by Luana Lewis
‘A few weeks ago, maybe more,’ Blue said. ‘I’m telling you the truth, I can’t remember exactly.’
‘Blue – I’m tired,’ Stella said. She stood up. ‘I’m sick and tired of your lies. Either you can tell me the whole truth about why you’ve come here, everything – or Peter is going to drive you to the nearest police station. Right now.’
Blue took her thumb out of her mouth. She smoothed down her fringe, and pushed her hair behind her ears. She bit down on her lower lip.
This girl is dangerous, Stella thought.
‘Fine,’ Blue said. ‘I’ll tell you everything. I want to anyway. I wanted you to know – that’s why I came. But I need to talk to you on your own.’
‘Absolutely not.’ Peter stood, ready to come in between them.
Blue’s eyes were limpid, hypnotic. Stella saw an angel and then a demon.
‘She’s manipulating you,’ Peter said.
Stella took the girl’s outstretched hand. They had to trust each other.
‘Don’t follow us,’ she said to Peter. ‘We’ll only be in the living room. You can wait in the study.’
His face was a mask of tension. ‘If something happens to either of you – my career is on the line. I’m begging you, don’t do this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Stella said. ‘I have to know.’
Session Ten
The bus took forever and so she was a few minutes late for the session. She was all sweaty, from running. And she was pissed off. She sat in her usual chair, legs slightly apart. She took off her ugly black school shoes and her socks and rubbed her feet into his patterned rug. She stretched out her legs and looked down at her feet. She liked the way the bright pink nail-polish looked against the pale skin of her toes.
He said nothing.
‘I left a message with your secretary. Why didn’t you phone me back?’ She pulled her hairband out, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders and down her back.
‘We shouldn’t be talking to each other in between sessions unless there’s an emergency,’ he said.
‘Like what?’
‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
She looked down at the arms of the chair and scratched at the flowers with her fingernails. She wondered how long it would take for him to let her touch him today. She didn’t like having to beg.
‘What if I’m pregnant?’ she said, only because she wanted to watch him squirm.
He kept his face very still, like he wasn’t surprised or anything. ‘What makes you think you’re pregnant?’
‘I’m not. I just wanted to see your face.’
He wasn’t giving anything away, he had on his professional face, like a mask. Far away and blank, that was how he looked, even when he was inside her. She was fuming. He had used her, he didn’t really give a shit about her.
‘I wanted to see you. I didn’t want to have to wait so long for my stupid appointment time. And I’m sick of seeing you in here, in this office. I want to go to a hotel. I want you to take me home with you, I want to see where you live.’
Her voice sounded all bitter and horrible and she already knew she was never, ever, going to get what she wanted. Not really. He could make her so happy. The two of them, together for hours, all night cuddled up, not just an hour on the carpet that burned her butt, or squashed up on the chair trying to find a place for her legs. Except that thinking about all of that was making her squirm in her chair. She could go over, kneel between his legs and take him in her mouth. That would make him listen. It might change his mind.
She imagined the two of them in a really big bed under a fluffy duvet. Maybe there could be one of those enormous round bathtubs with the jets and the two of them could get in together. And room service: chocolate brownies and ice cream. It would be nice to do it lying on a soft mattress. Half the time she wondered why she even wanted to touch him. He hurt her, sometimes. Her anger was back again, burning and aching, like a hot metal fist knotted in her stomach. Sometimes she hated him.
‘You have to take me to a hotel,’ she said.
‘You know that’s not going to happen,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell someone what we’ve been doing. I’ll tell the police. You’ll go to jail.’ She bit down along the edges of her thumbnail. She could taste blood.
‘I’m going to end our session for today. I’ll meet with your mother and discuss what we can do about getting you the right treatment.’
He stood up and walked to the door. She stayed immobilised in her chair, her legs apart, her top gaping open.
‘You need to leave now,’ he said. His voice was ice cold.
He was in control of everything and he didn’t give a fuck about her, he had never loved her at all, not even a small bit. He would do whatever he wanted and she was nothing, she didn’t exist. He thought he could get rid of her, he thought he could use her and chuck her out when it suited him. She wouldn’t let him get away with it.
She threw herself at him, she wanted to scratch at his eyes that were so far away and so cruel. But she couldn’t get anywhere near them because he grabbed her wrists and he was much, much stronger. She tried to get away from him but he wouldn’t let go, she couldn’t get her hands free.
‘You need to calm down,’ he said.
Her nails were too short to do the kind of damage she wanted to do anyway. She wanted to see his blood. She couldn’t speak but a groaning sound came from the back of her throat. She felt like an animal trying to break out of a cage.
‘Deep breaths,’ he said. ‘Control yourself.’
Her hands unfurled from the tight fists they had become.
‘That’s better.’
She couldn’t bear the sound of his voice. She made the mistake of looking into his heartless eyes and the rage inside her threatened to boil up all over again. The office, the chairs, the desk, the carpet, everything was hazy. Her chest was closing and her heart was racing, she couldn’t breathe. She covered her face with her hands and closed her eyes, she was gasping.
