Page 28 of Strap In

With Rhona safe, damage limitation becomes Jean’s primary concern.

While Bogdan drives them to the junior associate’s flat, she speaks to Henry for the first time in fifteen years and gets him to send Rhona’s cousin home from Lawson and Pierce.

Meanwhile Helen books both Bairds on the first flight to Edinburgh.

The sooner they’re in Scotland, the better.

Isla’s waiting when Bogdan pulls up, her face white with worry – to her Jean dispenses clear instructions for getting photographic evidence, to Rhona a final hug and a promise that her place with DDH remains secure.

Over Jean’s dead body will Rhona’s career become a casualty of Leonides.

Bogdan wants to take her straight to hospital, and Jean is sharper than she intends, turning Peter’s address into a command.

But without Rhona to comfort, without the rush of adrenaline, there’s nothing to distract Jean from the ache pulsing through her wrist with every heartbeat; every jolt of the car.

And still Peter doesn’t answer his fucking phone.

Jean’s own gives a low battery warning as they curve round the driveway, but her fury could charge it ten times over.

She bids Bogdan a curt goodnight, planning to double his annual bonus by way of apology, and rings the doorbell.

Peter’s wife opens the door. Caroline’s smile caves in as she registers Jean grim-faced on her doorstep.

And Jean doesn’t take it personally: her being there is a terrible omen.

And after decades of work coming first, Caroline Dennings has been enjoying the return of her husband – theatre dates, trips to the Bahamas, Peter home in time for dinner.

The house is fragrant with onion and garlic, and the sound of laughter spills from the house, though Caroline doesn’t step aside to allow Jean entry to the porch – not right away.

Even though time has proven that Jean has never had the slightest design on Peter, an edge of competition sharpens Caroline’s approach to her. Real Wife vs. Work Wife.

‘I take it you’re here for Peter?’ The subtext in her words could not be clearer: here to take him away from his wife, his friends, this charmed circle of domesticity.

‘Yes.’ There’s no point beating around the bush. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, Caroline, but it’s a crisis.’

Something of the evening’s strain must show on her face, or perhaps it’s the wrist bent stiffly against her chest, because Caroline’s expression softens. She steps back. ‘Come in. There’s fresh coffee, or gin if you’d prefer something stronger.’

‘Is that Jonty?’ Peter’s voice echoes as Jean enters the hallway. ‘What time do you call this, you old – Jean. What’s wrong?’

He looks so utterly at ease with the world, loose-limbs and flushed cheeks from the quality vintage no doubt being served with dinner.

‘What’s wrong ?’ Jean marches across the hallway, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest. ‘What’s wrong ? You would know the answer to that question if you’d answered your phone, Peter. Why the hell didn’t you pick up?’

Peter’s brows draw together. ‘Sorry, I turned my mobile off. But did you try the landline?’

‘Of course I tried the fucking landline. I’m not an idiot or Gen Z; I know what a housephone is, Peter. Do you ?’

Caroline bristles, back straight. The laughter has died away in the lounge, replaced by a hushed silence. ‘He deserves a life, Jean. We both do.’

She sees it; the moment understanding dawns in Peter’s eyes, Caroline’s culpability becoming clear. But it does nothing to mitigate the fury coursing through her veins. She rounds on Caroline. ‘You unplugged the phone. Didn’t you?’

Caroline folds her arms. Hatred twists her face into a sneer. ‘And what if I did? I’m sick of the firm coming first. Before our marriage, before our children. You were always married to the job, so it might have escaped your notice, Jean. But some of us actually enjoy having our husbands around.’

The words are a slap across the cheek. Jean’s still reeling when Peter steps between them, more swiftly than the United Nations ever intervened. ‘Darling, please could you excuse us? Our guests are waiting, and I need to speak with Jean.’

‘I’ve spent the last thirty-nine years excusing you.’ Caroline slams the door behind her, leaving them alone in the hallway.

Peter sighs, running a hand through greying hair. Between the clash with Caroline and the knowledge of impending disaster, he’s lost that air of easy contentment. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Black Wednesday meets the Hindenburg. On a par with the Will situation.’

Peter’s eyebrows twitch before he can school his face, and Jean understands the shock – she can count on one hand the number of times they’ve spoken about ‘the Will situation’, and it was never she who chose to resurrect that particular ghost.

