‘But … this is ridiculous. I’ve had it for years. Years. The best part of a decade.’

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another letter, with a photocopied image. ‘This came to the office a couple of weeks ago. It was sitting in my in-tray. I was busy with other stuff so I didn’t put the two things together. Then, when you invited me up the other night, I recognized it immediately.’

She scans it, glances at the photocopied page. Her own painting stares back at her from the coloured page, its colours muddied through reproduction. ‘The Architectural Digest.’

‘Yeah. I think that was it.’

‘They came here to do a piece on the Glass House when we were first married.’ Her hand lifts to her mouth. ‘David thought it would be good publicity for his practice.’

‘The Lefèvre family have been conducting an audit into all Édouard Lefèvre’s works, and during the course of it they discovered several were missing. One is The Girl You Left Behind. There is no documented history for it after 1917. Can you tell me where you got it?’

‘This is crazy. It was … David bought it from an American woman. In Barcelona.’

‘A gallery owner? Have you got a receipt for it?’

‘Of sorts. But it’s not worth anything. She was going to throw it away. It was out on the street.’

Paul runs a hand over his face. ‘Do you know who this woman was?’

Liv shakes her head. ‘It was years ago.’

‘Liv, you have to remember. This is important.’

She explodes: ‘I can’t remember! You can’t come in here and tell me I have to justify ownership of my own painting just because someone somewhere has decided it once belonged to them a million years ago! I mean, what is this?’ She walks around the kitchen table. ‘I – I can’t get my head round it.’

Paul rests his face in his hands. He lifts his head and looks at her. ‘Liv, I’m really sorry. This is the worst case I’ve ever dealt with.’

‘Case?’

‘This is what I do. I look for stolen works of art and I return them to their owners.’

She hears the strange implacability in his voice. ‘But this isn’t stolen. David bought it, fair and square. And then he gave it to me. It’s mine.’

‘It was stolen, Liv. Nearly a hundred years ago, yes, but it was stolen. Look, the good news is that they’re willing to offer some financial compensation.’

‘Compensation? You think this is about money?’

‘I’m just saying –’

She stands, lifts her hand to her brow. ‘You know what, Paul? I think you’d better leave.’

‘I know the painting means a lot to you but you have to understand –’

‘Really. I’d like you to go now.’

They stare at each other. She feels radioactive. She is not sure she has ever been so angry.

‘Look, I’ll try to think of a way we can settle this to suit –’

‘Goodbye, Paul.’

She follows him out. When she slams the door behind him it reverberates so loudly that she can feel the whole warehouse shake below her.

18

Their honeymoon. A honeymoon of sorts. David had been working on a new conference centre in Barcelona, a monolithic thing, built to reflect the blue skies, the shimmering seas. She remembers her faint surprise at his fluent Spanish and being awed both by the things he knew and by the things she did not yet know about him. Each afternoon they would lie in bed in their hotel, then stroll the medieval streets of the Gothic Quarter and Born, seeking refuge in the shade, stopping to drink mojitos and rest lazily against each other, their skin sticking in the heat. She still remembers how his hand looked resting on her thigh. He had a craftsman’s hands. He would rest them slightly splayed, as if they were always holding down invisible plans.

They had been walking around the back of Plaça de Catalunya when they heard the American woman’s voice. She had been shouting at a trio of impassive men, close to tears as they emerged through a panelled doorway, dumping furniture, household objects and trinkets in front of the apartment block. ‘You can’t do this!’ she had exclaimed.

David had released Liv’s hand and stepped forwards. The woman – an angular woman in early middle age with bright blonde hair – had let out a little oh oh oh of frustration as a chair was dumped in front of the house. A small crowd of tourists had stopped to watch.

‘Are you okay?’ he had said, his hand at her elbow.

‘It’s the landlord. He’s clearing out all my mother’s stuff. I keep telling him I have nowhere to put these things.’

‘Where is your mother?’

‘She died. I came over here to sort through it all and he says it has to be out by today. These men are just dumping it on the street and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it.’

She remembers how David had taken charge, how he had told Liv to take the woman to the café across the road, how he had remonstrated with the men in Spanish as the American woman, whose name was Marianne Johnson, sat and drank a glass of iced water and gazed anxiously across the street. She had only flown in that morning, she confided. She swore she did not know whether she was coming or going.

‘I’m so sorry. When did your mother die?’

‘Oh, three months ago. I know I should have done something sooner. But it’s so hard when you don’t speak Spanish. And I had to get her body flown home for the funeral … and I just got divorced so there’s only me doing everything …’ She had huge white knuckles beneath which she had crammed a dizzying array of plastic rings. Her hairband was turquoise paisley. She kept reaching up to touch it, as if for reassurance.