnessbythealarm.Thatyoumightmissthepeopleyouworkedwith,nomatterhowlittleyouhadincommonwiththem.Oreventhatyoumightfindyourselfsearchingforfamiliarfacesasyouwalkedthehighstreet.ThefirsttimeIhadseentheDandelionLadywanderingpasttheshops,lookingasaimlessasIfelt,Ihadfoughttheurgetogoandgiveherahug.Syed’svoicebrokeintomyreverie.‘Aha.Nowthismightwork.’Itriedtopeerroundatthescreen.‘Justcomein.Thisveryminute.Careassistantposition.’‘ItoldyouIwasnogoodwith–’‘It’snotoldpeople.It’sa…aprivateposition.Tohelpinsomeone’shouse,andtheaddressisless

thantwomilesfromyourhome.“Careandcompanionshipforadisabledman.”Canyoudrive?’‘Yes.ButwouldIhavetowipehis–’‘Nobottomwipingrequired,asfarasIcantell.’Hescannedthescreen.‘He’sa…aquadriplegic.He

needssomeoneinthedaylighthourstohelpfeedandassist.Ofteninthesejobsit’sacaseofbeingtherewhentheywanttogooutsomewhere,helpingwithbasicstuffthattheycan’tdothemselves.Oh.It’sgoodmoney.Quitealotmorethantheminimumwage.’‘That’sprobablybecauseitinvolvesbottomwiping.’‘I’llringthemtoconfirmtheabsenceofbottomwiping.Butifthat’sthecase,you’llgoalongforthe

interview?’Hesaiditlikeitwasaquestion.Butwebothknewtheanswer.Isighed,andgatheredupmybagreadyforthetriphome.

‘JesusChrist,’saidmyfather.‘Canyouimagine?Ifitwasn’tpunishmentenoughendingupinaruddywheelchair,thenyougetourLouturninguptokeepyoucompany.’‘Bernard!’mymotherscolded.Behindme,Granddadwaslaughingintohismugoftea.