Henry smiles nervously at her. He does this a lot.
She lives and breathes the painting. She is blind to the approach of Christmas, her father’s plaintive calls. She cannot see beyond her determination that Paul should not take it. Henry has given her all the disclosure files from the other side – copies of letters between Sophie and her husband, references to the painting and the little town where they lived.
She reads through hundreds of academic and political papers, newspaper reports about restitution: about families destroyed in Dachau, their surviving grandchildren borrowing money to recover a Titian; a Polish family, whose only surviving member died happy two months after the return of her father’s little Rodin sculpture. Nearly all these articles are written from the point of view of the claimant, the family who lost everything and found the grandmother’s painting against the odds. The reader is invited to rejoice with them when they win it back. The word ‘injustice’ appears in almost every paragraph. The articles rarely offer the opinion of the person who had bought it in good faith and lost it.
And everywhere she goes she detects Paul’s footprints, as if she is asking the wrong questions, looking in the wrong places, as if she is simply processing information that he has already acquired.
She stands up and stretches, walking around the study. She has moved The Girl You Left Behind on to a bookshelf while she works, as if she might give her inspiration. She finds herself looking at her all the time now, as if she is conscious that their time together may be limited. And the court date draws ever closer, always there, like the drumbeat of a distant battle. Give me the answers, Sophie. At the bloody least, give me a clue.
‘Hey.’
Mo appears at the door, eating a pot of yoghurt. Six weeks on, she is still living in the Glass House. Liv is grateful for her presence. She stretches and checks her watch. ‘Is it three o’clock already? God. I’ve got almost nowhere today.’
‘You might want to take a look at this.’ Mo pulls a copy of the London evening paper from under her arm and hands it over. ‘Page three.’
Liv opens it.
Award-winning Architect’s Widow In Million-pound Battle For Nazi-looted Art, the headline says. Underneath is a half-page picture of David and her at a charity event several years previously. She is wearing an electric blue dress and is holding up a champagne glass, as if toasting the camera. Nearby is a small inset picture of The Girl You Left Behind with a caption: ‘Impressionist painting worth millions was “stolen by German”.’
‘Nice dress,’ says Mo.
The blood drains from Liv’s face. She does not recognize the smiling partygoer in the picture, a woman from a different life. ‘Oh, my God …’ She feels as if someone has thrown open the doors of her house, her bedroom.
‘I guess it’s in their interests to make you look like some kind of high-society witch. That way they can spin their poor-French-victim line.’
Liv closes her eyes. If she keeps them closed, perhaps it will just go away.
‘It’s historically wrong, obviously. I mean, there were no Nazis in the First World War. So I doubt if anyone will take any notice. I mean, I wouldn’t worry or anything.’ There is a long silence. ‘And I don’t think anyone will recognize you. You look quite different these days. Much …’ she struggles for words ‘… poorer. And kind of older.’
Liv opens her eyes. There she is, standing beside David, like some wealthy, carefree version of herself.
Mo pulls the spoon from her mouth and inspects it. ‘Just don’t look at the online version, okay? Some of the reader comments are a bit … strong.’
Liv looks up.
‘Oh, you know. Everyone has an opinion these days. It’s all bullshit.’ Mo puts the kettle on. ‘Hey, are you okay if Ranic comes over this weekend? He shares his place with, like, fifteen other people. It’s quite nice to be able to stick your legs out in front of the telly without accidentally kicking someone’s arse.’
Liv works all evening, trying to quell her growing anxiety. She keeps seeing that newspaper report: the headline, the society wife with her raised glass of champagne. She calls Henry, who tells her to ignore it, that it’s par for the course. She finds herself listening almost forensically to his tone, trying to assess whether he is as confident as he sounds.
‘Listen, Liv. It’s a big case. They’re going to play dirty. You need to brace yourself.’ He has briefed a barrister. He tells her the man’s name as if she should have heard of him. She asks how much he costs and hears Henry shuffling papers. When he tells her the sum, she feels as if the air has been punched clean out of her lungs.
The phone rings three times; once it is her father, telling her he has a job in a small touring production of Run for Your Wife. She tells him absently that she’s pleased for him, urges him not to run after anyone else’s. ‘That is exactly what Caroline said!’ he exclaims, and rings off.
The second call is Kristen. ‘Oh, my God,’ she says, breaking in without even a hello. ‘I just saw the paper.’
‘Yes. Not the best afternoon’s reading.’
She hears Kristen’s hand sliding over the receiver, a muffled conversation. ‘Sven says don’t speak to anyone again. Just don’t say a word.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then where did they get all that awful stuff?’
‘Henry says it probably came out of TARP. It’s in their interests to leak information that makes the case sound as bad as possible.’