Don't Stand So Close (12 page)

Stella shuffled up next to her. They sat quietly for a few moments, facing the blank television screen on the wall. Blue edged closer and rested her head against Stella’s shoulder. Stella was too tired to resist. She couldn’t remember the last time she had touched another human being. She relaxed. She wrapped her arm around the sad, troubled girl, holding her tight and feeling her soft hair against her face, enjoying the fresh smell of lavender.

Blue’s chin sank forward on to her chest, her head flopped forwards, her hair covered her face.

Stella was so tired. She wished that Max was home, to take care of her. She wondered what Max thought of Blue and her moods and her charms. Apprehension flipped like a fish, turning over and over inside her gut as she thought about the girl and the way she had hunted down Max’s home address; about her fantasy that Max would act as her saviour.

The party was downstairs, in a cave-like, subterranean room. Along one side was a bar, packed with people. Along the other side, a series of booths were tucked into the arches that ran beneath the city, each one snug with an oval table, scatter cushions and billowing scarves overhead.

There were eight of them around the table. Stella sat on the end because she had been the last to arrive. As usual, the District and Circle Lines were down for the weekend. There was a couple down the opposite end Stella hadn’t met before – friends of Izzy and Mark’s from antenatal classes – but the rest of the group she knew well; most were from her doctoral programme. It was Izzy’s thirtieth birthday, and she was also forty weeks’ pregnant. She had chosen a North African bar and restaurant, where there would be belly dancing for all. She was determined to induce labour.

Stella was drinking some sort of cocktail with fresh lemon and mint and lots of ice, and something pinkish swirling along the bottom. They raised their glasses: to Izzy and Mark and their baby. To being thirty. All of them, soon.

The music was loud, a Middle-Eastern, pounding, energetic beat. The belly dancer’s bustier teemed with
sequins. Her veils billowed as she swayed and turned, sending ripples through the flesh of her belly. Izzy, despite the size of her own belly, sprang up to join her. She grabbed Stella’s hand and pulled her on to the dance floor.

Stella liked to dance. She pulled at her hairband, letting her hair fall loose down her back. She felt light and uninhibited, as though they were back at university again, not qualified, not responsible for anyone else – just having a good time. They danced in a circle, the oud playing a slow tune, building up to something; the belly dancer leading the way: grinding and rolling her hips to the flute, the drums and the tambourines, clapping her hands, jiggling the chains around her hips. Faster and faster, impossibly fast. Stella was laughing, clapping, spinning. They all were.

And Lawrence Simpson was standing at the bar, and he had seen her.

Stella looked away, laughed at something Izzy said about the belly dancer’s hips. The music was loud, relentless, reverberating against the low brick ceiling. She retreated to her table and lifted the bottle of sparkling water. She filled the glass in front of her, bubbles rushed to the top and over the sides, she saw too late the rim was marked with a faded ring of some other woman’s pink lipstick. And Simpson was at her elbow, looking down at her. She could see from his smile and the expression in his eyes that he was pleased to see her on neutral ground.

‘Dr Davies,’ he said. There went his hand again, flipping back his fringe, his nervous tic.

‘Dr Simpson,’ she said.

‘So you remember me?’

‘Of course I remember you,’ she said. ‘You’ve spent hours in my office.’

‘Has the psychotherapist tried to set your clinic on fire lately?’ he said.

She gave a small laugh, to be polite. It was bad luck that they should run into each other outside of the office. She’d never been to the restaurant before and London was so vast – what were the chances? She wondered if he’d been watching her, dancing. She pulled her hairband off her wrist and tied her hair back from her face. The back of her neck was damp with sweat. She tried to relax her shoulders.

He gestured towards the crowded bar. ‘I’m with a colleague,’ he said. ‘You won’t be insulted if I don’t introduce you – under the circumstances.’

The music was throbbing and pounding, he had to lean in close to speak to her. His aftershave was fresh and subtle. ‘I came over because I thought it might be helpful if we talked again.’

The music had slowed. Stella could hear each distinct chord of the string instrument: slow and suspenseful, building to a climax.

