Page 22 of Strap In

Andreas Leonides is smaller than photographs suggested, barrel chested with stubby legs.

There was a time when Jean would have worn her most diminutive court shoes to this first meeting – and every other.

But that time has passed. She steps forward in suede green Louboutins, heels clicking against marble, offering the first hand Leonides shakes upon striding across the atrium.

His grip is a vice, and Jean returns the pressure until bone shifts beneath the pads of her fingers.

‘Mr Leonides, it’s a pleasure to welcome you. I speak for the whole of DDH when I say that we’re thrilled to have you.’

‘Andreas, please.’ Even after releasing Jean’s hand, Leonides fixes her with those steely blue eyes. ‘And may I call you Jean?’

It’s not a question, not really. So, Jean nods, exposing an appropriate flash of teeth.

‘Andreas, then.’ Peter doesn’t so much as flinch as Leonides grasps him by the hand. And there, glinting in his eyes, is the sharp edge of ambition. Jean thought it lost to years spent winnowing down his handicap. But it was simply lying in wait; an old friend she hadn’t been aware of missing.

Upstairs they settle in the biggest conference room, the firm on one side of the oval table, Leonides and his entourage from Hephaestia on the other.

Pastries and green bottles of San Pellegrino mark out the no man’s land in between.

As the team presents, Jean takes stock of the Hephaestia team.

She recognises their people from the briefing documents, from headshots posted on the company website, from press conferences and shaky footage of the shareholder meeting.

Ekaterina Nowicki sits at Leonides’ right hand as Hephaestia’s head of communications – though she remains largely silent throughout, her dark eyes glitter like polished onyx as she takes in every last detail.

Three times she bows her head, a curtain of dark hair obscuring her mouth as she whispers into Leonides’ ear.

And three times he angles his body to listen, turning away from whomever else might be speaking at that moment.

Conversely, Hephaestia’s general counsel is a vocal participant in the meeting.

Layton Wexler – a good old boy dripping with Southern charm, missing only the lariat and pistol at his hip to complete the image of a cowboy – interjects often, seemingly whenever the mood takes him.

But Wexler’s drawl and folksy witticisms are nothing more than a smokescreen for that reptilian mind.

Though she spends little time on the front lines these days, Jean can see what it would be like to go up against him in court, the one-two punch of showboating and sharp wit.

An inexperienced lawyer might be lured in by the music of Wexler’s voice, dancing to his tune before they realised – Jean makes a mental note to keep a close eye on the junior associates.

Then Rhona rises, replacing Andrew before the projector’s glow.

And though Rhona’s expression is mild, Jean gets the distinct impression she’s enjoying herself as she asks Hugo to change the slide – competition to wash away the nerves, sure as a shot of bourbon.

Jean will find a way to make this last-minute personnel change up to him, but there’s so much more at stake than the ego of a single junior associate.

Rhona warms to her topic, enthusiasm matching knowledge. Even the jocular doubts of Wexler, whose family wealth sprung from Texan oil fields, aren’t enough to throw her off the scent. Nowicki murmurs something, and Leonides nods approval.

Jean flashes the junior associate a rare smile as she fields questions.

Though nobody could accuse Rhona’s suit of being stylish, it is at least well-tailored.

And with her hair pinned back in a bun, Rhona has every appearance of a woman growing to be comfortable in her own skin.

In this way Jean will grow the firm, beyond what Will Decker ever imagined possible.

Ava’s proposal of working together proves a godsend; those companionable hours are her only incentive to leave the office.

Ava’s energy grants her a second wind. With the months dwindling away to weeks before Ava leaves ACWRC for good, she’s tying up loose ends while laying the groundwork for her future, as well as running herself ragged with overtime to compensate for her guilt over leaving.

In spare moments, Jean can’t resist helping – redrafting an email to sound more authoritative, providing introductions with firms likely to donate time and resources, and the less quantifiable task of holding faith when Ava is plagued by doubt.

There are nights when they lose themselves in each other, and just as many when they curl up together, exhausted.

As those nights together stack up, Jean can’t resist the tug of responsibility, a compulsion to keep Ava from subsisting on Twixes and Monster Energy drinks.

During a late-night call with Peter, Jean fries them up a mushroom omelette – simple yet filling, and far less fattening than Iri’s fare.

Ava wolfs it down so eagerly that Jean takes to cooking for them, always adding a third portion to the fridge in the hope Ava will consume at least one vegetable in the time they’re apart.

It works, too – even the Tupperware filled with spinach and garlic sits gleaming on the draining board by her next visit.

On weekends Ava insists they get up and out, strolling around Plashet Park or meandering through East Ham Nature Reserve, savouring the churchyard quiet of St Mary Magdalene.

To her surprise, Jean adores the latter – an unlikely reprieve from London’s relentless urgency.

She takes a morbid pleasure in finding the graves of those lost aboard the Titanic.

And though the headstones are weathered, the church crumbling, new life is relentless even in the face of decay.

Tiny chiffchaffs flit from branch to branch among the plush green leaves.

Bluebells carpet the ground and perfume the air.

The reprieve from texts and calls, emails and Slack channels, is golden.

There is no particular need for Jean to be anything other than present in this soft intimacy; a closeness that binds them even without hand-holding or kisses.

Though there are moments when Jean catches herself slipping; wishing for the possessive warmth of Ava’s palm against her back, but in public Ava’s restraint is meticulous.

And yet, in private moments, the solidifying friendship between them enables Ava to grow bold. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Jean looks up from her document, taking off her reading glasses to scrub tired eyes. ‘Evidently: you just did.’

But Ava doesn’t meet snark with snark – and her pensive expression alerts Jean to the fact that something bigger is coming. Sure enough: ‘No, I meant… something personal.’

