Page 21 of Strap In

Ava leaves her resentment in the restaurant, and the last of the strangeness between them melts away as they approach the theatre.

Ava insists on taking pictures before the glowing marquee, a grinning selfie, and a shot with Jean.

‘For Robert, obviously,’ Ava says when she hesitates.

‘It should be enough to get him off your back about helping me out.’ And though Jean has her doubts about Ava’s motives, she edges into the frame.

Inside the stately old theatre, they join the press of people queuing.

Ava flashes their tickets, and the usher points them upstairs.

Jean follows her up the red carpeted staircase and through the snaking corridor, down the short flight bisecting the curved rows of seating.

It’s easy enough to find their places: front row in the circle, with a perfect view of the stage below.

Jean’s unable to resist making an enquiry, ‘How do you feel about Bernard now?’

‘A true prince among men,’ Ava says. ‘I’ll name my firstborn cat after him.’

Jean laughs, her knees pressing against the swell of Ava’s thigh as they let a trio of teenage girls past. ‘No doubt he’ll be honoured. But I thought the cat thing was a stereotype.’

‘Not even a little bit.’ Ava leans in close to be heard over the cacophony of voices, lips grazing the lobe of Jean’s ear. ‘Lesbians love pu—’

‘That’s low-hanging fruit,’ Jean retorts, ignoring the irrepressible tingle between her thighs.

‘Well… if I can’t impress you with my wordplay, how about my snack provision skills?’ Ava rifles in her rucksack. ‘I brought us a Twix each. And jellybeans. For Jellybean.’

Jean’s heart flutters as she accepts the bag, like she’s some blushing seventeen-year-old out on her first real date. ‘There’s no possible way you can eat sweets after a two-course meal.’

‘Bet,’ is all Ava says.

Then the lights dim, and an expectant hush falls over the crowd.

Ava sits up straight, watching avidly as the curtain rises, and her anticipation is catching.

The music is fun, the lyrics whip smart.

But it’s the story that really gets to Jean.

A self-made orphan with a thirst to prove himself; a lawyer with the ingenuity to use his profession as a ladder and climb.

Every so often Jean catches Ava staring not at the cast, despite the extraordinary magnetism of their performances, but at her.

She’s drinking in Jean’s reactions as surely as the musical itself.

And every time, Jean returns her smile before turning back to the stage, self-conscious as she senses Ava’s gaze upon her.

The truth of it is that Jean had expected Ava’s interest to ebb over time, once the thrill of introducing a novice to lesbian desires wore off.

To be replaced by a string of nubile new conquests who never sweated through her sheets.

Yet here Ava is, taking Jean’s hand under a blanket of shadows.

Giving Jean a cutesy nickname and bringing her snacks – which, Jean must admit, are incredibly moreish.

And all through their candlelit dinner she’d looked upon Jean with more hunger than at the delicious spread before them.

In any other scenario, this evening would make a perfect date.

Ava must be thinking along the same lines, with her talk of Bernard and other nights .

And Jean accepts that it’s her own fault for muddying the waters with talk of friendship.

Yet, it occurs to her, every previous erosion of the boundaries between them has been Ava’s handiwork.

Jean’s first thought is a threat: If you tell anyone that I cried over a musical, then so help me God…

But then the lights come up and Ava’s face is shining with tears too.

Jean’s mascara is unsalvageable – waterproof was false advertising.

Ever practical, Ava reaches into her rucksack and produces a pack of wet wipes, which Jean gratefully accepts.

‘I may not have been a Scout,’ Ava quips, ‘but I do always try to be prepared.’ And just like that her tears are no longer a source of shame.

It’s easy between them, so easy, on the tube ride from Covent Garden to East Ham.

Jean grows animated swapping details about which lyrics they’d enjoyed, which scenes had moved them.

On her phone Ava displays a picture of the year she’d gone as Alexander Hamilton to Heaven’s Halloween party, complete with pencilled-on facial hair and a straightened ponytail in the style of Lin-Manuel Miranda.

It’s utterly ridiculous, yet there’s something undeniably dashing about Ava in costume.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Jean says. ‘You wore this to a gay venue. Where you were hoping to attract other women?’

Ava’s grin takes on a gloating quality. ‘There was no “hoping” about it. Drag kings are always popular, and Alexander’s reliable with the ladies.’

The tube rocks them, roaring through a dark tunnel. ‘I don’t know how to respond to that.’

