Page 34 of Strap In

Over breakfast – the edible Twix arrangement for Ava, and poached egg on toast for Jean – she chances an invitation to the Women in Law luncheon.

It’s an excellent opportunity for Ava to network before her launch, but – knowing Ava is unlikely to accept on those terms – Jean sells her presence as a friendly non-DDH face to help ease Rhona back in.

Even shielded by the cloak of a fresh NDA, Rhona is anxious about returning to the legal world.

When the day comes, Ava is good as her word – warm enough to set Rhona at her ease, but formal enough that the junior associate never clocks the dynamic between them as a point of interest. They register together, picking up purple tote bags loaded with Moleskine notebooks, artisan soap, aromatherapy candles.

Ava swaps with Rhona to give her the vegan dark chocolate, instantly winning a friend.

Then it’s time to split up, Jean gravitating towards a session on women in leadership.

The blurb describes nothing Jean hasn’t already digested via assorted books, courses, and podcasts.

But Elizabeth Granger waves Jean over and they sit together in the corner of the back row, Elizabeth’s head bent towards Jean’s ear as she enquires about upcoming vacancies in upper management at DDH; whether they intend to recruit internally, or from further afield.

And though Jean’s non-committal in her response, a bland reminder that keeping a CV up to date never hurts, they both leave the session satisfied.

Elizabeth wouldn’t be unpleasant to work with; she knows when to push and when to step back into the shadows.

An essential quality in a deputy, and one found far more readily in middle-aged women than their male counterparts.

Lunch is held in an exquisite old music hall, chandeliers bathing the room in light the colour of champagne.

Pillars lining the back wall hold up the circular balcony above, should the space be used as a theatre or lecture hall.

The dancefloor is covered in fleur-de-lis carpeting, muffling the growing chorus of voices.

Two dozen circular tables are spread evenly around the hall.

Ava and Rhona are deep in conversation in their allotted seats at table eight, right in the heart of the action, with a space in the middle Jean takes to be hers.

They don’t notice her approach, Rhona laughing until she’s pink-cheeked and breathless.

Jean lingers to watch them, lifting a flute of prosecco from a passing waiter’s tray.

‘I’ll swap places with one of you, if you want to continue. ’

‘Oh no, Ms Howard. That really isn’t necessary. Ava was just telling me about her mother’s church.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ Ava chuckles. ‘Her pastor had a harder time accepting me being a lawyer than a lesbian. Kept on quoting Isaiah: No one calls for justice; no one pleads a case with integrity. They rely on empty arguments, they utter lies; they conceive trouble and give birth to evil .’

The bubbles catch in Jean’s throat, and she coughs, waving off her companions’ concern through watering eyes.

Whatever denomination of the church Mrs Harris belongs to, she doubts very much it’s Catholic – Father Fulton preached eternal damnation so often that Jean could practically smell the brimstone, and her own burning hair.

She’d stopped going to Mass upon moving to Oxford, stopped believing long before, yet the portrait of hell that he’d painted remains vivid in Jean’s imagination even now.

‘He changed his tune when a member of the congregation tried to make an insurance claim against the church.’ Ava grins. ‘First and only time I’ve ever used the Act of God defence.’

Rhona dissolves into fits of giggles once more, and Jean musters a weak smile. Though the junior associate knows Ava’s sexuality, she doesn’t seem to guess about Jean’s own. All the same, this conversation needs careful management. ‘So, tell me. Have either of you met anyone interesting today?’

Rhona sobers a little, though as the hall fills, she chatters happily about her various encounters. An old chum from her all-girls’ school now working as a junior associate for Lawson and Pierce; a guest lecturer from her university days.

‘I caught up with someone too – an old colleague of sorts.’ Ava’s face lights up with a sudden epiphany. ‘Actually, Jean, she reminds me a little of you. The confidence, the immaculate wardrobe – she just radiates competence. Which makes sense, because she said you used to work together.’

Jean ignores the foie gras being set down before her. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Kate Brennan. She’s a prosecutor now, with Minerva.’ Ava thanks the waitress, lifting her cutlery. ‘I got to know her through AWCRC; she’s taken on some of our bigger cases. In court she’s absolutely terrifying – a total Valkyrie. But the rest of the time she’s fun.’

Jean frowns. Before menopause her memory never drew absolute blanks – but then having once sat in on the same meeting or course might easily have been embellished, reworked into a collegiate relationship. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell – is she married?’

