by Luana Lewis
But she had seen something different. He was only human. He was fallible.
Stella put both feet on the floor, to steady herself, and placed her hands on her knees. When she spoke, there was a trembling in her voice which she fought to control. ‘Max, I do find it strange that you would start a therapeutic relationship with Simpson’s ex-wife and then his daughter – instead of simply referring them on to someone else. It does look like – it seems as if you might have had some agenda, as if you might have been trying to control the situation …’
She paused, waiting for a reaction. A discussion. But Max just looked numb and tired. She kept going, hoping to break through the barrier between them. ‘Maybe you’ve been affected by all of this too – emotionally, I mean – more than you realize. Maybe your decisions haven’t been entirely rational. I’ve been completely dependent on you, isolated out here, while you’ve had to deal with all of the fallout and keep the clinic going.’
‘You know I would never put you or anyone else in a compromised position.’ His tone was gentle, but he was condescending, talking to her as though she was a child, or one of his patients.
‘But you have put us all in danger,’ she said. ‘You have to see that. Simpson’s daughter found out where we live. She ran away from home to try and make contact with you. She’s obsessed with you, she fantasizes about you. She came here because she was angry at you for rejecting her, because you refused to see her or to talk to her. And the medication she’s on—’
He stood, abruptly. ‘I think it’s safe to put her in the car now,’ he said.
Stella stood in his way. ‘Listen to me, Max. The girl has made these allegations and she’s likely to repeat them. You heard her: she claims you had a sexual relationship. Talk it through with me, Max. Tell me exactly what happened between you and Blue – what was the relationship like, in the therapy? Was there some kind of eroticized transference?’
‘Stella, she’s delusional. A fantasist. If you believe her version of events there really is no hope for us.’
Stella felt herself shrinking, at the warning in his words. ‘Don’t,’ she said. She wouldn’t survive, without him. She could no longer imagine it.
‘She needs to be in a secure unit.’
‘A secure unit? Do you really—’ Her mouth was dry once more; the words that had begun to flow had dried up.
She thought Max was making a mistake, recommending a secure unit. If Blue was placed with adolescents who had severe problems this would serve only to crystallize any antisocial or criminal tendencies she already had.
‘How much more convincing do you need?’ Max asked her. ‘Would you like her to kill someone, maybe herself, before I take action?’
Stella did not speak. Max was the treating psychiatrist, and Blue’s prognosis for recovery was bleak if she didn’t get the help she needed.
She wanted her husband’s arms around her. She wanted so much for him to love her. He reached out and held her, tight. Her mouth pressed against his shoulder. She closed her eyes. It was much too soon when he let her go.
‘Are you ready?’ Max asked, even though Blue was clearly in no state to answer.
Blue did not move and did not respond. She lay in a foetal position on the floor. Peter had covered her with the blanket. Stella wasn’t certain whether she was asleep, or just pretending.
‘I’m not convinced you should be the one to take her to a hospital,’ Peter said. ‘If you’re not the treating clinician at this point.’
He and Max faced each other, hands hanging at their sides, shoulders slightly tensed and feet apart, as though they were about to begin a sparring match.
‘As a psychiatrist,’ Max said, ‘I have an ethical responsibility to a former patient with serious mental health issues.’
‘So do the Met Police.’
‘Where are they then?’ Max asked, not unreasonably.
Peter did not answer.
‘Well, in that case, since I am here and I’m prepared to get the girl the help she needs, I will drive her to a hospital. She needs proper treatment for her injuries and she needs to start taking her medication again as soon as possible – sudden withdrawal is dangerous for her.’
Peter did not move, or change his stance.
‘Did anything happen in your sessions with her?’ Peter asked. ‘Even something small, something that in her mind might have encouraged her fantasy that you’re in love with her? Anyone can make a mistake. She’s an attractive girl. Almost an adult.’
Stella thought Max would finally run out of patience, finally lose his temper, but he did not.
