Don't Stand So Close (2 page)

Stella shut the front door behind her, locked it and then
turned to get a better look at her uninvited guest. The girl was like a frightened deer. Strands of damp hair clung to her face. Her jacket hung open, revealing a cropped T-shirt and a hint of pale, goose-pimpled flesh. Bony knees protruded through tight black leggings. She held on to the strap of her rucksack and rocked back and forth on her grubby white running shoes. The girl pulled off her hat, her fingers still angry and red. She shook out her long wet hair and, as she did so, she caught sight of the colossal chandelier. She stared up for a moment, wide-eyed.

At five foot four, Stella was not particularly tall, and the girl was a head shorter than she was. And that was with the extra inch she gained from the running shoes. Stella felt foolish for being afraid.

‘My toes are burning,’ the girl said. ‘And I can’t feel my fingers.’ She glared at Stella as if she were responsible for her pain. She curled her fingers into a fist, then released them; watching her hands as though they belonged to someone else. Her eyes glistened and Stella thought she might be about to cry.

‘Why don’t you take off your shoes,’ Stella said, thinking about frostbite.

The girl bent down and tried to undo her laces, but her fingers were rigid and it took ages before she managed to loosen the double knots. As Stella waited and watched, the girl pulled off her trainers and placed them side by side on the front door mat. She wasn’t wearing socks and her toenails were painted black.

‘You should take that off too.’ Stella pointed at her jacket. Up close, she could see it was no more than thin plastic.

The girl shook her head; no.

‘Come inside, there’s a fire – it’s warmer,’ Stella said.

She walked towards the living room, pointing at the doorway, as if encouraging a timid animal to follow. She felt energized, or perhaps she felt anxious, it was hard to tell the difference. The girl followed, barefoot and still clutching at the strap of her bag. She didn’t look as though she felt at home in her old house. She stood motionless next to the sofa with her damp hair and her damp clothes.

Stella felt bad for leaving her outside so long. She lifted the tartan blanket from the back of the couch and shook it out. She ventured a step closer, holding the blanket out in front of her. When the girl didn’t back away, Stella draped the blanket around her shoulders and wrapped her up tight. The girl’s stiff fingers took hold. Stella saw it again, the suspicion in her eyes, and she backed away.

‘Sit in front of the fire,’ she said.

The girl sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, her back to Stella, staring at the small flames. The shivering went on and on. Stella hovered behind her, unsure what to do next.

‘I should phone your parents and let them know you’re here,’ she said.

‘My toes
really
hurt.’

Stella wondered if she might end up having to find a doctor for this strange, reckless girl who wandered about half undressed in the arctic conditions. She walked round and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. She noticed how beautiful the girl was. Exceptionally so. Her deep-set eyes were the colour of the sky on a clear, sunshine-filled day. Her hair had begun to dry, forming soft golden waves that caressed her cheeks. Her skin was velvety smooth. Her top lip was a shade too thin, but her bottom lip was fuller, pouting. She was so young.

‘Why are you staring at me?’ the girl asked.

‘I’m Stella. What’s your name?’

‘Blue.’

Blue was the colour of her eyes. Blue did not sound like a real name.

‘Is Blue your nickname?’

‘It’s my real name.’

‘And what’s your surname?’

She rubbed at her dry lips, tinged blue with cold, and hesitated, her eyes flickering around the room from left to right. ‘Cunningham,’ she said.

Stella had no way of knowing if she was lying.

‘We need to get you home,’ Stella said. ‘We need to let someone know you’re here.’

‘I’m not going home.’ The girl spoke with a certain determination that concerned Stella.

‘Why not?’ Stella asked.

‘I had a fight with my mother. She won’t let me back in.’

‘Blue, even if you had an argument with your mother, she’ll still be worried about you.’

No response.

‘Well – I still need to call someone to let them know you’re safe. Is there someone else I could call, besides your mother?’

Blue shook her head, not looking at Stella, staring at the fire. The shivering had lessened, but now and again a small quiver passed through her shoulders.

