by Jojo Moyes
Liv grows progressively quieter as they approach his flat, and he guesses that she is sobering up: some sensible part of her is wondering what she has just agreed to. He wonders if there is some girlfriend waiting for her somewhere. She's pretty, but in the way that women are when they don't want to draw male attention to themselves: free of makeup, hair scraped back into a ponytail. Is this a gay thing? Her skin is too good for her to be a regular drinker. She has taut legs and a long stride that speak of regular exercise. But she walks defensively, with her arms crossed over her chest.
They reach his flat, a second-floor maisonette above a cafe on the outskirts of Theatreland, and he stands well back from her as he opens the door.
Paul switches on the lights and goes straight to the coffee-table. He sweeps up the newspapers and that morning's mug, seeing the flat through a stranger's eyes: too small, overstuffed with reference books, photographs and furniture. Luckily, no stray socks or washing. He walks into the kitchen area and puts the kettle on, fetches her a towel to dry her hair, and watches as she walks tentatively around the room, apparently reassured by the packed bookshelves, the photographs on the sideboard: him in uniform, him and Jake grinning, their arms around each other. 'Is this your son?'
'Yup.'
'He looks like you.' She picks up a photograph of him, Jake and Leonie, taken when Jake was four. Her other arm is still wrapped around her stomach. He would offer her a T-shirt, but he doesn't want her to think he's trying to get her to remove her clothes.
'Is this his mother?'
'Yes.'
'You're ... not gay, then?'
Paul is briefly lost for words, then says, 'No! Oh. No, that's my brother's bar.'
'Oh.'
He gestures towards the photograph of him in uniform. 'That's not, like, me doing a Village People routine. I really was a cop.'
She starts to laugh, the kind of laughter that comes when the only alternative is tears. Then she wipes her eyes and flashes him an embarrassed smile. 'I'm sorry. It's a bad day today. And that was before my bag got stolen.'
She's really pretty, he thinks suddenly. She has an air of vulnerability, like someone's stripped her of a layer of skin. She turns to face him and he looks away abruptly. 'Paul, have you got a drink? As in not coffee. I know you probably think I'm a complete soak but I could really, really do with one right now.'
He flicks the kettle off, pours them both a glass of wine and comes into the living area. She is sitting on the edge of the sofa, her elbows thrust between her knees.
'You want to talk about it? Ex-cops have generally heard a lot of stuff.' He hands her the glass of wine. 'Much worse stuff than yours. I'd put money on it.'
'Not really.' She takes an audible gulp of her wine. Then, abruptly, she turns to him. 'Actually, yes. My husband died four years ago today. He died. Most people couldn't even say the word when he did, and now they keep telling me I should have moved on. I have no idea how to move on. There's a Goth living in my house and I can't even remember her surname. I owe money to everyone. And I went to a gay bar tonight because I couldn't face being in my house alone, and my bag got nicked with the two hundred pounds I'd borrowed from my credit card to pay my council tax. And when you asked if there was anyone else I could call, the only person I could think of who might offer me a bed was Fran, the woman who lives in cardboard boxes at the bottom of my block.'
He is so busy digesting the word 'husband' that he barely hears the rest. 'Well, I can offer you a bed.'
That wary glance again.
'My son's bed. It's not the world's most comfortable. I mean, my brother slept in it on and off when he broke up with his last boyfriend, and he says he's had to see an osteopath ever since, but it's a bed.'
He pauses. 'It's probably better than cardboard boxes.'
She looks sideways at him.
'Okay. Marginally better.'
She smiles wryly into her glass. 'I couldn't ask Fran anyway. She never bloody invites me in.'
'Well, that's just rude. I wouldn't want to go to her house anyway. Stay there. I'll sort you out a toothbrush.'
