Don't Stand So Close (3 page)

Simpson said his ex-wife had a drinking problem long before she met him. But, according to the ex-wife, she had turned to drink when faced with his ongoing abuse, physical and emotional. The ex-wife’s credibility was not particularly good. She had been unemployed for several years, after being fired for stealing codeine-based painkillers from the pharmacy where she had been all too briefly employed. She had several admissions to National Health Service rehabilitation facilities.

Details about the relationship between Simpson and his ex-wife over the years were patchy. It seemed that they had separated and re-united several times, but had been living apart for at least six years. Mother and child had lived on benefits in a council flat in a dodgy area where
schools were poor. Simpson, on the other hand, had gone from strength to strength after their marriage broke down. He was a general practitioner with a thriving practice in an affluent area, he had a new, steady girlfriend and a three-bed semi.

Stella’s boss, Max Fisher, would see the mother and would give an opinion as to whether she suffered from any psychiatric illness, as well as a prognosis regarding her substance dependence. He had asked Stella to formulate a personality profile for the father, a request that pleased her because she thought it reflected a certain level of confidence in her ability. Max had been a consultant for over ten years, while Stella had been qualified for just over two years; it was both a learning curve and a thrill to work alongside him in such a complex case.

Max thought, as a team, they might be the first to succeed.

Stella laid out three blank questionnaires on her desk and placed a pencil and eraser next to the forms. She took a slow breath. She was always both nervous and pleased to meet a new client. Her job involved pronouncing on whether or not people were fit to look after their own children and always, for a moment or two, she felt a fraud: young and inept, hiding behind her title and the posh consulting rooms.

The Grove Road Clinic was housed in three grand redbrick Edwardian buildings. Anne, the practice manager, had created a slick and professional suite of offices, all equipped with antique desks and sleek laptops. The cream walls were adorned with a mix of oil paintings, mainly of flowers and boats. Shutters and double-glazing throughout the building created a tranquil atmosphere, far removed from the busy road outside. It was a great place to work.

A winding, carpeted staircase took Stella from her office
on the first floor to the waiting room downstairs, where the reception area was gently jasmine-scented.

‘Your next client is waiting,’ Anne said. She tended to hover around the reception desk, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of both patients and staff. She was a study in controlled perfection, with perpetually sleek hair and glossy nails. Her blouse was, as usual, low cut and invited attention to her breasts, which in Stella’s opinion were suspiciously firm and upright. Anne arranged her pens, telephone and iPad in lines far too precise and she made Stella apprehensive for no good reason.

She pointed towards the waiting room with the air-conditioning remote control. ‘Dr Simpson has been here for twenty minutes,’ she said.

Anne managed to imply that Stella was late for her appointment, when in fact the client was early and Stella was precisely on time.

He was waiting for her on the red-leather chesterfield, his arms and legs tightly crossed and his slender body tensed from head to toe. Next to him was a stack of magazines: the latest issues of
Hello
,
Vogue
and
Men’s Health
artfully arranged in a spiral by Anne. The light reading matter was untouched.

‘Dr Simpson?’ Stella asked.

He nodded, unsmiling and ill at ease. Most of her medico-legal clients responded this way on meeting her for the first time, and she did not take it personally. They were required to see her, forced, essentially, by the judges of the family courts. There was tremendous pressure on these parents to present in the best possible light and so they feared her.

Simpson’s angular face was clean-shaven. His fair hair was sharply cut and combed to the side. He wore a navy suit with a pristine white shirt and a yellow tie. His black brogues
shone. She would note this for her report; he was ‘well-groomed’ to say the least.

‘I’m Dr Davies,’ she said. At the mention of her title, she thought she saw him flinch.

He stood and extended his hand, slowly. His eyes flickered up and then down, over her black suit jacket, her skirt and her heels. His handshake was firm and warm. Stella smiled. ‘We’re on the first floor,’ she said.

