Too Close

by Natalie Daniels

‘Can you keep a secret?’ she said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘She’s a great woman.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Constance Mortensen.’

  ‘Is she?’ He sounded surprised.

  She sighed. ‘I like her.’

  ‘Are you allowed to feel attached to your patients?’ he asked.

  She shrugged.

  ‘She doesn’t remember it, you know, driving the kids into the river.’

  ‘Luckily for her.’

  ‘No. She’s disassociated herself from her actions.’

  He shivered and she pushed her body into his a little to warm him up. It was dangerous, flirtatious, but she owed him some of the warmth of his jacket.

  ‘Don’t you think we’re all capable of anything, given the right triggers and the wrong medications?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not anything,’ he said. And she realized she didn’t know anything about him at all really.

  ‘Maybe we’re all just ticking bombs …’ she said softly, looking up.

  The lights seemed to be spinning above them; she was really pretty drunk. He took the glass out of her hand and put his other hand under his jacket, around her back. She felt the danger, the thrill. She was the ticking bomb.

  ‘You’re lovely, Emma Davis,’ he said. ‘I always thought that.’

  This was it, the moment she had fantasized about, the moment she had manipulated. She felt her body responding to his words, to his touch, her heart dropping with a thud to the base of her womb somewhere, her body suddenly pounding with anticipation from her Brazilian bikini line to the tip of her tongue. Her mouth was moist, ready. She thought of Connie, she thought of Karl and Ness, of the fantastic search to feel alive, to feel truly present, that tangible thumping wonder of being human, his breath on her face, those dark familiar eyes.

  And then she thought of Si.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered, his lips close to hers.

  ‘I’d like to kiss you, Dougie, more than anything in the world. I wanted to kiss you thirty years ago on that grubby brown sofa. And how my seventeen-year-old self would hate me now because I’m not going to kiss you …’

  ‘You’re not?’ he said, not really believing her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just a kiss,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘No … But thank you.’

  He nodded and smiled, moving imperceptibly away from her, his eyes still shining. ‘Sensible Emma Davis.’ He sounded a bit annoyed and she was intensely glad she’d stopped this before it began. That’s right, she remembered now, he was always used to getting what he wanted.

  ‘I don’t know who he is but he’s a lucky guy,’ he said, handing back her glass.

  So here she was on a Saturday afternoon waiting for her lucky guy to come out of his orchestra practice. A stream of musicians filed out of the church and then she saw him. He looked different to her, there amongst his ‘people’, in his element, sharing a joke with someone at the door, holding it open for others. He was an average middle-aged man, she could see that; ostensibly there was nothing remarkable about him at all and yet everything about him spoke of reassurance, dependability – he was that person you might go to in a crisis. She watched as he let the door go and then tripped on a paving stone. She was momentarily embarrassed for him, the buffoon with a bassoon. But he was her buffoon with a bassoon and she loved him. She downed the remains of her gin and tonic and left the pub, smiling at the Polish girl behind the bar, throwing a cursory nod at the addled old men.

  Outside the pub in the sludge, just before she drew Si’s attention with her arm poised for a wave, she saw a small dark woman come to greet him. It took a moment before she recognized her: it was Savannah, Adrian’s new girlfriend. They kissed each other’s cheeks and then hovered, looking left and right as if deciding where to go, totally oblivious to Emma on the other side of the road.

  She watched curiously as they ambled towards the junction. Then slowly she followed them, parallel, slightly behind. They turned right. She crossed the road and could see them enter a cosy-looking gastropub with a log fire inside. Through the glass she could observe them approach the bar where they were taken to a table with no concern for anything but each other. She went into a bike shop from where she could still see them, hiding herself behind a frisbee which turned out to be a wheel. She needn’t have bothered hiding; they were entirely wrapped up with each other, not looking out for Adrian as she had half hoped. And the longer Adrian didn’t turn up, the greater the sinking feeling in her stomach became.