‘Please,’ Max said. ‘It’s enough.’ His voice was flat, disheartened. ‘I listened to her. I gave her my full attention. That’s all. And now I’m taking her to a hospital so she can get the treatment she needs.’ He pulled on his coat and began patting his pockets as though searching for his car keys.
‘Thanks for coming out here to support Stella tonight,’ Max said to Peter. ‘I appreciate it.’
Max held out his hand; Peter did not take it.
Peter had been ill at ease ever since Max had walked in the front door. Stella wondered how much his feelings for her might have interfered with a fair assessment of her husband’s character.
‘Which hospital are you taking her to?’ Stella hovered next to Blue, who had not opened her eyes.
‘St Agnes has an acute admissions unit. I’ll take her there to begin with.’
Stella knew there was every likelihood that Blue would land up in foster care for good this time. Her medication might yet again be increased.
‘Good girl,’ Max said, as he leaned forward and manoeuvred his hands under Blue’s arms and heaved her to her feet. Blue’s eyes were open and she seemed at peace, relaxed and happy as she leaned against Max.
Peter stood with his arms folded.
‘Can you give me a hand getting her into the car?’ Max asked him.
Peter did not seem to be inclined to help him. He stayed where he was. Max could barely move, with the girl hanging around his neck.
‘Look,’ Max said, ‘are you going to give me a hand?’
Peter came forward, stony-faced. He took hold of one arm, and Max the other, and together the two men lifted her and walked her towards the front door. Her trainers trailed along the marble tiles.
The entrance hall was as cold as a meat-locker. The chandelier shone brightly and fractured rays of light bounced against the walls. Stella opened the front door on to the snow-cleansed, pitch-black morning. The cold crept underneath her clothes and found its way into her shoes. She was still clutching the blanket that had been covering Blue as she lay on the study floor.
Stella stood at the open doorway and watched as the light in Max’s Mercedes came on, and Blue slumped into the passenger seat. Max leaned over her and strapped her in.
Stella found that she had crossed the threshold of Hilltop and was walking towards them. The sharp air cleared her head. She covered Blue with the blanket and tucked her hands underneath it so they would not get too cold on her journey. Her eyelids fluttered, blue-veined and almost translucent.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Stella asked Max. ‘I can manage.’
She wasn’t sure if Max had heard her, he was already around the other side of the car, in the driver’s seat, slamming his door. The engine turned over and the car jerked forward almost before Stella could shut Blue’s door. The headlights were dazzling. The tyres slid across the snow, spoiling it, leaving behind ugly black tracks.
Stella turned back to look at the house. Hilltop was lit up, bright like a white beacon, rising up, an extension of the snow on the ground. Her palace: battered and bruised and open to the elements. Peter waited for her, just inside. She pulled the heavy steel door closed behind her. She should have been relieved but instead she found herself agitated and restless.
Hampstead, June 2009
Stella wanted to erase Lawrence Simpson from her memory and to move forward. But the problem she faced was
that the second she stepped out of Max’s apartment – or tried to step out – she began to panic. The symptoms were classic, and as a psychologist, she reminded herself she was not dying. But she felt she was. Her chest constricted, her throat closed, her heart thrashed hard and fast in her chest. In a matter of seconds she was soaking with sweat, in her neck, under her arms, in the small of her back, behind her knees.
The door to the street was painted cream and a small frosted window let in some light. The floor was patterned with brown and cream diamonds. Stella would stand, petrified, one hand still on the door handle of Max’s place, while she looked out across the hallway that led to the street. She would last all of twenty seconds, then the panic would begin. She would retreat, shut the door, double lock it and secure the chain. She would lean with her back against the wall until she regained control of her breathing and her heart settled down into a normal rhythm. Then she would go back to bed.
Weeks passed that way. Max would leave for work each day at seven in the morning. She would wake before him and prepare a pot of coffee, the quality of which was a whole lot better than the stuff Anne supplied at the office. Stella would sit with him at the small round table in the kitchen for a few minutes before he left.
