Don't Stand So Close (4 page)

‘Where?’

‘In my mother’s bedroom. It was hidden – at the back of a drawer.’

‘Did you bring it with you?’ Stella asked.

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s a surprise.’

‘Don’t you believe me?’ Blue asked.

Stella didn’t answer and didn’t look at her. She stared ahead at the crackling fire. Her tea had cooled and she drank it, even though it was too sweet and too milky, not the way she liked it at all. Her body felt pleasingly light, as though she drifted along the top of a gentle wave.

‘I’m not a liar,’ Blue said. She leaned forwards and put her hand on Stella’s forearm. Stella wasn’t sure if her touch was
a plea or a threat. When Stella did not respond, Blue tightened her grip. Stella became aware of drops of sweat beading along her hairline and her top lip. She pushed the girl’s hand away.

‘Have you ever met my husband?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘So besides apparently seeing his name on your birth certificate, what else do you know about him?’

‘My mother said he’s a doctor.’

‘Did your mother also tell you his home address?’

Blue nodded, too quickly, and Stella regretted the leading question.

‘I didn’t think you’d let me in if I told you the truth,’ Blue said. ‘That’s why I said I used to live here. I’m not a liar.’

Max had blue eyes too – but his were a cloudier, greyer shade than Blue’s. And Blue’s hair was so fair, her skin so pale. So unlike Max. Stella tried to remember if her husband had ever mentioned a Nordic girlfriend. Not that she could recall. But then Max was not short of either charm or previous relationships. She wondered how he might react, and whether he might like to have a daughter. They had never discussed having children. They both knew Stella was in no fit state to be a parent.

She tried to stay rational. The girl was a teenager – any liaison that might have produced her would have taken place long before Stella and Max had even met. But she didn’t feel rational, she felt jealous. And resentful and confused about why Max might have kept this from her. About another woman sharing his child.

Blue began biting her thumbnail, her small white teeth chipping away at the red polish. It looked as though she might draw blood, the way she attacked her own skin.

‘Don’t bite your nails,’ Stella said.

Blue stopped. ‘I’m hungry. Do you have anything to eat?’

Stella almost smiled, it all seemed so absurd. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There’s not much in the house.’

‘Could we get a takeaway or something?’

‘In this weather? No. No one can get up the hill, most places are closed.’ Then she regretted what she’d said; she had only emphasized her vulnerability and her isolation. They were trapped. Together.

‘You must have
something
to eat,’ Blue said.

‘I can make you a sandwich,’ Stella said. ‘I think I have some ham, or tuna.’

‘I’m a vegetarian.’

‘I see.’

‘I don’t like to think of killing animals.’

‘Good for you.’

‘What about peanut butter?’ Blue asked.

Stella did have peanut butter. She stood, once again feeling a release of the tension that had built up while she sat next to the girl on the sofa.

Blue wriggled underneath the pink-and-green checked blanket and pulled it up around her face. She stretched out, resting her head on a yellow silk cushion. Her long blonde hair flowed over the arm of the couch.

Perhaps the girl had come to steal. Stella thought about everything that should be locked away: jade ornaments that had belonged to Max’s mother, silver picture frames and, most importantly, her diamond earrings, her graduation present. She decided she couldn’t be bothered. Everything could be replaced, nothing was important.

Out of habit, Stella listened for the sound of Max’s key turning in the lock; the sound that signalled the end of a day’s
solitude. On his way home, he might stop in at the Tesco opposite the station to pick up the items she had asked for: milk, bread, Perrier water, kitchen roll – whatever banalities she needed. She no longer cooked for him. It would take him a few more minutes to drive down Station Road and then up the hill towards Hilltop. A couple of days a month, he finished too late to make it back from London to Buckinghamshire and so he stayed in the Hampstead apartment. On those nights, Stella took an extra sleeping pill.

Blue’s eyes were closed.