  Emma got a bus straight home, opened the door, turned up the heating and sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of Rioja. After a while she took her glass upstairs and ran herself a bath. The towels were damp and smelt faintly of mould so she put them in the laundry basket and went to get clean ones. She paused at the linen cupboard. At the bottom lay the wooden framework of the cot. They kept it under the pretence that someone with a baby might stay. It was easier that way. She rested her head against the cupboard and stayed like that for a long time, pressing the soft cotton of the clean towel to her nose.

  After her bath she tried to get on with some work on her laptop back at the kitchen table, some unfinished Crown Court consultation work, risk assessment and management, but she soon found herself staring out into the garden. Then she stopped bothering trying to work and pulled her chair up to the glass garden door, and sat there by the radiator in the hazy sunshine, her feet up on another chair, her smooth legs extended, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the ashtray on her lap, looking out at the remnants of dirty snow, awaiting his return.

  ‘Hi,’ he called when he eventually arrived. She turned and watched him hanging up his coat in the hall. ‘I thought you’d be out,’ he said as he came through, putting his bassoon case on the kitchen table. He was in good spirits.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling coolly, pouring out the last of the bottle into her glass. ‘How was orchestra?’

  ‘Great. Did my solo. Want to hear it?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, taking her legs off the other chair and crossing them slowly, leaning over to pick up her cigarettes.

  He took off his jumper and chucked it over a chair, and then he opened up his case and got out the bassoon as she lit up, pulling the glass door ajar to let the smoke out into the garden. She watched him then as he fixed the mouthpiece. His mouth was so familiar to her; that mouth that she never kissed but now someone else did; how nice for him to be wanted. Then when he began to play she turned away to watch a plump pigeon land in the cherry tree, peck at a few old berries and fly off again. She couldn’t ignore the music; it was haunting and tender and she did her best to remain untouched by it. As he finished, she turned to look at him again to find that he was evidently expecting some kind of response from her.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said.

  He didn’t move. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, noting the empty bottle, slowly lowering the bassoon.

  She held his eye. ‘Do you feel rejected by me, Si?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have I pushed you away?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He yanked the mouthpiece out and started putting the bassoon back in its case.

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘I don’t understand the question,’ he said, snapping the bassoon case shut. She looked back out into the garden and inhaled slowly on her cigarette.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, moving round the table to her side, pausing, perching himself on it, folding his arms.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said, watching him carefully, his studied cross-examination pose. ‘You tell me. What is going on, Si?’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

  She turned her body to face his. ‘I understand, you know. You can still have children. I’m holding you back.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘And you need to feel needed.’

  ‘Is that right?’

&n
bsp; ‘And you don’t get that from me.’

  ‘You can stop now, Emma, you’re not at work. I’m not one of your bloody patients.’

  ‘Am I wrong?’

  ‘That I need to feel needed? Of course I need to feel needed. Everyone needs to feel needed, even you, Emma. Except you just don’t like to show any neediness because you think making yourself vulnerable means you’re weak or something, and God forbid you shouldn’t be able to cope with everything.’

  She blew the smoke out of her mouth slowly in a steady stream. ‘Wow, that was quite an outburst,’ she said, stubbing out the cigarette, twisting it firmly in the ashtray which rested on her past-its-sell-by womb.

  ‘For example,’ he carried on, ‘whatever idea you’ve got in your head right now, you can’t say it, you can’t show that you care, you have to turn it into some kind of Gestapo inquisition.’

  She angled her head and gazed at him. ‘You have so much anger towards me.’

  ‘Stop it! Stop twisting everything.’

  ‘Said the lawyer. How’s Sahara, Savannah, whatever the hell she’s called?’ She winced at herself; she hadn’t meant it to come out like this.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  He laughed, took a few steps away from the table and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Have you been following me?’ He sounded really annoyed.

  ‘I came to meet you but discovered you were otherwise engaged.’

