Don't Stand So Close (18 page)

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.

‘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.’

‘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.

Blue nodded. She was staring at her, pleading with her eyes. What did she want? Comfort? Absolution? Understanding? When there was nothing, no response, no softening of her face, Blue looked away.

‘This a very serious allegation. Do you understand? This is not a joke, this isn’t some stupid prank like the ones you’ve pulled at school. My husband took you on as a charity case. You said yourself your mother has no money. He’s been kind to you because he’s a good man. He’s also a brilliant
psychiatrist. I’ll bet he paid for all your medication as well? Because if you’d waited for an appointment on the NHS you’d still be bloody waiting. Or off your head, psychotic probably, in a secure adolescent unit. So he takes you on – out of kindness. And now you thank him by lying to get inside his home and making up vicious stories.’ As Stella spoke, her anger was unleashed and grew larger. ‘You’re sick. You’re really sick.’

You and your father.

Blue shook her head. She pushed herself backwards, cowering in the corner, as though Stella would hurt her. She was mute, but the bright blue of her eyes made Stella frightened. She was Lawrence Simpson’s daughter, through and through. She had been manipulating Stella all along. Blue had come to Hilltop to destroy her life, or the little that was left of it.

‘So now what?’ Stella said. ‘What do you want from me, Blue? You came here to hurt me and to try to destroy my husband, my marriage. So now what?’

Blue’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t know.’ She was weeping now, playing the victim, and Stella couldn’t stand the sight of her. She got out of her chair and stood in front of the fireplace, turning her back on Blue. She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cold cast-iron mantelpiece. She should have let Peter deal with her.

She sensed Blue coming closer, standing behind her. She could feel her breath on her neck.

‘I was the one who wanted it,’ Blue said. ‘I wanted him. I made him touch me. He didn’t want to at first but I needed him to touch me.’

‘You’re a liar,’ Stella said. ‘Or you’re crazy. Either way, I will never believe you.’

Now that Blue had started talking, she wouldn’t stop.
Touching herself, unbuttoning her top, crawling over to him on her hands and knees, opening his fly
…
climbing on top
…
locking the door.

Stella kept her eyes closed, her back turned. Blue’s words wormed their way inside her brain, burrowing into her thoughts and her gut. She should never have let her in. Hilltop was the one place she was safe, and now Blue would contaminate it all. She wanted to destroy the last thing Stella had left. Max. Her marriage.

Blue pressed her face into Stella’s back and twisted her arms around her waist. Stella would not turn around. Blue’s forehead dug harder into Stella’s shoulder, her arms gripped tighter.

‘Please turn around,’ Blue said. ‘I need you to see—’

‘Get away from me!’ Stella dug her fingers into Blue’s arms and wrenched them loose. She turned and shoved her away. Blue stumbled and tripped over the jade Buddha squatting on the hearth. She stayed on the floor, on her hands and knees, her head down and her hair covering her face.

‘Why are you doing this to us?’ Stella asked.

‘He can’t stop seeing me. He can’t throw me away like a piece of junk. I’m not nothing!’

Blue was a beast, crouched on her hands and knees. Crying. Unhinged. Unpredictable.

To look at her made Stella frantic. The thought of Max in his office, alone with her, unable to contain himself.

It wasn’t true.

Stella put her hands over her eyes but images of Blue and Max were all over the inside of her eyeballs. The consulting room she knew so well, the armchairs, the antique rug, her blonde hair falling forward, her perfect breasts, her creamy
skin, her blazing eyes, her desperate need to be loved. Stella’s stomach twisted and she felt she was going to be sick.