Don't Stand So Close (8 page)

Outside her building, it was a gorgeous day in London. Although there was still an edge, a chill in the air, and spring had not yet arrived, the sun on her skin felt good.

She was disappointed when she was served by a trainee barista, a woman. She couldn’t face her flat or her laptop for a little while longer and so she sat at a table at the window, looking out at all the people strolling along Westbourne Grove in the sunshine. She imagined she might see Max, alone, walking towards her; the familiar beard, the grey at his temples. She would invite him to join her, they would go back to her flat. A young couple, smiling, passed the window walking close and holding hands. Stella felt somehow bereft. The couple was followed by a tired-looking Filipino nanny, pushing blond twin boys in a cumbersome double buggy.

Stella stared as more people passed in front of her, her thoughts drifting as she sat in the dim café, stirring, bright light outside. Then she sat up straight, narrowing her eyes so that she might see better. Lawrence Simpson was walking along the pavement outside. He came closer and closer to the window where she sat. He stopped and looked straight inside, straight at her. Stella didn’t know if he could see in through the tinted window, he might be staring at his own reflection. He wore a formal black suit and although his shirt was open at the collar, he seemed strangely overdressed for a Saturday stroll. He pushed back his foppish fringe in a gesture she remembered from her office.

He walked on, his face impassive, with no sign of recognition.

Stella watched the man’s straight back moving further away, his left hand in his trouser pocket. She was no longer sure of what she’d seen. The interior of the café was dark while the street outside was so bright. Chances were it wasn’t him at all, just someone who looked like him: tall and thin with straight, fine hair.

Why was she thinking about Lawrence Simpson, anyway? She felt unreasonably guilty, for letting him intrude into her thoughts and into her weekend, as though she had done something wrong. Was she attracted to him? She honestly did not think that was the case. Perhaps it was because he was a doctor, someone whose orbit travelled so close to the world of the clinic, and they had more in common than was usually the case with her medico-legal clients. Stella had to admit that she was more interested in getting to know what made Simpson tick than she should be. She was thinking about him even while not at work. She might even be more intimidated by him than she ought to be.

She waited ten minutes to ensure that, whoever the man was, he was long gone.

Stella’s living room was the same size as her bedroom. She had crammed in a small sofa, a television on a stand, and a tiny dining table for two. She opened her laptop, propping her notes on the chair next to her. She began to write up the final section of the Smith report:
Opinion
.

It was such a glorious day. She thought about what her friends might be up to. Izzy and Mark would be nesting, finishing off the nursery. Hannah and the other singles were meeting up in Regent’s Park to enjoy the unexpected sunshine. Stella wanted so badly to ditch her report and join them, but she wouldn’t because she would not let Max down.

She had written nothing besides the heading.
Opinion
.

The forensic work was intellectually challenging, but not without emotional strain. She believed she could help, she believed she could make a critical difference to the life of a child. That was her job, as she saw it: to act in the interests of the child. But often that meant writing things in her reports that caused the parents intense pain. And while it might be true that most of the people who landed in her office had screwed up, no one was born bad. All of her clients had their own traumatic histories.

Sometimes clients were grateful – even when the news was bad. Sometimes in their hearts they knew they could not care for a child. Sometimes, they were angry – but not as often as she might have expected when she started out. She liked to think that, ultimately, many of her reluctant clients appreciated the thoroughness and accuracy of her reports. She put in many more hours than she was supposed to. She
made sure she gave the parents a chance to put forward their side of the story. She was proud of that, proud that she always went the extra mile.

Blue had her back to Stella and was still leaning against her chest.

The girl smelt sour.

‘I think you need a hot bath,’ Stella said. Gently, she pushed the girl away and stood up. She held out her hand and Blue took hold and pulled herself to her feet; the girl was so light. She seemed a little unsteady as she began to climb the curved staircase and Stella stayed close behind her.

