by Luana Lewis
‘I can’t talk to you about the case outside of the office,’ she said. ‘Every meeting, every discussion we have, needs to be recorded for the court.’
He was still leaning over her, both palms flat on the table. His body language was very different from the withdrawn, arms-crossed pose he’d clung to in her office. She could see that he was in pain.
‘I didn’t make it easy for you the other day,’ he said. ‘You were trying to do your job. Would you consider giving me another chance? I just want to give my side of the story.’
She caught a whiff of beer. She knew there was every chance she might lose another two hours of her valuable time if he turned up completely sober, having changed his mind; if she was confronted with the sullen version of Lawrence Simpson, as opposed to the contrite one. But still, there was a chance.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Telephone the receptionist at the clinic and make an appointment for this week. I’ll fit in an extra session for you, so there’s no delay in submitting the report. But you’ll have to fit in with whatever appointments are available now, there’s no flexibility. The report is due in ten days, it has to be submitted before the final hearing.’
‘I appreciate that. Can I ask – do we have to meet at your clinic in St John’s Wood? My offices are in south London. It would be a great help if we could meet there. I’ve had to take a lot of time off work for all of these appointments and it takes me half a day to get across London to your place.’
‘Yes, it has to be at the clinic,’ she said. ‘All my files, all the test materials are there. And it wouldn’t be appropriate for us to meet outside of the office. I think you know that.’
He laughed at her stilted words. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate. I thought you’d say that. Predictable. But worth a try?’
‘Sure.’ He was irritating her. She didn’t like being mocked. She was entitled to enjoy a night off with her friends. And she had to eat something soon.
‘Make sure you telephone the clinic to make the appointment,’ she said.
‘Thank you. I really am grateful. I know I can be my own worst enemy. I tell myself you won’t just believe everything you read about me but it’s hard to go into a meeting knowing you might think I’m a twisted, sick, wife-beater. I’m ashamed, about something I haven’t done. It does my head in sometimes.’
He lingered at her side. She didn’t want to be rude, but she did want to draw a line. She looked away and took a sip of her drink. She hoped he would get the message without her having to ask directly and risk injuring his fragile ego.
He peered at her drink. ‘Let me buy you another cocktail. To make it up to you for being such a sulky bastard.’
He wasn’t unattractive, when he smiled, when he showed his vulnerability; perhaps there was even a sense of humour, lurking beneath the sullen exterior. And if she refused the offer of a drink, he would no doubt feel slighted; he would view it as yet another blow to his pride. So Stella sat, annoyed, but also feeling sorry for him as he motioned to a passing waiter.
When he turned back to her, he knelt down so his eyes were level with hers. She felt horribly uncomfortable, and exposed. He was invading her space, breaching the boundaries between them.
‘You’re someone I could be attracted to,’ he said. ‘And you see me as—’
‘This conversation really is not appropriate in the middle of court proceedings,’ she said.
His eyes hardened, and mocked her again as he laughed. ‘Must you always act so formal?’ He hadn’t moved any further away.
‘It’s not an act. Our relationship is a formal one.’
A smiling waiter in a fez placed two luscious drinks down on the table in front of her. Fresh mint over crushed ice and straws at the ready.
Finally, Simpson stood up and took a step back. ‘I’m sure you could do with a drink or two, the things you have to listen to.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Let’s drink to the best interests of my daughter,’ he said.
She didn’t move.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m not a leper.’
She lifted hers, clinked it against his, took a sip.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t so bad.’
She was unable to force a smile.
‘I’ve disturbed your party.’ He looked around at her friends, his eyes resting on Izzy’s pregnant belly. Then he disappeared into the throng of people at the bar.
Hannah caught her eye across the table and raised her eyebrows. Stella shook her head: It’s nothing, he’s no one. She couldn’t tell Hannah he was a client, she wasn’t about to break confidentiality.
Stella lifted the drink Simpson had paid for and gave it to Peter, who sat opposite her. He accepted it gladly.
She wasn’t sure whether or not to write up the out-of-office encounter in her report. She would ask Max what to do. She was so thankful not to be facing the vagaries of the case on her own. She picked up her BlackBerry and scrolled through her contacts until she was looking at Max Fisher’s telephone number. She would love an excuse to call him over a weekend. She was also too embarrassed to bother him; the meeting with Simpson was hardly an urgent matter. She would talk to him about it on Monday.
Peter held out a bowl of warm, soft pita bread.
The belly dancer sashayed closer, her body a marvel of curves, undulating; gold chains shimmering around her waist. She turned away from them, then looked back over her shoulder, her smile a seduction. Her hips and her belly quivered, so near to Stella’s face she felt herself flush.
Stella wondered if Simpson was still lurking, watching her.
On Sunday morning, Stella woke up next to a man; his body warm and solid against hers, his arm heavy across her waist, her back moulded into his front. He woke too and pulled her closer.
‘Morning,’ she said. She had slept well.
‘Morning.’
‘So,’ she said.
The curtains in her room were flimsy and didn’t keep out any of the morning sun. She lifted his hand from around her and moved away, rearranged herself, moving further apart so that she lay on her back, facing the ceiling.
