Don’t Stand So Close

by Luana Lewis

  ‘What about a clinical formulation? Do you have a hypothesis?’

  ‘I think he’s highly insecure and I think there’s a strong possibility he suffers from anxiety. I think it’s likely he’s paranoid – he resents being forced into these appointments with psychologists and psychiatrists and he’s preoccupied with what professionals will find out about him. The only way he will engage is if he believes he can manipulate the clinician into seeing his best side. I think he would like to be able to seduce me, so to speak, into being on his side. I think that even if he does turn up for a rescheduled appointment, he will shut down completely if I try to explore any territory where he doesn’t want to go.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’re getting a good sense of him,’ Max said. ‘I have to say I’m relieved he’s re-engaging. Gregory’s are a big law firm – if we impress them with this one, there’ll be plenty more work. Let’s focus on finishing the interviews, and then we can integrate our findings. And get the bills sent out.’

  ‘How’s it going with the mother and daughter?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘All on track.’ He placed his empty mug down on his side table and glanced up behind her head. She knew there was a clock on the wall. Her irritation mounted. She had only had thirty minutes of his time, instead of the hour she was entitled to. As always, he had cut their time together short.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to include all of this in my report: bumping into him in the restaurant, his approaching me, letting him buy me a drink.’

  ‘It’s a judgement call,’ Max said. ‘If you don’t write it up, his solicitor may raise it in court and use it in some way to discredit you. Although I think that sort of personal attack would be extremely unlikely. On the other hand, from what you’ve said, nothing that happened in that meeting outside of the clinic has any relevance to his parenting ability, so there’s no real reason to include it.’

  ‘What would you do?’ Stella asked.

  ‘I’d advise you to write up exactly what happened, in as much detail as you remember, and keep the notes in the case file. But as he didn’t really do anything noteworthy or inappropriate, I wouldn’t include it in the court report. If you have it in the file, then if it’s raised at any point – which I very much doubt – you can hand over your notes. OK?’

  She nodded, unsmiling. His brisk tone indicated that their session was over.

  ‘When you’ve written up a draft I’ll read your report in detail and we’ll go over it together before we submit it to the solicitors.’

  In the end, he wouldn’t let her down.

  Stella collected her papers, packing them back into her bag and feeling selfconscious as she struggled to push the too-large files back into her bulging tote bag.

  ‘Those are great tights,’ he said.

  She was wearing a knee-length black skirt and her tights had a slightly out-there zigzag pattern. She had been thinking about the supervision session when she chose what to wear that morning.

  ‘Thanks.’ Her mood lifted a little.

  ‘You’ve got my mobile number. Don’t hesitate to call me. Even if it’s on a weekend or in the middle of the interview – if there’s anything you’re unsure about.’

  Either he was being supportive and he cared, or he didn’t trust her to handle a clinical interview with a challenging client. And, just maybe, he was hinting that he wanted her to contact him after hours.

  Incredibly unlikely.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘We’re all going across to the Lamb and Eagle for a drink after work. Want to join us?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ she said. In fact she could, she had absolutely nothing else planned. And she wanted to, very much. But she didn’t trust herself to be around him, socially, and to act normal. Too many feelings simmered inside her, they were too difficult to control. She wouldn’t be able to speak.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ He seemed genuinely to want to know.

  ‘I have to get some work done on this report,’ she lied.

  ‘Nothing exciting then?’

  How boring she must seem.

  She backed away, heading for the door, though she would have liked nothing more than to move closer.

  Max, Anne and Paul left the building together at six o’clock. Stella watched them go, through the wooden shutters of the office on the first floor. She felt irrationally angry at being left behind. Irrationally jealous. Max threw his head back and laughed at something Anne had said. She saw him rest his hand protectively on the small of Anne’s back as they approached the crossing.

  She could not imagine that Max would ever touch her. Professional distance – like a six-foot-high, reinforced concrete wall – was solidly, immovably in place between them.