‘Let’s go through to the den.’ Peter leads the way, past the kitchen and downstairs bathroom, flipping on the lamps to bathe the room in warm light.

It’s less opulent than the lounge, but far more comfortable.

Peter takes his usual armchair, and Jean the squashy sofa opposite.

‘Tell me everything,’ he says. ‘From the very start.’

And so Jean does, from Hugo arriving in her office alone from the Hephaestia meeting to reassuring Rhona on the drive home.

She does her best to keep it factual, falling into the same dispassionate tone with which she’d itemise a list of evidence early in her career.

But no amount of blinking can keep her eyes from spilling over as she recounts the night’s horrors.

Peter gets up to bring her a box of tissues.

And though the urgency of the situation hovers over them like a cloud, he makes no attempt to rush her, simply squeezing Jean’s shoulder until she’s ready to keep going.

The second Jean mentions her wrist, swollen and impossibly tender, he races off to fetch an ice pack and a first-aid kit.

Jean dry swallows four ibuprofen, gagging on the sugary taste.

And only her most dire warnings about what Leonides will do if he finds them unprepared keeps Peter from calling an ambulance then and there.

Peter settles only when Jean asks him to take photos, her uninjured wrist held up for contrast.

He disappears again before they delve into damage-limitation strategy, bidding goodnight to his guests and – Jean suspects – disclosing pertinent details to his wife.

Sure enough, Peter returns with a laden tray recognisable as Caroline’s handiwork: diagonal cut sandwiches made with the evening’s gammon joint, spread with homemade chutney.

A fresh pot of coffee. A plate of lemon biscuits.

Only then does it occur to Jean she missed dinner.

She devours her sandwich, lining her stomach for a fresh round of painkillers, as they outline every possible scenario.

Leonides could press charges for Hugo’s assault and go public, attempting to take control of the narrative.

Rhona could choose to press charges against their client.

Rhona could agree to sign an NDA, becoming wealthy in her own right overnight.

Or she could go to Leonides’ enemies in the press – the Guardian or the New Statesman .

There’s also the scorched earth scenario: Leonides makes a very public exit, bad-mouthing the firm and taking an infinite supply of billable hours to a rival.

If DDH stays silent, the firm looks weak, but if they comment publicly on a former client, unprofessional enough to alienate prospective business.

But Jean can’t think about that right now, the fight to keep her victory from turning to ash. Her mind is too full of the ache, that gaping white bathrobe, Rhona sobbing like a child in her arms.

‘I’m not going to lean on her,’ Jean says. ‘Whatever Rhona chooses.’

‘And I wouldn’t ask you to.’

Dawn’s creeping over the horizon by the time they finish, the sky shifting from black to blue like an old bruise.

All that remains is for Jean to confess her own guilt.

‘This is my fault, Peter. I told her to work more independently; that she had to stop running every little decision by me if she was ever going to stand on her own two feet.’

‘It really isn’t. You handled that situation admirably, and met our duty of care to Rhona.

’ Peter rubs his knuckles against his eyelids.

‘In retrospect it was so obviously a set up – to have Nowicki there so that Rhona would feel safe, then conveniently disappear when it was time for Leonides to sink his claws in. But it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to charge across London and rescue her in time. ’

‘I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.’

‘You’re very kind, Jean. But you are selling yourself short.’ Peter leans forward, earnest now. ‘You did something extraordinary in going to Rhona. You protected her, even though it couldn’t have been easy.’

Jean has to look away, then. ‘Perhaps it was time I made amends.’

‘You can’t keep blaming yourself for that.’

‘Of course I can,’ Jean says, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Though generous, DDH’s healthcare package doesn’t cover emergency medicine – so there’s nothing for it but to have Bogdan drop her at hospital on the way back from Peter’s.

He offers to wait, but Jean’s eaten into enough of his weekend, even with overtime.

There’s little to do except look at her phone as the minutes tick by – Urgent Care, it turns out, is something of a misnomer.

She texts Rhona, typing out and erasing multiple drafts of a message until striking the right balance of professional tact and personal support, all the slower for her left hand’s clumsiness.

They message back and forth until Rhona has a plan of action for telling her parents – even while drowning in her own sorrows, the junior associate remains unfailingly kind.

I hope you have someone in your corner too, Ms Howard.