Page 32 of Strap In

Ava arrives at precisely six-thirty. She wears a tank top and a check shirt long enough to skim the hem of her cutoffs – the sight of so much bronzed bare skin on display has Jean seriously questioning her decision to leave sex out of the forgiveness campaign.

One of those legs turns inwards, leaving Ava pigeon-toed as she lingers on the doorstep. ‘I brought Pinot Grigio.’ She holds the bottle aloft. ‘It’s supposed to be good in summer.’

She’s nervous too . Elation soars in Jean, bright and powerful as a firework. Ava wouldn’t be nervous if she were indifferent, uncaring about this evening’s outcome. Jean takes the bottle, sweating softly against her palm. ‘Perfect – I’ll put it in the fridge.’

Without Cora and Imogen, freed from the necessary cage of secrecy, Ava is easier tonight.

She explores the space, taking in Jean’s photos and curios; the various awards lining her shelves.

But it’s not any of the glass trophies Ava goes for – she lifts a silver frame tarnished with age down from the shelf, peering intently at the photo.

‘My parents,’ Jean says, coming to stand beside her. They’re younger even than Ava in that shot, beaming newlyweds on their honeymoon.

‘I can tell. You have your dad’s hair and colouring, but your face is the image of your mother’s.’

Jean takes the picture. As a child she’d longed for her mother’s looks – she’d seemed as glamorous as Jane Birkin, even in mended clothes.

But beauty had burned brighter in her sister, with just a smidge left over for Jean herself.

‘People have been telling me that my entire life, but I never see it.’

‘I do.’ The air between them grows charged, thick and heavy as the moment before lightning strikes.

Jean pulls away, though every part of her yearns to tilt her face up towards Ava’s. ‘I’d better check on dinner; it should be ready now.’

‘Let me help?’

In the kitchen she passes Ava a pair of oven gloves and stirs the sauce bubbling gently on the hob. Ava lifts out the salmon then the roasting tray of vegetables, setting them down on broad marble chopping boards.

Sure enough, the salmon is baked to perfection when Jean prises open the tinfoil, steam scented bright with citrus.

She cuts off two generous slices, retrieving her pot from the stove to drizzle them with lemon beurre blanc .

Finally, as Ava tips the vegetables into a tureen matching their dinner plates, Jean garnishes each portion with fresh cut lemon and dill. ‘Voilà! Dinner is served.’

Between them they carry the dishes through, Ava darting back into the kitchen before Jean can. ‘I’m pretty sure this counts as haute cuisine,’ Ava says, setting down the tureen of potatoes.

They sit on opposite sides of the table, and Jean shakes her head. ‘There’s nothing to it – you just season the fish and vegetables, then throw them in the oven. Even the sauce only takes fifteen minutes.’

Pink and sizzling, the salmon is perfection, melting beneath the gentle pressure of their forks. ‘If I were you, and I could cook like this, I’d eat salmon every single day.’

‘It never seemed worth cooking an entire fish for one. This was my fallback meal whenever Henry and I had friends over.’ Jean could curse herself – dwelling on past lovers is the ultimate date faux pas.

But Ava’s eyes are alight with curiosity. ‘He’s your ex-husband, right?’

‘Yes. He’s Lawson and Pierce’s legal director now. We were together for just over a decade.’ Jean sighs. ‘There were so many times when I thought Henry and I were better as friends than as lovers, especially after we got married. But past a certain point there’s no rowing back.’

Ava’s laughter is low and musical. ‘Been there. A major peril of the lesbian scene: the dating pool and friend pool are one and the same.’

‘I never thought about that. In the straight world it’s assumed that friendship is a step on the way to something else between a man and woman.

’ In retrospect it had been obvious Henry wanted her from the beginning, but Jean was blindsided by his declaration – until realising just how far it might work to her own advantage.

Henry’s ring was a shield to ward off male advances, and incontrovertible proof that she – Jean Howard – was the right kind of woman.

‘But he was decent, safe. And I wanted…’

Jean breaks off, on the cusp of revealing far more than she’d intended. Barely halfway through her first glass, it’s not the wine loosening her tongue, but Ava.

Sensing Jean’s unease, she moves the conversation along. ‘What’s he like? Henry, I mean.’

‘Thoughtful. Slow to anger and quick to forgive. Always ready to laugh. In another life, I think the two of you would get on like a house on fire.’

Ava stops chewing then, frozen still, and the absurdity of Jean’s words hangs in the air between them. Jean sets her fork down, massaging the ache blossoming behind her forehead. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t know why I keep saying these things.’

Ava’s hand finds Jean’s on the table, whisper-soft against her injured wrist. ‘Don’t be. I like it, hearing about your life. When you stop worrying about what other people think and open up.’