The only bathtub in Hilltop was in the bathroom attached to the master suite at the top of the staircase. As Stella led Blue through the door of her bedroom, she tried not to dwell too long on how it felt to have a stranger invading her sanctuary. The cast-iron, French antique bath was spectacularly deep, as good as any drug at helping Stella to relax, and she hoped it might have the same soothing effect on Blue. She balanced on the side of the bath and turned on the taps full blast while the girl rested on the armchair.

Stella once had visions of sitting in that same chair, a glass of wine in her hand, talking to Max while he soaked in the bath.

Blue looked drained. Her face was now so pale it was ghost-like, with shadow half-moons, like bruises, under her eyes. But her eyes were wide open again, and fixed on Stella, in a permanent state of watchfulness.

The tub filled quickly as water thundered from the spout. The water pressure in the house was spectacular. Stella added bath foam to the water and then a generous amount of lavender bath oil. ‘It’s ready,’ she said.

For the first time since entering the house, Blue took off her jacket. She did so with some reluctance, taking ages to fold it and place it carefully over the back of the armchair. Then, facing Stella and with no hint of self-consciousness, she pulled off her cropped T-shirt. She stood in her bra, a delicate white lace. Stella stiffened, trying to hide her unease. She couldn’t help but look at Blue’s body: her milk-white skin, her pink nipples showing through skimpy lace, the curve of her hips. Blue stepped out of her leggings, pulling them off and tossing them on to the floor. Half wary, half defiant, she reached behind her to undo the clasp of her bra. She stripped off her underwear.

Naked, she stepped gingerly into the deep water. She sank down into the bubbles and lay back, looking up at the rainbow crystals of the chandelier.

Stella felt as though she had been hypnotized. She forced herself to look away, to find something to do. She picked up Blue’s clothes from the floor and dropped them in a pile on the chair. She looked in the cupboard under the basin and found two fresh towels. She placed them over the towel warmer. She rubbed the condensation from the mirror. In front of her was a dull, fearful person she did not recognize. She was thirty-two, but the person looking back at her was much older.

She looked down and washed her hands. She massaged them with chamomile hand lotion. She was careful to avoid her engagement ring: a two-carat round-cut diamond set into a platinum band. Proof of her husband’s commitment to her, of his loyalty. The ring had belonged to Max’s mother; it was beautiful but not to her taste.

She turned back to Blue. ‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ she said. ‘Take as long as you like.’

‘Don’t leave me,’ Blue said, turning her head.

‘Are you still feeling sick?’

‘No. But I don’t want you to go.’

Stella knelt down next to the bath. ‘You need to use the shampoo,’ she said.

‘I’m too tired.’

‘I’ll do it for you.’

Stella scooped handfuls of warm water over Blue’s fair head. She rubbed lavender-scented shampoo into the girl’s scalp, massaging it into a lather, keeping a firm pressure against her head. Stella felt calmer.

‘Are the police going to come?’ Blue asked.

‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’

Blue rested her arms on the sides of the roll-top bath and Stella could see her scars, patches of thickened white lines along her forearms. ‘You seemed frightened, when I talked about the police. Has something happened? If you tell me, maybe I can help you.’

‘I don’t like the police. I don’t trust them. I haven’t done anything bad.’

‘I wish you would trust me,’ Stella said.

‘Why should I?’ Blue submerged her head under the water, her eyes closed. A stream of small bubbles passed through her lips, rising to the surface as her hair fanned out
around her small face. Stella waited, holding her breath, until Blue emerged, gasping.

‘Cool bath,’ she said. It seemed she’d cheered up a little.

Stella was growing impatient; tired of the cat-and-mouse conversation. The air in the bathroom was humid and it was difficult to breathe, as though she was inhaling water instead of air. She needed to get out. She stood up, her knees stiff and sore from kneeling on the hard floor.

‘I’ll be just outside,’ she said. ‘I won’t close the door. There’s nothing to be frightened of. There’s no one else in the house.’

Blue nodded. She leaned back, loosening up, and once again closed her eyes.