He would telephone her three times a day to ask how she was. She watched breakfast television. She slept more than she needed to. She researched recipes on the internet and emailed Max the list of ingredients she needed to cook dinner. He would shop at the Waitrose near the clinic and bring home the food she had asked for. She was a good cook. Over dinner, they barely spoke – they didn’t know what to say to each other in the midst of their precipitous intimacy.
Max did not ask her to leave. And he never asked if she had changed her mind about reporting the crime.
Peter telephoned, but she would not take the calls. She watched his name flash across the screen. If she pressed the red button to disconnect the call too early, he would know she was avoiding him, so she left it to ring a while. Perhaps he would think that she was busy at work, that she had resumed her old life. The call would end and a message icon would flash up. She didn’t listen to her voicemail. She wondered if Peter had looked for her at her flat, or gone to the clinic, asking for her. If he had, Max didn’t say. After a week, he called less frequently and he no longer left messages. After two weeks, he stopped calling. Stella might have been a little disappointed, but it was difficult to be certain under the haze of benzodiazepines muffling her emotions as effectively as a duvet pulled over her head would block out light and sound.
She wondered if there was such a thing as a statute of limitations on reporting a rape. She was no longer sore and the bruising and tearing had healed. She found she had a talent for repression; she no longer remembered the exact details of the ordeal.
Max told her that Simpson had withdrawn his bid for sole custody. She wanted to believe that in the afterglow, having indulged his sadism and his power play, he would bow out gracefully and leave his child and her mother in peace.
She wanted to delude herself, to believe there might have been some point to her ordeal. She was humbled. Dr Davies. What a fraud. Simpson had seen her for the joke she was.
While Max was at work, she combed the flat for clues to who he might be. He had a collection of art house movies and she had made her way through some of them while he was at work: he liked Woody Allen, Almodóvar. She was trying to understand him as much as to entertain herself. His bookshelves were a mix of literary and crime: from Milan Kundera to Robert Harris. She wanted to educate herself about his tastes by reading all of them, but the tranquillizers made her sleepy and interfered with her concentration. Passive television watching was all right, engaging with a challenging text was another story. The point was, though, he was her ideal man, just as she’d always thought: educated and intellectual. Maybe somewhat mysterious. She felt a certain thrill. For the first time, she had penetrated into his personal space.
Stella opened the door just a crack. The chain was still in place.
‘How are you?’ Peter asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you going to let me in?’
She knew it was irrational, the anxiety she felt as she lifted the chain from its slot. They stood in the small entrance hall and she didn’t invite him inside.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls. I thought you’d given up on me. I don’t blame you.’ She pulled her towelling robe tighter and knotted the belt. Since moving in with Max, she didn’t bother getting dressed in the mornings, but she was always presentable by the time Max got home.
‘You look good,’ she said. Peter wore a loose-fitting black suit and a white shirt. The top button was still undone. His hair was cropped shorter than usual. A tie was crammed into his jacket pocket. ‘Did you pass your exam?’
He nodded.
‘I’m happy I didn’t screw it up for you.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’
She felt a small lump in her throat. The way they stood, so stiff, the awkward way they spoke to each other, it was as though something was lost; as though they hadn’t been friends for years. She could barely remember what they used to laugh about when they were together. Rude, stupid, inappropriate jokes.
‘That was some second date,’ she said.
He didn’t laugh.
‘Whenever you’re ready, I’ll come and get you,’ he said.
‘Ready for what?’
‘To make a police report. To go home.’
‘I’m not going to report what happened. And I’m staying here, for now.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ he said.
‘I’m dead serious. I’m not up for a fight. I’m tired and I’m sick of being poked and prodded and I don’t want to be interrogated. And you of all people know there is a good chance the case won’t even make it to court.’
‘There’s a specialist unit for rape victims. They’ll help you. It might make you feel better in the long run – even if it doesn’t get to court.’
‘Please don’t quote police propaganda.’
‘I’m trying to help you.’ He held out his hand, palm facing upwards. She placed her palm on top of his.
‘Why is this so important to you?’ she asked.
‘Stop being so stupid,’ he said. ‘And stubborn.’ He closed his hand around hers.
Peter could be terribly persuasive.
