Page 12 of Strap In

‘Probably nothing you’d consider profound.

’ Perhaps Ava will think her gauche or clumsy.

But then she’s never yet made Jean feel foolish for the multitude of things she doesn’t yet know.

And there’s an intimacy to this beyond sex, sitting top to toe on the sofa dressed purely for comfort. ‘Ava, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’ She brings Jean’s foot to rest on her thigh, rubbing the excess cream into her own elbows.

‘It’s not exactly sex-acquaintance territory.’

Ava’s lips twitch. ‘Now I’m intrigued.’

‘You have big career plans. But you work in a field that’s… heavily weighted against you.’

Ava gives a non-committal hum, expression indecipherable behind the mask. If she sees where this is going, she doesn’t seem inclined to help Jean get there. But it’s too late for tactical retreat.

‘I know what the law is. I joined a firm in the nineties, when women were constantly being reduced to objects and told how empowering it was. And that sexism bled through into office culture.’ An old image slips into her mind; Will’s liver-spotted hand on Marianne’s jacket, the Harvey Nichols suit she’d been thrilled to nab on sale, a gesture that might be construed as paternal protectiveness – until that hand slipped down to cup the swell of her backside.

Jean blinks the memory away, speaking before Ava can.

‘I know what inequality is like. But I don’t understand, when opting out might be possible, why a person would choose to keep fighting on that front.

Aren’t you ever tempted to go incognito instead of pinning your colours to the mast by working for an explicitly Black organisation?

Or work in an area of law that’s less… emotionally demanding. ’

The top of Ava’s mask shifts, and Jean’s certain her brows are knitting together. She’s silent for so long that Jean’s sure of having made a terrible faux pas. But then she speaks, with a pensive note Jean hasn’t yet heard. ‘You’re right,’ Ava says. ‘That’s definitely not fuck buddy territory.’

Ordinarily it’s Ava eroding that particular boundary, with her takeaways and foot massages, the not-quite-joke about a weekend away.

And in a perverse sort of way, her current reticence only whets Jean’s curiosity.

But it is a personal question; the most personal she has yet asked.

‘If you don’t want to tell me, I understand.

It’s not remotely close to being any of my business. I only wondered…’

‘Why?’

‘Why, what?’

‘Did you wonder?’ Mischief twinkles in Ava’s eyes, and relief soars in Jean. ‘I didn’t get the impression you thought about me at all beyond sex.’

Jean walked into that one. But it’s impossible to feel regret, mellowed by cool wine and dexterous fingers. ‘I… DDH had dealings with a woman who reminds me of you. Negotiations concluded today, very much in her favour. She offered me a job.’

‘And will you take it?’

‘No. It would involve lots of long-haul flights, and I’d never leave London.’ Jean considers. ‘But I think she was flirting with me.’

Ava shrugs, the strap of her camisole falling down a bare shoulder. ‘That could be fun. A forbidden relationship with your hot lesbian boss.’

The wine curdles in Jean’s mouth, souring as she swallows. ‘I don’t mix business with pleasure.’

There’s a hint of Code Red fury behind her abruptness, and Jean almost regrets it enough to apologise – there’s no way that Ava could know; it was all so far before her time, and they move in completely different circles.

But – to her amazement – Ava smiles, uncharacteristically shy.

‘That’s cool. I don’t fancy sharing you. ’

Jean scoffs. ‘As if I have time for more than one sex acquaintance. Besides, keeping the numbers down minimises risk.’ A familiar thought occurs to her – and there will never be a better time to ask. ‘But what about you? We never made our arrangement exclusive and, if not with Iri, I’d assumed—’

She has said far too much. Even with the TV’s murmur, the silence is thicker than the lotion Ava lavished on her feet.

But Ava smiles, triumphant. ‘Jellybean! You do think about me.’

‘I never said I didn’t.’ Jean huffs a sigh. ‘You’re not bad, as sex acquaintances go.’

‘Neither are you.’ Ava squeezes her foot. ‘Though none of mine ever called me a sex acquaintance . It sounds so official. I might have to add it to my CV. Put you down as a reference.’