‘So, we won’t be doing Hamilton roleplay any time soon. Good to know.’

On the way back to Ava’s, walking through the cool night air, Jean’s jaw aches with the effort of stifling yawn after yawn.

Ava makes a pot of coffee on her little stove – Jean should insist on decaf this late, but there’s no resisting that rich aroma.

As Ava brews the grounds, Jean can’t help searching out the details of Hamilton’s life.

Later, when her brain isn’t sluggish with sleep, Jean will track down verifiable resources.

But – for now – she settles for Wikipedia, squinting at the tiny print.

Born out of wedlock in Charlestown, Nevis, Hamilton was orphaned as a child… And the truth behind Ava’s bucket list slides into focus. ‘You want to go to Nevis because he was born there! Of course.’

Ava returns with two mugs of coffee and a plate of sugared amaretto biscuits balanced on a tray. ‘Nice detective work, Jellybean.’

Jean folds both legs underneath herself, making room for Ava to sit, and accepts the proffered coffee. ‘You really admire him.’

It’s not a question.

Ava nods. ‘As a lawyer, anyway. He didn’t treat the women in his life particularly well. But Hamilton was brilliant too. The way he used the law as a tool to reshape the world, to build… That inspires me.’

‘No wonder you want to make a pilgrimage.’

‘One day.’ Ava ducks her head as she drinks. ‘It would mean a lot to me.’

A companionable silence settles between them, broken only by the faint pulse of music from a neighbouring flat. Jean sips from the steaming cup until its contents revive her.

In a few hours the sun will climb high enough to wash over the estate, glittering bright in every column of windows.

It’ll melt the dew from the grass, and burn through the tender shoots of friendship growing between her and Ava.

If Jean is to make any kind of confession, now is the time.

‘I’m sorry I shot you down over the bucket list question in Bernard’s workshop.

I wasn’t trying to give you nothing. And I’m sorry it came across that way. ’

Ava neither accepts nor declines the apology, but she rests a reassuring hand against the curve of Jean’s knee as she thinks, touch warm through sheer tights. ‘Then what was it?’

‘I didn’t know what I wanted.’ Jean lifts a biscuit from the plate, more for something to do with her hands than from any real hunger.

‘It’s been so long since I’ve thought to want anything outside of my career goals.

They’ve defined everything – had to, for me to reach this point.

But now I’m about to get everything I hoped for, and I wonder… ’

‘What?’ Ava’s voice is gentle, her expression free from judgement. There’s only the same intent curiosity that Jean still hasn’t grown used to sparking.

‘I wonder what will be left to want for after this next promotion.’ Only when the words hang in the air between them does it occur to Jean, just how much she has exposed here. ‘God, that’s depressing. Forget I said anything – I drank too much at dinner.’

But Ava only shakes her head. ‘It’s natural to feel that way.

It’s how the rat race is designed. We make getting to the next big thing our priority – a degree, a pay rise, a promotion, a new job – and that urgency doesn’t leave much room for reflection.

But it’s good to start asking yourself those questions. ’

‘It is?’ Nothing about the gaping, empty pit that’s opened up beneath her feels good. Success is like walking a tightrope: the balancing act only works if you don’t look down.

‘Definitely.’ Ava pops a biscuit into her mouth and chews, spraying crumbs over herself in her excitement. ‘Hey, that’s what we’ll do! Before we go to sleep, we’ll brainstorm bucket list ideas.’

The sweetness of it forms an ache behind Jean’s breastbone. ‘Ava, it’s after midnight—’

‘But still night. You said friendship for one night only – as far as I’m concerned, that counts until morning.’ Still Ava watches her, and the magnetic lure of those big brown eyes pulls Jean back in.

‘You’re such a lawyer.’ Jean reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, hair she will never grow tired of knotting her fingers in, at once silken and springy.

‘Guilty as charged.’ Ava covers Jean’s hand with her own, holding it in place against her cheek. ‘But I think that’s why you like me, or at least part of it.’

‘Mm.’ Jean neither confirms nor denies, but she’s had the same thought herself about the ease between them. She brushes the downy skin of Ava’s cheek with her thumb.

Ava closes her eyes, leaning into the touch. Her breath is warm against the inside of Jean’s wrist. ‘Let’s start off simple. Are there any new places you want to visit?’

In the earlier years of Jean’s marriage, Henry had taken great pleasure in planning trips to all the obvious destinations.