‘I don’t want to argue with you or to frighten you. But think, Stella: he’s out there, free to do as he pleases. He could still fight for custody of his daughter, he could hurt someone else.’
‘Are you trying to scare me?’
He reached for her other hand. ‘I’m trying to protect you. I think he belongs behind bars.’
‘It will never happen,’ she said.
‘You can’t be sure. And this isn’t a real life – hiding in this flat. Reality is going back to your flat and feeling safe. If you report what happened, it’s a start.’
‘I’m happy here.’
‘I find that hard to believe. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are.’
‘You’re wrong about me.’
Stella was not unhappy in Max’s Hampstead Village apartment. Peter expected her to behave like a grown-up, to take full responsibility even when she was the one who had been hurt. But she had chosen Max. And Max did not pressure her. And Stella was tired of fighting.
‘I want to be taken care of. Max is happy to do that for the meantime.’
‘You’re letting him influence you.’
‘So what?’
‘It will hurt you in the long run. I’ve worked with victims. So have you.’
Her hands were beginning to feel clammy inside his. She pulled them away, disentangling herself. She dug them back into her pockets. She knew she was being rude and unkind, making him stand in the gloomy hallway.
‘Max isn’t forcing me to do anything. I make my own choices. None of this is his fault. If anything he’s helping me with a bad sit
uation that I was responsible for.’
‘You blame yourself?’
‘Partly. I made an appointment with a client after hours and I didn’t let anyone know. I violated the safety codes of the practice.’
‘Has it occurred to you that Max has a lot of influence over you and he’s using it to cover his own sorry arse? That he could be sacrificing you for his clinic?’
‘That’s ridiculous. You’re wrong. I know him.’
Peter meant well. He just didn’t understand her.
‘If anything,’ she said, ‘Max has shouldered the burden of all of this, having me here. He isn’t the one to blame, Simpson is the psychopath.’
‘You can’t stay trapped in this weird limbo with your boss. You have to face what’s happened, Ellie.’ He was the only person who knew the nickname.
‘Don’t.’ She didn’t want to think about her mother.
‘You know I can report this myself.’
‘You wouldn’t do that to me.’ She had to make him understand.
He stood stubbornly in front of her. He was furious about what Simpson had done; his judgement was swayed by his feelings for her. He wanted revenge, maybe more than she did.
‘Peter, you have to listen to me. There are things you don’t know. About my history. I have good reason to believe that I haven’t got a hope in hell of winning a court case.’
He waited. She pushed her unruly hair behind her ears and glanced down at her bare feet. She looked like an invalid.
‘I spent time in a psychiatric hospital,’ she said. She cleared her throat. ‘In my teens. I was an in-patient for a whole year. I have a diagnosis, it’s in my medical records – which they will of course request. It will all come out. My mother was schizophrenic and I was in and out of foster care from the time I was born. She was sectioned, several times, under the Mental Health Act. They would force her to go into hospital, force her to take her medication. She’d improve and she’d go into remission, for a few months, even a couple of years sometimes. And I’d be sent back home. But when she started feeling better, she’d think she didn’t need her medicine and she’d stop taking it. I don’t blame her, it has horrific side-effects. The whole cycle would start again. Each psychotic episode got worse. She was slowly losing her mind and she knew it. The drugs they gave her were almost as bad as the illness itself; in the end it was hard to tell what was worse, the illness or the cure. There is no cure for schizophrenia, not really, it’s a downward slide. The drugs kill you off in a different way: they make you feel blunted, stop your thoughts, slow down your movements, give you all these terrible tics. It was like my mother disappeared over a period of years. So – when I was fourteen, she killed herself. I found her. I had a kind of breakdown and I was admitted to a secure adolescent unit. I was delusional. I made all kinds of claims that my teachers had raped me and I thought the doctors in the unit were trying to poison me. They thought I was prodromal – that I was having a psychotic episode and coming down with schizophrenia myself. Anyway, it seems I wasn’t, because I recovered. But I still have that diagnosis on record: delusional disorder, psychosis.’
