Page 56 of The Girl You Left Behind
“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?”
They all laugh. Liv looks at Abiola, and despite herself, she starts to laugh, too.
•••
“Did it go well?” Sven rises from his desk to meet her. She kisses his cheek, puts down her bag, and sits in the white leather Eames chair opposite. It is routine now that she will come to Solberg Halston Architects after each outing, to drink coffee and report back. She is always more tired than she expects.
“Great. Once Mr. Conaghy realized they weren’t about to dive into his atrium pools, he was quite inspired, I think. He stuck around to speak to them. I think I might even be able to persuade him to provide some sponsorship.”
“Good. That’s good news. Sit down, and I’ll get some coffee. How are you? How’s your dangerously ill relative?”
She looks blankly at him.
“Your aunt?”
The blush creeps above her collar. “Oh. Oh, yes, not too bad, thanks. Better.”
Sven hands her a coffee, and his eyes rest on hers just a moment too long. His chair squeaks softly as he sits down. “You’ll have to forgive Kristen. She just gets carried away.”
“Oh.” She winces. “Was it that transparent?”
“Not to Kristen. She doesn’t know that Ebola isn’t generally fixed by surgery.” And then, as Liv groans, he smiles. “Don’t give it a thought. Roger Folds is an ass. And, if nothing else, it was just nice to see you out and about again.” He takes off his glasses. “Really. You should do it more often.”
“Well, um, I have a bit lately.”
She blushes, thinking of her night with Paul McCafferty. She has found herself returning to it relentlessly over the days since, worrying at the night’s events, like a tongue at a loose tooth. What had he thought of her? And then, the mercurial shiver, the imprint of that kiss. She is cold with embarrassment, yet it burns gently, the residue of it on her lips. She feels as if some long-distant part of her has been sparked back to life.
“So, how’s Goldstein?”
“Not far off now. We had some problems with the new building regs, but we’re nearly there. The Goldsteins are happy, anyway.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
The Goldstein Building had been David’s dream commission: a vast organic glass structure stretching halfway around a square on the edge of the City. He had been working on it for two years of their marriage, persuading the wealthy Goldstein brothers to share his bold vision, to create something far from the angular concrete castles around them, and he had been working on it still when he died. Sven had taken over the blueprint and overseen it through the planning stages, and was now managing its actual construction. It had been a problematic build, the materials delayed in their shipping from China, the wrong glass, the foundations proving inadequate in London’s clay. But now, finally, it is rising exactly as planned, each glass panel shining like the scales of some giant serpent.
Sven rifles through some documents on his desk, picks out a photograph, and hands it over. She gazes at the vast structure, surrounded by blue hoardings, but somehow, indefinably, David’s work. “It’s going to be glorious.” She can’t help but smile.
“I wanted to tell you—they’ve agreed to put a little plaque in the foyer in his memory.”
“Really?” Her throat constricts.
“Yes. Jerry Goldstein told me last week—they thought it would be nice to commemorate David in some way. They were very fond of him.”
She lets this thought settle. “That’s... that’s great.”
“I thought so. You’ll be coming to the opening?”
“I’d love to.”
“Good. And how’s the other stuff?”
She sips her coffee. She always feels faintly self-conscious talking about her life to Sven. It is as if the lack of dimensions in it cannot help but disappoint. “Well, I seem to have acquired a housemate. Which is... interesting. I’m still running. Work is a bit quiet.”
“How bad is it?”