‘Yeah, to Liza Devlin from Women’s Justice League.’ Ava flashes Rhona a quick grin. ‘The women’s sector can be pretty incestuous.’

So, Brennan was always her surname. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Sorry.’

Ava frowns. ‘She was talking like she knew you really well.’

‘People can be like that with Ms Howard.’ Rhona raises her fork but does not eat, red pepper and chickpea paté speared on its tines. ‘Maybe Kate thought you could get her access, so she played up the connection.’

‘Now, Rhona,’ Jean says. But inwardly she smiles, thinks: Rhona Baird, I will make a shark of you yet. A sweet, unthreatening exterior to hide the cunning, just like Imogen.

‘Oh shit.’ Ava’s brows knit together. ‘I didn’t even think of that. Kate said she was hoping to speak with you.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Jean allows herself a wry smile. ‘I’m sure I’ll cope.’

Looking back on it, Jean’s certain these are the words that damned her, sealing the deal on this cosmic jinx.

After the plates have been cleared away, in the lull between dessert and coffee, delegates hop tables to network.

Ava takes Rhona to meet her colleague Amari while Jean swaps pleasantries with Amelia Hawthorne, a surface-level conversation, yet intent enough to ward off unwanted interruption.

When Jean’s companions reappear, Amelia turns back to her own table.

And it’s just as well because Jean’s face freezes in a rictus smile as she catches sight of the third woman.

The chestnut bob has long since grown out, hair spilling down past her shoulders.

Yet instead of dyeing it she’s let every strand pale to natural silver.

It frames her angular face just so, giving the impression of an elf queen plucked straight from a Tolkien novel, flowing robes replaced by a sharp charcoal suit.

Those eyes have lost none of their old intensity, vivid as the sky on a midsummer afternoon.

Yet they hold none of the old warmth as they take in Jean gaping up at her.

‘Hello Jean.’ Her voice is the same too, those smooth polished vowels they’d practised with one another until it became habit.

Ava steps forward, a new wariness in her expression. ‘This is—’

‘Marianne.’

‘It’s Kate now.’ She sits down in Rhona’s empty seat. ‘Kate Brennan.’

‘Your mother’s maiden name.’ The reason Jean has never been able to find her on Facebook, nor dig up recent Google results.

‘I needed a fresh start after what Will did to me.’ She reaches across the table, twirling the stem of Jean’s wine glass between her fingers. ‘And you.’

Jean’s heart stutters. A twitch starts beneath her eye and, even when Jean presses her hand to the skin, it carries on with the spasmodic pulsing.

‘I – I’ll leave you two to catch up.’ Rhona rises, the scrape of her chair drawing Amelia’s interest. She’s gone before Jean can think how to manage this moment being witnessed by a subordinate; gone before it even occurs to Jean that management is needed.

‘Give us a minute,’ Marianne says to Ava.

But she rests a hand on the back of Jean’s chair. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

‘Go on,’ Jean says. There isn’t a single word Marianne’s likely to speak that will improve Ava’s opinion of her. Soon she will realise that Jean isn’t kind at all; not when it really counts.

Still Ava hesitates, a thousand unspoken questions shining in her eyes.

‘Please,’ Jean whispers. The edge of her pinkie finger brushes almost imperceptibly against the side of Ava’s hand, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. Yet Jean sees it, the moment her touch nudges Ava into acceptance; Marianne’s knowing smirk as she retreats.

‘Mm.’ Mari swigs the wine, leaving an orange lipstick kiss on the glass.

‘I always wondered whether you’d get there.

The selfish part of me hoped you’d be just as isolated and unsure as I was, when I had to start from scratch.

But this is better – I’m going to enjoy pulling the wool from Ava’s eyes. She’s so… principled.’

The room swims, all the surrounding chatter impossibly far-away – or perhaps her peers, scenting trouble, have fallen silent to better hear her humiliation. Jean tries to take a steadying breath, but it’s as if every last drop of air has been sucked from the hall’s domed ceiling.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jean says, the world narrowing to her and Marianne.

She’s close enough that Jean could reach out and touch her, feel the warmth bleeding through that severe jacket.

She’s on the far side of an impossible gulf stretching out between them, all that love and warmth and loyalty lost to the chasm below.

‘If I could take it all back, if I could return to that moment… I’d make entirely different choices. ’