Page 10 of Strap In

Thus far Jean has done her best to avoid Friday nights.

It’s easy enough – often Ava has plans with friends.

Plus, Fridays are Jean’s favourite time at the office; a hangover from her days as a junior associate, when the men left together in packs, bound for bars and strip clubs.

Then the space became hers – and Marianne’s.

Peter had noticed their dedication, and through him, so had Will.

And though Marianne’s long gone, Jean still revels in the quiet of the office.

But when Ava texts asking whether Jean would like to find out how many times she can come in the space of a full night, Jean can’t deny that she’s curious. Curious enough to head home at the same time as Helen, dig a babydoll negligée from her underwear drawer, and head over to Ava’s.

Jean expects her to pounce the moment she steps out of the bathroom clad in sheer green lace and silk.

And yet, though Ava’s eyes go gratifyingly wide, jaw slack as she takes in Jean’s curves, she exhibits punishing restraint.

Ignoring Jean’s mounting pleas, Ava kisses and caresses Jean’s body, inch by square inch.

Forehead, nose, cheeks, ears, throat, shoulders.

Under Jean’s arms, the tender insides of her elbows, the hollows of her wrists.

On she goes, until Jean’s entire body is alight with it.

Never in Jean’s life has she been so turned on, a pulse drumming a fierce tattoo between her legs.

It takes her a moment to realise Ava intends to kiss her there too, and the thought triggers a less pleasant squirming in the pit of her belly.

She reaches down to halt Ava. And though perplexed, she is respectful of Jean’s wishes, crawling up the bed to kiss her mouth instead. And Jean melts against her.

Only when Jean’s thighs are slippery with want does Ava reach between them. But even then, Ava draws it out, stroking slow and steady. And when Jean tries to buck against her, to rub herself to climax, Ava pulls away. Jean actually whimpers then.

Ava climbs up the bed, takes Jean’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. Looks her dead in the eye. ‘You don’t get to rush this. Understand?’

Jean nods.

And Ava kisses her. ‘Good. I’m going to make it worth your while.’

She does, too. Slipping the dildo inside Jean and rocking – by turns slow and gentle, frantic and urgent – until they’re both trembling too much to move.

Jean slumps into Ava’s arms. Though she’s unbearably hot and sticky with all manner of substances, she nestles in close.

And Ava smooths the hair from her forehead.

Strokes Jean’s back until she dozes off.

And when Jean wakes again in the small hours, aching but wanting all over again, Ava reaches between her legs. Strums ever so gently until one climax is indistinguishable from the next, every atom of Jean’s body blissed out.

‘Nine times by my count,’ Ava whispers.

Jean’s too breathless to laugh. Too boneless to move. But she drops a kiss against the curve of Ava’s shoulder.

Even if her legs could carry her, Jean wouldn’t get up.

And she knows, in a distant sort of way, that she’ll worry about that later – but right now she gives herself over to it fully, the simple pleasure of being held.

It’s not like with Henry, where Jean shied away from affection lest he take it as an invitation for more.

And not just because Jean will gladly let Ava take her as many times as she pleases.

But because here, snuggled tight in this bed, Jean feels… safe.

Jean’s late to brunch. Naomi, Cora, and Imogen are all settled into the booth with cocktails when she arrives straight from Ava’s place.

There’s no hope for her hair, which somehow manages to be both flat and frizzy without a proper blow dry – she’d brushed it back into a chignon in the cab.

Yet even with messy hair, minimal make-up, and too little sleep, Jean knows she looks good.

Her skin has a glow to it that no facialist can replicate, and her eyes are bright in spite of a solid week spent squinting at a screen.

Ordinarily, being anything under fifteen minutes early sours Jean’s mood.

But nothing so petty can touch the marrow-deep contentment left over from her night with Ava.

She lets the waiter take her peacoat and makes a beeline for their usual table, striding through the mirrored hallway and wondering whether there’s ordinarily such a sway to her hips as she walks or if she’s simply more aware of her body than usual.

‘Jean!’ Naomi pats the empty space beside her, rings glittering in the light. She’s had her sandy hair cut short, a shattered pixie that suits the angular lines of her face. ‘Good of you to finally join us.’

‘Sorry.’ Jean takes a seat, tucking her skirt beneath herself. ‘I got held up. Something unavoidable.’

She’d been certain Ava had wrung every possible drop of pleasure from her body the night before. Yet Jean was powerless to resist Ava in the morning, fingers drawn inexorably to the constellation of freckles on her shoulders exposed by pale sunlight.

‘By whom?’ Imogen gestures to the waiter for another margarita, flashing her most charming smile – the one which, in the early days of their careers, made Jean think of the flower mantis.

Pretty enough to lure in her prey; placid enough that, combined with her honey blonde locks, men and women alike underestimated the sharpness of Imogen’s mind.

‘What makes you think I was with someone?’ Though Jean’s tone is casual, she lets the barest hint of a smile grace her lips.

The table erupts with innuendo and speculation.

Having known each other long before becoming titans in the legal world, all four women relish the rare opportunity to cut loose without fear of being judged.

It’s why – despite four constantly busy schedules overseen by PAs – these brunch dates are still going strong after thirty years.

The waiter sets her glass down, and Jean prolongs their agony by taking a deep drink.

Only with these three does Jean swap her usual martini for tequila, lime, and salted rims. A sweet regression to her student days.

‘Let’s review the evidence, shall we?’ Ever the barrister, Cora pauses for dramatic effect, ticking each point off on manicured fingers.

‘You arrive late, but your hair’s still damp.

You needed to shower but didn’t have the time to do your hair – or perhaps your mystery companion doesn’t own a hairdryer. Which indicates that he’s male.’

