Don’t Stand So Close Page 6

  ‘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.

  Session Six

  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.

  Bayswater, April 2009

  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.<
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  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.

  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.

  Hilltop, 6.15 p.m.

  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 selfconsciousness, 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 he
r 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.’