Stella laid down the knife she was holding. She approached the sofa, moving slowly. The girl’s breathing was even and she seemed to be asleep. Stella hoped the drowsiness wasn’t the result of hypothermia. Again, she felt guilty for leaving her outside in the cold so long. She couldn’t be sure that Blue meant her any harm. Perhaps she was in trouble, in need of help. Stella picked up Blue’s bag from where she had dropped it, next to the sofa. It wasn’t heavy and there wasn’t much inside: a thin leather purse, small and square, with a five-pound note and a few coins. That was it. Nothing that might identify her and no mobile phone. So she couldn’t even have tried phoning the taxi company. And as for her claim about being Max’s daughter – Stella had no idea what to make of it. Basically, the only thing she really knew about the girl was that she was a vegetarian.

Blue lay still and pale on the sofa. Her lips were no longer a harsh purple but had faded to a delicate pink. Stella reached out and touched the girl’s forehead with her fingertips. Her temperature felt normal, if slightly cold. She tucked the blanket tighter around the girl’s small body. Still, she did not move. A strand of soft, golden hair had fallen across her face and Stella smoothed it away.

Stella left the living room and crossed the hallway into her study. She could see nothing through the window; the garden was in complete darkness. She flicked a switch and the snow-covered ground was flooded with yellow light. There was no one outside. No one that she could see. She pulled the curtains closed.

She left the door slightly ajar, so she could see if Sleeping Beauty stirred.

She tried to reach her husband, but his mobile went straight to voicemail. She left a message, casually asking that he call her back.

She needed to talk to someone. Now. And it wasn’t as though she had many options. She hesitated. The number was still saved in her phone.

He answered after three rings. ‘Harris.’

Stella coughed.

‘Hello?’ He sounded rushed and impatient; harsher than she remembered.

‘Peter, it’s me.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Stella.’

‘Stella?’ He must have deleted her number. Understandably, he was surprised to hear from her.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘I need some advice. Professional advice.’

‘What about?’ His tone was cool and crisp. She felt she was talking to a stranger. But at least, if he thought it unreasonable, her asking for his advice after all this time, he didn’t say so.

‘There’s a girl in my house. A stranger. She came to my front door earlier and I let her in. She kept ringing the doorbell and – it’s freezing outside. She’s young. I was worried she’d get hypothermia or something. Anyway she’s
inside now, she’s passed out on the sofa, and I’m not sure what to do. I’m alone in house with her.’

He must think her a fool. He must think that she was looking to get herself hurt.

‘Where the hell are you?’ he asked.

‘We live just outside London. Max and I. We’re married.’

‘Congratulations.’

She couldn’t see his face, she couldn’t tell what it was he meant.

‘It’s lovely out here,’ she said. ‘And it takes less than an hour to get into central London.’ Her words sounded absurd. She dug her fingernails into her palm and stared at her wedding band. ‘I didn’t ever go back to work,’ she said.

She ran her fingers along the leather top of her desk, a small fifties beauty from Belgium, the legs in polished steel. She had bought it years ago from her favourite antique shop in Camden Town. Peter’s voice made her feel sad for her old life.

‘How about you?’ she asked. She pictured him as she had seen him last: cropped grey hair and stocky build, in his jeans and his black raincoat, standing outside the door of the Hampstead flat.

‘Not married. Still living in London. Still a DI with the Met. So – there’s a problem with a girl?’

‘I think she’s about fourteen or fifteen,’ Stella said. ‘She rang the doorbell saying she wanted to come inside, that she used to live in our house. Now she’s admitted that was a lie. And I’m not convinced she’s told me her real name, either. I’m not sure what to do.’

‘Have you talked to Max?’

‘He’s away,’ she said. ‘For the night. I can’t get hold of him.’ She began to ramble. ‘We’re snowed in. There’s almost
half a metre of snow piled up all over the driveway. That’s how she got past the sensor.’

Stella moved the mobile phone over to her other ear; her face was hot and the handset was sweaty.

‘How long has she been at your place?’

‘About two hours. I left her waiting outside for almost an hour before I let her in. I had to let her in. I was worried she might die of cold.’

‘Did she say where she’s come from?’

‘London. And – something else,’ Stella said. ‘She knew Max’s name. And she claims that Max is her father. Her long-lost father. She says she just found out.’

‘I see.’ And the coldness was back between them. ‘Is that why you called me? Because you’re pissed off with Max?’