  She turned back to her computer and typed the heading she most dreaded: Background Documentation. She had yet another file of papers to summarize for the Simpson matter. She would try to be as brief as possible and to get it all down to twenty pages, double-spaced. Max had given her the history to write up because it was the most tedious part of the work. She accepted her place in the hierarchy: he was the senior consultant, he could pick and choose.

  After forty-five minutes she got up and made another cup of coffee. For once, she felt grateful to Anne, who had put on a fresh pot before leaving. At nine, she shut down her laptop and packed it away.

  She hated being the last to leave because it meant she was responsible for checking the building was secure. If a window was left open, if the building was burgled, if client files went missing, if the place burnt down – it would be her fault.

  She locked the case files away in the tall metal cupboard, double-checking the doors were secure. She went through each room, checking windows and turning out lights. The building fell silent around her.

  Hilltop, 12.30 a.m.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you in person,’ Peter said. ‘It’s about the photograph you sent me.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why she would come out here?’

  ‘She is the girl I told you about – the fifteen-year-old. She lives with her single mother on an estate in Ladbroke Grove, but it turns out she’s been in and out of foster care. Her last placement was around two years ago. The mother has substance-abuse problems.’

  He was staring at her, waiting, watching for a reaction.

  ‘That sounds right,’ Stella said. ‘She told me something similar.’

  Stella spoke softly, as though Blue might be lurking on the stairs, listening.

  ‘Stella. The reason I came out here to see you was because I’m certain that this girl is Lawrence Simpson’s daughter.’

  Stella almost laughed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘She isn’t.’

  ‘His daughter has just turned fifteen,’ he said.

  ‘So have thousands of other girls. Millions, even.’

  ‘Stella, the photograph you sent me – it is the same girl.’

  ‘No. That doesn’t make sense.’ Stella shook her head. ‘Blue told me that Max has been treating her. He would never take her on as a patient if she was Lawrence Simpson’s daughter. Not after – what happened. It’s not her.’

  Stella was calm. Flat. Detached.

  ‘The name on her birth certificate is Lauren Simpson. Her mother started using the name Cunningham for both of them a few years back – it’s her maiden name.’

  It was sinking in, sinking through the fog. Her gut instinct had been right: the girl had brought danger with her. If Peter believed the girl was Simpson’s daughter, she knew it must be true; he would never have come out to see her at Hilltop unless he was absolutely sure.

  She closed her eyes and put her face in her hands. When she opened her eyes, the room was blurred and so was Peter’s face.

  ‘I wanted to tell you in person,’ he said. ‘The Met Police know but I have no idea how long it will take them to get someone out here.’

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said. ‘Don’t try and protect me. Honestly: do you think Simpson’s involved
in this? Do you think he sent her out here? Maybe he brought her here himself …’

  She rubbed her eyes, but her vision wasn’t any clearer.

  ‘Stella, stop.’ He reached out and put his hand over hers; it was warm, it covered hers completely. ‘Listen to me. Absolutely not – that is not what’s happening. I’ve followed the case. His daughter still has a guardian and I managed to talk to her earlier. Simpson has had an unblemished record for the past eighteen months. He didn’t get custody but he was granted unsupervised contact. The guardian is happy with him. There’s no reason he should screw that up. If he carries on the way he is, he has another shot at gaining custody because apparently the ex-wife is back on the bottle. There is no reason I can think of that he would jeopardize what he’s always wanted. But the question is – why would his daughter come out here?’

  ‘It is her,’ Stella said. ‘She has his eyes.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything more about why she wants to see Max?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really – something about wanting him to help her.’ She looked out, towards the garden. There was only darkness. ‘Nothing about this makes sense. Max wouldn’t take Blue on as a patient, not after everything that happened. He couldn’t.’

  ‘But he knows her,’ Peter said. ‘He was part of the assessment team, for the court case.’

