Don't Stand So Close (13 page)

She stepped out of bed, unselfconscious. He was a friend, there was no need to impress him. She rummaged around for her loose Sunday jumper and her jeans. She could feel him watching her. He came towards her, and stood very close. She contemplated letting him kiss her. She turned to him, reached up and stroked the hair on his temples. They were the same age, but he was completely, prematurely grey. She rubbed her forehead against the stubble on his chin, his skin rough against hers. The skin around her lips still chafed from last night. He reached for her, running his fingers down her arms, pulling her hands gently from behind her back.

She had to extricate herself before it got messy. ‘Pete, this wasn’t a good idea. I’m really sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry really, I had such a good time. I don’t want you to think …’

He let her hands drop.

She knew how he felt about her. They had done a couple of modules together on the forensics programme at London
South Bank uni. They had hit it off straight away, had ended up sitting next to each other, having the same complaints about the tutors, revising for exams together. He was bright. Not as bright as she was, she had told him several times. She had known he was attracted to her, and she had been careful not to encourage him. He was an open, uncomplicated man. Too uncomplicated, too predictable. He didn’t have that certain edge, the inner shadows that excited her. She was sure he’d had a happy childhood with loving parents who were probably still married and living in the Cotswolds.

No, that was all rubbish, irrelevant. The point was: he wasn’t Max.

She watched as he pulled his trousers back on and buttoned his shirt. He looked across at her, his jeans still undone. She glimpsed herself, riding on top of him, his fingers squeezing her nipples. Something between them sparked again, and then died. She pulled her jumper over her head.

‘Thanks, for last night,’ she said. ‘It’s been a while. For me.’

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

She could hear Hannah’s voice:
What is wrong with you? You’re an idiot.

The silence grew longer.

He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘Why don’t we skip breakfast,’ he said.

She nodded. There was no point prolonging the parting.

There was a pull inside her, a mix of disappointment and relief.

She walked him the short distance to the front door. She hoped her devout Muslim neighbour would not emerge just
in time to see her wave goodbye with no trousers on. But the corridor was empty.

He had to wait ages for the cranky old lift.

She stood in the doorway of her Bayswater apartment, alone, contented and also a little sad.

Unsurprisingly, Blue remained in a deep and peaceful sleep. She lay on her side, her thumb resting near her mouth, her limbs limp and heavy.

Stella crept carefully away from her own bed. She walked over to the window and parted the closed curtains, just a crack. The trees and the hills beyond gleamed with the soft light reflected from the snow. The house on the hill was a far cry from the cramped Bayswater flat, but sometimes she missed west London and her piece of the city, high up on the sixth floor of an old mansion block. She missed the endless planes on the flight path to Heathrow, their twinkling red lights replacing the stars in the night sky.

At the top of the window, the light of the sensor flashed every few seconds, slow and reassuring. Stella made sure the heavy drapes were properly, completely closed.

Blue’s eyes moved rapidly from side to side under the tissue-thin skin of her eyelids. She changed position, rolled over, her breathing still regular. Stella could still see her eyes wide open: determined and suspicious and seductive.

She reached for her BlackBerry, lifted it, framed the girl’s
face. The flash went off, but Blue did not wake. Stella emailed the shot to Peter.

She carried the low chair from the dressing table over to the bed and sat down to watch over Blue. She dozed off, then woke, afraid. But nothing had changed, the girl had not moved. Stella’s neck hurt. She shifted in the chair, leaning her head against her arm. Her eyelids were so heavy, she was desperate to shut her eyes, just for a few moments, but she couldn’t risk falling asleep in the same room with Blue.

She removed the key from the lock, and closed the door softly behind her. She locked it from the outside and tucked the key into her pocket. She felt a little better.

She didn’t know what to do next. She was so very tired.

Downstairs the near empty bottle of wine stood lukewarm on the kitchen table. She unscrewed the lid and poured the last few drops into her glass. As she drank, she listened.

Dead silence from upstairs.