She had drunk more than usual the night before; those cocktails were deceptively sweet. It had become impossible to talk, as the music became faster and louder, as the basement room was crammed with more and more bodies. She couldn’t remember what they’d said to each other, if anything. Peter had passed her plates of food. He had been sitting opposite her at the horseshoe-shaped table, then they’d been in a circle, dancing, laughing, ridiculous as they tried to copy the belly dancer. When they sat down again, he’d changed places and he was sitting next to her. Their shoulders and their hips were pressed together, and she had liked the feel of him. It was raining outside. He’d waited with her, to make sure she found a taxi. Next thing she knew, he kissed her and she had responded with an enthusiasm that took her by surprise. She remembered the way he had tasted, of her lemon and mint cocktail.
‘Is it OK if I use your shower?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
He stood, naked. She studied his shape as he turned away. She compared him to Max, who was older and most definitely not in such good shape. But it was Max who excited her.
Damn. She felt awful. She felt guilty.
She was still in bed when he emerged from the shower with her pink towel around his waist. ‘Can I make you some coffee?’ he said.
He was a decent human being. A kind man. She felt awful again.
‘That would be nice,’ she said. ‘But I don’t have any coffee. I don’t have any milk, either. In fact, I don’t have anything, really, in the kitchen. I haven’t had a chance to go shopping this week.’
‘Let me take you out for breakfast.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘There are loads of places on Westbourne Grove. Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed.’
She stepped out of bed, unselfconscious. He was a friend, there was no need to impress him. She rummaged around for her loose Sunday jumper and her jeans. She could feel
him watching her. He came towards her, and stood very close. She contemplated letting him kiss her. She turned to him, reached up and stroked the hair on his temples. They were the same age, but he was completely, prematurely grey. She rubbed her forehead against the stubble on his chin, his skin rough against hers. The skin around her lips still chafed from last night. He reached for her, running his fingers down her arms, pulling her hands gently from behind her back.
She had to extricate herself before it got messy. ‘Pete, this wasn’t a good idea. I’m really sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry really, I had such a good time. I don’t want you to think …’
He let her hands drop.
She knew how he felt about her. They had done a couple of modules together on the forensics programme at London South Bank uni. They had hit it off straight away, had ended up sitting next to each other, having the same complaints about the tutors, revising for exams together. He was bright. Not as bright as she was, she had told him several times. She had known he was attracted to her, and she had been careful not to encourage him. He was an open, uncomplicated man. Too uncomplicated, too predictable. He didn’t have that certain edge, the inner shadows that excited her. She was sure he’d had a happy childhood with loving parents who were probably still married and living in the Cotswolds.
No, that was all rubbish, irrelevant. The point was: he wasn’t Max.
She watched as he pulled his trousers back on and buttoned his shirt. He looked across at her, his jeans still undone. She glimpsed herself, riding on top of him, his fingers squeezing her nipples. Something between them sparked again, and then died. She pulled her jumper over her head.
‘Thanks, for last night,’ she said. ‘It’s been a while. For me.’
There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence.
She could hear Hannah’s voice: What is wrong with you? You’re an idiot.
The silence grew longer.
He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘Why don’t we skip breakfast,’ he said.
She nodded. There was no point prolonging the parting.
There was a pull inside her, a mix of disappointment and relief.
She walked him the short distance to the front door. She hoped her devout Muslim neighbour would not emerge just in time to see her wave goodbye with no trousers on. But the corridor was empty.
He had to wait ages for the cranky old lift.
She stood in the doorway of her Bayswater apartment, alone, contented and also a little sad.
Hilltop, 11.15 p.m.
Unsurprisingly, Blue remained in a deep and peaceful sleep. She lay on her side, her thumb resting near her mouth, her limbs limp and heavy.
Stella crept carefully away from her own bed. She walked over to the window and parted the closed curtains, just a crack. The trees and the hills beyond gleamed with the soft light reflected from the snow. The house on the hill was a far cry from the cramped Bayswater flat, but sometimes she missed west London and her piece of the city, high up on the sixth floor of an old mansion block. She missed the endless planes on the flight path to Heathrow, their twinkling red lights replacing the stars in the night sky.
At the top of the window, the light of the sensor flashed every few seconds, slow and reassuring. Stella made sure the heavy drapes were properly, completely closed.
Blue’s eyes moved rapidly from side to side under the tissue-thin skin of her eyelids. She changed position, rolled over, her breathing still regular. Stella could still see her eyes wide open: determined and suspicious and seductive.
She reached for her BlackBerry, lifted it, framed the girl’s face. The flash went off, but Blue did not wake. Stella emailed the shot to Peter.
She carried the low chair from the dressing table over to the bed and sat down to watch over Blue. She dozed off, then woke, afraid. But nothing had changed, the girl had not moved. Stella’s neck hurt. She shifted in the chair, leaning her head against her arm. Her eyelids were so heavy, she was desperate to shut her eyes, just for a few moments, but she couldn’t risk falling asleep in the same room with Blue.
