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 Associates 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. I did tell her I thought that man was an idiot.'
'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 made her behave in that way? What had he thought of her? And then, the mercurial shiver, the imprint of that kiss. She is cold with embarrassment, yet 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. It's a little disconcerting.
'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 still been working on it 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?'
She tries to smile. 'Honestly? I'd probably be earning more in a Bangladeshi sweatshop.'
Sven looks down at his hands. 'You ... haven't thought it might be time to start doing something else?'
'I'm not really equipped for anything else.' She has long known that it had not been the wisest move to give up work and follow David around during their marriage. As her friends built careers, put in twelve-hour days at the office, she had simply travelled with him, to Paris, Sydney, Barcelona. He hadn't needed her to work. It seemed stupid, being away from him all the time. And afterwards she hadn't been good for much at all. Not for a long time.
'I had to take out a mortgage on the house last year. And now I can't keep up with the payments.' She blurts out this last bit, like a sinner at confession.
But Sven looks unsurprised. 'You know ... if you ever wanted to sell it, I could easily find you a buyer.'
'Sell?'
'It's a big house to be rattling around in. And ... I don't know. You're so isolated up there, Liv. It was a marvellous thing for David to cut his teeth on, and a lovely retreat for the two of you, but don't you think you should be in the thick of things again? Somewhere a bit livelier? A nice flat in the middle of Notting Hill or Clerkenwell, maybe?'
'I can't sell David's house.'
'Why not?'
'Because it would just be wrong.'
He doesn't say the obvious. He doesn't have to: it's there in the way he leans back in his chair, closes his mouth over his words.
'Well,' he says, leaning forwards over his desk. 'I'm just putting the thought out there.'
Behind him a huge crane is moving, iron girders slicing through the sky as they travel towards a cavernous roof space on the other side of the road. When Solberg Halston Architects had moved here, five years previously, the view had been a row of dilapidated shops - bookmaker, launderette, second-hand clothes - their bricks sludge brown, their windows obscured by years of accumulated lead and dirt. Now there is just a hole. It is possible that the next time she comes here she will not recognize the view at all.
'How are the kids?' she says abruptly. And Sven, with the tact of someone who has known her for years, changes the subject.
It is halfway through the monthly meeting when Paul notices that Miriam, his and Janey's shared secretary, is perched not on a chair but on two large boxes of files. She sits awkwardly, her legs angled in an attempt to keep her skirt at a modest length, her back propped against more boxes.
At some point in the mid-nineties, the recovery of stolen artwork had become big business. Nobody at the Trace and Return Partnership seemed to have anticipated this, so, fifteen years on, meetings are held in Janey's increasingly cramped office, elbows brushing against the teetering piles of folders, or boxes of faxes and photocopies, or, if clients are involved, downstairs in the local coffee shop. He has said often that they should look at new premises. Each time Janey looks at him as if it's the first time she has heard this, and says, yes, yes, good idea. And then does nothing about it.
'Miriam?' Paul stands, offers her his chair, but she refuses.
'Really,' she says. 'I'm fine.' She keeps nodding, as if to confirm this to herself.
'You're falling into Unresolved Disputes 1996,' he says. He wants to add: And I can see halfway up your skirt.
'Really, I'm quite comfortable.'
'Miriam. Honestly, I can just -'
'Miriam's fine, Paul. Really.' Janey adjusts her spectacles on her nose.
'Oh, yes. I'm very comfortable here.' She keeps nodding until he looks away. It makes him feel bad.
'So that's where we are, as far as the staffing and office issues stand. Where are we all at?'
Sean, the lawyer, begins to run through his upcoming schedule; an approach to the Spanish government to return a looted Velazquez to a private collector, two outstanding sculpture recoveries, a possible legal change to restitution claims. Paul leans back in his chair and rests his ballpoint against his pad.
And she's there again, smiling ruefully. Her burst of unexpected laughter. The sadness in tiny lines around her eyes. I was great a
t drunk sex. Really. I was.
He doesn't want to admit to himself how disappointed he had been when he emerged from the bathroom that morning to find she'd simply let herself out. His son's duvet had been straightened, and there was just an absence where the girl had been. No scribbled message. No phone number. Nothing.
'Is she a regular?' he had asked Greg, casually, on the phone that evening.
'Nope. Not seen her before. Sorry to land you with her like that, bro.'
'No problem,' he had said. He hadn't bothered to tell Greg to watch out in case she came back. Something told him she wouldn't.
'Paul?'
