Page 18 of Strap In

The interment is long, the wake longer. After her third cup of tea Jean retreats to the bathroom.

Takes her time reapplying powder and lipstick, longer for the tremor in her hand to still.

Unwilling to give herself the Joker’s smile, Jean caps the lipstick and twists the hot tap all the way round, letting it run from tepid to scalding.

Only when steam rises from the sink does Jean allow herself to withdraw her reddening hands from the water.

She tucks them into her sleeves and exits the women’s room, refreshed. Until Lilian rounds the corner, giving a tremulous smile as she catches Jean’s eye.

‘Jean! I don’t feel glad of much at the moment, but it’s good to see you today.

’ She clasps Jean’s shoulders and pulls her in for an embrace, bird-boned beneath her black Chanel suit.

‘You know, I’d always hoped for the opportunity to thank you for the way you stood by William during that dreadful business with Marianne. ’

‘Oh.’ Jean clears her throat, dry despite the endless tea. ‘No thanks necessary.’

‘All the same. William appreciated it, and so do I.’ Lilian takes her hand and squeezes the tender flesh, oblivious to Jean’s discomfort.

If anything, she appears moved when Jean’s eyes water.

‘Oh dear, the last thing I wanted was to set you off. But you should know that William remembered you fondly. And if you’re ever in Epsom, I’d be delighted to meet for lunch or coffee. ’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Lilian.’

And though it’s Lilian who kisses her cheek, Jean knows herself to be the Judas.

It’s dark by the time Jean arrives home.

She fixes herself a drink that’s gin as much as tonic, savouring the burn in her throat as she climbs the stairs.

In the bedroom she kicks off her shoes and pads through to the bathroom.

It’s the size of Ava’s entire open plan living and kitchen area, tiled in Italian marble with underfloor heating.

The shower’s spacious enough for three grown men, not that Jean has ever felt inclined to try it – since Henry walked out, she’s never sought a serious replacement for the His end of the His-and-Hers basins.

Instead, her own toiletries and cosmetics have taken over the entire counter.

Yet while the bathroom was designed with every possible material comfort in mind, its walls have never echoed with laugher or sighs.

Still, there’s a pleasure here that Ava’s spartan bathroom is incapable of delivering. Jean sets her glass down on the tub’s rim; twists the plug mechanism and turns on the hot tap. As the water gushes into the bath, she pours in a generous dash of oil, eucalyptus and lavender, fresh and cleansing.

Jean peels off her blazer, unbuttons her blouse, unzips her dress.

Sets her jewellery down on the dark marble counter.

She rolls off her tights and kicks them onto the heap of forgotten clothes.

In her underwear Jean perches on the edge of the tub, drinking and trailing her fingers through whorls of steam as it fills.

Only when it can take no more without spilling over does Jean turn off the tap, the metal slick with condensation.

The thick blanket of silence is precious after all the words crammed into her day.

Jean shimmies out of her underwear, tugs her bra free, and knocks back the rest of her drink.

With the back of her hand she scrubs away the drip trailing down her chin.

Then, not giving herself time to balk, Jean steps into the bath.

One foot then the other, before her brain has time to register the heat.

Sweat beads on her forehead. Inch by inch she lowers herself into the tub, and there’s no room in her head for anything save the burn licking up her calves, her knees, her thighs.

Teeth grind, bone against bone, as she crouches; dipping buttocks, belly, the swell of her breast. Every second, Jean reminds herself, is a victory.

Not only proof of her own steel-plated will, but a reclaiming of her body.

She stays in for a full half hour, scrubbing every inch of skin until she’s pink as a newborn.

The water’s perfectly pleasant by the time Jean pulls the plug.

Only now does she allow her body any tenderness, patting herself dry with a fluffy bath towel and smoothing cool aloe vera moisturiser into her skin.

Jean dons satin pyjamas, every movement a caress as the material whispers against her skin.

In bed, cocooned in the goose-down duvet, she gives her emails and messages a customary check.

After all, crisis may strike at any moment.

But there’s nothing that can’t wait until morning.

Then, with the same anticipatory buzz of reaching into her bedside drawer, Jean unlocks her personal phone.

There are two messages from Ava.

9:08:

Thinking of you today. Hope the service goes well x

21:57:

Want to come over tomorrow? I’ll be home from six p.m. ?

Jean’s heart kicks against her ribcage. The timestamp is less than ten minutes ago.

It takes two tries for her thumb to hit the phone icon beside Ava’s name.

An eternity yawns between that moment and the first ring.

And it occurs to Jean that Ava might not pick up – either because she doesn’t hear the phone, or doesn’t want to spend the remainder of her Saturday night talking about a funeral of all things.

Then Jean’s name will show up red on her call log, irrefutable proof of this moment of weakness.

But Ava picks up on the third ring. ‘Hey Jellybean, how are you doing?’

