Page 36 of Strap In

Ava refuses to leave Jean, bundling her into the taxi then reciting Jean’s home address as she buckles both their seatbelts.

As Jean stares in disbelief, she looks up.

‘Don’t worry. I haven’t gone Full Glenn.

But I called your office, and they put me through to Helen.

I told her. So that your firm can get their crisis management people on it. ’

Helen. She’ll learn all about Jean’s sordid history at DDH soon enough. The whole office will. Nothing travels faster than gossip in the legal community. She and Peter had known about Amelia Hawthorne’s drink driving and resultant stint in rehab before she’d even reached the clinic.

And now – despite all Jean has done to keep her life clean and uncomplicated – her own dirty laundry is being aired in front of her colleagues and peers. And her sex-acquaintance-turned-friend. Marianne couldn’t have exacted a more perfect revenge.

Jean slumps against the door, peering out at fuzzy cars and buildings, rain pattering against the windows.

Her eyes drift closed, though it’s impossible to sleep with the driver swerving between lanes and cursing cyclists.

But there’s comfort in the pretence – no need to make conversation, nor reckon with any of the questions Ava has left unspoken.

She reaches for her bag when the sway and curve of the streets grows familiar. But Ava covers her hand. Says: ‘It’s okay. I’ve got the Uber covered.’

Weariness bone-deep, Jean doesn’t have the energy to argue – though she makes a mental note to repay Ava’s kindness tenfold as she emerges out onto the pavement. Jean opens the gate; has it halfway closed when she realises that Ava’s following her. ‘You’re coming in with me?’

‘Of course.’ Yet Ava lingers on the street, uncertain, as the rain continues to pelt them. ‘I don’t think you should be alone right now. But we can call someone – Imogen, or Cora, or Peter – if you’d be more comfortable with them.’

Jean doesn’t move despite the deluge. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’

Ava looks at her with an intensity that makes Jean’s shoulder blades prickle. ‘Because you deserve it. You’ve had a terrible shock.’ Ava steps closer, gaze never wavering. ‘And because I – I care about you, Jean. So much.’

‘But it—’ Jean’s voice splinters. She clears her throat, tries again. ‘It was all true, Ava. What Marianne said. Every lousy fucking word.’

‘She’s hurting. And so are you.’ Ava reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair back beneath Jean’s hood, and she shivers as those fingers brush against her ear. ‘Now let’s get inside, where it’s dry.’

With clumsy fingers Jean fishes the keys from her bag. And though her trousers are surely soaked through, Ava says nothing to rush Jean.

They step inside, Ava disappearing into the kitchen.

And Jean sinks down onto the stairs, limbs leaden.

She’s dimly aware of the kettle boiling; the only sound other than a clock ticking.

The house is quiet in a way that Ava’s little flat, with its steady hum of ambient sound, never is.

Until now Jean has never considered the moneyed hush of Kensington to be hollow. Lifeless.

Then Ava reappears with two steaming, mismatched mugs.

She hands one over and squeezes in to perch beside Jean on the stair.

They’re pressed together from shoulder to elbow, hip to knee.

Ava’s closeness is a balm, warming her surely as the mug cupped in her hands.

She watches, expectant, until Jean sips the tea.

It’s so aggressively sweet that Jean can picture a cavity forming and growing with every mouthful. Yet she carries on drinking, too tired to protest. All the while Ava strokes her back. And Jean’s heart is slower, her hands steadier, by the time she finishes.

‘That’s good,’ Ava says. ‘Is there anything else you want? I could make dinner, we could watch a film, or you could rest if you’re tired.’

Jean considers. She’s not hungry. There won’t be enough room for her to begin sifting through the rubble Marianne left with Ava at her side.

Yet, alone in bed, there will be nothing at all to distract her from that wreckage.

Her fingers lock around the empty mug, and its fading warmth gives Jean an idea.

‘A bath,’ she says. ‘I’d like to take a bath. ’

‘Okay. Whatever you need.’

Jean leads the way upstairs, and it’s as if she’s wading through treacle. Every step saps at a strength she doesn’t have. When they reach the bedroom Ava guides her to sit on the ottoman, and it’s a relief to simply let her take charge.

Ava whistles, taking in the bathroom. ‘I still can’t get over this place. It’s like something out of Ideal Home .’

And Jean stays silent, unwilling to admit drawing inspiration from their articles; the relief of being told what she ought to like and the simplicity of being able to procure it.

She twists to rest her head against the doorframe, watching as Ava sets both taps running and inspects her shelves of toiletries.

