Don’t Stand So Close

by Luana Lewis

  ‘I have offered him a replacement appointment,’ she said. ‘But I asked him to contact the secretary if he wants to reschedule – I think that if he’s serious about cooperating, he needs to show some initiative. If I do all the chasing, I’m pretty sure it will be another two hours wasted.’

  ‘That’s fine, but I do think he deserves to have his side of the case heard. Other than the ex-wife’s claims, there’s no evidence in any other context to suggest that he poses a risk to the child. I think you have to keep an open mind – she has serious problems herself and we can’t take her reports at face value.’

  The tone of the conversation had undergone a subtle shift, and now it seemed Max was lecturing her on how to be objective, on how to do her job properly, and she resented it. It was always so fraught between them. And she knew it was all in her mind: she was ultra-sensitive to any perceived shifts in Max’s mood, to any veiled criticisms in what he said. She placed far too much importance on each word, on every inflection.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. She worked to keep her expression neutral, relieved that he was concentrating on the road ahead of him.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Simpson’s behaviour goes with the territory. If you’re going to work on these reports, it gets uncomfortable at times.’

  ‘I know.’

  He thought she had overreacted.

  She allowed herself to be distracted, mesmerized by his hand, the fluid movements of his wrist and his fingers on the gears. She wanted to enjoy every second of this time alone with him.

  ‘I had a conversation with the lead solicitor this morning,’ he said. ‘Simpson has now defaulted on three appointments with the psychiatrist and so he’s decided not to offer any further appointments.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’

  Max’s right hand rested gently on the wheel. The journey was stop-start, a procession of endless red lights now they had entered the heart of the city.

  ‘So what happens now, if he refuses both the psychiatric and the psychological assessment?’ Stella asked.

  ‘The lead solicitor thinks his chances of gaining sole custody are increasingly unlikely. The judge ordered the assessment and obviously won’t look favourably on his failure to attend appointments. His ex-wife has admitted herself voluntarily to an in-patient substance-abuse treatment facility and the daughter is adamant she wants to return to live with her mother. The Local Authority is going to put forward a proposal that the child is returned to her mother’s care once she completes treatment. His lawyer is informing him of all of this today.’

  ‘He won’t be pleased.’

  ‘No. But the pressure might make him a little more enthusiastic about talking to you.’

  The car purred down Limeburner Lane. Stella glimpsed the familiar dome of the Old Bailey and the golden statue of Lady Justice, her arms outstretched holding her sword and her scales.

  She needed to toughen up. She couldn’t be a pushover if she was going to succeed in the medico-legal cases. Her clients were in distress, angry, abusive, emotionally disturbed. They felt persecuted by the proceedings and by the system, and it was inevitable these feelings would be directed at her from time to time. She couldn’t go snivelling to Max every time she didn’t like something a client did.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max,’ she said. ‘I was looking forward to this case. I was probably overly optimistic – I thought I could crack it. I hate letting you down.’

  ‘You haven’t let me down. You did your best – you always do.’

  He lifted his hand from the gearshift and placed it all too briefly on top of hers. A reassuring pressure. A sign that he cared. A sign, maybe, that he saw her as something more than an employee. She looked down. Flames licked around the edges of his fingers where they touched her thigh.

  By five o’clock the next evening, everyone but Stella had knocked off. Max was in court for a second day running and his staff had taken the opportunity to start the weekend early. Once again, Stella was the last to leave. She went through the motions: locking the filing cabinet; checking all windows and lights. Paul’s office, as usual, smelt strongly of incense. It was more like he’d been conducting a yoga class in there than a therapy session. Stella lifted one of the sticks out of the wooden holder just to be sure. It was completely cold. She sat down in one of his armchairs, imagining herself to be his patient, telling him her deepest, darkest secrets, her fantasies. It didn’t feel right. He seemed nice enough, but rather timid behind his John Lennon glasses, as though he was easily shocked. She could never open up to a man in socks and sandals.

