Don't Stand So Close by Luana Lewis

being sucked into the same vortex of contradictions every other professional had faced while working on the case.
    Simpson had composed himself. His eyes were dry again. He began to speak. ‘I blame myself for the fact that my daughter has once again had to be put in a foster home. I should have seen it coming. I should have fought harder. Of course her mother is never going to change. Of course she’s not. How many times must my daughter lose her home, or be placed in the care of some stranger?’
    He sat back, pushing his fringe away and taking a breath to calm himself. ‘I lost that first house because every cent I had went into fighting custody proceedings. But I’ve clawed it all back – I have my own practice, a new house, a stable relationship. Gemma and I have been together for over a year and there have been no problems at all. What more do I have to do to convince you people?’
    Stella was beginning to grow impatient with his tendencyto answer every question by launching into a list of complaints about his ex-wife. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if the situation is so clear-cut, why do you think the judge has asked for a personality assessment? There is concern about your ability to parent. There is concern about potential risk factors.’
    ‘If you’ve decided to believe everything my lunatic of an ex-wife has to say, I haven’t got a hope, have I?’ He stood up.
    He most certainly did not like being challenged. She was disappointed. He had withdrawn again so quickly and the prickly, closed façade was back in place. Completely.
    She was left looking up at him, powerless to engage his cooperation and feeling somehow foolish. He was tall, around six foot two, and while not powerfully built – more on the sinewy side – she felt small looking up at him. She was aware of the difference not only in their respective sizes, but in their ages. He must have fifteen years on her. She felt young, an impostor. She had been
Dr Davies
for all of two years and sometimes the title still felt like a fraud.
    ‘I’ve tried to explain,’ she said. ‘This interview is your chance to talk about yourself, not only to give your opinion about other people. I would like you to allow me insight into your personality. But you’re not doing that.’
    She looked at the clock. The two-hour session had come to an end.
    Simpson had noticed her checking the time. ‘I know my way out,’ he said.
    She stood, straightening her skirt.
    Stella was eager to score the personality test because she thought it was the best chance she had of salvaging any useful information from their fraught first appointment. She suspected that Simpson would come under the profile knownas ‘faking good’, in that he would not admit any psychological problems, even those milder ones commonly experienced by everyone from time to time. But she was curious – there just might be something that could give her insight into his personality profile. Something he had not intended to reveal. She entered his responses – more than five hundred of them – into the computer programme and waited while the report was generated.
    She was disappointed. Simpson had succeeded in staying out of sight. So far as the validity scales indicated, the profile was invalid. It could not be interpreted. Stella could comment, of course, on his reticence in the clinical interview and his guardedness. All of the data so far pointed to someone who had no wish to be known and who refused to give any insight into his inner life. Someone who might have something to hide. He would succeed in his efforts, to some extent, but in reality he wasn’t doing himself any favours. If he was determined to do so, he could conceal his emotional difficulties, but then he also deprived himself of the opportunity to showcase his strengths. And his behaviour with her didn’t bode well for his future cooperation with professionals around the wellbeing of his daughter.
    Stella stood up and stretched. She