by Luana Lewis
She spent her nights in Max’s bed. She would get there first, swallow her pill and then drift away, alone. He would join her much later. It was hopeless. She should get the hell out of his home and get on with her life. She couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to any more. She had a taste of what it was like to have him coming home to her each night. And it was good. She felt a surge of happiness each time she heard his key in the front door; for her, it was the sound of possibility. When he was with her, she felt almost calm, almost happy. The walls of his home were her safety during the day, his presence was her security in the evenings.
Max did nothing to indicate that he desired her. He had a sense of duty towards her. He saw her as a victim. She was his responsibility, nothing more. She suspected that having her near by and taking care of her was his way of dealing with his guilt. Were she more pessimistic, she would have wondered if it was also a way to avoid liability: legal, financial or professional. But she was not entirely cynical.
By nine thirty Stella was on edge. She went into each room, making sure the windows were locked and the curtains shut tight.
He walked in at ten minutes past ten. Stella looked up sullenly from where she sat on his sofa, her arms crossed and legs folded underneath her. He was not bound to her in any way, he could stay out the whole goddamn night if he wanted to and, furthermore, he had every right to bring other women home with him. He was probably frustrated as hell and couldn’t wait to get rid of her. He must see her as damaged goods.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. His tie hung loose around his neck. His suit jacket was uncharacteristically rumpled. He took it off and tossed it over the armchair. Stella wanted to pick it up, to smell it, to check if it carried a scent of perfume.
‘Have you been with someone?’ she asked. She squeezed herself tighter.
‘It’s very strange,’ he said. ‘This situation we’re in.’
‘A woman?’
He ran his hand over his head. She could never be sure if he was pleased or dismayed to come home to her. She knew so little about him.
He sighed.
‘Is there any dinner?’ he asked. He was polite as ever.
‘There is,’ she said. ‘But it’s cold.’
For the first time she felt she might give up, walk out, there and then, find her way back to her old life.
The table looked beautiful. She had found a pair of heavy silver candlesticks at the back of a kitchen cupboard and these were now in the centre of the table, candles flickering. She had placed sprigs of lavender, cut from the pot next to the front door, in a vase.
‘Anne’s getting married,’ Max said as he sat down. ‘That’s why I was late. We went to have a celebratory drink – at the Lamb and Eagle.’
‘Anne – from the clinic?’
‘Yep.’
‘Who is the lucky man?’ Stella asked. As she served him a plate of cold chicken in lime coconut curry she had the urge to laugh. Everything seemed absurd: the cold food, the candles, the lavender.
‘Delicious,’ he said, although he hadn’t put a single thing in his mouth yet. ‘Did you ever meet Chris Marshall? His wife was a patient at the clinic. I treated her for depression when she was in the last stages of breast cancer. That’s when he and Anne met.’
‘How romantic. Dying wife and all.’
‘Anne’s had a hard time too, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
He had lapsed into silence. Max looked tired more often than not, lately. He seemed older and less optimistic than the picture of him she carried in her mind. He smiled less often. His enthusiasm for life, his passion, appeared to have faded. If she had been infatuated before, now she loved the real him.
‘How has Anne had a hard time?’ she asked.
‘Four years ago her husband died of pancreatic cancer. From the time he was diagnosed, he only had another six months. She was devastated. It was around the time we opened the clinic and I think work was the thing that really saved her sanity, kept her going.’
‘I had no idea. She didn’t talk to me much. I don’t think she ever liked me.’
She was pleased to see that he was eating the chicken.
‘Have you lived in this flat a long time?’ she asked.
‘Twelve years. I grew up around here – my mother’s still in a retirement home on Finchley Road.’
She had never dared ask personal questions before.
Max was opening the bottle of Chardonnay she had placed between the candlesticks. She wondered if he drank to deal with her constant presence. While he grappled with the cork, she said: ‘I’ll need another prescription.’ She said it calmly and then held her breath.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it filled for you in the morning.’
He filled his glass, and then hers.
Stella knew the basics of behavioural theory. She knew she was teetering on the edge of agoraphobia and should not be allowed to fall over the precipice or it would be extremely difficult to claw her way back up to a normal life. Part of the problem, Stella suspected, was that she did not want her normal life back. She was sick of a normal life. She was happy, cocooned in Max’s flat. Nothing bad would happen to her inside. She knew she was going crazy.
There was another question she wanted to ask him; something she had thought about, over and over again.
‘Max, why do you think he chose me? There were so many others involved in the case – the social worker, the parent support worker, his solicitor. Why me?’
‘You’re a young, attractive female, for one thing. He felt persecuted by the entire legal system and he fixated on you as a target for his rage. That’s it.’
‘I must have done something to make him choose me.’
‘That’s what he wants you to think. You were the easiest target and the most satisfying for a sexual sadist. He’s the criminal. He’s responsible. Not you.’
She wanted to get up and go to him; she wanted to sit on his lap and have him hold her, like a child.