  In the waiting room, Stella found a copy of The Times and decided to take it with her to the pub, to read while she waited for Hannah to turn up. Stella was always early, Hannah was habitually late. She checked and double checked the locks on the front door of the clinic and set the alarm. Gravel crunched under her heels as she crossed the empty parking lot. At the gate, she turned left, heading for the Duke of York.

  ‘Dr Davies.’ The voice came from behind her, just as she reached the corner.

  She turned around. Lawrence Simpson was right there, close enough to reach out and touch her. It was too much of a coincidence that she should bump into him just outside of the office. Clearly, this was not a chance meeting.

  ‘Are you following me?’ she said. She held her over-stuffed bag in front of her, like a shield.

  ‘I was hoping I might catch you,’ he said. ‘Are you walking across to the station?’

  Stella wasn’t about to share any personal information, no matter how trivial, and so she didn’t answer. He was staring at her: at the newspaper under her arm and at her heavy bag crammed with her laptop and yellow files – which strictly speaking were not supposed to leave clinic premises. But he was not to know that.

  ‘I have a few things I want to say to you,’ he said.

  ‘You can talk to me in my office, during a scheduled appointment.’

  ‘I know this seems pathetic – me following you, trying to get a few words in. I wanted to say I’m sorry about the confusion yesterday. I’d asked my secretary to make the appointment on my behalf – there must have been some miscommunication.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. Her bag weighed a ton. She shifted it on to the other shoulder. People were passing, leaving work and heading for the underground station or the restaurants and pubs beyond.

  ‘I’m leaving for a conference tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll be away for two weeks.’

  ‘I can’t delay the report. I’m due to submit on Thursday. I’m sure your solicitor has told you about the deadline: it has to be in before the final hearing.’

  He had already had several chances and multiple missed appointments with various professionals involved in the case. He had wasted her valuable clinical time by walking out of his appointment early and he gave no sign he understood she might have been put under pressure by his refusal to cooperate. She had to stick to her deadlines, no matter how he behaved.

  ‘I know it looks really bad,’ he said. ‘All these missed appointments.’

  She wondered whether his lawyers had briefed him, and if he knew already that he had little or no chance of succeeding. That must be why he was there: a last-ditch attempt to salvage his case.

  ‘How about this evening?’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Any chance of making up the missed appointment this evening? I don’t suppose you could fit me in?’

  ‘The clinic doesn’t offer after-hours appointments,’ she said.

  ‘Please. I know I screwed up. I’m asking you because I’m desperate. I don’t want to lose my daughter.’

  It was strange and – if she was honest – gratifying, to see him with his arrogance stripped away. To see him beg. Behind his shoulder, she spotted Hannah walking towards them. She was already at the corner of the next block.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You’ve had plenty of time since the last appointment to contact me.’

  ‘I know.
I find it terrifying – the interviews with you.’

  Stella was a small person, much shorter than he was and at least a decade younger. ‘Most people do not find me particularly terrifying,’ she said.

  ‘I’m begging you,’ he said. ‘I’m serious. I can show you my itinerary, I’m not making this up. My solicitor telephoned me this afternoon to say that I’ve ruined my chances by missing all these appointments. I just want one chance to put my case forward, to show the judge I’m serious.’

  If she completed the interview that evening, she had a chance of gathering the information she needed to write up a comprehensive report that would be helpful to the court. She imagined Max’s joyful response when she told him she could charge her full hourly quota for the report. And ethically, completing the assessment was the right thing to do. A full psychological assessment would be in the child’s best interests, and preferable to handing in a report with the equivalent of an ‘I don’t know’ about the father’s personality. Admittedly, she felt a slight thrill, at the thought that she might be the first professional who succeeded in getting under Simpson’s skin.

  She hesitated, trying to decide.

  Sometimes bending the rules worked. As Max might say.