She removed the key from the lock, and closed the door softly behind her. She locked it from the outside and tucked the key into her pocket. She felt a little better.
She didn’t know what to do next. She was so very tired.
Downstairs the near empty bottle of wine stood lukewarm on the kitchen table. She unscrewed the lid and poured the last few drops into her glass. As she drank, she listened.
Dead silence from upstairs.
She never could hold her drink. Behind her eyes, images took shape. She was shivering, and cold, and her hand trembled. White wine splashed against the glossy white table top.
Nobody could get into Hilltop. Nobody could get out. Nothing would happen.
Stella struggled up, out of a thick and heavy sleep.
Bang, bang, bang.
She saw blue, blue eyes.
More goddamn banging. So loud. Like a hammer against her skull.
She opened her eyes and found that she was on the sofa, downstairs, grey linen coarse under her cheek. The fire in the hearth had gone out and there was a faint smell of charred pine and a chill in the room. She couldn’t remember where she had left her phone. Maybe Max had tried to call her.
The banging was coming from the front door.
Maybe Max was home. Maybe the police had made it up the hill.
When she stood up, her head ached and there was a ringing in her ears. She had been stupid to drink on top of her pills. She looked hard at the monitor at the front door, a blurry image swam in and out of focus. She lifted the receiver to her ear.
‘Stella – it’s fucking freezing out here. Are you going to let me in?’
His face came into focus more sharply. Her head was clearing. ‘Peter?’
She pulled back the locks and opened the front door wide. Cold air blasted inside. She didn’t care; she welcomed it. The snow had piled up even higher in the darkness, inches more had fallen; he must have struggled to reach Hilltop. She could hardly remember the last time she had been so happy, so relieved, to see someone. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold on tight. But something held her back.
He stepped through the door, his head down, his thick grey hair turned white with snowflakes. He was all trussed up in a black, waxy-waterproof coat. As he unfastened the buttons, the snowflakes fell to the floor, leaving tiny puddles around his boots.
How strange to see Peter in this place, so far removed from her previous life. How unsettling that he looked just the same while Stella felt she’d aged ten years. She tried to smooth down her hair and to straighten her sleeves, to pull down her top; she felt a wreck, standing there.
‘What made you change your mind?’ she said.
He took a long look around the entrance hall, and ended up staring at the chandelier. He was avoiding her eyes, she was sure of it. ‘When did you move out to this godforsaken place?’ he asked.
‘It’s not godforsaken. It’s the Chilterns.’
She looked pointedly at his black boots with their thick soles, but he didn’t remove them. He hung his coat next to hers, on the coat stand next to the front door. She tried to think of the last time she’d needed that coat, but she couldn’t remember.
‘Has the girl given you any problems?’ he asked. She thought she detected a note of something else in his voice, only she wasn’t certain what it was.
‘Not really.’ Stella wondered whether she had sounded totally unhinged on the phone earlier. ‘But she still hasn’t really explained why she’s here – she keeps making up different stories.’
Peter was giving her that strange look again. Perhaps he thought she had been reckless, considering what had happened.
‘I couldn’t just leave her outside to freeze to death,’ she said. ‘I had to let her in.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Upstairs. Asleep,’ Stella said.
‘Asleep?’
‘It’s
late.’
‘Yes. I suppose I imagined – something a little more fraught.’
He stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans; stiff and formal, as though they were strangers. Inside, she squirmed. She felt as though she was a suspect, under interrogation.
‘And I’ve locked her in,’ she said.
She reached into her pocket and felt for the key of her bedroom. It was still there.
‘You locked her in?’ He seemed taken aback by this.
‘She’s unpredictable. I didn’t want her wandering around the house. And she wasn’t exactly pleased when I mentioned I’d contacted the police.’
‘Did you consider that could be viewed as child abduction? Are you sure she’s asleep – that she isn’t trying to get out?’
‘Very sure,’ Stella said. ‘Because I gave her a sleeping tablet.’
Peter rubbed his hands over his face, and suddenly looked very tired.
‘Don’t look at me like that. It was only one – I crushed it up and put it in her drink. I was nervous, trapped in here with her. You said she was high risk. So I made sure she was out of action for a few hours. I needed some peace.’
She felt frustrated; he had no idea, he knew nothing about the way she lived.
Stella supposed he was wondering which one of them was more unstable, herself or the girl. She was beginning to wonder the same thing. She hoped Blue was all right. She listened, half expecting to hear the sound of Blue’s fists beating on her bedroom door, but the house was silent.
‘She’s admitted that the story about being Max’s daughter was a lie. But she now claims that she knows him, that she’s his patient. Apparently it’s Max she came out here to see.’
‘Have you checked with Max?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘She keeps changing her story every five minutes. I wasn’t sure what to do.’ She glanced up at him. He knew she was lying. ‘I can’t reach him. His phone has been turned off all day. He does that. Sometimes.’
Stella was feeling much calmer, much safer, now that Peter was with her. ‘I’m sorry you had to drive out here in this weather,’ she said. ‘I’m very grateful. And also – surprised.’