  He looked at her, aghast. ‘What do you take me for? She’s my best friend’s girlfriend, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Ha! That old chestnut.’ She bent down and picked up her glass.

  ‘What? Go on then! Ask me the question! Oh, you can’t because it might make you look too needy.’

  ‘Well, are you?’ she said, tapping out another cigarette.

  ‘Am I what?’

  She lit up and inhaled as if she had all the time in the world. ‘Are you screwing her?’

  He shook his head with disbelief. ‘No, I am not screwing her. She came to meet me because we’re planning a surprise party for Adrian’s birthday. OK?’

  Emma chuckled and then laughed out loud.

  ‘Is that so funny?’

  ‘A surprise party! How original, your honour.’

  ‘You drink too much, you know that?’

  She looked at him. ‘You hate me, Si. Underneath it all, you hate me. Just admit it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll never forgive me.’

  ‘Don’t, Emma,’ he said. ‘Don’t start this now. You’re drunk.’

  ‘We don’t even talk about her any more. We don’t even say her name.’

  He was silent, head bowed, eyes on his feet.

  ‘Say it!’ she said.

  ‘No, I’m not doing this.’

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘No.’

  She stood up; she was angry now. ‘Just fucking say it, Si! Say that you blame me! Say that it was my fault!’

  He looked up then. His bottom lip was trembling but his voice was steady. ‘Maybe you’re the one who needs to say it.’

  Then he turned and walked out of the room.

  Chapter 18

  Dr R is distracted today; she’s flushed and her mascara has smudged a little beneath her left eye. She’s all in black, no glimpses of a neon strap, and I’m very surprised to notice that her earrings are two tiny skulls; beneath her rectangular veneer there is a wannabe rebel. She tucks her hair and cocks her head to focus on me but the notebook on her lap is upside down, negating any semblance of togetherness. I wait for the Squeak to shift her bulk before I say anything.

  ‘Had a fight?’ I ask. Dr R is not wearing her wedding ring. She sees me looking at her finger and covers it up.

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s that girl from the orchestra.’

  She crosses her legs and does a good job of ignoring me.

  ‘We need to talk about Milton House today,’ she says, noticing that her pad is upside down and trying to turn it around without drawing my attention to it.

  ‘Tell me she’s not twenty-three,’ I say.

  ‘Not today, Connie,’ she says quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear again, and I think about backing off, but I can’t.

  ‘Is he having sexual intercourse with her?’ I ask in what I consider a doctorly fashion. ‘Are they copulating?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ she says in a clipped voice. I’m stunned that she includes me in this way, in her very private world. I look for signs that she regrets it but I don’t see any. She’s not blushing; she’s not even fidgeting. Her eyes are a little bloodshot and I wonder whether she’s been crying.

  ‘Did he say it was just sex? Or is he in love?’

  She waves a hand, gesturing for me not to ask any more, but she’s not quick enough today to divert me. I won’t stop now. ‘You know, I once asked Karl, “Do you love Ness?” And he said, “I don’t know.” Can you believe it? I don’t know! I’m still outraged by that conversation. I needed to hear him say yes. If he said yes I could get my head around it. I could understand that. But why would he take all these risks with his family if he didn’t even love her? Would a man do all that just for his cock?’

  ‘Love … what is love?’ Dr R says dismissively. She is very negative today. I’m not sure psychiatrists should be so doom-laden. I press on.

  ‘So I said to him, “All right then, Karl, let me ask the same question in a different way: Have you told her that you love her?” And he said, “Oh yes, of course I have!”’

  Dr R sniggers. I love making her laugh. She has a wonderful smile. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head. I really haven’t seen her like this before. She looks exhausted, weak, run down, past caring. I must milk it.

  ‘At least she had the grace to later send me a text saying she just couldn’t help herself – she was madly in love with him. Which is bullshit, by the way: there’s always a choice down the line somewhere.’

