Don't Stand So Close (17 page)

‘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
and 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 self-conscious. Perhaps it was the speed of the car, the sense of being cocooned inside, with him, away from the clinic.

‘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.’