‘We do need to find a way to get you home,’ Stella said. Her words sounded empty, repetitive, lame.

‘I didn’t really use to live here,’ the girl said. ‘I made that up.’ She turned to look at Stella. The colour of her eyes seemed to shift, so that the blue was deeper and more intense, the colour of cold, hard tanzanite.

Stella tilted her head from side to side, trying to release the
muscles that had seized up in her neck and across her shoulders. ‘Then why have you come here?’ she asked.

If she panicked, if she breathed too fast, if she allowed her heartbeat to thunder out of control, she was lost. She should have gone upstairs when she heard the doorbell, shut the door of her bedroom, swallowed a sleeping pill, ignored the goddamn noise. There was a tightness in her chest, it was impossible to take in enough air.

‘I came because I need to see Dr Fisher,’ the girl said.

‘My husband?’

‘Yes.’ Blue’s mouth set in a stubborn line and she began to scratch at the skin on her forearms.

At the beginning of the session, he sat all quiet and serious, while he waited for her to say something first. His eyes were hidden away behind the black frames of his reading glasses and she couldn’t see what he was feeling. He always wore suits and ties. As far as she could tell he had two: a navy one and a tan one. His shoes were black and shiny and expensive-looking, with square toes. Under his shirt there was a slight curve to his belly. She didn’t mind at all. She also liked that he wasn’t too tall and that he had a beard. She didn’t know why, but these things pleased her.

He was still watching her.

‘I hate these chairs,’ she said.

He didn’t say anything, yet.

‘Why do you put your chair so far away from mine?’ Her voice sounded a little whiny. ‘I don’t really hate the chairs. I could curl up in this chair and stay here all day and not go back home. I’d just stay here with you.’

She leaned forward, pulling a strand of her hair into her mouth. Men were always looking at her. He looked at her too, in that same way, she was sure of it, but he pretended he didn’t. He shifted in his chair, changing over his
crossed legs to the other direction. He leaned back and rested his chin on his hand. She looked up at the clock. Five minutes gone. That meant forty-five minutes left. She squeezed her bottom lip with the fingers of her right hand. He was still watching. She wondered if he stared at all his patients so hard. She liked his lips – they were sort of thin, but in a sexy kind of way. She had been in therapy of one kind or another for as long as she could remember. So far, he was her favourite.

She was wearing her school shirt and the top two buttons were undone. She played with the next button, slipping it open. She leaned slightly forward, watching for his reaction. He cleared his throat.

‘I think about you a lot,’ she said.

‘I’m your doctor,’ he said. ‘Our relationship has boundaries that are very important. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘I think about you kissing me. I think about it a lot. I don’t know why, that’s just what I think about.’

His hands were tightly clasped in his lap, like he was afraid of what might happen if he let go. ‘This is not a seduction,’ he said. ‘It’s a therapy session. You shouldn’t get the wrong idea.’

But she already had lots of her own ideas.

‘It could be a seduction,’ she said.

‘There are other kinds of relationships you can have,’ he said. ‘I mean, other than sexual.’

She slipped her hand inside her shirt and stroked the velvety skin between her breasts. She slid a finger under the cup of her bra to find her nipple.

‘You need to stop the acting out, or we will have to end the session,’ he said.

She removed her fingers from her shirt. She sat on both hands. ‘Fine. What do you want me to talk about?’

‘Only you can know for sure.’

‘Give me a break.’

‘You’re angry now? Shall we take a look at that?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not angry with you.’

She picked at a loose thread on the arm of her chair. She liked having his full attention, but fifty minutes was much too short, too little time. She sighed. He massaged his forehead with his left hand. Was he left- or right-handed? She watched his hand, still stroking his forehead, and pictured his fingers stroking her. She shifted, uncrossed her legs and pressed hard against the base of the chair. She wanted him to fall in love with her, to take her home with him, to look after her, always. She was pretty. Much prettier than most women. Why should he not want her? Lots of men his age wanted to be with her that way, she had proof. And now she wanted him. She slid from the chair on to the floor, giving him a small smile as she moved. She sat on the floor at the bottom of the chair, pulling her knees up to her chest. She didn’t say anything.