  ‘If you really want to understand me,’ he said, ‘then you have to meet me halfway. Surely you want both sides of the story before you reach an opinion? I’m not going to do your ridiculous test. But there are some important things I think you should know. And things about my childhood that might explain – things I haven’t told the social worker.’

  He dangled the carrot, luring her closer.

  Hannah gave an expansive wave. She had almost caught up to them.

  It was in the best interests of Lawrence Simpson’s daughter for Stella to get a full psychological profile before a decision was made as to who would win custody.

  ‘Hi!’ Hannah swooped on her, planting a big, flamboyant kiss on her cheek. She looped her arm through Stella’s and turned to give Lawrence Simpson a large grin. Hannah’s skirt was short and her heels high and she looked fabulous. Stella tended to cover up, to dress down, to avoid unwanted interest from her clients. She should get Hannah to dress her, then Max would have no choice but to take notice.

  Stella deliberately did not introduce her client.

  Hannah held out her hand. ‘I’m Hannah,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Lawrence.’ Simpson gave her friend a disarming smile and a handshake that lasted longer than strictly necessary. ‘I was just imposing on Dr Davies, hoping to poach some of her precious time to discuss a case.’

  ‘Do you work together?’ Hannah asked.

  Stella could see her friend’s mind ticking away. Stella had been alone a long time; Hannah would be ecstatic if she thought she had met someone promising.

  ‘Sorry, this isn’t a good time,’ Stella said. She pulled on Hannah’s arm, turning away.

  But Hannah managed to extricate herself. ‘It’s no problem,’ she said. ‘You two go ahead. I’ll go for a run, which is probably a much better option for me than the three glasses of wine I’m about to drink if we go to the pub.’

  Stella tried to formulate a protest, an exit strategy without seeming rude or breaking confidentiality, but she was too slow.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Simpson said. ‘I really appreciate this.’

  Hannah grinned as she waved goodbye and rushed away, keen not to interfere with what she must think was a promising encounter.

  ‘Join us later,’ she called out. ‘We’re going belly dancing again. Izzy’s still pregnant. If she doesn’t go into labour in the next two days they’re going to induce her. She’s desperate.’

  Simpson laughed.

  Stella was resentful and she was tired. She deserved to have her nights to herself, at the very least. And she would rather be drinking a glass of wine than interviewing Simpson.

  She took a breath as she switched back to work mode. She didn’t want Simpson following her in to the clinic, watching her as she turned on lights and hunted down her assessment materials. She needed some time alone to get her head straight and go through her interview schedule. ‘Can you come back to the clinic in half an hour?’

  ‘Of course,’ Simpson said. He put his hands in his pockets and ambled away towards the small café in the underground station.

  She regretted caving into his pressure to bring the appointment forward at such short notice. But she had no choice now but to go through with the meeting. If she didn’t, Simpson would no doubt report her to his solicitor immediately, undermining her credibility.

  Hilltop, 1 a.m.

  ‘You’ve got what you wanted,’ Stella said. ‘It’s just you and me.’

  The bucket chair wanted to swallow Blue whole as she sank down low into the sagging leather cushion with her feet tucked tightly underneath her.

  Peter was livid. Stella had left him no choice but to wait in the study.

  For the time being, her need to know the facts had vanquished her fear. She had to know if Blue’s visit had anything to do with Lawrence Simpson. She was determined to stay rational.

  She took a breath, steadied herself, adjusted the neck of her jumper. Reminded herself that Blue had suffered, too.

  ‘Blue,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve had a difficult time, I believe everything you told me earlier – about your mother and father. I’m sure you had a good reason to come and see me. I want to understand what’s happened so that I can work out the best way to help you.’

  ‘He’s my doctor,’ Blue said. ‘Or – he used to be my doctor, but now he won’t see me any more. That’s why I came.’

  ‘You’re talking about your therapy sessions with Dr Fisher?’

  Blue nodded. She was determined to avoid talking about her father. Stella had to find some way to exhaust her resistance, or at least to expose some sort of inconsistency in her latest version of events.

