Page 42 of Strap In
It’s easier than Jean could have imagined.
She’d wondered whether Ava might have been too drunk, too sleepy, to hold onto their plan; if it would melt away with the stars come morning.
But at precisely nine forty-five a.m. Ava meets her at King’s Cross station and, mindful of Jean’s wrist, insists on wheeling both their cases along the platform.
Together they board, Ava stowing away their luggage while Jean locates two seats opposite one another.
As the bustle of London fades away, replaced by open fields and meandering rivers, Ava’s ankle nestles against Jean’s beneath the table.
She doesn’t look up from her weighty Hamilton biography while playing footsy, but the corners of her lips curve gently upwards in a way that Jean is certain has little to do with the U.S.
Constitution’s fiercest advocate. And though whirlwind trips with lesbian lovers are a world apart from the reality of her life, and her name is doubtless being fed through the rumour mill at this very second, Jean can’t help but bask in the simple pleasure of their adventure.
She and Ava bundle into the back of a black cab, peering out of the windows as they glide through an unfamiliar city. With its quaint cobbled streets and ancient castles, Edinburgh could almost be another world.
The Baird family’s beach house is just as Rhona had described – a timeless whitewashed bungalow overlooking the bluest sea Jean has yet seen.
She pays the driver and hops down onto the sand-strewn pavement, forgetting everything as she takes in the sea’s miraculous aquamarine, the little island’s verdant greens, pale wisps of cloud floating across an open blue sky.
Even the breeze, warm against Jean’s cheeks, tastes of salt.
‘Look at this, Ava!’ She turns to face her companion, struggling to find words adequate for Scotland’s majesty. ‘Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?’
Yet, despite the marvels before her, Ava’s gaze remains fixed on Jean. A little breathless, she says: ‘Never. Not once in all my life.’
Jean ducks her head, warmth blossoming across her scalp. ‘Don’t look at me like that – we still need to go grocery shopping.’ Though there’s nobody around, Jean still lowers her voice, enough that Ava must come closer to hear. ‘And we’ll never make it to the beach today if you get me in bed.’
Ava simply laughs, towing both their cases towards the house. ‘It is beyond adorable that you even make an agenda on holiday.’
‘You think?’ Jean frowns as she enters the lockbox combination from Rhona. It had driven Henry to distraction towards the end, the way she could never simply go with the flow.
Ava trails a fingertip down her spine, and Jean almost drops the silver key. ‘I know.’
The door swings open. Inside the house is simple, yet tastefully decorated, with a classic nautical theme. The walls are painted in whites and delicate shades of blue, with shells and sea glass glued around the driftwood mirror above the fireplace. ‘This is so lovely.’
Ava closes the door behind them, her arms sliding round Jean’s waist. ‘It really is.’
‘I’m going to unpack our things and change into something more outdoorsy.
’ Jean holds up a hand, warding off any attempts to follow.
‘You go and make sure the freezer’s switched on – if there’s no ice tray, we can get one in town.
And write down foods you want from the shop, so we don’t forget anything. ’
Ava salutes, eyes bright with mirth. ‘Yes ma’am.’
The master bedroom has a queen-sized bed, a wardrobe, and a dresser, wood all painted white in textured chalk paint to give a rustic effect – though the Baird family, with their second home, are anything but.
Jean unpacks methodically, hanging up crease-able items with care and stowing the rest of their things in drawers.
In Ava’s case, stowed beneath her raincoat, there’s a bag Jean assumes contains her bonnets or scarves for sleeping.
But then her fingers close around something long and firm and cylindrical, the dimensions of which she is intimately acquainted with – Jean drops it back into the case, uncertain about the etiquette of strap-on storage as a guest in someone else’s home.
She changes into a sage green camisole and matching loose linen trousers, her white cover-up Jean’s only concession to the summer sun. As she touches up her lipstick in the mirror, Ava’s voice filters through the house: ‘I don’t think we need to go food shopping.’
‘How come?’ Jean rolls her eyes at her own reflection. ‘Is this because you want fish and chips for dinner? We are not living on Twix bars and takeaway during this trip.’
‘Come and see.’
Jean pads through the living room in her sandals, and into the kitchen.
Ava stands before the open fridge, stocked with deli meats and wedges of artisanal cheese, olives and chocolates, fresh fruits and vegetables.