Paris, Venice, Rome… everywhere that the world was meant for two.

And as she’d climbed the ranks at DDH there came skiing trips in the Swiss Alps, weeks spent sunning herself and swimming through the tropical blue ocean by Peter’s home in the Bahamas.

If the marriage had lasted, no doubt Henry would have suggested a sunny second home of their own.

But after the divorce there was no longer any need to maintain the pretence of caring about time off.

‘Not the southwest,’ Jean says, conscious that Ava is watching her. ‘Not Devon. Beyond that… I don’t know.’

‘If you don’t want to go southwest, you could go northeast.’ At last Ava breaks away, retrieving her phone from the table and scanning a map of Britain. ‘What about… Edinburgh?’

Jean sets her empty cup and saucer down. ‘Why there?’

‘Why not?’ Ava shrugs. ‘The whole point of a bucket list is to experience new things. It doesn’t have to be that deep. Mine includes going to the USA for a stack of IHOP pancakes.’

The castle, Arthur’s Seat, craggy beaches… It’s not a bad thought. ‘Alright. My bucket list now has one item.’

‘That’s one hundred per cent more than it had this time yesterday.’ Ava drops a kiss on Jean’s forehead. ‘Well done.’

Jean rests her cheek against the curve of Ava’s shoulder, warm and full and close to contentment. Her eyelids are heavy, even with the caffeine coursing through her body, but she blinks them open. She can’t waste these stolen moments on sleep.

‘Can I confess something potentially embarrassing?’

The words rouse Jean. She lifts her head, intrigued. ‘More or less embarrassing than dressing up as a Founding Father?’

‘Eh…’ Ava’s shrug turns into a stretch, mouth twisting as she swallows back a yawn. And her arm drapes around Jean’s shoulder. ‘Depends on where you’re sitting, I suppose.’

‘Oh, don’t be a tease. Tell me.’

Beside her, there’s an unnatural stillness to Ava’s body, like she’s forgotten how to breathe. ‘I just – I wish this night didn’t have to end.’

Jean’s eyes prickle. And she curses that stupid heartfelt fucking musical for bringing her emotions so close to the surface, blinking away her tears. ‘Me too.’

Though Ava’s face is blurred, she hears the sharp intake of breath. ‘Yeah?’

All Jean can do is nod. She clears her throat, forcing down a swallow of the coffee. ‘Yes. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this with anyone. And I had a really good time with you, Ava.’

The cushions shift, then Ava’s crawling along the sofa to cup Jean’s cheek, thumb catching the edge of her cheekbone. ‘But don’t you see? We could keep having good times together, just like tonight.’

Jean twists away, taking in their silhouettes reflected in the television’s flat blank screen.

‘No. Ava, I was clear from the beginning. A romantic relationship with another woman doesn’t fit into my life.

That’s not the person I am, not really. And I can’t change it now, not when I’m so close to having everything. ’

‘I’m not talking about romance. And you don’t have to change anything.

’ Ava kneels on the cushion, imploring. ‘We keep hooking up. But we also hang out socially. Maybe we could go to the theatre again, or a wine bar now and then. Or – if we’re too busy – you could bring your laptop round and we could just work together. ’

There aren’t enough coffee grounds in the City of London to keep her exhaustion at bay. ‘Ava—’

‘No, seriously. Think about it like an upgrade; a way of making things more… efficient. Our social and sexual needs taken care of in the same relationship – two for the price of one.’

It’s all but impossible making friends outside of the law – the nine to five crowd don’t understand why anyone would choose the kind of job where a phone call could whisk you away at a moment’s notice to firefight on multiple fronts, never mind why anyone would relish it.

And those who harbour similar professional ambitions are often just as busy.

Henry hadn’t understood – the scale of his goals waning as the years passed by – and he’d nursed a grudge over every dinner cancelled, every holiday interrupted.

But Ava’s not the type to get pissy if Jean’s plans change at the last minute.

If anything, with a fledgling charity to nurture, she’s just as liable to request a rain check at short notice.

And Jean can’t deny it calls to her, the possibility of more nights like this; the image of them working separately yet side by side. ‘I suppose that might be viable.’

‘Yeah! I mean, the term fuck buddies does indicate a friendship dimension to the relationship.’

‘You’re not wrong.’ Jean nods as the idea takes root. ‘Friends with benefits, people do call it that.’

And what harm can there be in Jean having her pistachio ice cream and eating her jellybeans too?