In the end she settles on Ambre Vanillé, shaped like a humble pot of honey.

With a child’s delight Ava takes the wooden dipper and drizzles it into the bath.

Then Ava grows self-conscious as she catches Jean looking, rinsing off the dipper and returning the set to its place in the line-up of toiletries.

‘I’ll take the mugs back to the kitchen, if you want to get ready.’ Ava drops a kiss on the crown of Jean’s head as she passes.

The moment her footsteps recede Jean enters the bathroom, inhaling tangerine and rich brown sugar as she turns off the cold tap.

She takes off both shoes and peels off her clothes, down to her blouse and pants by the time Ava returns, taking off her own blazer as she steps into the steaming bathroom.

‘Look at those bubbles! I know that brand’s bougie enough to cost the same as my weekly shop, but that’s some quality foam density.’ Though her tone is light, the concern remains in Ava’s eyes, unmistakable as her gaze meets Jean’s.

‘You aren’t asking me about it.’

Ava’s brow furrows. ‘I figured if you wanted to tell me about it, you would. And you’re welcome to share. But I’m not going to pry; that wouldn’t be fair.’

Even now she holds on to those binaries. Fair and unfair. Right and wrong. Just and unjust. Jean faces the wall, unbuttoning her blouse.

‘Do you want me to give you some space? I ca— FUCK!’ There’s a splash, and Jean whips round in time to see Ava yank her elbow from the water. ‘Sorry, I thought I’d put enough cold in.’

She reaches for the cold tap, and it’s as if Jean herself is doused in icy water. ‘No! I’m sure it’s fine.’

‘Don’t be silly, it’s boiling.’ Ava reaches for the tap.

‘I don’t mind.’ Jean shuts the cold back off. And her attempt at light-hearted lands like a bowling ball between them, smashing through Ava’s confusion.

‘Fine.’ Ava nods, the speed of her compliance rousing Jean’s suspicions. ‘Make it as hot as you want. But I’m getting in too.’

‘No way.’ Jean would as soon dunk a newborn in the searing heat. She blocks Ava’s path, perching on the tub’s rim and stretching across it.

‘Watch me.’ Ava yanks the shirt over her head, not bothering to undo the buttons. The top trio ping free, clattering against the tile, but Ava ignores them. She wriggles out of her damp trousers and kicks them into a heap with the abandoned shirt.

Ava advances in a mismatched bralette and boyshorts, hair frizzing into a nimbus in the steam. And Jean’s heart leaps, desperate and flailing, at the sight of all that warm tan skin exposed.

‘You’re being…’

‘What, Jean?’ Ava’s eyes shine, overbright and zealous. ‘What am I being?’

Jean winces. Crazy hangs in the air between them, reverberating louder than if it had echoed against the tiles.

Ava doesn’t back down. ‘Either we both burn, or neither of us do.’

It’s the perfect stalemate. Wordless, Jean concedes defeat, twisting the cold tap. Before her the foam multiplies, iridescent bubbles connected by a web of suds. And Ava shifts to stand behind her, an arm looped around Jean’s shoulders.

She ducks to bury her face in Jean’s hair, breathing deep. And though her voice is quiet, the words are firm. ‘You don’t deserve to suffer. Whatever Kate says.’

‘You don’t know the first thing about what I deserve.’

‘Alright, then.’ Ava’s thumb finds Jean’s cheek, brushing away tears even as more take their place. ‘Try me.’

The water is a warm caress against her skin. And though Jean yearns for more, a heat that obliterates every thought and feeling, its absence is undisputable proof of Ava’s care. Cocooned in such tenderness, the tension ebbs from Jean’s body… and with it her resistance.

‘I was twenty-five years old when the firm hired me. I read law at Oxford and graduated with a first. But for any of this to make sense I’d have to go back to the beginning.’

‘I’ve got time.’ Ava settles down on the bathmat beside the bath, still clad in underwear. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world for you.’

So Jean explains in fits and starts; how she and Bridget lost their parents the summer Bridget had turned eighteen.

Saddled with a clingy eight-year-old sister and a whole host of adult responsibilities, Bridget gave up her place studying fashion and textiles to work in Woolworths.

Even then Jean had felt guilty in ways she couldn’t explain.

Bridget’s only comfort had been the church, where sacrifice and self-denial were venerated as the one true path to salvation.

And though Jean doesn’t believe, doesn’t keep to the church’s teaching, she still feels it lying dormant inside herself.