Stella sat stiffly on the edge of her bed. She had developed the ability to be still, to slow her thoughts and to lose herself in the small details around her, to focus on anything but her inner life. The bedroom was vast. The fire in the hearth had not been lit recently and only a few twisted black logs were left behind. The bookshelves on either side of the art deco mantelpiece were filled with novels. Her textbooks were downstairs in the study and she hadn’t opened a single one of them in all the time she had lived at Hilltop. The windows were framed by heavy yellow silk curtains. In daylight, Stella could see out over the tops of tall pine trees and beyond to the undulating hills.

On the first night she had spent with Max in this house, she had covered the walls and the ceiling of this bedroom with tiny fluorescent stars. With the curtains closed, the stars had glowed everywhere around them. Stella had curved herself around Max, tracing his vertebrae with her fingertips. She wished everything between them could be as she had
always hoped. She still believed things might change.

From where she sat, she could see Blue’s fair head resting against the side of the bath.

She had chosen her underwear carefully: a pink bra and a matching thong. As she walked to her appointment, she could feel the lace chafe between her legs, and she smiled, at the thought of his hands, his arms holding her. She unfastened the top two buttons of her school shirt. She was wearing perfume – she felt older, sexier.

He watched as she undid all of the buttons, letting the shirt fall open. The cups pushed her breasts forward and she knew her nipples showed through the lace. She looked down at his trousers. She could see she had won. She gave a small smile, tipping her chin forward as she unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She turned around, so that he could admire the full effect of her thong. Quickly, she unhooked her bra, shrugging it off her shoulders and letting it fall. She turned back to him, walked over and sat down on his lap. She placed her lips against his and kissed him softly. His beard tickled. He smelt good. Just as she had imagined. She pushed his hair back from his face, looking into his sad eyes.

‘This can’t happen,’ he said.

She whispered: ‘Tell me what you want me to do.’

With one hand he unzipped himself, with the other, he pushed his fingers inside her.

Next time, she thought, she would make him take her to a posh hotel with a really big bed. Or maybe to his house; she would like to see his bed. She smiled at the thought of the receptionist outside.

‘I want to make you happy,’ she said.

Stella knocked on Max’s door. She waited. No answer. She knocked again, both irritated and disappointed, because she was fairly confident the office was empty. He was going to be late for her supervision session. Again.

She went downstairs to find Anne. ‘I’m supposed to have supervision with Max,’ she said. ‘But he’s not in his office. Do you have any idea where he might be?’

‘He’ll be in late today,’ Anne said, knowingly. She began playing with the thin gold chain around her neck and she gave Stella a rather smug smile.

‘How late?’ Stella glared at her, as though Max’s tardiness was somehow her fault.

‘I’ll give him a call,’ Anne said. ‘You can wait in his office.’ As usual, she managed to give the impression that she owned the place.

Stella stopped by the kitchen. She threw out the cold dregs of coffee and made another, much stronger pot. She bit into a white-chocolate-chip biscuit. Max was often lax about her supervision sessions: he cancelled at short notice, started late or ended early. She had put up with his casual approach without complaint, and for the most part it was worth it. He
was a brilliant clinician with several years more experience than she had. She looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes of her hour with him were already lost.

Max’s office was the largest in the building. The front windows overlooked Grove Road. Cream shutters masked the view of heavy traffic and double-glazing ensured the room was cocooned in silence. A second window, at the back of the office, overlooked the small garden, most of which had been swallowed up by an extension for the clinic. Stella could see the skylight in the roof of Paul’s office, and beyond that the courtyard with a fountain in the middle. Anne had been in charge of garden design.

A medical examining bed covered with a fresh white sheet of paper stood under the window, and a screen with floral fabric was folded back at the side. When Stella used his office, she made sure to fold out the screen so the bed was hidden. She didn’t like the office to feel too cold, or too clinical.

She saw herself, Max on top of her, on the examining bed.

‘Stella.’

The sound of his voice triggered goosebumps along her arms. She felt her face flush as she turned.