He drags his thoughts back to the A4 pad in front of him. 'Um ... Well, as you know, we got the Nowicki painting returned. That's headed for auction. Which is obviously - um - rewarding.' He ignores Janey's warning glance. 'And coming up this month I've got a meeting about the statuette collection from Bonhams, a trace on a Lowry that's been stolen from a stately home in Ayrshire and ...' He leafs through his papers. 'This French work that was looted in the First World War and turned up in some architect's house in London. I'm guessing, given the value, they won't give it up without a bit of a fight. But it looks fairly clear cut, if we can establish it really was stolen initially. Sean, you might want to dig out any legal precedent on First World War stuff, just in case.'
Sean scribbles a note.
'Apart from that, I've just got the other cases from last month that I'm carrying forward, and I'm talking to some insurers about whether we want to get involved with a new fine art register.'
'Another?' says Janey.
'It's the scaling down of the Art and Antiques Squad,' Paul said. 'The insurers are getting nervous.'
'Might be good news for us, though. Where are we on the Stubbs?'
He clicks the end of his pen. 'Deadlock.'
'Sean?'
'It's a tricky one. I've been looking up precedent, but it may well go to trial.'
Janey nods, then glances up as Paul's mobile phone rings. 'Sorry,' he says, and wrenches it from his pocket. He stares at the name. 'Actually, if you'll excuse me, I think I should take this. Sherrie. Hi.'
He feels Janey's eyes burning into his back as he steps carefully over his colleagues' legs and into his office. He closes the door behind him. 'You did? ... Her name? Liv. Nope, that's all I got ... There is? Can you describe it? ... Yup - that sounds like her. Mid-brown hair, maybe blonde, shoulder length. Wearing it in a ponytail? ... Phone, wallet - don't know what else. No address? ... No, I don't. Sure - Sherrie, do me a favour? Can I pick it up?'
He stares out of the window.
'Yeah. Yeah, I do. I just realized - I think I've worked out how to get it back to her.'
'Hello?'
'Is that Liv?'
'No.'
He pauses. 'Um ... is she there?'
'Are you a bailiff?'
'No.'
'Well, she's not here.'
'Do you know when she'll be back?'
'Are you sure you're not a bailiff?'
'I am definitely not a bailiff. I have her handbag.'
'Are you a bag thief? Because if you're trying to blackmail her, you're wasting your time.'
'I am not a bag thief. Or a bailiff. I am a man who has found her bag and is trying to get it back to her.' He pulls at his collar.
There is a long pause.
'How did you get this number?'
'It's on my phone. She borrowed it when she tried to ring home.'
'You were with her?'
He feels a little germ of pleasure. He hesitates, tries not to sound too keen. 'Why? Did she mention me?'
'No.' The sound of a kettle boiling. 'I was just being nosy. Look - she's just on her annual trip out of the house. If you drop by around four-ish she should be back by then. If not I'll take it for her.'
'And you are?'
A long, suspicious pause.
'I'm the woman who takes in stolen handbags for Liv.'
'Right. So what's the address?'
'You don't know?' There's another silence. 'Hmm. I tell you what, come to the corner of Audley Street and Packers Lane, and someone will meet you down there -'
'I'm not a bag thief.'
'So you keep saying. Ring when you're there.' He can hear her thinking. 'If nobody answers, just hand it to the woman in the cardboard boxes by the back door. Her name's Fran. And if we do decide to meet you, no funny business. We have a gun.'
Before he can say anything else, she has rung off. He sits at his desk, staring at his phone.
Janey walks into his office without knocking. It has started to annoy him, the way she does this. It makes him think she's trying to catch him in the middle of something. 'The Lefevre painting. Have we actually sent off the opening letter yet?'
'No. I'm still doing checks on whether it has been exhibited.'
'Did we get the current owners' address?'
'The magazine didn't keep a record of it. But it's fine - I'll send it via his workplace. If he's an architect he shouldn't be hard to find. The company will probably be in his name.'
'Good. I just got a message saying the claimants are coming to London in a few weeks and want a meeting. It would be great if we could get an initial response before then. Can you throw some dates at me?'
'Will do.'
He stares at his computer screen very hard, even though only the screensaver is in front of him, until Janey takes the hint and leaves.
Mo is at home. She is a strangely unobtrusive presence, even given the startling inky black of her hair and clothing. Occasionally Liv half wakes at six and hears her padding around, preparing to leave for her morning shift at the care home. She finds the presence of another person in the house oddly comforting.
