Page 35 of Strap In

Marianne drains the glass, lips turned down though the vintage is sweet. ‘You actually believe that, don’t you? It’s this comforting lie that you’ve wrapped around yourself all these years. Same old Jean – whatever version of events best suits your interests becomes the truth.’

‘It’s not a lie. Every single day for the last twenty-five years I’ve regretted betraying you.’ Jean’s eyes burn with unshed tears, but she doesn’t look away from Marianne, doesn’t break the tenuous thread of connection between them. ‘Losing your friendship hurt more than anything.’

Henry had known it too; having held Jean together through her grief over Marianne, it was obvious that Jean didn’t feel the same devastation when he too began pulling away. A friendship cherished far more than a marriage.

Marianne’s eyes glitter hard and bright as diamonds. ‘Then why stab me in the back?’

‘I was scared!’ The cups and saucers jump as Jean slaps the table. ‘Terrified out of my mind over losing everything I’d worked for – my career, my reputation, any prospect of advancement.’

‘So you took all that from me instead?’ Marianne’s smile grows bitter. ‘Made me into the liar. The attention seeker. The whore. Pleading temporary insanity doesn’t get you out of this one, Jean.’

‘Will did that. To both of us. But he’s dead now.

’ Marianne’s fury dims, replaced by dull shock.

And Jean leans forward in her seat, pleading, heedless of the stares she’s attracting.

‘Peter’s retiring this autumn. Then the firm will be mine.

Ours . I’ll fast-track you to where you should have been: senior partner.

And it’ll be just like we imagined when we were young. ’

‘You still dream about that?’ Mari’s bright malice fades. She stands, looking at Jean for a long moment, considering. And hope flutters in Jean’s chest, a white flag on the battlefield.

Jean rises, unable to keep the note of pleading from her voice.

‘You don’t have to decide right away.’ She swallows, ignoring the eyes swarming over her like ants.

If she can just make this right with Mari, they can run damage control.

Together. Come back to this very lunch next year with an empowering session on DDH’s all-female management.

The year after that, a rebrand: swap Will’s name for Marianne’s – or Kate’s.

Whatever she prefers. ‘Take your time, think about it.’

‘I don’t have to.’ Mari steps closer, close enough that her breath grazes Jean’s cheek. ‘I’d rather be flayed alive and have my flesh covered in salt than ever work with you again.’

Jean sinks against the table, legs slack. And Marianne presses her advantage, not a trace of mercy to be found in her face.

‘I always wondered about you, Jean. Did you enjoy getting on your knees for him, or was it the price you paid to get ahead?’ Her words are a fist to the gut, stealing Jean’s breath.

But even if she could speak Marianne leaves no room for interruption.

‘Either way, it hasn’t worked out too badly.

Managing partner after your big promotion .

Nobody left to blow on your climb to the top. ’

A sharp intake of breath – not her own, but the crowd’s. Jean’s vision swims, a sea of shocked faces blurring together, the chandelier overhead breaking into a kaleidoscope of crystal and light. And Ava materialises by her side as the first tears fall.

‘What the fuck, Kate? None of what you’re saying is fair. And you’ve done enough work with trauma to know that.’ Though Jean has never heard her speak so harshly, Ava’s hand is gentle resting against Jean’s back, subtle and steadying.

Marianne’s gaze flits between them. And her lip curls. ‘ Fair? I feel a responsibility to tell you who Jean Howard really is, Ava.’

‘I know exactly who Jean is,’ Ava says, her chin at a defiant tilt. ‘You’re the one that I misjudged.’

Ava, who always thinks the best of people. Ava, who would likely have made entirely different choices – better choices – had she been in Jean’s shoes. Jean stands, rooted to the spot as her life implodes.

‘Then you’ll know that our old boss, William Decker, abused his power over us.

And when I reported him for sexual misconduct, Decker and Dennings, as it was then, opened an investigation.

’ Marianne makes no effort to keep her voice down, and her words ripple through the hall, killing any pretence of conversation across the room.

‘And when they interviewed her, your friend here lied. Said Decker was innocent of all wrongdoing, and she couldn’t imagine him going after any female subordinate. ’

Humiliation scorches Jean’s cheeks. Her voice can’t squeeze past the ache in her throat.

And Jean remembers a different kind of pain; the ache after Will had jammed his turgid pink slug between her teeth until she’d gagged.

Ava too is silent, and it’s a relief that her beautiful face is so blurred Jean can’t make out her expression.

‘Jean Howard is a liar who would throw anyone and anything under the bus to get ahead. She kept her mouth shut when I needed help, but was all too happy opening it when Will Decker ha—’

‘ Enough! ’ Ava’s voice ricochets against the walls, stripped of all warmth and gentleness.

Jean doesn’t know whether that fury is directed at Marianne or herself. She doesn’t stick around to find out. The shock of Ava’s voice jolts her back into motion. And the same self-preservation Marianne had condemned her for carries Jean from the hall on shaking legs.