‘I don’t want this to come out,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any of my colleagues to know and I don’t want the clinic compromised. And if I’m honest – I don’t want to take any chances with my registration being threatened in any way – if Simpson makes some sort of counter-allegation.’
‘Nobody has to know unless you want them to. As far as the staff at the clinic are concerned, you’re on indefinite com passionate leave. I’ve found an associate, he’s junior – straight out of uni – but he’s prepared to work at the lower rates they’re proposing.’
‘I’m so grateful. I’ve caused you so much trouble. It’s just that if I’m not at work, I don’t expect you to pay my salary, and then I have no idea how I’m going to pay my rent—’
‘Shhh,’ he said. He lifted her glass of wine and handed it to her. ‘I want you to stay here as long as you need to. If you’re happy living with me.’
She took a long, cool sip. She was in Max’s apartment, sitting next to him, alone with him. A part of her was pleased, even under the worst possible circumstances. Insanely pleased that she finally had him to herself. Perverse. But true.
‘I’m in love with you,’ she said.
She felt good. She had laid herself bare and she had told the truth. Her position was clear. He was free to ask her to leave at any time.
‘Right,’ he said. He did not look surprised. ‘I’m flattered. But I’m not about to take advantage of you. Not now.’
‘Pity.’ She refilled his glass.
The equilibrium in the Hampstead flat shifted. Stella felt herself to be at home. Max relied on her to be there; for what, she wasn’t entirely sure. His mother died, two months after she moved in. His father had died when he was eight. Like her, he had no siblings, and he was alone. She resolved to try to cut down on the tranquillizers during the day; to try to find her way back to where she was before. At the same time, she was happy with where she was. Max said nothing about her leaving. She fantasized about what it might
be like to live in the apartment as his lover.
Anne’s wedding took place at an eighteenth-century house in Hampstead. Burgh House, on New End Square, was mercifully close to Max’s apartment and it took them all of five minutes to walk there.
In the days leading up to the ceremony, Stella became increasingly paranoid. She was plagued by absurd thoughts. She wondered why Anne had chosen a venue so close to where Max lived. Had she spent time in Max’s apartment at some point? Had Anne and Max once lived together? Was that how she had stumbled across Burgh House, tucked away down New End? She was drowning in mistrust. She told herself, over and over again, she was experiencing an anxiety reaction, because she would have to go out for the first time in months. It would pass.
‘I know I’m hopeless, but please can you stay with me the whole time we’re at the wedding?’ she asked Max.
‘Of course. It will be my pleasure.’ He grinned and she had a precious, fleeting glimpse of the old Max.
She had visions. Everyone would have seen the photographs where she lay spread-eagled, degraded. Perhaps Max had seen them already, and hadn’t told her, to spare her the pain. She saw Simpson, waiting for her: leaning against the wall outside the block of flats; sitting at the pub opposite; standing at the gates of Burgh House; sitting amongst the guests. Everywhere.
As long as she had Max at her side, she was safe. That’s what she told herself.
‘Do you think it’s all right if I double my dose of diazepam? Just for today?’
‘Absolutely,’ Max said. ‘Although you probably won’t remember too much about the wedding.’
Remembering the wedding was the least of her concerns.
In the wood-panelled music room, as she walked down the aisle, Anne looked beautiful in vintage lace over a satin slip. A string quartet played. Stella floated with the music, on wave after gentle wave.
One of the bridesmaids was an attractive teenage girl, with red hair down to her waist and a little upturned nose. She wore a tight satin mini-dress. Even with the double dose of diazepam, Stella imagined Max was staring at the girl.
There was no way she could manage the reception or the mingling. Max was understanding and he didn’t seem sorry to leave. Perhaps weddings were not his thing either. He had his arm around her, supporting her, and she leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked the short distance home. She didn’t look around her, at the people walking past. She pretended they didn’t exist.
‘I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to sponge off you for ever. Since I’ve been living with you I haven’t spoken to a single one of my friends because I know what they’ll all say and I don’t want to hear it. But I’ve spoken to Peter a few times. He texted yesterday, to tell me that Hannah’s flatmate has moved out and she’s looking for someone to share with. She’s my oldest friend and I trust her. Peter thinks I should move in with her; he wants me to tell her what happened. She could give me some support, while I sort out some kind of treatment plan.’
They walked, close together, arm in arm, at a sluggish pace. Max pulled his tie from side to side, loosening it and letting it hang down around his collar.
‘I think it’s not a bad idea,’ Stella said. ‘It would be the first step in – you know. Hannah’s a psychologist, she’ll understand if I’m acting weird for a while. I’d have to deal with both her and Peter nagging me to report what happened. But I’m sure I can fend them off.’ She managed a smile.
Max had gone quiet. He had stopped walking and was staring down at the pavement.
‘So? What do you think?’ she asked him.
‘Do you find me strange,’ he said, ‘single and childless at forty-three?’
‘No,’ she lied.