She never could hold her drink. Behind her eyes, images took shape. She was shivering, and cold, and her hand trembled. White wine splashed against the glossy white table top.

Nobody could get into Hilltop. Nobody could get out. Nothing would happen.

Stella struggled up, out of a thick and heavy sleep.

Bang, bang, bang.

She saw blue, blue eyes.

More goddamn banging. So loud. Like a hammer against her skull.

She opened her eyes and found that she was on the sofa, downstairs, grey linen coarse under her cheek. The fire in
the hearth had gone out and there was a faint smell of charred pine and a chill in the room. She couldn’t remember where she had left her phone. Maybe Max had tried to call her.

The banging was coming from the front door.

Maybe Max was home. Maybe the police had made it up the hill.

When she stood up, her head ached and there was a ringing in her ears. She had been stupid to drink on top of her pills. She looked hard at the monitor at the front door, a blurry image swam in and out of focus. She lifted the receiver to her ear.

‘Stella – it’s fucking freezing out here. Are you going to let me in?’

His face came into focus more sharply. Her head was clearing. ‘Peter?’

She pulled back the locks and opened the front door wide. Cold air blasted inside. She didn’t care; she welcomed it. The snow had piled up even higher in the darkness, inches more had fallen; he must have struggled to reach Hilltop. She could hardly remember the last time she had been so happy, so relieved, to see someone. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold on tight. But something held her back.

He stepped through the door, his head down, his thick grey hair turned white with snowflakes. He was all trussed up in a black, waxy-waterproof coat. As he unfastened the buttons, the snowflakes fell to the floor, leaving tiny puddles around his boots.

How strange to see Peter in this place, so far removed from her previous life. How unsettling that he looked just the same while Stella felt she’d aged ten years. She tried to smooth
down her hair and to straighten her sleeves, to pull down her top; she felt a wreck, standing there.

‘What made you change your mind?’ she said.

He took a long look around the entrance hall, and ended up staring at the chandelier. He was avoiding her eyes, she was sure of it. ‘When did you move out to this godforsaken place?’ he asked.

‘It’s not godforsaken. It’s the Chilterns.’

She looked pointedly at his black boots with their thick soles, but he didn’t remove them. He hung his coat next to hers, on the coat stand next to the front door. She tried to think of the last time she’d needed that coat, but she couldn’t remember.

‘Has the girl given you any problems?’ he asked. She thought she detected a note of something else in his voice, only she wasn’t certain what it was.

‘Not really.’ Stella wondered whether she had sounded totally unhinged on the phone earlier. ‘But she still hasn’t really explained why she’s here – she keeps making up different stories.’

Peter was giving her that strange look again. Perhaps he thought she had been reckless, considering what had happened.

‘I couldn’t just leave her outside to freeze to death,’ she said. ‘I had to let her in.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Upstairs. Asleep,’ Stella said.

‘Asleep?’

‘It’s late.’

‘Yes. I suppose I imagined – something a little more fraught.’

He stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans; stiff
and formal, as though they were strangers. Inside, she squirmed. She felt as though she was a suspect, under interrogation.

‘And I’ve locked her in,’ she said.

She reached into her pocket and felt for the key of her bedroom. It was still there.

‘You locked her in?’ He seemed taken aback by this.

‘She’s unpredictable. I didn’t want her wandering around the house. And she wasn’t exactly pleased when I mentioned I’d contacted the police.’

‘Did you consider that could be viewed as child abduction? Are you sure she’s asleep – that she isn’t trying to get out?’

‘Very sure,’ Stella said. ‘Because I gave her a sleeping tablet.’

Peter rubbed his hands over his face, and suddenly looked very tired.

‘Don’t look at me like that. It was only one – I crushed it up and put it in her drink. I was nervous, trapped in here with her. You said she was high risk. So I made sure she was out of action for a few hours. I needed some peace.’

She felt frustrated; he had no idea, he knew nothing about the way she lived.