Sometimes, Liv thinks, it is possible to fall into a parallel universe. You think you know what you're in for - a bad night in front of the television, drinking in a bar, hiding from your history - and suddenly you veer off the track to a whole destination you never even knew was there. It is all, on the surface, a disaster: the stolen bag, the lost cash, the dead husband, the life gone awry. And then you're sitting in the tiny flat of an American with bright blue eyes and hair like a grizzled pelt, and it's almost three o'clock in the morning and he's making you laugh, properly laugh, as if you have nothing to worry about in the whole world.
She has drunk a lot. There have been at least three glasses since she got here, and there were many more back at the bar. But she has reached that rare, pleasant state of alcoholic equilibrium. She is not drunk enough to feel sick or woozy. She is just merry enough to be suspended, floating in this pleasurable moment, with the man and the laughter, and the crowded little flat that carries no memories. They have talked and talked and talked, their voices getting louder and more insistent. And she has told him everything, liberated by shock and alcohol, and the fact that he is a stranger and she will probably never see him again. He has told her of the horrors of divorce, the politics of policing and why he was unsuited to them, and why he misses New York but cannot return until his son is grown-up. She wants to tell him everything, because he seems to understand everything. She has told him of her grief and her anger, and how she looks at other couples and simply cannot see the point in trying again. Because none of them seem really, properly, happy. Not one.
'Okay. Devil's advocate here.' Paul puts down his glass. 'And this comes from one who totally fucked up his own relationship. But you were married four years, right?'
'Right.'
'I don't want to sound cynical or anything, but don't you think that one of the reasons it's all perfect in your head is that he died? Things are always more perfect if they're cut short. An industry of dead movie icons proves that.'
'So you're saying that if he had lived we would have got as grumpy and fed up with each other as everyone else?'
'Not necessarily. But familiarity and having kids, work and the stresses of everyday life can take the edge off romance, for sure.'
'The voice of experience.'
'Yeah. Probably.'
'Well, it didn't.' She shakes her head emphatically. The room spins a little.
'Oh, come on, you must have had times when you got a bit fed up with him. Everyone does. You know - when he moaned about you spending money or farted in bed or left the toothbrush cap off ...'
Liv shakes her head again. 'Why does everyone do this? Why is everyone so determined to diminish what we had? You know what? We were just happy. We didn't fight. Not about toothpaste or farting or anything. We just liked each other. We really liked each other. We were ... happy.' She is biting back tears and turns her head towards the window, forcing them away. She will not cry tonight. She will not.
There is a long silence. Bugger, she thinks.
'Then you were one of the lucky ones,' says the voice behind her.
She turns and Paul McCafferty is offering the last of the bottle.
'Lucky?'
'Not many people get that. Even four years of it. You should be grateful.'
Grateful. It makes perfect sense when he says it like that. 'Yes,' she says, after a moment. 'Yes, I should.'
'Actually, stories like yours give me hope.'
She smiles. 'That's a lovely thing to say.'
'Well, it's true. To ... What's his name?' Paul holds up a glass.
'David.'
'To David. One of the good guys.'
She is smiling - wide and unexpected. She notes his vague look of surprise. 'Yes,' she says. 'To David.'
Paul takes a sip of his drink. 'You know, this is the first time I've invited a girl back to my place and ended up toasting her husband.'
And there it is again: laughter, bubbling up inside her, an unexpected visitor.
He turns to her. 'You know, I've been wanting to do this all night.' He leans forward and, before she has time to freeze, he reaches out a thumb and wipes gently under her left eye. 'Your makeup,' he says, holding his thumb aloft. 'I wasn't sure you knew.'
Liv stares at him, and something unexpected and electric jolts through her. She looks at his strong, freckled hands, the way his collar meets his neck, and her mind becomes blank. She puts down her glass, leans forward and, before he can say anything, she does the only thing she can think of and places her lips against his. There is the brief shock of physical contact, then she feels his breath on her skin, a hand rising to meet her waist and he is kissing her back, his lips soft and warm and tasting faintly of tannin. She lets herself melt into him, her breath quickening, floating up on alcohol and sensation and the sweetness of simply being held. Oh, God, but this man. Her eyes are closed, her head spinning, his kisses soft and delicious.