As he followed her up the stairs, she couldn’t help but wonder where his eyes rested. She held open the door to her office and he took his time stepping over the threshold.

She had arranged two chairs at right angles to each other, along the two sides of the desk. ‘Take a seat,’ she said.

The moment he sat down, he resumed his position from the waiting room, with his arms and legs tightly crossed.

‘Before we start, I need you to sign a consent form,’ Stella said. ‘Please read it carefully. This gives me permission to release the contents of my report to the court.’

She handed him the standard form on a clipboard. He frowned at the page and then signed. His expression was rather acid as he handed it back to her.

‘Is it all right with you if I record our interview using my Dictaphone? That way I don’t need to take notes.’ She smiled once again, pretending she did not notice his displeasure.

‘No, it’s not all right,’ he said.

Stella had never had a client refuse this request. Her clients were told by their solicitors that everything discussed in the interview would be taken down for the report anyway, so there seemed no reason to refuse other than the desire to make her life more difficult.

‘It saves me time taking notes as I talk to you,’ she said, hopefully.

‘No recording,’ he said. He glanced around the room as though checking for covert surveillance equipment. He seemed restless, uneasy. It was clear that he found it difficult not to be in charge. He was used to being the person behind the large desk. Stella could relate; she too liked to be in control.

‘No problem. I’ll type as we talk. I type much quicker than I write.’ She kept her tone light, but there was no glimmer of a smile to acknowledge her banter.

She needed to win him over somehow, to find a way to engage him. The shape of his personality – or the personalities of any of her clients – could not be truly known or understood without some level of cooperation. Simpson could, if he wished, say nothing and give nothing away. And then Stella would have to base her opinion on a negative space, on his desire to remain unknown. This would be of little help to either judge or child. Her biggest challenge was to find a way in, a way to earn his trust and to convince him that it was in his best interests to talk to her. She had to convince him that this was his opportunity to tell his side of the story.

She decided to begin with the pen and pencil questionnaires. That way he would not have to answer probing questions straight away.

She pushed a sheet of paper towards his side of the desk. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s start with this one – the instructions are on the top.’ She pointed. ‘It’s straightforward, just true or false answers. But it takes quite a while to complete, about an hour. There are just over five hundred questions.’

She could not help but feel a spark of satisfaction at the look of dismay on his face. It was her turn to score in their subtle battle of wills. Simpson would cooperate, he would
complete the questionnaire – he had to if he wanted a chance to gain custody of his daughter, and they both knew it. He lifted the pencil, albeit grudgingly.

He took a very long time over each question.

‘I can’t say true or false to this statement – it doesn’t apply to me,’ he said.

‘Just pick the one that is closest to the truth for you.’

He delayed, frustrated, Stella guessed, at having to choose between two options that did not reflect his state of mind precisely. But after ten minutes, he seemed to be marking the answers more readily, and she could see he was progressing more quickly down the endless rows of statements.

At one point he laughed, a bitter sound. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. Nevertheless, he made his choice, colouring in a small, dark circle with the tip of his pencil.

‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ she asked.

She was not without empathy. She could imagine how the process could feel like a violation, particularly if he had been wrongly accused of being an abuser. And besides, she needed a coffee herself.

‘I’d appreciate that,’ he said. He seemed grateful for her small act of kindness and Stella sensed a minuscule thawing of the ice. He liked his coffee black, with one sugar, he said.

Stella did not think he was the type to steal her purse while she was out of the room. She did, however, close her laptop and take her file of notes with her.

‘Why do you want to see my husband?’ Stella asked. Her whole body prickled with suspicion.

‘I just need to.’ Blue huddled under the blanket, digging herself deeper into the sofa, as though she were trying to put down roots.

‘How do you know my husband?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘You can tell me. You just won’t.’

Stella sat on her sofa, annoyed and also helpless in the face of the girl’s stubbornness. She could not force her to tell the truth. She considered what to do. She could call Max and ask him if he knew her. But for some reason, she decided to wait before involving him. She sat still and did nothing for the time being, aware of the tension running from her neck all the way down her spine. She pushed her feet harder against the Chinese rug. She did not take her eyes off Blue, because she did not trust her.

