Don't Stand So Close (7 page)

‘Does your mother know you’ve come here to see my husband?’ Stella asked.

‘No.’

‘She might think something has happened to you. We have to contact her.’

Blue peered up at Stella from under her fringe. Stella imagined a flicker of guilt in her expression.

‘You don’t even know my mother,’ Blue said. ‘Why should you care?’

‘My husband won’t be home until much later. We can’t leave your mum waiting that long. I need to know your home telephone number.’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’

Stella, tired of watching Blue dismember her sandwich, went to retrieve the half-empty bottle of Chardonnay from the living-room coffee table and poured herself a glass. It was not a good idea to drink on top of her pills, but what the hell.

Blue stared at Stella and at the glass of wine. ‘You don’t have any Coke but you’ve got wine,’ she said. She appeared to be making some sort of accusation.

Stella took another sip.

‘It’s not even six o’clock,’ Blue said.

‘I don’t usually drink at this time,’ Stella said. ‘I’m in shock – you, turning up at my front door, and saying that my husband is your father. Do you know someone who drinks too much?’

The girl nodded.

‘Is it your mum?’ Stella asked.

‘Vodka,’ Blue said. ‘She thinks it doesn’t smell but I still know.’

‘Is there anyone else that looks after you? Grandparents?’

‘Just me and my mum,’ Blue said. She stretched her arms above her head so that her T-shirt rode up even further, exposing more of her flat belly and then her sharp hipbones. She reached across the table to lift up Stella’s glass. ‘Does he like this wine?’ she asked.

Stella wondered if Blue had inherited her beauty from her mother. Again, that unreasonable flicker of jealousy. She wondered if Max might be happy to have a daughter, and
whether Blue might have more claim to his heart than she herself did. She hoped this girl was not his.

‘How many bedrooms does this house have?’ Blue asked.

‘Quite a few.’

‘It’s so quiet,’ Blue said. ‘I don’t like this place, it gives me the creeps.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Stella said.

‘How long have you been married?’ Blue asked. She rocked back and forth, teetering on the back legs of her chair. It was extremely irritating to watch her.

‘A little more than a year.’

‘You’re younger than he is.’ Blue looked thoughtfully at Stella, examining her face. ‘His hair is sort of grey,’ she said.

‘I thought you said you’d never met him?’

‘I saw his photograph. On the internet.’

Blue took a sip from Stella’s glass. ‘Mm,’ she said. She lifted the bottle of wine and filled the glass to the brim.

‘I don’t think you should drink that,’ Stella said.

Blue took a long drink. Stella wondered if she was responsible for the girl, simply because she had lied her way into her house. She supposed she was, especially if she did turn out to be Max’s daughter. Max might care about the girl. He might expect Stella to keep her safe. The rounded slippery plastic of her chair felt hard and uncomfortable against her back. She was sure Max would not abandon a daughter, if he knew one existed.

‘That’s enough wine,’ Stella said, more forcefully. It had been a long time since she had taken responsibility for anything or anyone.

Blue paused, long enough to give Stella a defiant look, before taking another swig. She kept drinking until she had polished off almost all the wine, then she lifted the bottle as
if to pour herself a refill. Stella reached across, took hold of the neck of the glass and yanked it away. Wine splashed across Blue’s lips and down over her precious jacket.

‘I said: that’s enough.’ Stella banged the glass down on to the table top.

‘Bitch,’ Blue hissed. She wiped her hand across her mouth. She pushed her chair back hard, so the metal legs made a terrible scraping, screeching sound against the slate floor. She stood behind Stella, leaning over her. Stella’s heart rate picked up, missed a few beats. She gripped the edge of the table. She did not move or show fear.

Blue leaned in close, her breath sour with wine. ‘Are you two in love?’ she asked.

‘That’s enough,’ Stella said. Now it was her turn to push back her chair. She stood up. She enjoyed the fact that she was a head taller than Blue. ‘I’ve called someone – from the police. I’ve told him you’ve run away. He’s looking at the police reports to see if any girls matching your description have been reported missing. You haven’t given me any choice.’

Blue shoved Stella’s chair so hard that it fell backwards. She left it where it lay.