Stella supposed he was wondering which one of them was more unstable, herself or the girl. She was beginning to wonder the same thing. She hoped Blue was all right. She listened, half expecting to hear the sound of Blue’s fists beating on her bedroom door, but the house was silent.

‘She’s admitted that the story about being Max’s daughter was a lie. But she now claims that she knows him, that she’s his patient. Apparently it’s Max she came out here to see.’

‘Have you checked with Max?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘She keeps changing her story every five minutes. I wasn’t sure what to do.’ She glanced up at him. He knew she was lying. ‘I can’t reach him. His phone has been turned off all day. He does that. Sometimes.’

Stella was feeling much calmer, much safer, now that Peter was with her. ‘I’m sorry you had to drive out here in this weather,’ she said. ‘I’m very grateful. And also – surprised.’

His hands hung stiffly at his sides now. His eyes touched hers, then flickered away. He glanced at his watch. They had not spoken in more than a year. He might well resent her sudden intrusion into his life.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you didn’t change your mobile number.’

In fact Peter looked as though he would rather be anywhere else but inside Hilltop. Nevertheless, he followed her through into the living room.

‘When will your husband be home?’ he asked.

Your husband.
The words that should bring a feeling of pleasure, of warmth.

‘Tomorrow morning – early,’ she said. ‘Today, I mean.’

She was too jumpy to sit down, and so she remained standing at one end of the sofa. He stood too, at the opposite end.

‘Coffee?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ He had noticed the empty wine bottle.

‘One minute I feel sorry for her, the next I don’t trust her. I think she has some ulterior motive.’

Peter seemed not to know quite what to say to her.

He wandered over to the bookshelves at the side of the fireplace and began inspecting her books. She read almost anything. She had hours and days and months to fill, and
new books couldn’t come out fast enough. Her DVD collection was equally impressive. Each month she’d send a couple of boxes to Oxfam with Max and then re-stock the shelves. In Hilltop, time could feel like torture. On the days when she could no longer concentrate on novels or films, she had to face the truth: her life had become like watching paint dry.

‘You organize your shelves,’ he said. ‘Fiction and non-fiction. And then non-fiction by subject. And also by size.’ He was in front of the shelves on photography and interior design.

‘I do,’ she said. She wished he’d get on with it: the reason for his visit.

‘Wouldn’t that be classified as obsessive?’

‘Rituals keep anxiety at bay.’

‘What anxiety?’ he asked.

‘You know.’

‘So. You and Max,’ he said.

She nodded. She knew he was asking her a question, and that he wanted some kind of explanation, but she didn’t want to talk about her husband.

‘Has Max tried to get you back to the clinic?’

‘He doesn’t pressure me.’ She rested her hands on the back of the sofa, stroking the rough fabric.

‘What do you do with yourself all day?’ he asked.

The Stella he knew was a different person, driven and ambitious. She loved her job.

‘I don’t go out much,’ she said. ‘I don’t go out at all.’

‘And his life goes on as normal?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Interesting,’ he said.

‘Why is that interesting?’

She was still hovering behind the sofa, deciding whether or not to sit down. If she remained standing, she could discharge more of her nervous energy, by tapping her foot, moving her arm along the back of the sofa, rearranging the cushions.

Peter always did have skewed ideas about Max.

‘What about professional help?’ he asked.

‘Max took me to see a psychiatrist.’

‘And?’

‘It didn’t go well. Lying on the couch with some strange man once a week didn’t appeal to me at that point.’

‘Did you try someone else?’

‘No. He gave me a prescription and I take plenty of pills. They keep me functioning. They stop the flashbacks and the nightmares.’

Peter approached the sofa, cautiously, and sat down on one end – the exact spot Blue had chosen earlier. Stella walked round and sat down too. Not too close. He was looking directly at her now.

‘You’re still taking them, after all this time?’

‘Max authorizes the repeat prescriptions. Neither of us think there’s any point stopping the pills when I barely leave the house.’

‘Isn’t it unethical to prescribe drugs for family members?’

‘It helps me stay sane.’

‘Sounds an ideal set-up then,’ he said.