‘I can’t read your mind,’ he said. ‘You have to tell me what you want my help with.’

She lifted her arms up above her head and stretched.

‘How are you feeling right now?’ he asked.

‘Wet. How are you feeling?’

‘I’m going to have to end the session for today if this goes on.’

He was nervous. She could see it in his eyes and she could hear it in his voice, all tight and squeezed up. She held on to her knees and rocked, looking up at him. The buttons of his shirt were done up all the way to his throat. He wore a pink
tie. He also wore a wedding ring. She wondered what it was like, when they had sex. She hated his wife. It wasn’t fair, she was probably some woman who had always had everything: parents who loved each other, and a nice house to grow up in with cats and bloody dogs. A really big, clean house with no shouting and screaming and definitely no drinking. With a bedroom that her parents had decorated for her with pink girly stuff, a bed with a pink duvet and matching pillowcase, a pleated bed frill, a pink wallpaper strip with fairies. She could see it all. Dolls and soft toys. And his wife-to-be would grow up all safe and liking herself and she would go to university and meet a man like him.

It wasn’t fair.

But then she was beautiful and she was young. And some men liked young girls. Being pretty could get you a lot. She wanted him. And not just for fifty minutes once a week.

‘You asked me how I felt,’ she said. ‘And now you’re going to punish me for telling you the truth.’ She
was
pissed off.

He softened, she could see. ‘Do you think that sex is going to help you? To get the relationships you want?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Who taught you that the only thing important about you, the only thing of value, is your sexuality?’

‘Nobody taught me anything.’

‘And you have feelings about that?’

‘I don’t want to talk about my feelings.’

‘So you put a wall between us. A wall of sexuality. And we never get to know the real you, under that barrier.’

‘It’s not a wall. I want to be close to you. I don’t want any wall.’

She crawled towards him on her hands and knees, until she
was at his feet. He didn’t move, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap.

‘You know our agreement,’ he said. ‘No acting out. No touching.’

‘Please,’ she said. ‘I just want to rest my head against your knee. No one’s ever touched me, or hugged me, never.’ OK, that was all lies.

She leaned forward, touching her forehead to his leg. The linen of his trousers felt a little rough against her skin. She could feel the hard edge of his knee as she pressed against him. She closed her eyes.

Stella pulled out the file marked
Simpson
and skimmed her notes one more time. The family had first come to the attention of social services, and then the Courts, more than a decade earlier; now the case had been handed to her as a twisted mess of accusations and counter-accusations between two warring parents. There were several professionals involved already, and a general air of pessimism prevailed about ever making progress in a case where hatred between the parents obscured every fact and where the child remained a pawn between two factions. Court proceedings had already been lengthy and acrimonious and the state was paying a high price for their domestic warfare.

Nobody knew the truth. Not social services, not the solicitors, not the children’s guardian and certainly not the judge – which was why he had asked for a psychological and psychiatric evaluation of both parents.

Stella had summarized two lever-arch files of background documents in preparation for her first appointment with Lawrence Simpson. His daughter had been taken into foster care three months earlier, after she had called emergency services to tell them she had found her mother
unconscious in the bathroom after a drinking binge.

According to the most recent statement he had filed, Simpson claimed his ex-wife was an unfit mother and he was seeking sole custody. The mother had a history of alcohol problems and had admitted a relapse, but she was keen to seek treatment.

This most recent incident was not the first time the child had been placed in care: there were three previous incidents, all when she was between the ages of six months and three years old. Each time was related to the mother’s substance abuse. Simpson had sought custody before, when his daughter was still a toddler, but in spite of the mother’s difficulties, the relationship between mother and child was always described as warm and loving, and Simpson had not succeeded. For the last few years, things seemed to have settled down, and the case had been discharged from social services until the mother’s most recent relapse had set the process in motion once more.