  ‘And that was almost two years ago and now he’s married to me. And this girl lies constantly. She’s also on some very strong medication – she may well be delusional. Maybe she knew Max wasn’t here. Maybe she came out here to see me, to hurt me. Maybe she knows something about my report. We have to talk to her.’

  She didn’t wait for him to give her an argument. She ran towards the stairs. He had no choice but to follow.

  Stella unlocked her bedroom door.

  ‘Blue might be frightened,’ she said, ‘if she sees you when she wakes up. She’s going to be groggy, confused maybe. Wait here.’

  She barely looked at Peter. Her heart galloped in her chest, as though she expected a wild animal to lunge out at her.

  ‘Blue?’ She pushed the door wide open.

  The air in her bedroom was musty and thick with sleep. Stella edged forwards, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. She stumbled over something at her feet. Something was wrong. Or everything was wrong. The chair that usually stood in front of the dressing table lay on its side. Her dressing table was emptied and, around it, strewn across the floor, was a trail of cosmetics and shattered perfume bottles. The bookshelves were half empty, books flung out. Her cupboards gaped open and a mess of clothes and shoes spilt out on to the carpet. The room stank of perfume: lime and musk and pomegranate, all mixed up. It was as if there had been an explosion.

  Stella groped her way across to the bed, hoping not to step on broken glass or to fall over some unexpected object.

  ‘Blue? Are you awake?’

  Blue was a bundle under the covers. She didn’t stir at the sound of her name. Stella placed a hand lightly on her back, feeling for the movement of her breath. She closed her eyes, concentrating on her fingertips. And there it was: a small stirring, the girl’s ribcage expanding and then falling, rising again, falling.

  Stella pulled the covers back and touched the girl’s bony shoulder. She shook her. ‘Blue – wake up.’

  Blue groaned. She pulled away, hauling the covers up around her head and trying to huddle her way back down into sleep. Stella turned on the bedside lamp. The empty mug was still in its place on the bedside table. Blue grimaced, screwing her eyes tightly closed and turning away.

  ‘Come on.’ Stella slipped her hands under Blue’s arms and pulled her up to a sitting position, gently pushing her hair back from her face. Blue blinked at her, looking groggy as all hell.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  Blue nodded.

  ‘What the hell happened to my bedroom?’

  Blue’s lips had lost their pale pink blush. She looked terribly young and afraid. ‘I woke up and I couldn’t find you,’ she said. ‘The door was locked.’

  ‘So you destroyed my bedroom?’

  ‘I was calling you. I was scared. Why did you lock the door?’

  ‘I needed to sleep,’ Stella said. ‘I just wanted to keep you safe.’

  ‘I was banging on the door. Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘I didn’t hear you. I was asleep, downstairs.’

  ‘I thought you were kind of psycho. Locking me in here.’

  ‘Blue, you came here to my house, remember? You lied to me to get in here. Remember?’

  Blue nodded, looking down at her nails.

  ‘I’m entitled to be a little suspicious of you too,’ Stella said.

  Her feelings towards the girl swayed and shifted and wouldn’t settle. She looked at Blue’s lovely, young face and felt a strange fondness. Blue was no threat.

  And then the fear was back. She was afraid of what Blue might want from her.

  Her eyes. Drops of sweat broke out across Stella’s forehead, on her top lip, in the crease of her neck.

  ‘I forgive you for locking me in,’ Blue said.

  Stella wiped the moisture from her face ‘Blue, there’s someone outside. You don’t need to be afraid. He’s a friend. And a policeman.’

  Stella was expecting drama, a tantrum at the very least.

  ‘Where’s my jacket?’ Blue asked.

  ‘It’s right here.’

  When Blue had pulled on her jacket once again, she looked just the way Stella had first seen her when she had arrived at Hilltop the afternoon before, only now she seemed paler and smaller.

  She wasn’t sure the girl had heard her, had understood. Blue allowed Stella to take her by the arm, to steer her over the obstacles and out of the bedroom. She seemed sanguine about Peter’s arrival; in the hallway she gave him a small, shy smile. Perhaps it was the tranquillizers, but she seemed calmer, more acquiescent.