Now that she had let the girl inside, it might not be so easy to get her to leave.

‘My husband isn’t home,’ Stella said. She didn’t tell the girl that he was away for the night. She wondered if Blue had
come alone – or if she had brought someone with her, someone who waited outside. Opening the door was a mistake. She was lucky no one had rushed at her in the few moments it had been wide open.

She was speculating, imagining, catastrophizing. The girl’s motives might not be sinister. She had to stay in control.

‘Where is he?’ Blue asked. ‘Dr Fisher?’

Stella did not answer. She too could withhold information.

‘When is he coming home?’

‘Later,’ Stella said.

Blue sighed and looked irritated. Stella got the feeling she wasn’t too good at delaying gratification.

‘Can I stay here with you?’ Blue asked. ‘Until he gets back?’

Physically, she looked like a young adult, but she was childlike with her audacity and her impatience.

‘Not if you don’t tell me the truth about why you’ve come here and how you know him.’

‘But it’s dark outside. And I don’t have money to get home.’ Blue tucked her legs underneath her and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

‘I’m more than happy to give you money for transport,’ Stella said.

‘I won’t go. I’ll just sit outside the door and freeze to death.’ She pouted.

‘Suit yourself,’ Stella said. ‘Or maybe you could change your mind and phone your mother.’

They sat in silence on opposite ends of the sofa, both refusing to budge. Stella wondered if she would have to sit there the whole night, watching over Blue, until Max arrived home in the morning.

After a while, she considered that kindness might work
better than the silent treatment. ‘Are you still cold?’ she asked. ‘I can make you something hot to drink.’

Blue nodded. ‘Do you have any hot chocolate?’

‘No. Tea?’

‘OK.’

Stella stood, relieved to put some distance between them as she traced the familiar path to the kitchen. The open-plan design allowed her to keep watch over the girl as she took down two mugs from the open shelves. Blue twisted around on the couch; she watched Stella as intently as Stella watched her.

Stella lifted the kettle and filled it with water. She reached into her glossy cupboards to find teaspoons, sugar, milk. Her thoughts drifted and scattered. The white mugs were the first thing she had ever bought when they had moved into Hilltop. Max wanted to keep his flat in Hampstead fully furnished, so they had started from scratch, with nothing. She could feel her heart beating, she could taste the adrenaline surging. She kept a box of pills next to the box of tea bags, just in case. The orange light clicked off, the kettle was boiled. And even as she tasted the bitterness of the pill on her tongue, her taut muscles eased and her body responded to the promise of calm that would soon come.

Stella walked back to the living room carrying a tray. She already felt lighter, a sensation of gently flowing or floating. Her hands were quite steady. She placed each mug on a coaster on the glass and chrome coffee table. Blue tossed off the blanket, leaned forward and heaped two teaspoons of sugar into her drink. Stella didn’t take sugar but, impulsively, she added a heaped spoonful to her tea and stirred. Droplets of scalding tea splashed on to her table. She held on to the
mug with both hands and felt her palms begin to burn. Blue’s hands trembled as she lifted her mug.

‘Well?’ Stella said. She attempted to sound kind yet authoritative. ‘Why did you come out here in the freezing cold to see my husband?’

Blue took a sip of her tea, gazing at Stella over the rim of her mug. She took her time, placed the mug slowly back down on the coaster. ‘I think he’s my father,’ she said.

‘What?’ Stella was confused.

The blue eyes were watchful. The girl took another cautious sip of her hot drink.

Stella composed herself. ‘What makes you think he’s your father?’ she asked, calmly.

Blue took her time, thinking about her answer. In the delay, Stella had already decided she did not believe her.

Eventually, Blue said: ‘I found something to prove it.’

‘Found what, exactly?’

‘My birth certificate.’