Steps jerky, she teeters into the corridor.

But a group of delegates is clustered at the other end, queuing to get into the bar.

And there’s no stemming these tears, the dam of Jean’s self-control crumbling against the pressure behind her eyes.

Before they can take notice of her, Jean pushes through another door.

Inside is a single toilet, one sink, a lone dryer positioned low down. The disabled loo. It’s wrong for her to take up this space, yet Jean can no more cross the threshold again than she could crawl across hot coals. She slides down the wall to sit on the filthy floor.

‘Jean?’ A knock on the door. ‘Jean, it’s Ava.’

Jean closes her eyes. As revenge goes, it’s nothing short of perfection – Marianne poisoning her relationship with the only woman Jean has craved since.

‘I know you’re there. Please let me in.’

It will be worse if Ava makes a scene in the hall. Better that she come inside and denounce Jean to her face. Jean reaches up to unlock the door, pulling both knees to her chest as it swings open.

But there’s no condemnation hardening Ava’s features. She kneels before Jean without a thought for her suit. ‘Hey. Look at me. Let’s take some deep breaths together, okay?’

Only then does Jean realise that ragged wheezing sound is coming from her chest. She gives a jerky nod.

Breathes in. And out. In. And out. When she’s calmed enough to speak, she says: ‘I think I’m having a heart attack.’

‘No.’ Ava grips her hand. ‘It’s a panic attack. You’ll be alright soon – I promise.’

‘A panic attack?’ Jean knots her fingers in her hair, pulling it free from the careful chignon. ‘That’s stupid – those aren’t real.’

‘Yeah? Then you won’t have any problem naming five things you can see.’

Ava’s still giving her that look, like she’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Jean casts her eyes around the dingy bathroom. ‘There’s the sink. Mirror. Paper towel dispenser. Bin. And the baby changing table.’

‘Good job.’ Ava rests a hand atop Jean’s knee, squeezing. ‘Now give me four things you can feel.’

‘Sweat – this blouse is plastered to my back, my hair’s sticking to my forehead.

’ When Jean leaves this bathroom, it won’t be with her head held high – rather, as a smeary, sticky mess.

Her breath hitches painfully tight. Anyone who looks at her will see the ugly truth of Marianne’s words. ‘Oh God.’

‘You’re fine,’ Ava says. ‘Look at me, Jean. Three more things. You’ve got this.’

‘My shoe’s chafing at the ankle – I think there’s a blister.

’ Ava nods encouragingly, but Jean’s mind is like a hummingbird, flitting from thought to thought too quickly to zero in on any one sensation.

Until Ava squeezes her knee again. ‘Your hand; it’s warm.

And, uh, the tiles are cold through my tights. ’

Damp too, though the thought of mystery bathroom liquid seeping into her clothes doesn’t bother Jean – Marianne has stretched her mind to stress capacity.

Wild laughter gushes from Jean, snot bubbling from her nose.

Ava simply fishes a tissue from her pocket and wipes Jean’s face.

It is without doubt their least erotic exchange of bodily fluids to date – there can be no coming back from this, assuming anything remains to come back to.

‘You’re doing so well. Tell me three things you can hear.’

‘Your voice.’ Jean wants to comment on how it never seems to stop with the stupid questions; yet they are the bridge carrying her from one unbearable second to the next. ‘The tap dripping. And the hand dryer next door.’

‘Wonderful,’ Ava says, as if she’d recited pi to the thirty-seventh decimal place. ‘Now name two things you can smell.’

‘Really?’

‘Just go with it.’

Jean does as she’s bid. ‘Cheap lemon cleaning products. And that scent you wear. With the cedar and jasmine – and something else that I can never place.’

Ava’s smile is at once ordinary and breathtaking. ‘It’s patchouli. Last but not least, is there anything you can taste?’

‘The mints they put out after dessert – there’s peppermint, but also an ungodly amount of sugar.’ Jean rolls her eyes. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Yeah.’ Ava rocks back onto her heels. ‘Okay, now you’re a bit more settled I’ll get our things.’

‘What about Rhona?’ A quarter of a century spent cultivating the respect of her peers, a healthy degree of fear from her underlings, flushed down the toilet in a single afternoon. Rhona will never look up to Jean again, let alone trust her – the ache of it is piercing.

‘Rhona’s fine. A little shaken, but Amari’s going to hang out with her for the rest of the sessions and evening drinks.’ Ava plants a kiss on her forehead. ‘You hang tight here and then we can go.’

The tightness in her chest – the panic attack – flares back into life as Ava rises. ‘It would be more expedient for you, for the CJC, to cut ties with me. Publicly, at the very least. You don’t need my mess staining your reputation.’

Ava sinks back down, cupping Jean’s tear-slicked cheek. ‘Not going to happen, Jellybean. Not in a thousand years.’

‘You should think about it,’ Jean says to her retreating back. There are worse parting gifts to bestow than pragmatism.