Don't Stand So Close (27 page)

The plastic bin liner flapped, frantic, as the wind tried to break the fragile barrier between the inside and the outside world. It wouldn’t hold much longer.

‘I’m not saying this to scare you,’ Peter said. ‘Because I really don’t think that Lawrence Simpson sent his daughter out here. It doesn’t make any sense. But I think something else is going on. Do you want to hear my theory?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘I think Max agreed to treat Blue and her mother so that he could find out how much they knew about Simpson’s attack on you. I think Max was scared that Simpson might – for whatever reason – tell his wife what he’d done. Simpson might have wanted to scare Blue’s mother into giving in to his demands for custody. And if Simpson could show that he could control you, then what chance would his wife have? And he’s a sadist – so he might not have been able to resist boasting about his victory. He might have been tempted to show those photographs to someone.’

He glanced at her, looking stricken. He regretted his
comment about the photographs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s lack of sleep. I’m even less tactful than usual.’

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m not that fragile. And I already worked out that Max might have had his own reasons for wanting to treat Blue and her mother. And I’ve already asked him about it.’

She enjoyed the look of surprise on his face.

‘And?’

‘He denied any ulterior motive.’

‘What a surprise. And don’t you find it amazing that his practice has stayed squeaky clean through all of this?’

The corner of the plastic bag came loose. Neither of them bothered to try and fix it back into place. Stella wondered why she was so angry at Peter.

‘I think you’re wrong. I believe Max meant well, I believe he genuinely wanted to help Blue and her mother. He does like to be in control, but that’s not a crime. So do I. So do you, for that matter. He’s been under huge stress – he’s carried the pressure of both my mental state and the survival of his practice – and so he took on too much. Yes, he can be over-confident and, yes, he thinks he has to take responsibility for people he cares about – I think he thought he could help Blue and her mother at the same time as keeping an eye on them. But somehow it backfired, and the girl has become fixated on him.’

‘So that’s your excuse for him this time?’

‘It’s not an excuse.’

‘He’s your blind spot.’

‘He’s a man who has a strong need to be in control. Sometimes that’s his weakness.’

‘He’s a control freak who likes to play God.’

‘He’s my husband.’

‘Ellie, please. Can’t you think about this logically, objectively – from a professional perspective? Max must have been concerned that Blue’s mother would find out from Simpson himself that you and Max had, by omission, concealed information in your report. If she had got desperate enough, she could have gone to the police. I think Max knew exactly what he was doing. I think he was desperate to stop what happened to you from getting out, and from destroying his practice and his reputation.’

‘I know you’re only trying to help. I know you care about me.’ Stella heard herself and she sounded condescending, like Max at his worst. She didn’t mean to. ‘It’s a huge relief, to accept that Lawrence Simpson wasn’t behind all of this, but as for the rest, there’s too much conjecture.’

‘Funny that you and I reached exactly the same conclusion. Even if it is just a theory. Don’t you think?’

Stella moved away from him. She collected the cushions from the sofa and tried to stack them on the windowsill in front of the broken window, but they all fell straight back down to the floor. She gave up.

‘There’s no proof,’ she said. ‘We could be completely wrong.’

‘I can’t think of any innocent explanation why Max would choose to get involved with that family.’

‘Isn’t it fair to say you’ve never liked Max, and this has nothing to do with Blue or her father? It’s about me.’

Having given up on window repairs, they were standing in front of the fireplace, staring at the wizened logs in the hearth as if hoping a fire might magically ignite.

‘Max took advantage of your feelings for him,’ he said. ‘To keep you quiet.’

‘That’s not true. I became dependent on him because I didn’t want to deal with my own trauma.’

‘He convinced you to do something terrible.’ His voice rose as he became angrier. ‘He encouraged you to conceal a crime. And it had consequences – not only for you, but for Blue and her mother. Max thinks of his own interests – and only his own interests. He puts himself first, always.’

She placed both hands on his shoulders. ‘Calm down. Let me be clear. For the last time – Max didn’t make me do anything.’ Her hands dropped. ‘I’m sorry. I was always in love with Max.’