‘Blue, what—’

Blue ran over to the sofa, bent down to retrieve her bag and then slung it over her shoulder as she made her way to the front door. She fumbled as she bent down and tried to pull on her still damp trainers.

Stella stayed a few paces away from her, at a safe distance.

It would be better if the girl left her alone. In peace. She might not even mention the visit to Max; it would be as though it had never happened. Blue’s claims were so unlikely.

Blue did not look back at Stella, but she took her time
leaving. She fiddled with her laces, then with the zip of her jacket. Stella didn’t want the girl to do something stupid. What if she did turn out to be Max’s daughter? What if she hurt herself, or froze to death? She would soon be in agony if she walked out into the snow.

‘At least let me give you a proper coat,’ Stella said.

There was nothing she could really do to stop Blue leaving Hilltop. She could hardly hold her in the house against her will. But if the girl left and they couldn’t find her – Max might not forgive her. And Stella couldn’t take that chance.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t leave – yet,’ she said.

Blue hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s not safe out there. You know it isn’t. Please. Just tell me your mother’s name and her telephone number. I’ll find a way to get you home in one piece.’

‘Are the police coming?’

‘I don’t know. If we can contact your mother, then I can phone them and tell them they don’t need to come out.’

Blue’s fingers slipped away from the door handle. She pushed both hands deep into her pockets. Stella could see her clenched fists through the thin fabric. As Stella watched, the girl’s colour seemed to change. She grew even paler and her skin acquired an odd, greenish tinge.

‘I don’t feel well,’ Blue said.

‘I’m not surprised. After all that wine.’

‘I need the toilet,’ Blue said. But she didn’t make it that far. She doubled over right where she was, in front of the door, dry retching and heaving. When the spasms stopped, she was on her hands and knees, her long hair hanging down, covering her face.

Stella hesitated, then moved towards her. She knelt down and pushed Blue’s hair away from her face and tucked it
behind her ears. She rubbed the girl’s back, feeling her bony spine. Then, placing her hands on the girl’s shoulders, Stella pulled Blue back towards her. Blue relaxed. She let her head fall back against Stella’s body. Her shallow breathing slowed and became regular. Stella stroked her hair and felt the girl grow calm. The feel of Blue’s body against hers was warm and not unpleasant. This must be what it feels like to be a mother, Stella thought.

She lay on her back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There were loads of cracks all over the place. The rug underneath her was nice and thick, a Persian-type thing. Really soft. She wondered if anyone else had ever lain down on the rug before, instead of staying on the chair like a good girl.

She pushed herself up on to her elbows and then stood, taking a moment to steady herself. She walked slowly over to his chair. He sat very still, his hands resting on his knees. She knelt in front of him and laid her head down. He let his hand lie still and warm under her cheek and she felt happy.

After a while, he lifted his other hand and placed it gently on her head. She kept very still. She’d washed her hair that morning, putting on loads of conditioner so that it was soft, like silk. He stroked it, from the top of her head into the base of her neck, and then right the way down to the ends. His hand stayed on the small of her back.

She had to breathe, she took a deep lungful of air. She waited to see what would happen next. He didn’t push her away. Again, he stroked her hair from the top of her head to the base of her neck, down to the place between her shoulder blades. She felt his fingers exploring her spine, moving down
and then back up again, tickling her neck, pushing up into her hair; pulling slightly.

‘You need someone to love you,’ he said. ‘You want to be close to me, but the only way you know how is like this. It’s not right. In the end you’ll be hurt.’

‘I don’t care. I want to.’

‘You’re too young.’

‘I know you want to touch me. I know you do. It’s not even my first time.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’

But his hand pulled harder at her hair.

She liked kneeling on the floor and resting her head against his knee. She didn’t try anything else, she knew she had better not push her luck. He let her stay there for a long time. She was tempted to reach up along his inner thigh, to trail her fingers along – just to see what would happen. But she didn’t. She waited. He might change his mind, he might make her leave. She knew he could get into bad trouble and she didn’t want that. He was the best doctor she’d ever had. She would never tell. But she wanted him to want her so badly that he would risk everything to touch her. And she could wait a little while longer.