  ‘Why did you start seeing him?’ Stella asked.

  ‘My mother thinks I have problems.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘I did some stupid stuff at school. I used to cut myself. My GP wanted to send me to some place but they had a really long waiting list so I think she asked Dr Fisher to see me as some kind of favour. I don’t know why he said yes, because we don’t have any money.’

  ‘And in your sessions – did he prescribe medicine for you? Or did you talk too?’

  ‘Mostly we talked.’

  ‘But was it Dr Fisher who prescribed your pills for you?’ Stella asked.

  Blue nodded.

  Max must have believed she was either delusional or bipolar. Adolescent psychiatrists were notoriously difficult to find; he must have felt obliged to step in and help. But still, she couldn’t quite get her head around it. She was furious with him: for not discussing it with her first. For not thinking about the implications.

  ‘The pills you take – they’re sometimes prescribed for people who have hallucinations, or delusions – who see or hear things that aren’t really there. Has that ever happened to you?’

  Blue bit down so hard on her thumbnail that Stella saw a small smear of blood at the corner of her mouth. Blue didn’t seem to notice, she chewed harder on her raw skin.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Stella asked.

  ‘I never heard or saw things that weren’t there,’ Blue said.

  ‘Stop it,’ Stella said. ‘You’re hurting yourself.’

  Blue moved her hand away from her mouth. She began to pull at the loose threads at the bottom of her T-shirt. ‘I know things about him that even you don’t know.’

  ‘Is that so.’ Stella tried to manufacture an expression of concern, of interest.

  Blue could not stay still. She fidgeted, and pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them tight. There was an incessant pulling and biting, her thumb was back in her mouth.

  ‘I didn’t know if I should tell you,’ she said. ‘I wanted to meet you, to see what you were like. I thought I’d hate you.’

&n
bsp; ‘You’ve lost me,’ Stella said.

  ‘I liked going to see him. I liked the way he listened to me. And the way he looked at me.’ Blue looked up at Stella, checking for a reaction.

  ‘I didn’t just like it – I loved going to see him. When he wouldn’t see me any more I was gutted. It wasn’t fair. I knew he was married. I saw his wedding ring and the picture of you on his desk. I thought – if I couldn’t see him, then, I don’t know, I wanted to see you.’

  Blue put her knees down, and leaned forward. ‘It wasn’t just talking. I think he’s scared I’ll tell people what happened, what he did. Maybe that’s why he won’t see me.’

  The girl was toying with her.

  Stella studied Blue’s face. Her pale pink lips were shaped as a perfect cupid’s bow. She was a sensuous, pouting creature, a child with curves of an adult. Beautiful Blue.

  ‘Patients often fantasize about their therapists,’ Stella said. ‘It even has a name, it’s called transference.’

  ‘It’s not in my head.’

  ‘Sometimes these fantasies are so powerful, they seem so real, that patients start to believe the fantasies are true.’

  ‘You sound just like him.’

  ‘I’m sure he was kind to you. I’m sure he listened to you and spent hours of his time alone with you. That can lead to strong feelings, especially if your father didn’t give you the love you needed.’

  Blue shook her head. ‘No.’ She leaned forward, her hair hanging loose and wild around her face and her eyes smouldering. ‘I love him. And he loved me back. Things …’ Blue lifted her gaze, looking intently at Stella, her eyes defiant. ‘He touched me,’ Blue said.

  And suddenly, Stella wanted to laugh. Blue’s claims were ludicrous.

  ‘It wasn’t just once. We did things.’

  Lying was like breathing to this girl. That’s what Stella told herself.

  ‘I thought I’d hate you,’ Blue said. ‘But I don’t.’

  Stella wanted her tablets. She wanted to swallow a precious, blue, diamond-shaped piece of oblivion. She wanted to escape so fucking badly. The girl was delusional. She must be.

  ‘What exactly are you saying – that you had sex with him?’ Stella said.