Forget Me Not (27 page)

She waited until the screen faded to black and the person outside disappeared and then she returned to the living room and took up her place at the window. But she was uneasy and the spell was broken. The snow that covered everything – the lawn, the trees and the hills beyond – no longer seemed magical. She hated being alone. The daylight hours were difficult, the nights almost impossible.

The air shattered as the doorbell rang again.

The police would hardly be impressed if she called them out to complain that a young woman had rung her doorbell. And she didn’t want to disturb her husband. But she so wanted to call him and ask him what to do. Her BlackBerry was right beside her. She picked it up. Ran her fingers across the keypad. Put it down again. She would not call him, she would deal with this herself. She was getting better. Of course, she wasn’t. She was alone and helpless and useless. She wanted Max. If she had her way, she would have him home all day.

Max deserved a better wife. He had rescued her and then it had all predictably gone to hell.

She returned to the front door, a rising anger competing with her nerves. The intercom screen showed the same young woman, with her beanie pulled down almost to her eyebrows and the absurdly short leather coat that provided no warmth.

‘
What is it?
’ Stella said.

She babbled as she looked up into the camera: ‘I used to live here,’ she said. ‘I came up from London to see my old house. I didn’t know the snow would be so bad. It’s all frozen and it’s really steep going back down the hill. Can I
please
come inside?’

Stella realized that the girl outside was very young. She couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. Fourteen, maybe. A child.

‘I’ll call a taxi to take you back down to the station,’ Stella said.

‘You can’t. They’ve shut down because of the snow.
Please
. The tube isn’t running either, I’m stuck here. I can’t go back down the road or I’ll break my neck.’ Her voice was rising with outrage and distress. ‘Can I just come inside?’

The girl was shaking with cold. Her lips were a purple gash, startling and dark against the pale skin of her face. She looked as though she was about to cry. Stella felt sorry for her. Not sorry enough, however, to risk opening the door.

‘No,’ Stella said. ‘Go and try one of the other houses. You’ve got an entire street to choose from.’

‘Please,’ the girl said, ‘I’m so cold. Why can’t you just let me in?’ She pouted at the camera and she stomped her white trainers on the black marble tiles.

Stella slammed the receiver back against its white plastic cradle. She watched as the girl tried in vain to keep warm. She paced up and down, leaving a haphazard pattern in the snow around Stella’s front door. She wrapped her arms around herself and bounced, up and down. At a certain point, she stopped fighting. She sank to the floor, her head on her knees.

The cold must be unbearable, like torture.

The minutes passed as Stella sat in front of the fire on her grey linen sofa. She pressed her bare feet into the soft, Chinese deco rug. She stood. She walked around the navy border, placing one foot in front of the other as though she was on a tightrope. She stopped at the yellow and orange parrot embroidered in the right-hand corner. She did not understand why the girl insisted on waiting outside her door.

Her thoughts came fast and fragmented. One day it would be different. She would be free of her chains. But she was losing time. She found it harder and harder to remember what she had been like before.

The house was silent.

Almost forty minutes had passed since the bell had rung for the first time. The girl at the front door must have decided to brave the steep hill that was Victoria Avenue. She was right: if she tried to make her way down, she might slip and fall. But after all – and here Stella tried to make herself feel less guilty – what was the worst thing that could happen to her? She might end up with a wet backside. And once she made it down the hill – wet backside and all – she could walk along the High Street and she would be inside the cosy inn within minutes. The Royal Oak: good wine, an open fireplace and exposed beams. The television above the fireplace had sort of melted along the bottom but no one seemed to notice it was a fire hazard. Stella could feel the soft sheepskin throws against her skin. She could taste the Bloody Mary – poured from a jug on the counter, slices of lemon arranged on the wooden board next to the glass pitcher. Max had described it all. He often walked down there alone on a Sunday evening. Stella had never walked with him, but maybe she would go, for the first time, when he came home to her the next day. He must be desperate for her to leave the house, though he hid it well.

The silence had become a pressure, pushing against her eardrums, and the darkness drew closer.

Max would not force her back into a world that terrified her. But she had been hiding a long time. More and more often she feared it was too late. Whichever way she looked at it, she was a recluse.

With any luck, the girl had gone to pester the neighbours, families with children of varying ages whom Stella had never met.

Or she might still be outside, waiting.

The silence and the waiting became unbearable.

Hilltop was her home, she was safe inside. If she went down the road paved with paranoia and self-pity she knew where it would lead – into a padded cell, most probably. She
was
safe. Nothing had changed; no one could get in. It was just a girl.

Hilltop was her own private kingdom, her palace and her prison.

Stella returned to the entrance hall. She tilted the shutters and peered out into the silvery-grey landscape. Heavy snowflakes swirled everywhere, as though a million goose-down pillows had been sliced open in the sky. With each passing second, the light grew weaker. The girl sat with her back to the polished steel front door, her knees pulled up to her chest and her head down. She was a child: helpless and cold.

A part of Stella was excited, the part she usually kept locked down tight. A little of her old self stirred in her chest. She needed to take a risk, to shatter the invalid’s life she had created for herself before it was truly too late. She needed to know that she could still be of use, to someone. She was tired of being inside, immobilized, waiting for something to happen, tired of waiting to get better while other people went on with their lives and her husband stayed away. She punched in the code, turning off the motion sensors. She rested her left hand on the door handle. There was a human being outside, alone and suffering. With her right hand, she reached for the deadbolt. She opened the door.

The blackened sky was shot through with violet. Icy air raged inside and heavy snowflakes blew through the open doorway then melted as they landed on the heated floor.