And then he pulls back. It takes her a second to realize. She pulls back too, just a few inches, her breath stalled in her chest. Who are you?
He looks straight into her eyes. Blinks. 'You know ... I think you're absolutely lovely. But I have rules about this sort of thing.'
Her lips feel swollen. 'Are you ... with someone?'
'No. I just ...' He runs a hand over his hair. Clenches his jaw. 'Liv, you don't seem ...'
'I'm drunk.'
'Yes, yes, you are.'
She sighs. 'I used to have great drunk sex.'
'You need to stop talking now. I'm trying to be really, really good here.'
She throws herself back against the sofa cushions. 'Really. Some women are rubbish when they're drunk. I wasn't.'
'Liv -'
'And you are ... delicious.'
His chin is stubbled, as if already alerting them to the fact that morning is approaching. She wants to run her fingers along those tiny bristles, to feel them rough against her skin. She reaches out a hand and he shifts away from her.
'Aaand I'm gone. Okay, yup, I'm gone.' He stands, takes a breath. He does not look at her. 'Uh, that's my son's bedroom there. If you need a drink of water or anything, there's a tap. It, uh, it does water.'
He picks up a magazine and puts it down again. And then does the same with a second. 'And there are magazines. If you want something to read. Lots of ...'
It cannot stop here. She wants him so badly it's as if her whole body radiates it. She could actually beg, right now. She can still feel the heat of his hand on her waist, the taste of his lips. They stare at each other for a moment. Can't you feel this? Don't walk away, she wills him silently. Please don't walk away from me.
'Good night, Liv,' he says.
He gazes at her for a moment longer, then pads down the corridor and closes his bedroom door silently behind him.
Four hours later Liv wakes in a box room with an Arsenal duvet cover and a head that thumps so hard she has to reach up a hand to check she isn't being assaulted. She blinks, stares blearily at the little Japanese cartoon creatures on the wall opposite and lets her mind slowly bring together the pieces of information from the previous night.
Stolen bag. She closes her eyes. Oh, no.
Strange bed. She has no keys. Oh, God, she has no keys. And no money. She attempts to move, and pain slices through her head so that she almost yelps.
And then she remembers the man. Pete? Paul? She sees herself walking through deserted streets in the early hours. And then she sees herself lurching forward to kiss him, his own polite retreat. You are ... delicious. 'Oh, no,' she says softly, then puts her hands over her eyes. 'Oh, I didn't ...'
She sits up and moves to the side of the bed, noticing a small yellow plastic car near her right foot. Then, when she hears the sound of a door opening, the shower starting up next door, Liv grabs her shoes and her jacket and lets herself out of the flat into the cacophonous daylight.
15
'It feels a little like we've been invaded.' The CEO stands back, his shirt-sleeved arms across his chest, and laughs nervously. 'Does ... everyone feel like that?'
'Oh, yes.' she says. It is not an unusual response.
Around her, fifteen or so teenagers move swiftly through the vast foyer of Conaghy Securities. Two - Edun and Cam - are vaulting over the rails that run alongside the glass wall, backwards and forwards, their broad hands expertly propelling their weight, their glowing white trainers squeaking as they lift from the limestone floor. A handful of others have already shot through into the central atrium, teetering and shrieking with laughter on the edge of the perfectly aligned walkways, pointing down as they see the huge koi carp that swim placidly among the angular pools.
'Are they always ... this noisy?' the CEO asks.
Abiola, the youth worker, stands beside Liv. 'Yup. We usually give them ten minutes just to adapt to the space. Then you find they settle surprisingly quickly.'
'And ... nothing ever gets damaged?'
'Not once.' Liv watches Cam run lightly along a raised wooden rail, jumping on to his toes at the end of it. 'Of the list of previous companies I gave you, we've not had so much as a dislodged carpet tile.' She sees his disbelieving expression. 'You have to remember that the average British child lives in a home with floor space less than seventy-six square metres.' She nods. 'And these will probably have grown up in far less than that. It's inevitable that when they're let loose in a new place they get itchy feet for a bit. But you watch. The space will work around them.'
