Page 38 of Strap In

When Jean wakes in the morning, Ava’s face is slack, her breathing even.

Slowly she extricates herself from the protective circle of those arms, careful not to jostle the mattress.

She pads from the room, retrieving the phone from her handbag.

Jean scrolls through the endless list of notifications.

Calls from Naomi, Imogen, Cora. Messages of comfort and condemnation both, from virtual strangers.

A text from Rhona declaring not only her continued respect, but an offer to stay at her parents’ beach house in Edinburgh.

And – of course – an email from Peter asking to talk at her earliest convenience.

The screen darkens then, in power-saving mode. And Jean retreats to her office, closing the door behind her. She plugs the phone in and dials Peter’s number. He answers on the first ring.

‘Jean. Rhona told me what happened – are you alright?’

In spite of everything, he sounds relieved to hear from her. Jean squeezes her eyes shut. ‘I’ll resign. For the good of the firm.’

‘Not accepted.’ Peter doesn’t take even a single second to consider the possibility; to weigh up DDH’s options.

‘I want you as my successor. And if that’s not enough, think about the optics.

A woman losing her job over a sexual misconduct scandal?

One of the victims? Terrible. Enough to confirm all the worst rumours about DDH. ’

‘Fuck the optics, Peter. I don’t deserve to stay, never mind take over the firm.

Not after what I did to Marianne.’ Sweat prickles under Jean’s arms, pooling beneath her breasts – opening the windows offers no respite, summer blazing in the storm’s wake.

She drinks in the soupy air with tight gulps.

‘I told you, Jean – you can’t keep blaming yourself for that.

It isn’t healthy.’ The shuffle of footsteps: Jean can picture him pacing.

‘Will was the truly guilty one. And think about it: if you quit, he wins. Don’t let that old bastard’s ghost cheat you out of everything you’ve spent the last two decades working for. ’

‘But I—’ A crack runs through Jean’s voice. She pushes the sweaty hair back from her forehead. ‘I don’t know how I come back from this. I don’t even know what to think, what to feel.’

‘Then take some time off – that’s not a suggestion, by the way. You’ve got enough leave accrued that you could take the rest of this summer if you need it. A holiday will be just the ticket.’ He sounds so certain. ‘I’d offer you Mandalay, but Caroline’s niece is honeymooning out there.’

‘I screw up and you’re rewarding me with a holiday? What’s next – we give Andrew a bonus next time there’s a discrepancy with his expenses?’

‘You didn’t fuck up, Jean. You didn’t start slinging mud back or escalate the conflict.

’ Peter’s breath echoes down the line. ‘Consensus is that Marianne’s in the wrong here.

There was a big stink on social media, and Minerva put out a statement about victim-blaming not aligning with their founding principles – no names mentioned, but the timing makes it obvious why. ’

Jean’s heart pounds as if it means to smash through the wall of her chest and make a bid for freedom. She slumps against the wall. ‘ Jesus . I can’t let Marianne lose a second career because of me.’

‘You may not have a choice. But I can reach out to Minerva on your behalf and say as much.’

‘Please do.’ Jean swallows, voice thick. ‘Right away.’

‘And you’ll take that holiday?’

It’s not the decision a managing partner should make; but Marianne will never be a managing partner or anything close to one, because of her. And Jean can’t let her lose a second career. ‘Anything. Just do it.’

‘Alright.’ Peter sounds almost as weary as she feels. ‘Take care of yourself, Jean.’

She finds Ava in the kitchen, still in her pyjamas, flipping a misshapen pancake on the stove.

‘You didn’t have to make me breakfast.’

‘Who says it’s for you? I always get pancakes on my birthday. Aaliyah’s are way better, but we’ll have to make do.’

Guilt knots Jean’s stomach tight. She’d forgotten Ava’s party plans, the reason for her overnight bag, after everything with Marianne. ‘Oh, Ava, I’m sorry. I’ve messed up your birthday from the start. Did Aaliyah mind you not coming over last night?’

‘She knows it was an emergency.’ Ava turns to pour a tablespoon of fresh batter onto the skillet. And Jean doesn’t have the energy to call her on the evasion.

‘Let me take over.’ Jean side-steps Ava, lowering the heat and prying the scorched pancake loose. It’s almost impressive, the way it manages to be simultaneously burnt and undercooked.

‘Why, because you’re such a domestic goddess?’

Jean spoons butter into the pan, tilting it left and right so the bubbling liquid covers the pan. A decent birthday breakfast is the least she can do. ‘I grew up Catholic – Pancake Tuesday is our culture.’