‘I’d be better if you stopped calling me that infernal nickname.’ Yet even as she says it Jean relaxes against the pillows and cushions, putting Ava on speaker and balancing the phone on her knees.

‘Oh, please. You love it.’ A beat. ‘But really, are you alright?’

‘Fine.’ The fact she’s calling at all contradicts that claim. ‘But the funeral… the church was full, but it felt empty. I’d expected…’

‘That’s understandable,’ Ava says, not understanding at all. ‘It’s still a recent loss. Give yourself time to grieve and process.’

There is no way Jean can explain to sunny, straightforward Ava that she does not mourn Will Decker. Not without exposing the shadowy, twisted aspects of herself. ‘I’d rather not talk about it. Tell me about your day?’

Ava’s silent for several seconds. And without being able to see her face, it’s impossible to gauge her reaction.

Jean’s on the cusp of apologising and hanging up when she speaks.

‘It was quiet. But good. I went to the gym then met an old client for lunch – she moved into a flat with her girlfriend and their kids. I’ll miss that part of the AWCRC, seeing women flourish.

But afterwards I spent the day working on CJC stuff, and it’s all coming together. ’

‘What stuff? Did you choose an assistant yet?’

‘Yeah, Beth’s perfect. It’s finding office space that’s a struggle.’ Ava’s sigh crackles through the speakers. ‘The estate agent doesn’t give a shit – it’s small potatoes to him, and I guess I should be grateful he squeezed me in on a Saturday, but nothing he’d found fit my brief and budget.’

‘If the estate agent is failing to meet your expectations, use another. Try Chanter Pryce. Insist on Judith. Tell her I sent you.’

The click of a keyboard. And a subtle intake of breath. ‘Jean, I appreciate the thought… But this is miles beyond what I can afford, and they’d never be interested.’

‘They will. Judith owes me a favour.’ Several, for the miracle she’d performed keeping Martin Chanter out of trouble with the FCA. ‘Look, I’ll write an email introducing you in the morning.’

‘Alright. That would be great.’ Still, Ava sounds uncertain. ‘I know Robert asked, but you really don’t have to keep helping me.’

‘I know. But I want to.’ And it’s true: all of Ava’s needs are straightforward, even if she doesn’t see it. So easily within Jean’s reach. There’s nothing difficult about connecting and directing – it’s a delicious novelty, pulling strings for someone utterly unmotivated by greed.

‘Well, thanks all the same.’

‘No problem.’ Jean sinks down into the mattress, setting her phone on the pillow.

‘So… Are we still on for Friday?’

Mind fogged, it takes Jean a moment to puzzle out what she’s getting at. The Hamilton tickets. ‘Yes, but I still don’t understand why you’re so excited. It’s just a musical. What can there possibly be that you didn’t pick up the first five times?’

‘You’ll see,’ Ava says, a smile warming her voice.

Privately, Jean doubts it. But she’s not about to rain on Ava’s parade. Sooner or later life will knock that capacity for joy from her, and Jean won’t hasten the process.

‘Hey, I had a thought—’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Fuck you very much,’ Ava says, but she’s laughing.

‘What was this thought?’

‘I don’t even want to tell you now.’

Jean smiles to herself. ‘Yes, you do.’

‘You’re right.’ There’s a rustling that suggests movement, and Jean pictures Ava pacing across the breadth of her tiny living room. ‘We’re both coming from work, and it goes on until after ten, so maybe we should get food first. Together. There are good pre-theatre deals.’

Jean blinks. In any other scenario, Ava might be asking her out on a date.

‘I thought it’d be… practical.’

‘I see.’ Jean reaches for the only safe part of this proposition, playing for time. ‘What do you mean, it goes on until after ten? I thought the performance started at seven-thirty.’

‘ Hamilton lasts two hours and fifty minutes, including the interval.’

‘What could possibly justify a three-hour musical?’

‘You’ll see,’ Ava repeats, a smile in her voice. ‘And you’ll appreciate it even more if you’re not hangry.’

Henry had deployed these little tricks with the goal of coaxing Jean out of the office, getting her to understand that there was more to life than the next promotion.

And that silent implication of I know better , the way he’d carried on believing that Jean would change if he only persisted, only stoked the flames of her resentment.

Made her say no more often than she should have, and find satisfaction in the refusal.

But there’s nothing passive aggressive about Ava’s tactics.

Only a hope that shines all the brighter for going unspoken.

And it’s not like there will ever be another scenario allowing for anything that resembles a date.

The thought hooks something behind Jean’s ribs and tugs until she can’t help but say: ‘Alright. Dinner it is.’

‘Cool. I’ll text you the details.’ Ava’s voice is casual, steady. But Jean hears the skip in her step, socked feet thumping against the linoleum.

It’s not a video call, so Jean doesn’t even try to stop herself smiling as she bids Ava goodnight. Barely a minute later, her phone pings with another notification: confirmation of the restaurant booking. Ava has given her no time to back out.