The girl was covered in white. Ice crystals had settled everywhere, in her hair and on her shoulders, and they clung to her leggings and her shoes.

She blinked up at Stella. ‘It’s fucking freezing out here,’ she said.

Her blue eyes were defiant and full of mistrust. She stayed where she was, unsure whether she was to be allowed inside. She made no sudden movements and she did not try to force her way in. She waited to be invited.

Stella took a step backward and nodded. With stiff, frozen fingers, the girl picked up her bag and scrambled to her feet. She stepped across the threshold.

Stella shut the front door behind her, locked it and then turned to get a better look at her uninvited guest. The girl was like a frightened deer. Strands of damp hair clung to her face. Her jacket hung open, revealing a cropped T-shirt and a hint of pale, goose-pimpled flesh. Bony knees protruded through tight black leggings. She held on to the strap of her rucksack and rocked back and forth on her grubby white running shoes. The girl pulled off her hat, her fingers still angry and red. She shook out her long wet hair and, as she did so, she caught sight of the colossal chandelier. She stared up for a moment, wide-eyed.

At five foot four, Stella was not particularly tall, and the girl was a head shorter than she was. And that was with the extra inch she gained from the running shoes. Stella felt foolish for being afraid.

‘My toes are burning,’ the girl said. ‘And I can’t feel my fingers.’ She glared at Stella as if she were responsible for her pain. She curled her fingers into a fist, then released them; watching her hands as though they belonged to someone else. Her eyes glistened and Stella thought she might be about to cry.

‘Why don’t you take off your shoes,’ Stella said, thinking about frostbite.

The girl bent down and tried to undo her laces, but her fingers were rigid and it took ages before she managed to loosen the double knots. As Stella waited and watched, the girl pulled off her trainers and placed them side by side on the front door mat. She wasn’t wearing socks and her toenails were painted black.

‘You should take that off too.’ Stella pointed at her jacket. Up close, she could see it was no more than thin plastic.

The girl shook her head; no.

‘Come inside, there’s a fire – it’s warmer,’ Stella said.

She walked towards the living room, pointing at the doorway, as if encouraging a timid animal to follow. She felt energized, or perhaps she felt anxious, it was hard to tell the difference. The girl followed, barefoot and still clutching at the strap of her bag. She didn’t look as though she felt at home in her old house. She stood motionless next to the sofa with her damp hair and her damp clothes.

Stella felt bad for leaving her outside so long. She lifted the tartan blanket from the back of the couch and shook it out. She ventured a step closer, holding the blanket out in front of her. When the girl didn’t back away, Stella draped the blanket around her shoulders and wrapped her up tight. The girl’s stiff fingers took hold. Stella saw it again, the suspicion in her eyes, and she backed away.

‘Sit in front of the fire,’ she said.

The girl sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, her back to Stella, staring at the small flames. The shivering went on and on. Stella hovered behind her, unsure what to do next.

‘I should phone your parents and let them know you’re here,’ she said.

‘My toes
really
hurt.’

Stella wondered if she might end up having to find a doctor for this strange, reckless girl who wandered about half undressed in the arctic conditions. She walked round and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. She noticed how beautiful the girl was. Exceptionally so. Her deep-set eyes were the colour of the sky on a clear, sunshine-filled day. Her hair had begun to dry, forming soft golden waves that caressed her cheeks. Her skin was velvety smooth. Her top lip was a shade too thin, but her bottom lip was fuller, pouting. She was so young.

‘Why are you staring at me?’ the girl asked.

‘I’m Stella. What’s your name?’

‘Blue.’

Blue was the colour of her eyes. Blue did not sound like a real name.

‘Is Blue your nickname?’

‘It’s my real name.’

‘And what’s your surname?’

She rubbed at her dry lips, tinged blue with cold, and hesitated, her eyes flickering around the room from left to right. ‘Cunningham,’ she said.

Stella had no way of knowing if she was lying.

‘We need to get you home,’ Stella said. ‘We need to let someone know you’re here.’

‘I’m not going home.’ The girl spoke with a certain determination that concerned Stella.

‘Why not?’ Stella asked.

‘I had a fight with my mother. She won’t let me back in.’

‘Blue, even if you had an argument with your mother, she’ll still be worried about you.’

No response.

‘Well – I still need to call someone to let them know you’re safe. Is there someone else I could call, besides your mother?’

Blue shook her head, not looking at Stella, staring at the fire. The shivering had lessened, but now and again a small quiver passed through her shoulders.

‘We do need to find a way to get you home,’ Stella said. Her words sounded empty, repetitive, lame.

‘I didn’t really use to live here,’ the girl said. ‘I made that up.’ She turned to look at Stella. The colour of her eyes seemed to shift, so that the blue was deeper and more intense, the colour of cold, hard tanzanite.

Stella tilted her head from side to side, trying to release the muscles that had seized up in her neck and across her shoulders. ‘Then why have you come here?’ she asked.

If she panicked, if she breathed too fast, if she allowed her heartbeat to thunder out of control, she was lost. She should have gone upstairs when she heard the doorbell, shut the door of her bedroom, swallowed a sleeping pill, ignored the goddamn noise. There was a tightness in her chest, it was impossible to take in enough air.

‘I came because I need to see Dr Fisher,’ the girl said.

‘My husband?’

‘Yes.’ Blue’s mouth set in a stubborn line and she began to scratch at the skin on her forearms.

Luana Lewis is a clinical psychologist and author of two non-fiction books.
Forget Me Not
is her second novel.

Don’t Stand So Close

and published by Corgi

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