Page 47 of The Girl You Left Behind
Fran shrugs.
“You want a drink?” Liv says, as she opens the door.
“Tea would be lovely,” Fran says, adding, “Three sugars, please,” as if Liv has never made her one before. And then, with the preoccupied air of someone who has far too much to do to stand around talking, she goes back to her bags.
•••
She smells the smoke even as she opens the door. Mo is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the glass coffee table, one hand around a paperback book, the other resting a cigarette against a white saucer.
“Hi,” she says, not looking up.
Liv stares at her, her key in her hand. “I—I thought you’d left. Fran said you’d gone.”
“Oh. The lady downstairs? Yeah. I just got back.”
“Back from where?”
“My day shift.”
“You work a day shift?”
“At a care home. Hope I didn’t disturb you this morning. I tried to leave quietly. I thought the whole desk-drawer thing might wake you. Getting up at six kind of kills the whole ‘welcome houseguest’ vibe.”
“‘Desk-drawer thing’?”
“You didn’t leave a key.”
Liv frowns. She feels as if she is two steps behind in this conversation. Mo puts her book down and speaks slowly. “I had to have a little dig-around till I found the spare key in your desk drawer.”
“You went in my desk drawer?”
“It seemed like the most obvious place.” She turns a page. “It’s okay. I put it back.” She adds, under her breath, “Man, you like stuff tidy.”
She returns to her book. David’s book, Liv sees, checking out the spine. It is a battered PenguinIntroduction to Modern Architecture, one of his favorites. She can still picture him reading it, stretched out on the sofa. Seeing it in someone else’s hands makes her stomach tighten with anxiety. Liv puts her bag down and walks through to the kitchen.
The granite work tops are covered with toast crumbs. Two mugs sit on the table, brown rings bisecting their insides. By the toaster, a bag of sliced white bread sits collapsed and half open. A used teabag squats on the side of the sink and a knife emerges from a pat of unsalted butter, like the chest of a murder victim.
Liv stands there for a moment, then begins to tidy, sweeping the detritus into the kitchen bin, loading cups and plates into the dishwasher. She presses the button to draw back the ceiling shutters, and when they are fully open, she presses the button that will open the glass roof, waving her hands to get rid of the lingering smell of smoke.
She turns to find Mo standing in the doorway. “You can’t smoke in here. You just can’t,” she says. There is a weird edge of panic to her voice.
“Oh. Sure. I didn’t realize you had a deck.”
“No. Not on the deck either. Please. Just don’t smoke here.”
Mo glances at the work surface, at Liv’s frantic tidying. “Hey—I’ll do that before I leave. Really.”
“It’s fine.”
“It obviously isn’t, or you wouldn’t be having a heart attack. Look. Stop. I’ll clean up my own mess. Really.”
Liv stops. She knows she is overreacting, but she can’t help it. She just wants Mo gone. “I’ve got to take Fran a cup of tea,” she says.
Her blood thumps in her ears the whole way down to the ground floor.
When she gets back the kitchen is tidy. Mo moves quietly around the space. “I’m probably a bit lazy when it comes to clearing up straightaway,” she says, as Liv walks back in. “It’s the whole clearing-up-at-work thing. Old people, guests at restaurants... You do so much of it in the day, you kind of rebel against it at home.”
Liv tries not to bristle at her use of the word. It is then she becomes aware of the other smell, under the smoke. And the oven light is on.