‘Conjecture,’ Jean says.

But Cora continues as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘And that blouse is hopelessly creased; either you crammed it into an overnight bag, or your companion couldn’t keep his hands off you. Have I missed anything?’

Cora’s right on both counts about the blouse. Right about the shower. Right about everything except the sex of her mystery lover. Even with all her swagger, her curious scent, the ease with which she tops Jean, nobody could ever mistake Ava for a man.

Imogen eyes Jean, thoughtful. ‘She’s moving like a cat that’s slept in a patch of sunlight. It had to be good.’

‘It really was.’ Jean licks the salt and lime from her lips, exquisitely tart.

Cora and Naomi share a glance.

‘Did you…’ Imogen leans in close, enveloping Jean in a floral cloud of Oscar de la Renta. And though her signature scent is more sophisticated now than it was at Cambridge, Ginny still has the same gentle tact that first drew Jean to her. ‘Did you get there last night? All the way?’

‘Of course,’ Jean says, not meeting Imogen’s eyes. She’s the only one who knows there’s no of course about it.

Naomi leans forward, setting the teardrop pearls at her ears swinging. ‘How many times? Twice?’

The margarita stops halfway to Imogen’s mouth. ‘Three times?’

Jean can’t help herself; she laughs. ‘You’ll never guess. It’s almost too good to be true.’

Cora’s dark eyebrows draw together, giving her a hawkish look. ‘More times than I could count on one hand?’

Imogen gasps, and Naomi appears gratifyingly scandalised.

Not once, since the early days of her marriage to Henry, has any aspect of Jean’s personal life been the subject of envy. And so she enjoys being able to say: ‘Nine times in a single night. And again this morning.’

‘Holy shit!’

If Jean keeps going at this rate, even for a few months, she’ll more than make up for the dry years; all those times she’d faked orgasm just to bring about a natural conclusion.

‘Well, I’m delighted for you,’ Cora says. ‘Henry’s a darling, but let’s face it: he wasn’t exactly ringing your bells. And it’s about time someone did.’

Naomi frowns, stunned. ‘But so many times… Is that scientifically possible?’

‘I can assure you,’ Jean says, ‘it is. With the right person.’

‘And you still came to brunch?’ Imogen shakes her head. ‘We’d have understood you giving this month a miss.’

‘Oh, no. This is a strictly… practical arrangement.’ Even when she’s absent, Jean pictures Ava scoffing at the word. ‘I don’t want to send mixed signals.’

‘Are you insane? This man is a keeper.’ Naomi speaks so earnestly she doesn’t notice the flicker of discomfort that passes over Jean’s face. ‘I’d be ironing shirts and serving roast dinner on Sundays.’

‘No, no.’ Cora shakes her head. ‘Any sudden move towards domestic life gives them the fear. Samuel only proposed because he thought it was his idea.’

‘Oh, please.’ Imogen rolls her eyes. ‘He’s head over heels in love with you.’

‘Both things can be true at once,’ Cora says.

‘Never mind romance, ladies. If it’s casual, is he open to other… arrangements?’ Naomi raises her eyebrow. ‘This semester’s barely begun, and splitting my time between here and New York is already punishing. I could use a little stress relief.’

‘No!’ Jean colours at their knowing expressions, forces herself to speak calmly. ‘No. We’re both too busy to have anyone else.’

‘That doesn’t sound entirely practical to me,’ Cora says.

It’s a relief when the waiter interrupts, asking if they’re ready to order. Jean scans the menu, selecting avocado on toast with smoked salmon. But even after the waiter leaves to action their requests, the others remain undistracted.

‘So, do we know who he is?’ Naomi eyes her with open curiosity. ‘This mystery man?’

A ripple of discomfort warps the surface of Jean’s satisfied calm. But then she never said that Ava was male; simply let them fill in the blanks and assume.

Cora frowns, considering. ‘Is it Ciarán Donnelly from Bedford Row? I thought there was something between you at that mixer.’

‘No.’ Jean had turned down Ciarán’s advances, repulsed by the thought of his stubbly cheek against her skin, and promptly forgot him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Imogen says. ‘Jean can do much better. Besides, snoring is the only way Ciarán’s keeping a woman up all night.’

Jean joins in their laughter, half scandalised. Imogen’s moments of savagery are all the more enjoyable for their rarity.

‘Then who is he?’

‘Nobody you know,’ Jean says.

The waiter sets their plates down along with a fresh round of margaritas, and attention is diverted – at least for now.

Jean digs into hers with relish, savouring the creaminess of the avocado, the freshness of her salmon.

It’s one of those rare meals that’s both delicious and Grant-approved.

Yet she doesn’t object when Imogen cuts off a generous square of Biscoff French toast and slides it onto her plate – ‘to keep your strength up.’

‘Good point.’ Naomi waves her fork, a piece of bacon speared on the end. ‘Do we know anybody with that kind of stamina?’

‘Hmm. High energy and strictly casual. Is he younger?’ Cora’s eyes glint. She’s never satisfied until she’s wrangled out every last detail. And Jean must offer up this truth to keep her from another less convenient detail.

‘Quite a bit.’

‘In his forties?’

‘Lower.’ Jean almost manages to keep the smugness from her voice, but not quite.

‘In his thirties ?’ Cora’s voice is a scandalised whisper, but her expression is delighted.

‘Thirty-six.’

Naomi lifts her margarita, says: ‘Here’s to you, Mrs Robinson.’

They clink their glasses, toasting Jean. And she can’t help but savour this moment. She’s spent decades listening to the others brag about their various conquests, and had little enough worth sharing in return.