‘It’s not a good idea for us talk here. We shouldn’t have contact outside the office.’ She had to talk loudly, to be heard.

He leaned closer. His lips practically grazed her ear. ‘If you just give me a minute of your time,’ he said. ‘I wanted to apologize.’

It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. He looked contrite and entirely sincere. Perhaps some of his oppositional attitude, his bravado, had been based in fear. Fear of the court process and fear of losing his daughter. Perhaps the way he behaved in her office was not the most accurate reflection of his personality in the outside world.

She nodded. ‘I appreciate your apology,’ she said.

The waiter had arrived with plates of food and the smell was wonderful. Stella was starving but she could hardly tuck in with Simpson leaning over her. He wasn’t budging from her table. Her drink, with two straws protruding from the top of the tall glass, stood in front her. The ice was beginning to melt. The others were tucking into the starters: pita bread, humus, and yoghurt and cucumber dips. Stella dragged her eyes away from the swiftly diminishing feast.

‘Do you have children?’ he asked.

She didn’t answer.

‘I don’t expect you to tell me,’ he said. ‘But I imagine you don’t. It’s impossible for you to understand what it’s like – my daughter’s been shunted off to foster care again, and it’s not because of anything I’ve done wrong. I’ve never had a chance to look after her, her mother won’t allow it. The system works against fathers – you must know that from the work you do.’

Stella was starving, and slightly lightheaded from the dancing and the cocktails. Her head was at an awkward angle as she craned her neck to look up at him.

‘I can’t talk to you about the case outside of the office,’ she said. ‘Every meeting, every discussion we have, needs to be recorded for the court.’

He was still leaning over her, both palms flat on the table. His body language was very different from the withdrawn, arms-crossed pose he’d clung to in her office. She could see that he was in pain.

‘I didn’t make it easy for you the other day,’ he said. ‘You were trying to do your job. Would you consider giving me another chance? I just want to give my side of the story.’

She caught a whiff of beer. She knew there was every
chance she might lose another two hours of her valuable time if he turned up completely sober, having changed his mind; if she was confronted with the sullen version of Lawrence Simpson, as opposed to the contrite one. But still, there was a chance.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Telephone the receptionist at the clinic and make an appointment for this week. I’ll fit in an extra session for you, so there’s no delay in submitting the report. But you’ll have to fit in with whatever appointments are available now, there’s no flexibility. The report is due in ten days, it has to be submitted before the final hearing.’

‘I appreciate that. Can I ask – do we have to meet at your clinic in St John’s Wood? My offices are in south London. It would be a great help if we could meet there. I’ve had to take a lot of time off work for all of these appointments and it takes me half a day to get across London to your place.’

‘Yes, it has to be at the clinic,’ she said. ‘All my files, all the test materials are there. And it wouldn’t be appropriate for us to meet outside of the office. I think you know that.’

He laughed at her stilted words. ‘
It wouldn’t be appropriate.
I thought you’d say that. Predictable. But worth a try?’

‘Sure.’ He was irritating her. She didn’t like being mocked. She was entitled to enjoy a night off with her friends. And she had to eat something soon.

‘Make sure you telephone the clinic to make the appointment,’ she said.

‘Thank you. I really am grateful. I know I can be my own worst enemy. I tell myself you won’t just believe everything you read about me but it’s hard to go into a meeting knowing you might think I’m a twisted, sick, wife-beater. I’m
ashamed, about something I haven’t done. It does my head in sometimes.’

He lingered at her side. She didn’t want to be rude, but she did want to draw a line. She looked away and took a sip of her drink. She hoped he would get the message without her having to ask directly and risk injuring his fragile ego.

He peered at her drink. ‘Let me buy you another cocktail. To make it up to you for being such a sulky bastard.’

He wasn’t unattractive, when he smiled, when he showed his vulnerability; perhaps there was even a sense of humour, lurking beneath the sullen exterior. And if she refused the offer of a drink, he would no doubt feel slighted; he would view it as yet another blow to his pride. So Stella sat, annoyed, but also feeling sorry for him as he motioned to a passing waiter.