There are even two generous steaks wrapped tight in plastic.
The cupboards hold seeded loaves, crisps, crackers for the cheese.
Enough food for a small army. On the counter there’s a magnum of champagne with an envelope balanced against it, which Jean prises open.
Ms Howard,
Though we can never hope to repay the care you’ve taken of our daughter, we hope you enjoy this token of our appreciation.
Yours sincerely,
Thomas and Sandra Baird
At Jean’s thunderstruck expression, Ava reads the card over her shoulder. ‘Fucking hell. Did you save Rhona’s life?’
‘Nothing that dramatic.’ Jean sticks the champagne inside and closes the fridge. ‘They’re just kind people.’
Ava stares at her, clearly not convinced.
‘You know.’ Jean steps closer, fingering the button of Ava’s shirt. ‘If we’re not going to the shop anymore, that opens a slot in our schedule. Any ideas on how to fill it?’
Ava’s breath hitches. ‘I… might have some ideas.’ Her fingers close round Jean’s before they can wander. ‘But if you’re not able to talk about it, or you don’t want to, I’m not going to push. You don’t need to use sex to distract me.’
Jean stills, fingers sandwiched between Ava’s hand and her heart.
‘In fact, while we’re talking about it, we don’t have to do anything like that if you don’t feel in the mood. I get that what happened with Kate brought up difficult things for you. And I’d never assume…’
Jean stands on tiptoe, silencing her with a kiss that’s both chaste and lingering. ‘You really are incredibly sweet. A year ago, it never would have occurred to me that a woman might be the most perfect gentleman I could meet.’
It’s Ava who looks away first, though she doesn’t drop Jean’s hand. ‘How about we spend the rest of the afternoon on the beach?’
Cramond is every bit the haven Rhona promised; quieter than Portobello yet just as beautiful.
Though the glorious weather draws out tourists, Jean and Ava are able to set out their towels on the sand and sunbathe in relative seclusion day after day.
They share decadent packed lunches, a hefty bottle of SPF50, and a settled kind of slowness Jean never imagined herself capable of enjoying.
Side by side they listen to children’s laughter, the gulls’ pealing cries, the steady hush of ocean against shore.
It’s easy being silent with Ava – and should Jean’s mind wander south to London’s eternal machinations, the subtle brush of her fingertips against Jean’s ankle is enough to anchor her here in the present.
Conversation flows easily as the River Almond into the North Sea.
As they watch a boy construct a sandcastle, Jean shares her snatches of memory about a holiday to Blackpool with her parents – her mother’s hair rippling in the breeze, Dad lifting her and Bridget onto the back of a donkey, her absolute wonder at those twinkling lights against the ink-black sky.
When the tide permits, they hike across Cramond Causeway, the watery sand a perfect mirror for the sky above.
And the path before them stretches out into blue infinity.
Here, in the liminal space between land and sea, Ava opens up about Ephraim, the gentle giant of a man who had thrown Ava up in the air and caught her every time.
As a child uncertain of her place in the world, often lonely because she hadn’t fit neatly into one group or another, Ephraim’s love had been a sanctuary.
He was the first one Ava came out to, before even Aaliyah, aged twelve.
And he’d died three weeks later after getting into a fight with a group of white boys who’d pelted him with slurs.
The police had taken Ephraim alone into custody after breaking it up, ignoring his complaints of a headache, locking him in a cell overnight.
In the morning they’d found his body, still warm.
Ava’s eyes remain fixed on the horizon as she recounts the tale, curls rippling round her face.
Her pace does not slow. Overt comfort would not be welcome.
But Jean links their fingers, lengthening her strides to fall into step beside Ava.
They pass a family of walkers, exchanging cursory greetings – and even then, Jean doesn’t let go, though she feels it in her stomach when the father’s eyes dip to their joined hands; feels it long after he’s a speck in the distance.
‘I could say all that useless shit about how sorry I am,’ Jean says, breathless. ‘What a terrible tragedy. But the truth is nothing ever fixes a loss like that. You just spend the rest of your life walking round with this gaping wound. An empty space where they should be.’
Ava slows then, a pace more in keeping with the natural span of Jean’s footsteps. ‘I know it won’t bring him back, the CJC. But maybe other people can escape that empty space for a bit longer.’