Jean pulls her foot free, throwing the cushion at Ava. But she’s laughing too hard to launch it with any real force. ‘You don’t get to complain about me calling you sex acquaintance while you insist on using that bloody nickname,’ she says, setting Ava off again.

Breathless and pink-cheeked, Ava says: ‘Then I guess I won’t complain, Jellybean.’

Jean’s yawn swallows her protest whole. And as Ava shepherds her through to the bedroom, she can’t bring herself to object. Pressed together at the tiny basin, she and Ava wash the sticky remainder of the masks from their faces.

Their reflections make an unlikely pair in the mirror, Ava eternally tanned and glowing in a way that has little to do with the mask’s properties; Jean pale and unmistakably lined under the relentless light of the LED bulb.

But then Ava ducks to kiss her temple – and all Jean can see is her own smile, a look of unguarded pleasure.

The feeling lasts until Jean realises that she’s forgotten a toothbrush. But Ava opens the cabinet as she brushes, revealing at least a dozen packets stacked on the lower shelf. ‘Pick whichever colour you want.’

It takes Jean a moment to make out her words, distorted by minty foam. She looks from the stack to Ava. ‘You just have those lying about? What, do you buy them in bulk for all your women?’

‘I may have.’ Ava spits in the sink. ‘Before I became a sex acquaintance.’

Jean selects a green toothbrush, turning to search for the bin as she tears off the packaging. Her smile is like the sun – too bright to do more than glance at.

They climb into bed together, Ava under the cover, Jean with an arm and leg atop the duvet.

Ava rolls over to face Jean in the shadow.

And Jean tries to rally – sex is not an unrealistic expectation after that foot rub, and it is the foundation of their arrangement.

But Ava simply drapes an arm over her, stroking Jean’s back until the last of the day’s tension melts away.

Jean’s all but asleep when Ava speaks. And though her voice is soft, barely more than a breath against Jean’s hair, it pulls her right back into the land of wakefulness.

‘Hiding never occurred to me,’ she says. ‘It would have killed my mum if I’d rejected her heritage, the culture she gave us. And it would have killed something in me too.’

Jean says nothing; just nestles into the hollow of Ava’s neck and listens.

‘My sister’s name is Aaliyah, but everyone else knows her as Leah. That started when we went to uni – she didn’t want anybody writing her off as ghetto. She’s Leah at work too, anywhere professional.’

Though it’s dark, Jean can picture the particular frown that creases Ava’s brow when she’s weighing up words with care.

‘And I’m not judging Al for any of it – her being darker than me has made her life so much more difficult.

As a doctor she needs to hold authority with her colleagues and be taken seriously by her patients.

The other year a woman refused to be treated by Al because she didn’t want a Black doctor’s hands inside her. ’

‘Jesus,’ Jean says. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone would be willing to die for their racism.

‘Yeah… When I came out, Al joked it was because I wanted to beat her in the Oppression Olympics.’ Ava’s breath is warm against Jean’s hair.

‘I used to wish it was the other way round. That I had her name, her hair, her colouring. Right up until Aaliyah confessed the same thing. That she just wanted an easier life. We’ve always been close but, when we were younger, there was a kind of tension between us.

Aaliyah resented it when people treated me better than her, and I hated that people would recognise her Blackness while they questioned mine. ’

‘It can be so complicated with sisters.’

‘You never really talk about yours.’

‘No, it’s…’ Jean trails off, uncertain how to voice it delicately. And Ava stays silent, continuing to stroke her back while Jean deliberates. ‘I’m very conscious of what she’d think about me doing this. With you. Or any woman.’

‘You don’t think she’d be alright with it?’

‘Understatement of the century. Bridget was horrified when I got divorced.’ Jean toys with the strap of Ava’s camisole. ‘The church was a big comfort to her, after our parents died and she got saddled with me. And Bridget buys into Catholic teachings completely.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ava says, heartfelt. ‘Really.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not as if Bridget’s ever going to find out, or anybody else for that matter.’

After that Ava falls silent, though something about her stillness tells Jean she isn’t sleeping. But she carries on caressing Jean’s back, slow and soft, until dreams claim her.