Page 83 of The Girl You Left Behind
“What?”
“He’s not well. He’s not seeing visitors today.”
Liv, putting on her makeup, stares at her in shock. “Did you tell them we’d come all the way from London?”
“I told her we’d come from Sydney. But the woman said he was weak, and he’d only be asleep if we came. I’ve given her my mobile number, and she’s promised to ring if he picks up.”
“What if he dies?”
“It’s a cold, Liv.”
“But he’s old.”
“Come on. Let’s go drink in bars and stare at clothes we can’t afford. If she rings we’ll head straight over there.”
They spend the morning wandering around the endless departments at Galeries Lafayette, which are festooned with baubles and packed with Christmas shoppers. Liv tries to distract herself, but she is acutely conscious of the price of everything. Since when had two hundred pounds become an acceptable price for a pair of jeans? Did a hundred-pound moisturizer really eradicate wrinkles? She finds herself dropping hangers as quickly as she picks them up.
“Are things really that bad?”
“The barrister is five hundred quid an hour.”
Mo waits a minute for a punch line that doesn’t come. “Ouch. I hope this painting’s worth it.”
“Henry seems to think we’ve got a good defense. He says they talk the talk.”
“Then stop worrying, Liv, for God’s sake. Come on—this is the weekend you’re going to turn it all around.”
But she can’t enjoy herself. She’s here to pick the brains of an eighty-year-old man, who may or may not be up to speaking to her. The court case is due to start on Monday, and she needs greater firepower to go in with than she already has.
“Mo.”
“Mm?” Mo is holding up a black silk dress. She keeps looking up at the security cameras in a faintly unnerving manner.
“Can I suggest somewhere else?”
“Sure. Where do you want to go? Palais Royale? Le Marais? We could probably find a bar for you to dance on, if you’re doing the whole finding-yourself-again thing.”
She pulls the road map from her handbag and begins to unfold it. “No. I want to go to St. Péronne.”
•••
They hire a car and drive north from Paris. Mo does not drive, so Liv takes the wheel, forcing herself to remember to stay on the right-hand side of the road. It is years since she drove. She feels the approach of St. Péronne like the beat of a distant drum. The suburbs give way to farmland, huge industrial estates, and then, finally, almost two hours later, the flatlands of the northeast. They follow signs, get briefly lost, double back on themselves, and then, shortly before four o’clock, they are driving slowly down the town’s high street. It is quiet, the few market stalls already packing up and only a few people in the gray stone square.
“I’m gasping. Do you know where the nearest bar is?”
They pull over, glancing up at the hotel on the square. Liv lowers the window and stares up at the brick frontage. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?”
“Le Coq Rouge. That’s the hotel where they all lived.”
She climbs out of the car slowly, squinting up at the sign. It looks as it might have back in the early part of the last century. The windows are brightly painted, the flower boxes full of Christmas cyclamen. A sign swings from a wrought-iron bracket. Through an archway into a graveled courtyard, she sees several expensive cars. Something inside her tightens with nerves or anticipation, she is not sure which.
“It’s Michelin-starred. Excellent.”
Liv stares at her.
“Duh. Everyone knows Michelin-starred restaurants have the best-looking staff.”