When he turned back to her, he knelt down so his eyes were level with hers. She felt horribly uncomfortable, and exposed. He was invading her space, breaching the boundaries between them.

‘You’re someone I could be attracted to,’ he said. ‘And you see me as—’

‘This conversation really is not appropriate in the middle of court proceedings,’ she said.

His eyes hardened, and mocked her again as he laughed. ‘Must you always act so formal?’ He hadn’t moved any further away.

‘It’s not an act. Our relationship
is
a formal one.’

A smiling waiter in a fez placed two luscious drinks down on the table in front of her. Fresh mint over crushed ice and straws at the ready.

Finally, Simpson stood up and took a step back. ‘I’m sure you could do with a drink or two, the things you have to
listen to.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Let’s drink to the best interests of my daughter,’ he said.

She didn’t move.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m not a leper.’

She lifted hers, clinked it against his, took a sip.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t so bad.’

She was unable to force a smile.

‘I’ve disturbed your party.’ He looked around at her friends, his eyes resting on Izzy’s pregnant belly. Then he disappeared into the throng of people at the bar.

Hannah caught her eye across the table and raised her eyebrows. Stella shook her head:
It’s nothing, he’s no one.
She couldn’t tell Hannah he was a client, she wasn’t about to break confidentiality.

Stella lifted the drink Simpson had paid for and gave it to Peter, who sat opposite her. He accepted it gladly.

She wasn’t sure whether or not to write up the out-of-office encounter in her report. She would ask Max what to do. She was so thankful not to be facing the vagaries of the case on her own. She picked up her BlackBerry and scrolled through her contacts until she was looking at Max Fisher’s telephone number. She would love an excuse to call him over a weekend. She was also too embarrassed to bother him; the meeting with Simpson was hardly an urgent matter. She would talk to him about it on Monday.

Peter held out a bowl of warm, soft pita bread.

The belly dancer sashayed closer, her body a marvel of curves, undulating; gold chains shimmering around her waist. She turned away from them, then looked back over her shoulder, her smile a seduction. Her hips and her belly quivered, so near to Stella’s face she felt herself flush.

Stella wondered if Simpson was still lurking, watching her.

On Sunday morning, Stella woke up next to a man; his body warm and solid against hers, his arm heavy across her waist, her back moulded into his front. He woke too and pulled her closer.

‘Morning,’ she said. She had slept well.

‘Morning.’

‘So,’ she said.

The curtains in her room were flimsy and didn’t keep out any of the morning sun. She lifted his hand from around her and moved away, rearranged herself, moving further apart so that she lay on her back, facing the ceiling.

She had drunk more than usual the night before; those cocktails were deceptively sweet. It had become impossible to talk, as the music became faster and louder, as the basement room was crammed with more and more bodies. She couldn’t remember what they’d said to each other, if anything. Peter had passed her plates of food. He had been sitting opposite her at the horseshoe-shaped table, then they’d been in a circle, dancing, laughing, ridiculous as they tried to copy the belly dancer. When they sat down again, he’d changed places and he was sitting next to her. Their shoulders and their hips were pressed together, and she had liked the feel of him. It was raining outside. He’d waited with her, to make sure she found a taxi. Next thing she knew, he kissed her and she had responded with an enthusiasm that took her by surprise. She remembered the way he had tasted, of her lemon and mint cocktail.

‘Is it OK if I use your shower?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

He stood, naked. She studied his shape as he turned away. She compared him to Max, who was older and most definitely
not in such good shape. But it was Max who excited her.

Damn. She felt awful. She felt guilty.

She was still in bed when he emerged from the shower with her pink towel around his waist. ‘Can I make you some coffee?’ he said.

He was a decent human being. A kind man. She felt awful again.

‘That would be nice,’ she said. ‘But I don’t have any coffee. I don’t have any milk, either. In fact, I don’t have anything, really, in the kitchen. I haven’t had a chance to go shopping this week.’

‘Let me take you out for breakfast.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘There are loads of places on Westbourne Grove. Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed.’