‘No. I called you because he’s not picking up his phone and my gut is telling me something is wrong.’ Although her gut wasn’t too reliable, it was always telling her something was wrong. ‘There’s something about her – I don’t trust her.’

She waited. He did not offer to rush over and help her. She could hardly blame him. ‘Are you still there?’ she said.

‘Yes. Do you think her mother knows where she is?’

‘I don’t know. She said something about a fight.’

‘What advice are you looking for?’ he asked.

‘What do you think I should do?’

The silence was ripe. When he spoke, his words were tight and cold.

‘My advice would be to call your local police station. Get them to check her name and description and see if she’s been reported missing. Or,’ he said, ‘you could wait for your husband to answer his phone and ask him what he thinks you should do.’

‘Right,’ she said.

‘Or – you could make up your own mind.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s clear. Thanks.’ Her own voice was small and useless. She didn’t hang up.

‘Are you frightened?’ he said. The sudden kindness in his voice was painful.

‘I feel pathetic.’ It must be obvious to him now: how weak she was, how helpless. He would know that she had not moved on at all. He would remember how different she used to be.

‘You’re not pathetic,’ he said. ‘You said something about sensors – so there’s security in the house?’

‘There’s an alarm system. Sensors on all the windows and doors.’

‘And –’ he paused – ‘do you think she’s alone?’

She swallowed, feeling a sick twisting in her gut. ‘I have no idea. I suppose if she was with someone – they would have forced their way in when I opened the door.’

Then he relented, just a little. ‘If you give me some details, I can check for any reports of girls her age missing across London. But that’s it.’

‘Thank you. She says her name is Blue Cunningham.’

‘Blue?’

‘Apparently. And it’s not a nickname.’

‘What does she look like?’

‘Caucasian. Blue eyes, long blonde hair – halfway down her back. She’s petite – maybe five foot one – and thin. She’s wearing black leggings and a leather kind of shortish coat. White T-shirt, beanie hat. White Nike trainers, no socks. I would guess she’s in her mid-teens, but she could pass for older.’

‘Any distinguishing features?’

‘I’m not sure. Not that I’ve noticed. She’s beautiful.’

‘If I find out anything useful, I’ll call you back.’ Already, he sounded distracted. He sounded as though he wished she hadn’t called him, hadn’t involved him in another of her dramas.

Abruptly, Stella bashed at the red button to disconnect the call. She didn’t want to consider what he thought of her now.

She was trapped inside her home with a stranger. Overnight. She didn’t think she could make it that long. Already, her anxiety threatened to triumph over the drugs. It wasn’t safe to take any more pills. She had to stay alert.

She said: ‘I had a dream about you last night.’

His expression didn’t change and he didn’t say anything.

‘I thought therapists were
supposed
to be interested in dreams,’ she said.

She watched her hand moving slowly up and down along the arm of the chair. She rubbed the raised crimson flowers until they disappeared under her fingertips. She felt far away, removed from her own body, as though she was looking at someone else’s hand moving back and forth. The strange, disconnected feeling was not unfamiliar.

She was sitting in an oversized wing-back armchair. The curtains were drawn and the soft light in the room came from a lamp in the corner. These fifty minutes in his office were her favourite part of the day.

He sat opposite her and his chair was exactly the same as hers, with the same crimson flowers on a beige background. A matching pair. She felt hot and fidgety. He was too far away. Even if she stretched out her legs she couldn’t touch him. She wondered if he thought she was pretty. She didn’t care about boys her own age, she only wanted him.

‘So, do you want me to tell you about my dream?’ she asked.

‘If you’d like to,’ he said.

‘I wish my dreams were real.’

‘There’s a big difference between dreams and reality. You know that.’

The air between them crackled with anticipation and excitement and a strange sort of hope. Her skin prickled and tingled; he made her nervous and excited all at the same time. The sky had clouded over and the room had darkened.

‘I dreamt you touched me,’ she said. She was half embarrassed, half excited.

He shifted around in his chair and crossed his legs tight. She stifled a giggle.

He didn’t say anything more. He wasn’t a big talker. She was dying to know what he was thinking when he looked at her. He was much older than she was, but she didn’t mind. Maybe that made her weird, being interested in someone so old. She didn’t care.