Wary, Jean saves her progress, though she doesn’t close the laptop – work may yet prove a welcome refuge. ‘Such as?’

‘We’ve done a lot of stuff, right?’

‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

‘Things you hadn’t tried before.’ Ava licks her lips. ‘But things you enjoy.’

Every act a revelation , Jean thinks. No use denying it. ‘Go on.’

‘But we’re also… friends. So, can I ask you something? With my friend hat on?’

‘You could have asked me several somethings by now.’

Again, the barb merely glances off Ava. She clicks her pen open and closed against the tabletop. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about. Specifically, why you never want me going down on you.’

Heat scalds Jean’s cheeks, though when she presses her fingertips against the blush Jean’s skin remains smooth, unblistered. ‘That’s not a friend question.’

Ava shrugs, the strap of her camisole slipping down a smooth bare shoulder. ‘Sure it is. Women talk about sex with their friends. Classic female bonding ritual.’

‘Well, yes.’ Jean clicks open a new window, but doesn’t add anything to the Google Doc. ‘Platonic friends. Not the female friends they’re also having sex with.’

Ava’s brows climb. ‘Oh, so you’re an expert in sapphic friendships now?’

A look is all it takes to blunt that mocking edge. Whatever else has shifted underneath the surface, at least Jean has that to fall back on.

‘Okay, okay. But you can ask for things. You know that, right?’

The concern knitting her brows together is genuine, yet Jean can’t help but laugh. ‘I never have to, not with you. This is complicated for me, in so many ways, but – in that regard – you make it very simple.’

‘If you don’t want to, I’ll respect that. Of course I will.’ Ava picks at the laminated corner of a placemat. ‘But this is a first for me too. I’ve never been with a woman that didn’t want…’

‘Well, you could always find another sex acquaintance if you feel something’s missing.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ Ava says, voice deliberately even. ‘And I think you know that.’

‘Yes. I do.’

A beat.

‘Look, don’t take it personally. I never enjoyed that.’ Jean’s gaze remains fixed on the blinking cursor. She doesn’t want to see pity or any of its cousins peering at her from soulful brown eyes. ‘Why do you care so much, anyway? It’s not like you get anything out of it.’

Ava’s head whips round so quickly that her hair is shaken free from the confines of an elastic, springing wild around her shoulders. A whole myriad of expressions flit across her face, faster than Jean can make sense of them. Finally, her lips curve. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No? You don’t have to feel obliged.’

‘Obli—’ Ava covers her face with both hands, tilting forward so a thick curtain of curls covers her face.

Several seconds pass before she composes herself, and Jean wishes the ground would open up and swallow her whole – a feeling that only escalates as Ava continues to speak.

‘Jean. You’re talking about it like an obligatory side of Brussels sprouts.

But I see it like chocolate chip brownies.

Fresh hot puff-puff. Coconut ice cream.’

Personally, Jean would rather faceplant into a bowl of escargot . But each to their own. She smiles, in spite of herself, bemused. ‘A king-sized Twix bar?’

‘Now you’re getting it!’ Ava slaps the table. ‘Not literally. I’m not trying to pressure you. In fact, forget I said anything at all.’

They each retreat into their own work until it’s time for sleep, Jean reading over Rhona’s query about how to approach Wexler in the conversation about renewables. And they are scrupulously polite while getting ready for bed.

Ava makes a final adjustment to her scarf, reaches for the lamp, and blankets them in darkness.

There is nothing sexual about their embrace.

But Jean can’t forget those earlier words .

In fact, as Ava nuzzles into her side, it’s all she can think about.

How the mouth pressed against the hollow of her neck might feel pressed instead to the hollow between her thighs.

Jean doesn’t get much in the way of sleep that night, hyperaware of the blankets brushing against her skin, the warmth of Ava’s body beside her.

In the morning, she rises before Ava wakes, yawning her way through a session with Grant.

But he senses her mood and avoids any speculation about Jean’s nocturnal activities.

She is, after all, first among his executive clients.

And Jean throws herself into the workout, determined to burn off all surplus energy.

Even so, the thought plagues her. Between meetings, in the car to and from work, Jean’s mind wanders.

Ava’s fingers pluck the sweetest notes of pleasure from Jean’s body; with the strap she has every nerve singing an ecstatic symphony.

What, then, might her tongue do? Ava’s mouth at her breast has worked such wonders that Jean’s come from her suckling alone – the first time Jean thought it a fluke, the second a miracle.

One by one, Ava has unearthed her body’s secrets – capabilities and a carnality that Jean had assumed lost beneath an ocean of Catholic shame.

And though Jean shuns Ava every evening that week, ignoring the invitations, it’s herself she punishes.

Her underlings put Jean’s sharpness down to Leonides – mixed in among the genuine requests are tests of DDH’s mettle.

Moral dilemmas intended to uncover how much they’re willing to ignore.

Even with the ink drying on the contract, Leonides remains cautious – paranoid, even.

But that refusal to settle into anything resembling trust has kept him going all these years, the difference between an average man and a juggernaut.

Simple longing comes as a relief, by comparison.

Though Jean despises the weakness of her own flesh.

A menopausal woman horny as a teenager, and with that same lack of regard for consequences.

Even her dreams are no safe harbour. Ava’s tongue delving inside her cunt.

Ava’s tongue suckling until she begs for mercy.

Ordinarily dreams trickle away like sand as she tries to hold on to them, but this image imprints itself on her mind.

And each time it surfaces, Jean must cross her legs.

After a final meeting with Wexler about Gaia’s Children, Jean has Bogdan drop her at the tube station.

She offers him nothing by way of excuse or explanation, only her thanks, and gets the underground straight through to East Ham.

All the way a dull pulse echoes between Jean’s legs, keeping time with every rattle and clack of the train.