  ‘There is a choice! I totally agree!’ Dr R says, perking up, raising a righteous finger. I’m surprised by her vehemence. She puts down the notepad altogether – she never managed to turn it the right way up – and stretches her legs. She stands up in that leisurely way she has and starts strolling around the room with some inner purpose that’s lost on me. But I like watching her in this new dark attire with those skull studs in her ears. Then as she passes me, I catch a whiff of her: she’s been drinking again. It’s only the middle of the day but I’m pretty sure she’s been drinking.

  ‘Tell me about Milton House,’ she says, leaning against the windowsill, raising one eyebrow.

  ‘Nothing to tell. Do you know it?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I knew someone who worked there once.’ Again, this is unlike her; she never proffers personal information.

  ‘Why did they move me here?’ I ask.

  She stares at me for a long moment and then says, ‘Milton House, Connie …’

  ‘I don’t really remember it.’

  ‘You were there for six weeks, you must remember it.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  She folds her arms. ‘I want to know everything. But in particular I want you to tell me about the night you escaped.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ I say.

  ‘Well, try.’

  I’ve said it before but she should really watch that school ma’am side; she does herself no favours. Si Hubby has probably had quite enough of that; I bet the twenty-three-year-old doesn’t give him that attitude. I bet she thinks the sun shines out of his proverbial. We all thrive on adoration.

  ‘I don’t remember much. They had me drugged up to the eyeballs.’

  That’s not completely true; I do remember snippets of it: arriving there and a leery man in a white coat telling me he had to keep the door open so that he could come in and look at me – he was a perv who liked watching me get undressed; queuing up for drugs like something out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; being watched swallowing pills; being jabbed in the a
rse if I refused; being in this hypersensitive state most of the time and therefore like a magnet for the insane – I felt like the Pied Piper of Mentalists; the colour of the doors – a sickly green; the lights in the corridor that came on when you stepped on the lino and went off behind you, giving the peculiar sensation of being both in control and paranoid at the same time; knowing that I was in a forgotten place, that I’d slipped through the net to somewhere deep and dark where no one was looking out for me; and other stranger things that don’t need remembering.

  ‘How did you feel in there?’

  Ha. ‘I didn’t feel. That was the point.’

  ‘I need to know what you remember.’

  How can I explain to her with words? I was in a kind of fugue state where things were too complex to express. All I could say was This isn’t right. I remember Karl coming to see me, sitting there grim and tight-lipped, me trying to explain, saying that perhaps I was just an unusual sort of person. No, he’d said, you’re not unusual at all.

  ‘Do you remember being told of your mother’s death?’

  I look down at my wrist cuts and pick at a scab. ‘Yes.’ I pull off the scab. ‘One of the doctors came into my room; he said my mother had passed away. I hate that bullshit language. You’d hope a doctor could use the correct term: dead.’

  On the way out he’d popped a lozenge into his mouth and I’d heard him outside saying my door should remain open, that I should be on suicide watch. Which initially sounded ridiculous; for starters, I didn’t believe him about my mother. I trusted no one any more, I knew that people were liars and deceivers and I became convinced that they were trying to drive me mad, all of them, even Karl – he was in league with them. He came to see me later without the children – the children were scared of me, apparently. He was crying when he said Julia had taken an overdose. And I wondered for the first time whether it was true. I waited for her every day but she didn’t come and neither did the children. I grew anxious; what was my life without my children and my mother? What was I doing in a place like this? Yes! Suicide watch because suicide was a good idea.

  I’d made a friend of sorts, this hugely pregnant Chinese woman, who was in there for trying to cut out her baby, but other than that she seemed pretty sane to me. I kept telling her I wanted to die and one day she’d had enough and asked me why I didn’t just get on with it. So I mentioned swallowing washing powder or somehow jumping off the roof. And she said What’s stopping you? I had to think about that. And you know what? It was just cowardice.