Free Don't Stand So Close by Luana Lewis

of her, her thoughts drifting as she sat in the dim café, stirring, bright light outside. Then she sat up straight, narrowing her eyes so that she might see better. Lawrence Simpson was walking along the pavement outside. He came closer and closer to the window where she sat. He stopped and looked straight inside, straight at her. Stella didn’t know if he could see in through the tinted window, he might be staring at his own reflection. He wore a formal black suit and although his shirt was open at the collar, he seemed strangely overdressed for a Saturday stroll. He pushed back his foppish fringe in a gesture she remembered from her office.
    He walked on, his face impassive, with no sign of recognition.
    Stella watched the man’s straight back moving further away, his left hand in his trouser pocket. She was no longer sure of what she’d seen. The interior of the café was dark while the street outside was so bright. Chances were it wasn’t him at all, just someone who looked like him: tall and thin with straight, fine hair.
    Why was she thinking about Lawrence Simpson, anyway? She felt unreasonably guilty, for letting him intrude into her thoughts and into her weekend, as though she had done something wrong. Was she attracted to him? She honestly did not think that was the case. Perhaps it was because he was a doctor, someone whose orbit travelled so close to the world of the clinic, and they had more in common than was usually the case with her medico-legal clients. Stella had to admit that she was more interested in getting to know what made Simpson tick than she should be. She was thinking about him even while not at work. She might even be more intimidated by him than she ought to be.
    She waited ten minutes to ensure that, whoever the man was, he was long gone.
    Stella’s living room was the same size as her bedroom. She had crammed in a small sofa, a television on a stand, and a tiny dining table for two. She opened her laptop, propping her notes on the chair next to her. She began to write up the final section of the Smith report:
Opinion
.
    It was such a glorious day. She thought about what her friends might be up to. Izzy and Mark would be nesting, finishing off the nursery. Hannah and the other singles were meeting up in Regent’s Park to enjoy the unexpected sunshine. Stella wanted so badly to ditch her report and join them, but she wouldn’t because she would not let Max down.
    She had written nothing besides the heading.
Opinion
.
    The forensic work was intellectually challenging, but not without emotional strain. She believed she could help, she believed she could make a critical difference to the life of a child. That was her job, as she saw it: to act in the interests of the child. But often that meant writing things in her reports that caused the parents intense pain. And while it might be true that most of the people who landed in her office had screwed up, no one was born bad. All of her clients had their own traumatic histories.
    Sometimes clients were grateful – even when the news was bad. Sometimes in their hearts they knew they could not care for a child. Sometimes, they were angry – but not as often as she might have expected when she started out. She liked to think that, ultimately, many of her reluctant clients appreciated the thoroughness and accuracy of her reports. She put in many more hours than she was supposed to. Shemade sure she gave the parents a chance to put forward their side of the story. She was proud of that, proud that she always went the extra mile.

Hilltop, 6.15 p.m.
    Blue had her back to Stella and was still leaning against her chest.
    The girl smelt sour.
    ‘I think you need a hot bath,’ Stella said. Gently, she pushed the girl away and stood up. She held out her hand and Blue took hold and pulled herself to her feet; the girl was so light. She seemed a little unsteady as she began to climb the curved staircase and Stella stayed close behind her.
    The only