Don’t Stand So Close

by Luana Lewis

  His hands hung stiffly at his sides now. His eyes touched hers, then flickered away. He glanced at his watch. They had not spoken in more than a year. He might well resent her sudden intrusion into his life.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you didn’t change your mobile number.’

  In fact Peter looked as though he would rather be anywhere else but inside Hilltop. Nevertheless, he followed her through into the living room.

  ‘When will your husband be home?’ he asked.

  Your husband. The words that should bring a feeling of pleasure, of warmth.

  ‘Tomorrow morning – early,’ she said. ‘Today, I mean.’

  She was too jumpy to sit down, and so she remained standing at one end of the sofa. He stood too, at the opposite end.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ He had noticed the empty wine bottle.

  ‘One minute I feel sorry for her, the next I don’t trust her. I think she has some ulterior motive.’

  Peter seemed not to know quite what to say to her.

  He wandered over to the bookshelves at the side of the fireplace and began inspecting her books. She read almost anything. She had hours and days and months to fill, and new books couldn’t come out fast enough. Her DVD collection was equally impressive. Each month she’d send a couple of boxes to Oxfam with Max and then re-stock the shelves. In Hilltop, time could feel like torture. On the days when she could no longer concentrate on novels or films, she had to face the truth: her life had become like watching paint dry.

  ‘You organize your shelves,’ he said. ‘Fiction and non-fiction. And then non-fiction by subject. And also by size.’ He was in front of the shelves on photography and interior design.

  ‘I do,’ she said. She wished he’d get on with it: the reason for his visit.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be classified as obsessive?’

  ‘Rituals keep anxiety at bay.’

  ‘What anxiety?’ he asked.

  ‘You know.’

  ‘So. You and Max,’ he said.

  She nodded. She knew he was asking her a question, and that he wanted some kind of explanation, but she didn’t want to talk about her husband.

  ‘Has Max tried to get you back to the clinic?’

  ‘He doesn’t pressure me.’ She rested her hands on the back of the sofa, stroking the rough fabric.

  ‘What do you do with yourself all day?’ he asked.

  The Stella he knew was a different person, driven and ambitious. She loved her job.

  ‘I don’t go out much,’ she said. ‘I don’t go out at all.’

  ‘And his life goes on as normal?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said.

  ‘Why is that interesting?’

  She was still hovering behind the sofa, deciding whether or not to sit down. If she remained standing, she could discharge more of her nervous energy, by tapping her foot, moving her arm along the back of the sofa, rearranging the cushions.

  Peter always did have skewed ideas about Max.

  ‘What about professional help?’ he asked.

  ‘Max took me to see a psychiatrist.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It didn’t go well. Lying on the couch with some strange man once a week didn’t appeal to me at that point.’

  ‘Did you try someone else?’

  ‘No. He gave me a prescription and I take plenty of pills. They keep me functioning. They stop the flashbacks and the nightmares.’

  Peter approached the sofa, cautiously, and sat down on one end – the exact spot Blue had chosen earlier. Stella walked round and sat down too. Not too close. He was looking directly at her now.

  ‘You’re still taking them, after all this time?’

  ‘Max authorizes the repeat prescriptions. Neither of us think there’s any point stopping the pills when I barely leave the house.’

  ‘Isn’t it unethical to prescribe drugs for family members?’

  ‘It helps me stay sane.’

  ‘Sounds an ideal set-up then,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it is.’

  Go to hell, she thought. Peter had always wanted too much, expected too much of her. Much more than her husband did. She should expect more of herself, she supposed.

  ‘I take almost as many pills as that girl. I’m a walking zombie.’ It was a relief to say it out loud, to admit the truth.

  And she had been cruel to him. She was wrong to have cut him out completely, and not only Pete, but all of her friends, all of the people who cared. She felt ashamed and she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t sit so near to him. She leapt up and, putting some distance between them, she wrenched open the curtains and flicked on the outside lights, illuminating her kingdom. The lamps along the patio cast yellow rays across the garden and the glow spread all the way across the lawn, reaching the edge of the snow-coated trees behind them.

  He came to stand next to her, looking out at the garden, his hands in his pockets again. They stood very close and static crackled in the empty space between them.

  ‘Why does he stay over in Hampstead?’ he asked. He was more gentle with her now. He pitied her, and that was worse.

  ‘The snow,’ she said. ‘He thought it would be safer. The roads were too difficult, in his car. How did you make it up here?’

  ‘I borrowed a jeep.’

  ‘Max kept the Hampstead apartment after we moved out here,’ she said. ‘He stays over there, sometimes. I think he probably needs to get away from me.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Any more questions?’

  He shook his head.

  She felt tears coming and she felt angry. At everything: at Max, at the girl upstairs, at her own weakness, at Peter. She paced around the blue border of the carpet. She stood on the parrot’s face. She clenched her fists, feeling the power in her hands. She was struck by how vital Peter looked, how steady. He was a reminder of her old life, of everything she had given up.