  Peter walked behind them, keeping a distance, as Stella and Blue descended the grand circular staircase, moving towards the hard concrete and marble downstairs. Nobody spoke; the atmosphere was charged and heavy.

  At the bottom, Blue stopped next to the front door. She bent down and grabbed her shoes. ‘I’m going home,’ she said.

  ‘We need to talk to you first,’ Stella said.

  ‘You can’t keep me here. I’ll tell them you made me have a bath in front of you.’ She fumbled with her laces.

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate that. But you can’t leave – it’s the middle of the night. It’s freezing.’

  Peter placed his solid frame in front of the door.

  Blue looked warily at the two of them, as though they were the unwanted guests who had forced themselves into her home and not the other way round.

  ‘Why is he here?’ Blue asked.

  ‘We’re worried about you. We only want to talk to you.’ Stella took a chance and reached for Blue’s hand, catching it in mid-air, on the way to her mouth once more. She hoped they wouldn’t have to restrain her.

  Blue did not resist, she let Stella take her hand. At first her grip was shy and tentative, then she edged closer, taking hold of Stella’s arm and leaning against her shoulder. Stella could see Peter taking it all in: the way Blue had staked a claim to her; the way she swung from sullen to seductive.

  Blue allowed Stella to lead her into the kitchen.

  It was strange, to have people in her home. On weekdays, Max would leave the house by six, whilst Stella was still asleep. On weekends he’d leave at the same time, to cycle down to Beaconsfield and back. She had come to Hilltop to escape. But escape came at a price: the move had cut her off from everyone she knew, from her past, from her own self.

  Blue chose her customary seat, the one at the head of the table. Stella began to dread what the girl might reveal. Her thoughts would not follow rhythm or logic; she knew Blue had brought something terrible into her home.

  Peter nodded at her, impatient to start. He stayed silent as Stella asked the questions.

&nb
sp; ‘Is your name Lauren Simpson?’ Stella said.

  ‘I told you – my name is Blue.’

  ‘And your surname?’

  ‘Cunningham. Blue Cunningham.’

  ‘So your name isn’t Lauren Simpson?’

  ‘Not any more. It’s true. You can ask my mother.’

  ‘But your name used to be Lauren Simpson?’

  Blue nodded.

  ‘Is Lawrence Simpson your father?’ Stella asked. She hated the sound of his name, the feel of him in her mouth. Her throat itched and she pulled hard at the neck of her jumper. Her voice rose – half frightened, half furious. ‘Did he tell you to come here? Where is he?’

  ‘No.’ Blue looked surprised by the question, and confused.

  ‘Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘No. Why would I tell him I’m here? I hate him.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is!’ Blue was becoming distressed, her eyes filling with tears.

  Whatever Blue had done, whatever else had happened, Stella reminded herself, she was still a victim.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ Blue said. ‘I said I HATE him. I would never have told him I was coming here. The man I told you about upstairs – that was him.’ Blue stood up, defiant. ‘You can’t force me to stay here. I don’t have to talk to you.’

  ‘Sit down!’ Stella snapped.

  ‘Stella.’ Peter interrupted her. He reached out, keeping his eyes on Blue, and put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Blue,’ he said, ‘this is really important. Have you told anyone where you are?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you one hundred per cent sure? No one at all?’

  ‘I’m sure. I ran away. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going when you run away.’ She was biting down hard on her thumb. All of the skin around the nail was raw and angry.

  ‘Does your father know this address?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you – no. I don’t understand—’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Come on, Blue, think carefully. Take your time.’ Peter kept his tone even and unthreatening. He sat with his feet planted firmly on the floor, leaning forward, his hands flat on the table in front of him. He looked casual enough not to be intimidating, he kept any urgency out of his voice. But Stella could see the muscles tensed across his shoulders and his neck. She admired him and she envied him. He was doing his job and he was good at it. She used to be good at hers.