And it’s a relief, throwing herself into the familiar task. Serving Ava perfectly fluffy birthday pancakes, drizzled in lemon and sugar. They share a plate, Ava feeding Jean mouthfuls when she picks at it.

‘I’ll wash up,’ Ava says when they’re done. ‘But first I need to call Aaliyah, tell everyone to go ahead without me.’

‘You can’t miss your own birthday party, Ava. Especially not when it’s your farewell party too.’ Jean cups her cheek, waits until Ava meets her gaze. ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’

‘Jean, I’m not leaving you.’ Her eyes are serious. ‘No way, no how.’

A solution presents itself, dazzling in its simplicity. And what does being careful matter now that her reputation lies in tatters? ‘Then take me with you.’

At last Jean will be able to satisfy her curiosity about Ava’s parents; her old colleagues from ACWRC; the friends Ava has mentioned in passing over all their nights together.

But Ava’s quiet for so long that doubt begins to gnaw at Jean’s gut.

Perhaps the secrecy of their arrangement had suited Ava too – after all, how would she go about introducing a white woman eighteen years her senior?

‘Never mi—’

‘Are you su—’

They both break off, and Jean flushes. ‘You go first.’

Ava nods, though the words are slow to come, heavy with deliberation. ‘Are you sure that’s something you’d feel comfortable with?’ Her hands come to rest against Jean’s shoulders. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d be over the moon. But you’ve always been so adamant about keeping things on the downlow.’

‘And where did all that caution get me? At this point, gay rumours would be the very least of my problems.’ But the words do nothing to dispel the cloud gathered on Ava’s brow. Jean sighs. ‘I have to admit that I’ve been curious about your life; the people in it.’

The palest blush graces Ava’s cheeks. ‘Yeah?’

‘Oh yes.’ Jean steps closer, leaning against Ava. ‘If it’s at your parents’ house, does this mean I get to see your childhood bedroom?’

‘Only if you promise not to laugh at my old posters.’

‘Scout’s honour,’ Jean says, and finally Ava cracks a smile.

Getting ready doesn’t take long. Ava rocks a pale peach linen suit, curls piled into a bun atop her head.

Her usual boots have been replaced by Birkenstock sandals.

She spritzes herself in scent – and if Ava hadn’t tucked the bottle into her bag afterwards, Jean might have been tempted to mist the spare pillow with it. But surely a trace will linger.

Though Ava teases her about femme stereotypes, Jean doesn’t take much longer than she does.

In this heat, there’s little point in anything more than minimal make-up – sweating through it is an inevitability.

So, Jean sticks to the basics, going for a pillar box red lip.

She picks out a chartreuse sundress, simple save for the deep V in the bodice held together by a bow over the bust, and a pair of tan wedge sandals.

Ava’s mouth hangs open as she takes in the ensemble, gaze pogoing between Jean’s breasts and her eyes.

‘Is it too much?’ Jean lingers at the top of the stairs. ‘I can change if you’d prefer something more formal.’

‘You’re perfect.’

Less so by the time they arrive, wilting from the underground’s furnace-like heat.

Yet there’s a bounce in Ava’s step as she leads Jean down the driveway of an Edwardian semi-detached house with a hodgepodge of flowers blooming from bright ceramic pots.

Ava unlocks the door with a key fished from her own pocket, gesturing for Jean to go in ahead of her.

She steps into the corridor of a house just as bright as the front garden, with statement walls in loud primary colours and a riot of funky prints covering its furnishings. A colossal vase filled with fresh blooms emerges through a doorway, Leah’s face obscured behind it.

‘Ava! Perfect timing. We’ve just finished tidying and vacuuming.

’ Her peach bodycon dress displays every curve to its best advantage, and Jean has the discomfiting realisation that the body beneath is likely a mirror of its twin.

Perhaps Aaliyah even has the same constellation of freckles on her back.

‘Happy birthday to you too, sis.’ Ava closes the door behind her. And Jean stands rooted to the spot, feeling like an intruder as she spectates yet with nowhere else to go while Leah blocks the corridor. ‘Look, I would have been here last night if I could. But yesterday was all kinds of messed up.’

‘Mmhmm.’

Ava steps close to her sister, taking the gargantuan crystal vase. And though her voice is low, intended only for Aaliyah’s ears, Jean hears every word: ‘She needed me.’

Leah’s lip curls. ‘I’ll bet she did.’

‘Al, please. I’m not fucking around. Be nice today.’

A long look passes between the twins, a conversation conducted entirely without words, and Aaliyah’s the first to turn away. ‘Jean, if you want to help with the sides and the salads, we could use another pair of hands in the kitchen. Ava, you’re on marquee duty.’

She even manages a tight smile, which Jean returns. ‘Happy to assist.’