Jean has no notion what to say to that, never mind what it makes her feel; there’s simply nothing to compare it to. Slow enough to keep from jostling her wrist, she laces her fingers through Ava’s, savouring the skim of thumb against knuckles.

Afterwards, Ava insists on carrying their plates back through to the kitchen. And Jean retrieves dessert from the fridge, setting the glass platter down on the counter.

Ava rinses their plates and loads them into the dishwasher, eyes popping as she takes in the pièce de résistance. ‘Oh my god, this looks amazing. What is it?’

‘An edible Twix arrangement.’ Jean points to each item in turn. ‘There’s salted caramel Twix cheesecake, Twix cupcakes, and fruit covered in Twix chocolate.’

Ava bounces with excitement then, curls shifting with their own gravity. She wraps both arms around Jean, careful not to crush her injured wrist, and plants a firm kiss against the swell of Jean’s cheek.

Ava doesn’t pull away then. And Jean holds still, scarcely daring to breathe.

She just drinks it all in. The swell of Ava’s hip beneath her hand; the sliver of warm skin in the gap peeking between Ava’s denim shorts and soft cotton top.

The quickening rise and fall of her ribs pressed flush against Jean’s breasts.

The heady aroma of Ava’s cologne, and beneath it an even more intoxicating scent – the natural perfume of Ava’s sun-warmed skin.

Perhaps if she stays like this, Ava will continue to cradle her. Time will freeze, the two of them fused together.

But no. Ava’s fingertips caress Jean’s back, from the nape of her neck to the dip of her spine. Even this ghost of a touch is enough to set Jean trembling, which she’d have assumed would be permission enough.

Yet Ava, always exquisitely careful with her, pulls back just far enough for Jean to glimpse pupils blown dark and wide as the disc of a sunflower. ‘I’d like to kiss you.’

Breathless laughter catches in Jean’s throat. ‘I think I’ll go crazy if you don’t. And there’s no need to keep asking me every time.’

What they have needs no grand declarations. She’s been all Ava’s since that first night, when, even as a stranger, she’d set every nerve in Jean’s body alight.

‘I don’t have to. But I like to.’ Ava presses a kiss against Jean’s temple. ‘It’s been a while. Besides, something’s going on with you. Ever since your wrist.’

‘It is,’ Jean allows, rubbing the flannel lapel of Ava’s shirt. ‘But I feel good with you. Safe.’

Jean’s embarrassment proves short-lived as Ava ducks down to kiss her, chaste until Jean sucks at that full lower lip. Then Ava’s pulling her close, Jean balanced on tiptoe, kissing her breathless.

‘You know,’ Ava says, lips warm against Jean’s hair. ‘I wouldn’t mind a break before dessert.’

Jean’s heart pounds against the drum of Ava’s skin, such a fierce tattoo that she must surely feel the vibrations. ‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ Her hands slide round Jean’s body, coming to rest on either side of her hips. ‘I was thinking maybe you could show me around upstairs?’

‘I could do that.’ Jean holds out her good hand. Leads the way.

Then they’re in Jean’s bedroom. In bringing her here, having Ava and being had by her here in the bed where Jean sleeps every night, she’s relinquished all possibility of ever being able to exorcise Ava’s ghost. Even after she leaves tomorrow, and later for good, the memory of her will linger in the dip of the mattress, in the empty space in Jean’s bed.

‘You alright?’ Ava’s hand finds Jean’s cheek, jolting her out of the future. Back into the present where Ava is flesh and blood and filled with animal craving.

‘I’m feeling good.’ Jean loops her arms around Ava’s shoulders. ‘About to be feeling better still.’

But Ava doesn’t lean down to kiss her. She keeps on watching Jean through eyes darkened by lust that she doesn’t act upon. ‘You sure? We don’t have to do anything. Things will be good between us either way.’

Tenderness tightens to an ache in Jean’s throat. ‘I really want this. I really want you. So much that it scares me.’

Ava wears a peculiar expression, frowning and smiling at once. ‘I’ll never give you a reason to be afraid of me, Jean. I promise.’

And just like that Jean’s face becomes a contradiction too, tears brimming even as she laughs. ‘I know that. I’ve known it since the first night we met. It’s just…’

‘What?’ Ava smooths the hair back from Jean’s face. There’s no place to hide, but she doesn’t need one.

‘My life… my past. It can be complicated.’

‘Then let me give you something simple now.’

Ava moves slowly, giving Jean every chance to stop her. But instead, Jean melts into her arms, tilting her face up for a languid kiss. Lets Ava steer her to the bed. When the backs of Ava’s thighs knock against the frame she sits down on the mattress, and Jean steps into the space between her legs.