‘The problem is, Max doesn’t act like a man in love with you.’

The compassion in his eyes made her pain worse. ‘Sometimes he needs a break – from me and my agoraphobia and my post-traumatic stress and my tranquillizers.’

‘How long are you planning to stay a victim?’

‘You’re a policeman, Peter, a rescuer. I thought you liked victims. I thought you liked coming out to rescue me now and again.’

‘I thought you were tough. I thought you were a survivor.’

‘You can’t understand what it’s like to be raped.’

Despite all the pills, she was agitated; her voice was too loud. She was angry. She wanted to be left alone. She didn’t want to be alone. She was lonely.

‘I tried to get you to report what happened. I thought that was the first step in getting your life back.’

‘That’s what you thought. But it wasn’t what I wanted.’

‘And being locked up in this concrete monstrosity is what you want?’

‘
It’s a modernist fucking icon!
’

He tried to put his hand on her arm, but she shrugged him off. He knew how to put together a convincing argument. It
was part of his job. His words were getting inside her, confusing her.

‘Are you so sure there’s no truth to what Blue said?’

Stella didn’t want to listen any more. She wanted to get away. She wasn’t entirely sure where she wanted to go; then she realized she wanted her bed.

‘It’s so cold in here. I’m going upstairs. I need to lie down,’ she said.

‘Look,’ Peter said, ‘your life is your own business but at the very least you must see that Max should not be allowed to go on treating that girl without a second opinion?’

She crossed the frosty entrance hall and grabbed hold of the steel tubular railing. It stung her fingers, as though she’d grabbed a piece of ice. She didn’t look back. The higher she climbed, the more the numbness took over.

‘I’ll stay until the glass-repair people get here,’ Peter called out. ‘I’m sure they can board up the window. The house will be secure.’

Still, she did not turn around. She did not want to see him. She kept climbing, putting one foot in front of the other.

Bloody hell. Her bedroom. She had forgotten the wreckage Blue had left behind. Stella weaved her way through the chaos and the debris on the floor. She picked up her duvet, shook it out and laid it across the bed. One pillow was still in place, but the other was missing. She soon spotted it, stuffed into the fire grate.

The girl was a demon.

One pillow would have to do. She just wanted her bed. She shook it, fluffed it up and removed two long blonde hairs. She didn’t need any reminders. She lay down on her back and closed her eyes.

Something hard was digging into her backside. She reached under the covers and felt around, but there was nothing there. There was something tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. Blue’s phone.

Five weeks after Stella had been living in his Hampstead flat, Max came home late for the first time. Her chicken in lime coconut curry sat cold and untouched on the Aga. She wanted to hurl it into the dustbin, but then she couldn’t bear to throw away something she’d worked so damn hard on. So, it sat, congealing. Stella simmered. She flicked aimlessly through the television channels. He was with a woman. It was only so long, she supposed, that he could embrace a celibate lifestyle with an unwanted, much younger colleague camped out in his flat.

He couldn’t be seeing anyone. Stella had expected, at the very least, that he might have an emergency or two – a suicide, or an overdose – that would mean he had to stay out late. But he must have passed any emergencies on to a colleague, because he was always home on time. He had completed the Simpson report himself and he had arranged with Anne to cancel all of her other commitments. He always came back to her at the same time each night: eight o’clock. He would let himself in and then he would come and look for her. She would be in the kitchen, standing over the cooker. He would approach her and give her a friendly peck on the
cheek. Sometimes he would squeeze her shoulder as she stood with her back to him. The cooker was the nicest one she’d ever used. Judging by how pristine it was, he had never used it himself.

She spent her nights in Max’s bed. She would get there first, swallow her pill and then drift away, alone. He would join her much later. It was hopeless. She should get the hell out of his home and get on with her life. She couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to any more. She had a taste of what it was like to have him coming home to her each night. And it was good. She felt a surge of happiness each time she heard his key in the front door; for her, it was the sound of possibility. When he was with her, she felt almost calm, almost happy. The walls of his home were her safety during the day, his presence was her security in the evenings.