She felt his fingertips on her forehead. A slow, gentle touch. He ran his thumb along her cheekbone, and down, to her lips. She wanted to open her mouth and lick him, taste him, bite him. She waited, patient. Her whole body tingled. She had to be very strict with herself, she made herself stay very still, she wouldn’t frighten him away. She wanted to open the buttons of his shirt and unzip his trousers. She was pleased about her self-control. She might be a lot younger, but she was the one in charge. His fingers lifted away from her face for a moment and her heart sank. But then he
touched her again. His hands were back in her hair now, his fingers a pressure on her scalp. He pushed them all the way along, twisting his fingers into her hair until he reached the nape of her neck. He stopped and held her there.

She shivered.

She wanted to reach for him so badly, to know if he was hard. But she didn’t. ‘Time’s up for today,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you same time next week.’

She stood slowly. At the door, she turned back. ‘Thank you, doctor,’ she said, grinning.

Stella was lying in bed, half awake, when the mail thudded on to the coir mat at the front door. Her vision was still blurred as she peered at the small clock beside her bed: it was ten o’clock. She remembered she had a weekend of report writing ahead of her. The Smith report was due on Tuesday: three children, all under five, all in foster care, cocaine-addicted mother pregnant with the fourth. The local authority was paying extra to have the report done in half the time and of course she had said yes when Max asked her to take it on, even though she was already overloaded. She knew he was keen to have the double fee. And she liked to please him. She always said yes when he asked.

She huddled under the duvet and pulled it up higher around her face. Her cotton pyjamas were crisp against her skin. A man would be nice, she thought. Any man would do. If she couldn’t have Max, it didn’t really matter. Her bed, like everything else in the flat, was pretty horrible. It sagged in the middle where two of the slats were coming loose. The cheap stuff always looked so good in the catalogue. The lukewarm radiators didn’t seem to have any effect even though she ran them day and night. And on top of that, the
flat smelt strongly of damp. She should really put up some pictures, she thought for the thousandth time. It was the same thought she’d had every single day since moving in two years ago.

Her desire to check the mail finally overcame her reluctance to leave her bed. She was hoping her payslip from the Grove Road practice would be in there. She was always paid on the last day of the month; Anne was in charge of the payroll and naturally was highly efficient.

She didn’t have far to travel from her bedroom to the front door, about six steps. As usual, she almost bumped her head against the paper lantern lightshade that hung low and crooked above her head. She picked up the post from the worn-out mat and flipped through the envelopes – mostly junk, the usual array of catalogues addressed to the previous tenant. She dropped those into the recycling and flipped through the rest. The gas and electricity bill had arrived. And, happily, a thick cream envelope of the kind favoured by the Grove Road Clinic. A couple more years and she would have enough money saved for a deposit to buy a small flat. Max might take her on as a full associate if she made herself indispensable.

Feeling more cheerful at the thought of future disposable income, Stella pulled on a pair of socks before steeling herself to brave the bathroom floor in order to splash some soap and hot water on her face. She did not look up at the ceiling where yellow globules were thriving due to a complete and utter lack of ventilation. Unfortunately, she could not avoid a sighting of the mould growing in black spots all around the windowsills. There was so much flora germinating in the bathroom it was beginning to look like a rainforest.

She pulled a brush through her hair and a halo of
static-filled strands sprung up around her head. She tried a few more brush strokes but this served only to worsen the situation. She couldn’t be bothered with make-up; she looked more or less presentable without it. Not that a coat of mascara and some lipstick would hurt, and she could make an effort to wear something other than jeans and a white shirt – but she wasn’t likely to see anyone worth glamming up for this weekend.

She would go down to the Caffè Nero and order a strong coffee from the good-looking Italian barista with warm eyes. The walk would get her brain going. Stella grabbed her bag and checked for phone, purse and Kindle. She banged the door of her apartment closed behind her and walked across the intricately patterned maroon carpet to the old-fashioned lift. She had to wait an age for the tiny antique car to climb up to the top floor. Thick black ropes swung slowly in opposite directions as the lift inched upwards. When it arrived, she heaved open the iron doors.