‘If you sit down and behave,’ he said, ‘I can give you something that will help you to relax.’
She nodded. Help me.
He took hold of her, she felt his fingers, too tight around her arm. He was hurting her, pulling her towards the bed under the window.
‘Good girl. Sit.’
He pushed her down. The sheet of paper rustled and fell to the floor. She looked up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. She was terrified. She still could not breathe. She told herself nothing bad would ever happen to her here in this room.
‘Just keep breathing. Slowly. Slow it down,’ he said. His voice promised her relief, but she no longer believed in him. He rolled up her sleeve. She didn’t want to see, she turned her head towards the cream wall and closed her eyes tight.
‘It won’t hurt.’
But it did, the needle stung and burned as it pierced her flesh. She squeezed her hands into fists again, digging what was left of her nails into her palms.
‘It won’t be long,’ he said.
And it wasn’t. Within seconds, her breathing slowed and the muscles in her chest loosened, expanding to let the air back in, right down into her lungs. Her heart stopped its bashing against her ribcage. She lay down and he pulled a white blanket up around her. She turned on to her side to face the wall. She could feel the drug rushing through her veins, warming her up, slowing her down.
From a distance, down a long tunnel, she heard voices. Her thoughts drifted and swirled as if through warm water. People talking. About her. A few trial sessions … hoping for a positive response … too anxiety-provoking at this stage … a chance to mature … severe emotional difficulties … Treatment … Hardly surprising given … a female therapist … acting out … escapes into fantasy … needs to be watched …
She was awake, relaxed, loose and floppy. She turned over on to her side so she could see her doctor. She looked around the room. If he had his way, this would be the last time she was allowed
to be in here with him. Her eyes moved across the wingback armchairs with the red flowers, past the patterned Persian-y rug and then over to his desk, dark wood with a green leather top. She saw a photograph of a woman, smiling. She must be the wife.
Grove Road Clinic, May 2009
Stella walked into the clinic at nine o’clock. Anne was in position, presiding over the front desk, all mascara, razor-sharp haircut and manicured nails. Stella thought about complimenting her, possibly asking who her hairdresser was as a vague attempt to break the frosty atmosphere between them. She could do with some polishing herself. But she decided against it.
In front of Anne’s extraordinary cleavage was an equally ample bouquet of pink roses, the buds just about to open.
‘Morning,’ Stella said. ‘Nice flowers.’
‘They’re for you,’ Anne said.
For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Anne seemed annoyed.
‘Who are they from?’ Stella asked.
Anne toyed with the bee dangling helplessly from the chain around her neck. Stella could never understand how she managed to type with those talons.
‘Your client brought them in this morning. Dr Simpson. He was here at eight thirty. He waited for you for forty minutes. I couldn’t find any record of the appointment. If you do want to book a room, Stella, you need to make sure it’s entered into the system or there could be a clash.’ She swung the bee slowly from left to right and back again.
‘There was nothing in the booking system because I didn’t have an appointment scheduled with him,’ Stella said. She pushed the roses apart, peering between the buds to check for any sign of a note. There wasn’t one. She recognized the vase, it belonged to the clinic. Anne must have accepted the roses on her behalf and put them in water.
Anne continued: ‘Eight consultants work here now. Everyone has to use the computerized booking system. You can’t just assume an office will be available. And I have asked you to ensure that clients are given a signed appointment card.’
‘Anne, are you listening to me?’ Stella said. ‘I told you I did not schedule an appointment with him for this morning. I told him to contact the receptionist if he wanted to reschedule. As far as I know, he hasn’t done so.’
‘And you really need to be careful in care proceedings cases,’ Anne said. ‘His ex-wife and daughter arrived at eight forty-five for a joint appointment with Dr Fisher. It was potentially a very awkward situation. As it was, Dr Simpson was very understanding about it. Initially he wanted to wait until I telephoned you to find out why you weren’t here, but when his ex-wife and daughter arrived, he thought it best that he leave and reschedule for another time.’
What a fucking disaster. She wondered if Max was angry at her too. The mother could lodge a complaint with her solicitor. All parties in the case had been warned about the acrimony between the parents and had been instructed to make sure there was no overlap in appointment times.
‘I said: I did not make an appointment with him.’ Stella repeated herself to no avail. Judging by the look on her face, Anne remained unconvinced. Stella reminded herself that she did not have to explain herself. Not to Anne, anyway. But she did have to talk to Max.
‘Bin the flowers,’ she said.
‘They’re just about to open,’ Anne said. ‘What a terrible waste.’
‘I don’t accept gifts from clients. And you shouldn’t have taken them on my behalf.’
‘I can accept rudeness from clients,’ Anne said, ‘but not from staff. I don’t like your tone.’ Her eyes narrowed. The bee whizzed from side to side.
‘I apologize if my tone was rude,’ Stella said. In fact she did not feel at all sorry, but she did acknowledge that Anne was not the main problem. ‘I’m angry with Lawrence Simpson. Please can you just throw the flowers away. And if a client ever leaves a gift for me again, please do not accept it.’