Once a month the David Halston Foundation, part of Solberg Halston Architects, organizes a trip for underprivileged kids to visit a building of special architectural interest. David had believed that young people should not just be taught about their built environment but let loose in it, to utilize the space in their own way, to understand what it did. He had wanted them to enjoy it. She still remembers the first time she had watched him talking it through with a group of Bengali kids from Whitechapel. 'What does this doorway say when you walk in?' he had asked, pointing up at the huge frame.
'Money,' says one, and they had all laughed.
'That,' David had said, smiling, 'is exactly what it's supposed to say. This is a stockbroking firm. This doorway, with its huge marble pillars and its gold lettering, is saying to you, "Give us your money. And we will make you MORE MONEY." It says, in the most blatant way possible, "We Know About Money."'
'That's why, Nikhil, your doorway is three foot tall, man.' One of the boys had shoved another and both had fallen about laughing.
But it worked. She had seen even then that it worked. David had made them think about the space around them, whether it made them feel free or angry or sad. He had shown them how light and space moved, almost as if it were alive, around the oddest buildings. 'They've got to see that there is an alternative to the little boxes they live in,' he said. 'They've got to understand that their environment affects how they feel.'
Since he had died, she had, with Sven's blessing, taken over David's role, meeting company directors, persuading them of the benefits of the scheme and to let them in. It had helped get her through the early months, when she had felt that there was little point in her existence. Now it was the one thing she did each month that she actively looked forward to.
'Miss? Can we touch the fish?'
'No. No touching, I'm afraid. Have we got everyone?' She waited as Abiola did a quick head count.
'Okay. We'll start here. I just want you all to stand still for ten seconds and tell me how this space makes you feel.'
'Peaceful,' said one, after the laughter stopped.
'Why?'
'Dunno. It's the water. And the sound of that waterfall thing. It's peaceful.'
'What else makes you feel peaceful?'
'The sky. It's got no roof, innit?'
'That's right. Why do you think this bit has no roof?'
'They run out of money.' More laughter.
'An
d when you get outside, what's the first thing you do? No, Dean, I know what you're about to say. And not that.'
'Take a deep breath. Breathe.'
'Except our air is full of shit. This air they probably pump through a filter and stuff.'
'It's open. They can't filter this.'
'I do breathe, though. Like a big breath. I hate being shut in small places. My room's got no windows and I have to sleep with the door open or I feel like I'm in a coffin.'
'My brother's room's got no windows so my mum got him this poster with a window on it.'
They begin comparing bedrooms. She likes them, these kids, and she fears for them, the casual deprivations they toss into her path, the way they reveal that 99 per cent of their lives are spent within a square mile or two, locked in by physical constraints or the genuine fear of rival gangs and illegal trespass.
It's a small thing, this charity. A chance to make her feel as if David's life was not wasted; that his ideas continue. Sometimes a really bright kid emerges - one who immediately locks on to David's ideas - and she tries to help them in some way, to talk to their teachers or organize scholarships. A couple of times she has even met their parents. One of David's early proteges is now doing an architecture degree, his fees paid by the foundation.
But for most of them it's just a brief window on to a different world, an hour or two in which to practise their parkour skills on someone else's stairs and rails and marble foyers, a chance to see inside Mammon, albeit under the bemused eye of the rich people she has persuaded to let them in.
'There was a study done a few years back, which showed that if you reduce the amount of space per child from twenty-five to fifteen square feet, they become more aggressive and less inclined to interact with each other. What do you think of that?'
Cam is swinging around an end rail. 'I have to share a bedroom with my brother and I want to batter him half the time. He's always putting his stuff over my side.'
'So what places make you feel good? Does this place make you feel good?'
'It makes me feel like I got no worries.'
'I like the plants. Them with the big leaves.'
'Oh, man. I'd just sit here and stare at the fish. This place is restful.'
There is a murmur of agreement.
'And then I'd catch one and make my mum cook some chips for it, innit?'