Max did nothing to indicate that he desired her. He had a sense of duty towards her. He saw her as a victim. She was his responsibility, nothing more. She suspected that having her near by and taking care of her was his way of dealing with his guilt. Were she more pessimistic, she would have wondered if it was also a way to avoid liability: legal, financial or professional. But she was not entirely cynical.

By nine thirty Stella was on edge. She went into each room, making sure the windows were locked and the curtains shut tight.

He walked in at ten minutes past ten. Stella looked up sullenly from where she sat on his sofa, her arms crossed and legs folded underneath her. He was not bound to her in any way, he could stay out the whole goddamn night if he wanted to and, furthermore, he had every right to bring other women home with him. He was probably frustrated as hell
and couldn’t wait to get rid of her. He must see her as damaged goods.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. His tie hung loose around his neck. His suit jacket was uncharacteristically rumpled. He took it off and tossed it over the armchair. Stella wanted to pick it up, to smell it, to check if it carried a scent of perfume.

‘Have you been with someone?’ she asked. She squeezed herself tighter.

‘It’s very strange,’ he said. ‘This situation we’re in.’

‘A woman?’

He ran his hand over his head. She could never be sure if he was pleased or dismayed to come home to her. She knew so little about him.

He sighed.

‘Is there any dinner?’ he asked. He was polite as ever.

‘There is,’ she said. ‘But it’s cold.’

For the first time she felt she might give up, walk out, there and then, find her way back to her old life.

The table looked beautiful. She had found a pair of heavy silver candlesticks at the back of a kitchen cupboard and these were now in the centre of the table, candles flickering. She had placed sprigs of lavender, cut from the pot next to the front door, in a vase.

‘Anne’s getting married,’ Max said as he sat down. ‘That’s why I was late. We went to have a celebratory drink – at the Lamb and Eagle.’

‘Anne – from the clinic?’

‘Yep.’

‘Who is the lucky man?’ Stella asked. As she served him a plate of cold chicken in lime coconut curry she had the urge to laugh. Everything seemed absurd: the cold food, the candles, the lavender.

‘Delicious,’ he said, although he hadn’t put a single thing in his mouth yet. ‘Did you ever meet Chris Marshall? His wife was a patient at the clinic. I treated her for depression when she was in the last stages of breast cancer. That’s when he and Anne met.’

‘How romantic. Dying wife and all.’

‘Anne’s had a hard time too, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t know.’

He had lapsed into silence. Max looked tired more often than not, lately. He seemed older and less optimistic than the picture of him she carried in her mind. He smiled less often. His enthusiasm for life, his passion, appeared to have faded. If she had been infatuated before, now she loved the real him.

‘How has Anne had a hard time?’ she asked.

‘Four years ago her husband died of pancreatic cancer. From the time he was diagnosed, he only had another six months. She was devastated. It was around the time we opened the clinic and I think work was the thing that really saved her sanity, kept her going.’

‘I had no idea. She didn’t talk to me much. I don’t think she ever liked me.’

She was pleased to see that he was eating the chicken.

‘Have you lived in this flat a long time?’ she asked.

‘Twelve years. I grew up around here – my mother’s still in a retirement home on Finchley Road.’

She had never dared ask personal questions before.

Max was opening the bottle of Chardonnay she had placed between the candlesticks. She wondered if he drank to deal with her constant presence. While he grappled with the cork, she said: ‘I’ll need another prescription.’ She said it calmly and then held her breath.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it filled for you in the morning.’

He filled his glass, and then hers.

Stella knew the basics of behavioural theory. She knew she was teetering on the edge of agoraphobia and should not be allowed to fall over the precipice or it would be extremely difficult to claw her way back up to a normal life. Part of the problem, Stella suspected, was that she did not want her normal life back. She was sick of a normal life. She was happy, cocooned in Max’s flat. Nothing bad would happen to her inside. She knew she was going crazy.