Don’t Stand So Close

by Luana Lewis

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ she asked.

  She was not without empathy. She could imagine how the process could feel like a violation, particularly if he had been wrongly accused of being an abuser. And besides, she needed a coffee herself.

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ he said. He seemed grateful for her small act of kindness and Stella sensed a minuscule thawing of the ice. He liked his coffee black, with one sugar, he said.

  Stella did not think he was the type to steal her purse while she was out of the room. She did, however, close her laptop and take her file of notes with her.

  Hilltop, 4 p.m.

  ‘Why do you want to see my husband?’ Stella asked. Her whole body prickled with suspicion.

  ‘I just need to.’ Blue huddled under the blanket, digging herself deeper into the sofa, as though she were trying to put down roots.

  ‘How do you know my husband?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You can tell me. You just won’t.’

  Stella sat on her sofa, annoyed and also helpless in the face of the girl’s stubbornness. She could not force her to tell the truth. She considered what to do. She could call Max and ask him if he knew her. But for some reason, she decided to wait before involving him. She sat still and did nothing for the time being, aware of the tension running from her neck all the way down her spine. She pushed her feet harder against the Chinese rug. She did not take her eyes off Blue, because she did not trust her.

  Now that she had let the girl inside, it might not be so easy to get her to leave.

  ‘My husband isn’t home,’ Stella said. She didn’t tell the girl that he was away for the night. She wondered if Blue had come alone – or if she had brought someone with her, someone who waited outside. Opening the door was a mistake. She was lucky no one had rushed at her in the few moments it had been wide open.

  She was speculating, imagining, catastrophizing. The girl’s motives might not be sinister. She had to stay in control.

  ‘Where is he?’ Blue asked. ‘Dr Fisher?’

  Stella did not answer. She too could withhold information.

  ‘When is he coming home?’

  ‘Later,’ Stella said.

  Blue sighed and looked irritated. Stella got the feeling she wasn’t too good at delaying gratification.

  ‘Can I stay here with you?’ Blue asked. ‘Until he gets back?’

  Physically, she looked like a young adult, but she was childlike with her audacity and her impatience.

  ‘Not if you don’t tell me the truth about why you’ve come here and how you know him.’

  ‘But it’s dark outside. And I don’t have money to get home.’ Blue tucked her legs underneath her and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

  ‘I’m more than happy to give you money for transport,’ Stella said.

  ‘I won’t go. I’ll just sit outside the door and freeze to death.’ She pouted.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Stella said. ‘Or maybe you could change your mind and phone your mother.’

  They sat in silence on opposite ends of the sofa, both refusing to budge. Stella wondered if she would have to sit there the whole night, watching over Blue, until Max arrived home in the morning.

  After a while, she considered that kindness might work better than the silent treatment. ‘Are you still cold?’ she asked. ‘I can make you something hot to drink.’

  Blue nodded. ‘Do you have any hot chocolate?’

  ‘No. Tea?’

  ‘OK.’

  Stella stood, relieved to put some distance between them as she traced the familiar path to the kitchen. The open-plan design allowed her to keep watch over the girl as she took down two mugs from the open shelves. Blue twisted around on the couch; she watched Stella as intently as Stella watched her.

  Stella lifted the kettle and filled it with water. She reached into her glossy cupboards to find teaspoons, sugar, milk. Her thoughts drifted and scattered. The white mugs were the first thing she had ever bought when they had moved into Hilltop. Max wanted to keep his flat in Hampstead fully furnished, so they had started from scratch, with nothing. She could feel her heart beating, she could taste the adrenaline surging. She kept a box of pills next to the box of tea bags, just in case. The orange light clicked off, the kettle was boiled. And even as she tasted the bitterness of the pill on her tongue, her taut muscles eased and her body responded to the promise of calm that would soon come.

  Stella walked back to the living room carrying a tray. She already felt lighter, a sensation of gently flowing or floating. Her hands were quite steady. She placed each mug on a coaster on the glass and chrome coffee table. Blue tossed off the blanket, leaned forward and heaped two teaspoons of sugar into her drink. Stella didn’t take sugar but, impulsively, she added a heaped spoonful to her tea and stirred. Droplets of scalding tea splashed on to her table. She held on to the mug with both hands and felt her palms begin to burn. Blue’s hands trembled as she lifted her mug.

  ‘Well?’ Stella said. She attempted to sound kind yet authoritative. ‘Why did you come out here in the freezing cold to see my husband?’

  Blue took a sip of her tea, gazing at Stella over the rim of her mug. She took her time, placed the mug slowly back down on the coaster. ‘I think he’s my father,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Stella was confused.

  The blue eyes were watchful. The girl took another cautious sip of her hot drink.

  Stella composed herself. ‘What makes you think he’s your father?’ she asked, calmly.

  Blue took her time, thinking about her answer. In the delay, Stella had already decided she did not believe her.

  Eventually, Blue said: ‘I found something to prove it.’

  ‘Found what, exactly?’

  ‘My birth certificate.’

  ‘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.