‘You can throw them away. I can’t bring myself to waste such lovely flowers.’
‘With pleasure.’ With a sharp movement, Stella picked up the vase. Water splashed on to Anne’s desktop.
Stella hoped she would have better luck explaining the situation to her boss.
She waited in the office on the first floor, door ajar, until she heard Max’s door open on the floor above. Voices and footsteps floated by, on their way down the stairs; the front door closed with a loud clack. She needed to catch Max before his next appointment; she dashed up the stairs and tapped on his door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
For once, she didn’t want to. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘Not at all.’ But he got up from behind his desk, walked over to the door and reached for his coat.
‘It’s about the Simpson care proceedings.’ Stella wasn’t sure where to stand. ‘Do you have a few minutes?’
‘I’m just on my way out. Actually I wanted to come and talk to you about that case today. But I’m due to give evidence in an hour – at the Old Bailey. It’s the Vogel case, shaken baby. I think you prepared the background summary for me?’
‘I did. Will you be back in the office later? I was hoping to talk to you today.’
‘If you don’t have anything booked this morning, why don’t you come with me? We can talk in the car. It would be interesting for you to see the cross-examination. The psychologist and paediatrician are also giving evidence today.’ Max straightened his tie and slipped his arms into his jacket.
She didn’t have any clients booked. ‘That would be great,’ she said. ‘I’ll just grab my bag.’
She met him at reception, where she imagined a certain resentment lurking beneath Anne’s tight smile as she watched them walk out together. Max’s car was a shiny, low-slung, two-door affair: a single man’s car. A showy car. The interior was clean with a sharp smell of eucalyptus. A copy of The Times was at her feet, a half-full bottle of Evian in the cup holder. Nothing else was lying about. As he turned the key in the ignition, Radio 2 began to play. Max turned the volume down. The steering wheel was feathery light under his fingers as he made a three-point turn. She was silent, watching him, feeling the heightened awareness of being in a confined space, so close to him.
‘So – about the Simpson family,’ she said. She was anxious that he should believe her version of events.
‘I’ve just seen mother and daughter,’ Max said.
‘I know. And I understand the father turned up at the clinic this morning, saying he had an appointment with me?’
Max nodded. She wasn’t sure he was following, he was concentrating on changing lanes.
‘Max, there was no appointment scheduled. I know it could have been a bad situation, him and the ex-wife in the building at the same time. I hope you believe me,’ she said. ‘Anne seemed convinced it was my mistake.’
She could hear herself, brittle and defensive. Max was probably regretting putting his trust in her, since it was obvious to both of them she was barely keeping her head above water in this case.
‘Anne is not a clinician,’ he said. ‘And it’s her job to be polite to our clients.’
As opposed to being polite to staff members.
‘And of course I believe you,’ Max said. ‘I think it’s quite likely he found out about the appointment I had with the mother and child and made a point of turning up. It probably wasn’t a coincidence.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ Stella said. She had been too busy imagining everyone held her responsible. She was hugely relieved to have Max’s support. She relaxed a little and began to take notice of the world outside his car. They were on the Finchley Road, passing Lord’s cricket ground, heading towards central London.
‘He left a huge bunch of flowers for me this morning,’ she said. ‘I’m really annoyed about it. Again – it’s like he wants to give the impression that there’s some kind of relationship between us that there shouldn’t be. I think he’s trying to force me into an awkward position, in front of my colleagues. I suppose he wants me to feel the way he feels: embarrassed an
d humiliated, as if I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t. It’s exactly the way he experiences these proceedings.’
‘Absolutely. I agree with you,’ Max said. He glanced over at her and smiled and she felt she’d passed some sort of test.
She combed her hair with her fingers. She continued talking, thinking aloud. ‘I suppose it’s an attempt to reclaim some power in a situation where he feels powerless. In his view he’s a victim of an unjust system. He’s never actually been accused of doing anything wrong or harming the child in any way, and yet he’s still being hauled in front of psychologists and psychiatrists to prove he’s a competent parent. It’s driving him crazy that he’s being tarred with the same brush as the ex-wife. And I’m guessing this is the first situation in his whole life where he feels completely out of control.’
Max nodded.
‘Max,’ she said. ‘Do you really believe me about the appointment this morning?’
‘Stella, of course I believe you,’ he said. ‘Why are you asking me this again?’
‘I don’t know. Despite all my professional psychobabble, Simpson makes me doubt myself. I keep going over it, wondering if I’ve done something to encourage him, something to lead him to believe there is some kind of intimacy between us. I know he finds me attractive. And I know I haven’t done anything to encourage him. He’s messing with my head. And I’m reacting just the way he wants me to, I suppose, doubting myself.’
‘I think you just answered your own question,’ Max said.
Stella rested her head against the smooth leather headrest and enjoyed the feeling of sun on her face. The scent of sharp, oily pine mingled with the richness of new leather. She could get used to this sort of life. For a few moments, she felt much freer around Max, much less selfconscious. Perhaps it was the speed of the car, the sense of being cocooned inside, with him, away from the clinic.
