‘Liv, he’s not coming.’
‘What?’
‘He’s not coming.’ Mo purses her lips.
‘I don’t understand.’
When Mo speaks, the words emerge carefully, as if she’s considering the ramifications of each one. ‘Ranic is Bosnian. His parents lost everything in the Balkans. Your court case – this shit is real to him. He – he doesn’t want to come and celebrate in your house. I’m sorry.’
Liv stares at her, then snorts, and pushes the sugar bowl across the table. ‘Yeah. Right. You forget, Mo. I’ve lived with you too long.’
‘What?’
‘Mrs Gullible. Well, you’re not getting me this time.’
But Mo doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even meet her eyes. As Liv waits, she adds, ‘Okay, well, if we’re doing this …’ she takes a breath ‘… I’m not saying I agree with Ranic but I do sort of think you should hand the painting back too.’
‘What?’
‘Look, I couldn’t give a monkey’s who it belongs to, but you’re going to lose, Liv. Everyone else can see it, even if you can’t.’
Liv stares at her.
‘I read the papers. The evidence is stacking up against you. If you keep fighting you’re going to lose everything. And for what? Some old blobs of oil on canvas?’
‘I can’t just hand her over.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Those people don’t care about Sophie. They just see pound signs.’
‘For Chrissakes, Liv, it’s a painting.’
‘It’s not just a painting! She was betrayed by everyone around her. She had nobody at the end! And she’s … she’s all I’ve got left.’
Mo looks at her steadily. ‘Really? I’d like a whole heap of your nothing then.’
Their eyes lock, and slide away. A rush of blood prickles around Liv’s neck.
Mo takes a long breath, leans forward. ‘I get that you have trust issues right now because of the whole Paul thing, but you need to take a step back from it all. And honestly? It’s not like there’s anyone else around who’s going to say this to you.’
‘Well, thanks. I’ll remember that the next time I’m opening up the morning bundle of hate mail, or showing another stranger around my home.’
The look that passes between the two women is unexpectedly cold. It settles into the silence between them. Mo’s mouth compresses, holding back a burst dam of words.
‘Right,’ she says finally. ‘Well, then, I might as well tell you, seeing as this probably couldn’t get any more awkward. I’m moving out.’ She leans down and fiddles with her shoe so that her voice emerges, muffled, from near the tabletop. ‘I’m going to stay with Ranic. It’s not the court case. As you said, me staying at yours was never going to be a long-term thing.’
‘That’s what you want?’
‘I think it’s best.’
Liv is glued to her chair. Two men sit at the next table, not breaking off their conversation. One registers the atmosphere: his eyes slide over and away again.
‘I’m, you know, grateful for the … that you let me stay so long.’
Liv blinks hard, looks away. Her stomach hurts. The conversation at the next table dies to an awkward silence.
Mo takes a last swig of coffee and pushes her cup away. ‘Well. I guess that’s it, then.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll head off tomorrow, if that’s okay. I’ve got a late shift tonight.’
‘Fine.’ She tries to keep her tone even. ‘It’s been … enlightening.’ She doesn’t mean it to sound as sarcastic as it does.
Mo waits just a moment longer before she stands, hauls her jacket on and pulls the strap of her rucksack over her shoulder.
‘Just a thought, Liv. And I know it’s not like I even knew him or anything. But you talked so much about him. Here’s the thing. I keep wondering: what would David have done?’
His name hits the silence like a small explosion.
‘Seriously. If your David had still been alive, and this had all blown up then – all the stuff about the painting’s history, where it might have come from, what that girl and her family might have suffered – what do you think he would have done?’
Leaving that thought suspended in the still air, Mo turns and walks out of the café.
Sven rings as she leaves the café. His voice is strained. ‘Can you stop by the office?’
‘It’s not a great time, Sven.’ She rubs at her eyes, gazes up at the Glass House. Her hands are still trembling.
‘It’s important.’ He puts down the phone before she can say anything else.
Liv turns away from her home and heads towards the office. She walks everywhere now, her head down, a hat pulled low over her ears, avoiding the eyes of strangers. Twice on the way she has to wipe tears surreptitiously from the corners of her eyes.
There are only a couple of people left in the offices of Solberg Halston when she arrives: Nisha, a young woman with a geometric bob, and a man whose name she cannot remember. They look preoccupied so Liv walks through the gleaming lobby to Sven’s office without saying hello. The door is open, and as she goes in, he stands to close it behind her. He kisses her cheek but he doesn’t offer her coffee.
‘How’s the case going?’
‘Not great,’ she says. She is irritated by the perfunctory way in which he has summoned her. Her mind still hums with Mo’s final comment: what would David have done?