Yes, she had wondered about him: single and childless and no long-term relationships, as far as she knew.
‘What about you?’ Max asked. ‘Do you ever think about getting married?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘If I ever manage to leave your flat. And it would depend who asked.’
She was leaning against him, his arm was casually around her waist and she was in a pleasant sort of haze, disinhibited; she didn’t care what she might say to him, what she might reveal. ‘Why are we having this conversation?’ she asked.
‘I like having you live with me.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t want to take advantage of you. I wanted to wait. But I don’t want you to move out without knowing.’
‘Knowing what?’
‘That I think about getting married,’ he said.
‘You want to get married – in general? Or you think about marrying me?’
The pills made her bold.
‘I don’t want you to leave,’ he said.
‘You don’t have to marry me to get me to stay.’
‘I know.’
‘But if you asked me to marry you then I would say yes,’ she said.
He kissed her on the top of her head.
In hindsight, the proposal seemed more bizarre than romantic.
Hilltop, 4.10 a.m.
Peter was on the sofa, on his back, his eyes were closed. The living room was freezing and the black bag flapped uselessly at the broken window.
Stella was panting, she had run all the way back down the stairs. ‘Are you awake?’ she said, looking down on him.
He sat up, blinking. His hair was in disarray, some of it standing on end. His cheeks and his jaw were shadowed with stubble.
‘What now?’ he said.
‘We have to go after them.’
‘Why?’
She attempted to smooth down his hair as best she could with her fingers. She needed him to look alert and authoritative.
‘I didn’t tell you this,’ she said, ‘but when I was alone with Blue, just before she smashed the window, she told me – well, basically the same thing she said to Max – but in a lot more graphic detail. She said they had sex. During their therapy sessions. And I was furious and told her she was lying and that she’d be locked up. I said all kinds of terrible, stupid things. And that’s why she ran off.’
‘And?’
‘I thought about what you said. And so I had a look at her mobile. I found something. And now I need to get to the hospital. Can you just – not ask any questions? Just take me to the hospital, I have to get there before he admits her.’
Stella didn’t wait for his answer. She rushed towards the front door, pulled on her coat and threw his towards him. He caught it. She was pleased; he was wide awake and his reflexes were in good working order.
‘You’re leaving the house?’ he said.
‘I’ve taken a couple more tranquillizers.’
‘Is that safe? You’ve been swallowing those things like Smarties.’
She shrugged. ‘Let’s go before I change my mind. Or pass out.’
She remained rooted to the spot, to the cold, marble floor.
Peter walked past her. He opened the front door, turned back and held out his hand.
Stella looked around, one last time. She walked a few steps forward, flicked the switch, turned off the chandelier. She thought how much easier it would be to stay inside the house and inside her marriage. Nothing had to change.
But she couldn’t drift through the rest of her life with her eyes shut and her curiosity strangled by chemicals.
Her legs were stiff. She couldn’t move – towards Peter, towards the open door. The temperature was dropping even further.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You go. You’ll have to help her.’
Peter looked pissed off. He wasn’t exactly a champion of passivity. She didn’t use to be, either.
‘I give up,’ he said.
She didn’t blame him. She had given up long before.
The emergency glass-repair man would come and the window would be repaired and the house would be secure again. In the meantime, she would be safe and sound, locked inside her bedroom.
‘Right, that’s it,’ Pe
ter said. ‘I’ve had enough. You need help as much as she does.’
He moved towards the door. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see him leave.
She felt him come back and take hold of her hand. She resisted, tried to push him away. She lashed out, tried to get him to let go; but he was holding on, determined. She felt she would explode. With her free hand, she slapped his face. Hard.
Then she drew away – he looked as if he was about to hit her back. But he rubbed his jaw, moved it from side to side a few times.
She was breathing, deeply. Her chest was clear and open. She could still feel the strength in her arms. She wanted to hit him again, just to feel the power surge.
‘I can’t leave.’
‘Yes, you can. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other. Don’t think about it. Just walk.’
The door of the jeep was stiff, she had to heave it with all her strength to slam it shut. The car smelt faintly of cigarettes and the floor was littered with empty takeaway cups.
Peter eased the car over the icy driveway and nudged out on to the top of the hill. The road and the pavements were gone, submerged under a sea of white. Stella gripped the door handle.
‘Sorry I hit you,’ she said. ‘That was meant for Max. I’d like to kill him.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Try not to do anything crazy while I’m driving.’
They inched down the hill, the tyres struggling to grip the frozen road. The car slid forward, jolted, stopped. If the wheels lost their grip, they would go spinning out on to the open road below.
‘Typical,’ Peter said. ‘Your road is the steepest one in this whole goddamn area.’
When they reached the corner of Victoria Avenue, Stella found she could breathe more easily.
‘Which route would he take?’ Peter asked.
‘Turn left.’
They turned into Chenies Road, where traffic had melted the snow and the road was an open strip of black.
‘Right at the roundabout,’ Stella said. ‘Can you go faster?’