  ‘Do you still find me attractive?’ she asked.

  ‘Jesus, Stella.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ He dug his hands deep into his pockets.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  She stood right in front of him. She looked at his face, properly. What colour were his eyes? She had forgotten, or she had never noticed. She hadn’t paid much attention.

  His eyes were brown.

  She leaned forward and kissed him, taking him by surprise. He kissed her back, tentatively, more gently than she would have liked. Her lips parted and she pressed herself close against him, trying to absorb something of his strength. She wanted to feel his hands in her hair, his arms tight around her. She wanted a taste of her old self. His lips against hers. If she could stay with him, where it was safe. The gold silk curtains tied back from the windows, the blanket of snow outside. His body, solid. She pressed harder against him.

  His hands were on her shoulders. Firm. Not holding her, but pushing her away. He stepped back, holding her at arm’s length, a strange look on his face. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She couldn’t explain the unexpected, urgent attraction. It must be the heightened tension in the house, the adrenaline, the stress of the unexpected visitor, all colliding, tricking her body into a heightened state of anticipation. Or, just maybe, the months of frustration, with her husband.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t need to apologize.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, moving away from her.

  ‘No.’ She was sick and tired of being kept at a distance. ‘Please. Tell me why you came out here.’ She looked into his eyes, trying to see what it was he wasn’t saying. ‘You’re making me nervous. Has something happened to Max?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  He took his time, considering his words carefully.

  Session Ni
ne

  She sat in her chair, like a good girl. A good patient. Impatient. From the look on his face when she walked in, all stony and closed, she could see she had better not try anything too soon. She would have to wait.

  For the first time ever, he started talking first.

  ‘You know I want to help you get better,’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘And I want to help you to come to terms with reality. Even if it’s painful. There can’t be anything between us, anything more than doctor and patient.’

  She leaned forward, her blouse gaping open.

  ‘You’ve had some very difficult experiences. And I think you’re avoiding dealing with what’s happened to you by fixating on me. By fantasizing about me. But I’m not the answer to your problems.’

  She chewed on her thumbnail. ‘Don’t try and make out that I’m crazy,’ she said.

  ‘Having a fantasy doesn’t mean you’re crazy.’

  Her mouth was really dry. She hadn’t made up what had happened. It was real. Afterwards, she had changed her underwear and it was sticky – her juices and his, together.

  ‘This has to stop,’ he said. ‘We can’t work together any more. I’m not helping you. Not really helping, in the way you need.’

  She swallowed again, her throat was tight. ‘Can I have some water?’

  He nodded. She reached for the glass on the small table beside her. With a shaking hand, she raised it to her lips and took a small sip, to wet her mouth so she could find her voice.

  ‘This fantasy that you have about being with me – it isn’t good for you. It’s hurting you.’ His voice was so calm and so cold.

  ‘STOP TALKING!’ She checked herself, tried not to scream. ‘Stop it.’

  Now her head was starting to feel fuzzy.

  ‘If you can’t stay with reality, if you can’t deal with what is really happening around you, you know what the alternative is.’ He was on edge. He kept looking towards the door. She must not scream again.

  ‘You’re scaring me,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not trying to scare you. I only want to help you, before you hurt yourself more than you already have. Can you understand how destructive this is?’

  She put her head in her hands and she started to cry. She couldn’t bear to look at him. He wouldn’t stop talking and his words were like knives. And he wouldn’t stop.

  ‘I care about you. And I don’t want you to get worse, to get seriously ill. But if these sessions aren’t helping you, I have to do something different. I could carry on seeing you, I could increase the dosage of your medication, but if I’m honest, I don’t think any of that is in your best interests. I think it’s best if we stop these sessions and I find you another therapist. A woman.’

  She didn’t look up at him. She sank down, between the chair and the rug, drew her knees up to her chest and put her head down between them. She pushed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. It wasn’t a fantasy. He had loved her. And now he wanted to take it away and it was the only good thing she had left and she didn’t understand why bad things always had to happen to her. He was supposed to love her, after what she had let him do.

  His voice changed, it was softer and kinder. ‘You have to admit to yourself that what happened between us was some kind of fantasy. Like a dream.’

  She blocked out his words, not hearing. She focused on the sound of his voice, the softer, warmer tone, and her anger ebbed away. What started next was the feeling of wanting him; she felt a warmth spreading and pulsing. She wanted him to let her climb on to his lap, to hold her.

  She sat with her head still between her knees, her eyes open, staring at the patterns in the rug and letting her eyes go out of focus so she wasn’t really there at all.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ he asked. His voice drifted towards her from far away, as though he were standing at the end of a long tunnel.

  She closed her eyes, shook her head. She wanted to make him stop hurting her.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Anything you want me to do for you. Anything. I’ll do anything.’