Mo cooks every day, or brings back food from the restaurant, leaving foil-covered dishes in the fridge and scrawled instructions on the kitchen table. 'Heat up for 40 mins at 180. That would mean SWITCHING ON THE OVEN' and 'FINISH THIS AS BY TOMORROW IT WILL CLIMB OUT OF ITS CONTAINER AND KILL US.' The house no longer smells of cigarette smoke. Liv suspects Mo sneaks the odd one out on the deck, but she doesn't ask.
They have settled into a routine of sorts. Liv rises as before, heading out on to the concrete walkways, her feet pounding, her head filled with noise. She has stopped buying coffee, so she makes tea for Fran, eats her toast and sits in front of her desk trying not to worry about her lack of work. But now she finds she half looks forward to the sound of the key in the lock at three o'clock, Mo's arrival home. Mo has not offered to pay rent - and she is not sure that either of them wants to feel this is a formal arrangement - but the day after she heard about Liv's bag, a pile of crumpled cash had appeared on the kitchen table. 'Emergency council tax,' the note with it read. 'Don't start being all weird about it.'
Liv didn't get even remotely weird about it. She didn't have a choice.
They are drinking tea and reading a London free-sheet when the phone rings. Mo looks up, like a gundog scenting the air, checks the clock and says, 'Oh. I know who this is.' Liv turns back to the newspaper. 'It's the man with your handbag.'
Liv's mug stalls in mid-air. 'What?'
'I forgot to tell you. He rang up earlier. I told him to wait on the corner and we'd come down.'
'What kind of man?'
'Dunno. I just checked that he wasn't a bailiff.'
'Oh, God. He definitely has it? Do you think he'll want a reward?' She casts around in her pockets. She has four pounds in coins and some coppers, which she holds out in front of her.
'It doesn't seem like a lot, does it?'
'Short of sexual favours, it's pretty much all you have.'
'Four pounds it is.'
They head into the lift, Liv clutching the money. Mo is smirking.
'What?'
'I was just thinking. It would be funny if we stole his bag. You know, mugged him. Girl muggers.' She sniggers. 'I once stole some chalk from a post office. I have form.'
Liv is scandalized.
'What?' Mo's face is sombre. 'I was seven.'
They stand in silence as the lift reaches the bottom. As the doors open, Mo says, 'We could make a clean getaway. He doesn't actually know your address.'
'Mo -' Liv begins, but as she steps out of the main doorway she sees the man on the corner, the colour of his hair, the way he runs his hand over the top of his head, and whips round, her cheeks burning.
'What? Where are you going?'
'I can't go out there.'
'Why? I can see your bag. He looks okay. I don't think he's a mugger. He's wearing shoes. No mugger wears shoes.'
'Will you get it for me? Really - I can't talk to him.'
'Why?' Mo scrutinizes her. 'Why have you gone so pink?'
'Look, I stayed at his house. And it's just embarrassing.'
'Oh, my God. You did the nasty with that man.'
'No, I did not.'
'You did.' Mo squints at her. 'Or you wanted to. YOU WANTED TO. You are so busted.'
'Mo - can you just get my bag for me, please? Just tell him I'm not in. Please?' Before Mo can say anything else, she is back in the lift and jabbing at the button to take her to the top floor, her thoughts spinning. When she reaches the Glass House she rests her forehead against the door and listens to her heart beating in her ears.
I am thirty years old, she says to herself.
Behind her the lift door opens.
'Oh, God, thanks, Mo, I -'
Paul McCafferty is in front of her.
'Where's Mo?' she says, stupidly.
'Is that your flatmate? She's ... interesting.'
She cannot speak. Her tongue has swollen to fill her mouth. Her hand reaches up to her hair - she's conscious that she hasn't washed it.
'Anyway,' he says. 'Hey.'
'Hello.'
He holds out a hand. 'Your bag. It is your bag, right?'
'I can't believe you found it.'
'I'm good at finding stuff. It's my job.'
'Oh. Yes. The ex-cop thing. Well, thanks. Really.'
'It was in a bin, if you're interested. With two others. Outside University College Library. The caretaker found them and handed them all in. I'm afraid your cards and your phone are gone ... The good news is that the cash was still there.'
'What?'
'Yeah. Amazing. Two hundred pounds. I checked it.'
Relief floods her, like a warm bath. 'Really? They left the cash? I don't understand.'
'Nor me. I can only think it fell out of your purse as they opened it.'
She takes her bag and rummages through it. Two hundred pounds is floating around in the bottom, along with her hairbrush, the paperback she'd been reading that morning and a stray lipstick.