  He looked sad and disappointed. ‘This wasn’t how I wanted it to end between us. I wanted to help you.’

  She wanted to crawl over to him and slide herself between his knees, to move her hand up between his legs, until he would let her close to him again. But she was getting sick of this, sick of him always making her work so hard. Making him love her all over again, every time. Having to wait seven whole days until she saw him for one measly hour. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she loved him or if she hated him.

  Grove Road Clinic, May 2009

  ‘So – are we going to have a look at the Rorschach data?’ Max asked.

  For once, he was in his office, at the right time. Although he had looked a little surprised to see her at his door.

  Stella shook her head. ‘I wish we could,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t get him to take the test. He freaked out, he got really paranoid about it. I think it was too threatening for him to deal with a completely unstructured stimulus. He wouldn’t cooperate.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ Max looked at her over the top of his mug of coffee. Unruly piles of paperwork were strewn across the desk between them.

  ‘I lost it a little bit – I was so frustrated at his defiance, when he wouldn’t cooperate, that instead of focusing on building rapport, I said something smarmy about how he should consider what the judge would think of him. So that, of course, alienated him more and he ended up walking out of the session. And I let him go. I’m not optimistic about filling my quota of hours on this case – there’s hardly any material to write up.’ She hated disappointing him.

  ‘Come on, Stella, I know how hard you work. You’re an excellent clinician and you’re too hard on yourself. A bit perfectionistic sometimes.’

  He rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk and swallowed a couple of tablets, washing them down with his coffee. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  He gave her a weak smile. He looked so tired.

  ‘But that’s not quite the end of the Simpson story,’ Stella said. ‘There’s more. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. On Saturday night I was out with a group of friends, at a restaurant in Marylebone. Simpson was there and he made a point of coming over to my table to talk to me. Because I was in a group of people, I didn’t want to cause a scene. I also didn’t want to break confidentiality by identifying him as a client. So I ended up having a bit of a chat with him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He apologized for being so difficult in the interview and he asked if I would schedule another appointment for him.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Max said. ‘Are you pleased?’

  For some reason she felt sheepish, as though she had done something unprofessional. ‘It was odd, bumping into him while I was with friends, in a bar. With a half-naked belly dancer in the background. He was really friendly actually, totally different to the way he behaved in my office. I got the feeling he would have sat down and had a meal with us if there had been an empty chair. I think he was pleased to see me, I think it gave him a thrill, to be able to get a look in at my personal life. He even got to see me belly dancing, for God’s sake.’

  Max ran his hand over his closely cropped head. He must have had a haircut over the weekend. His eyes glinted and he laughed. She grinned too. She loved to make him happy.

  ‘It gave me the creeps,’ she said.

  ‘The real world does exist, you know. Things happen out there too, not just inside this clinic. You can’t control everything, Stella. You over-think things sometimes.’

  ‘And I should also say that he bought me a drink. At the time I just couldn’t face making a scene over it. I know I should have refused.’

  ‘Look, he was a little over-familiar, overstepping a boundary and treating you like a friend, like someone he met in a bar, and not as a professional. I’m sure that’s what he does and
you’re not going to be the exception to the rule. On the positive side, if he apologized, it seems like he has some insight into his behaviour, and it sounds like he can see it’s in his best interests to cooperate with you.

  ‘And who can say that accepting that drink – his gift – didn’t buy you some goodwill with a difficult-to-engage client? If you’d turned it down, and wounded his pride, you could have kissed any hope of rapport goodbye. Something small like that – acting like a human being instead of a snobbish professional – can be key to connecting with him. You can’t simply be a blank screen and hide behind your professional credentials, you have to give something back sometimes. And if he imagines that he’s succeeded in winning you over, or that you might be susceptible to his charms in some way, won’t he cooperate a little more willingly?’

  ‘I see your point,’ she said.

  ‘And they can’t prove you drank it, can they?’

  ‘I didn’t, actually.’

  He leaned forward and grinned at her again. She knew he had a sense of fun, that he was far from boring, that he questioned the need to keep a rigid hierarchical distance between patient and professional. As the familiar longing to be closer to him grew, so her nerves kicked in and the muscles in her face seized up. She found it difficult to hold her smile.

  He leaned back in his chair, retreated, as though he had given up on her. She must appear humourless. ‘It sounds like he was trying to connect with you. Do you agree?’

  ‘I think he’s so angry, and his pride has been so wounded by this whole process of having to go through a psychological assessment that he’s trying to find some way to subvert our professional relationship, so that he can feel he has more control over the process. He even asked if I could travel to his offices, instead of meeting here at the clinic. I think he’s desperate to convince me that we’re somehow equals, to get me to like him, on a personal level.’

  Her legs were so tightly crossed she could no longer feel her feet. She stretched them in small increments, trying to re-establish the blood flow. She wished she could be more relaxed around Max, wished she could enjoy him more.