Page 43 of Strap In
Jean shares a confession too, out on the island, where wild heather grows, and such things feel possible.
‘I never had a relationship like this, in my personal or professional life. Even my marriage was largely transactional – I gave Henry what I thought he wanted and played the role of wife, and in return my life got closer to the conventional markers of success.’ Jean shakes her head, wind whipping at her hair.
‘But with you? It’s so different to anything I’ve ever known. ’
Ava doesn’t say anything then. Just lets her hand brush across Jean’s on its way to the picnic basket. And Jean lets herself bask in the sun, the sea air, this perfect moment.
It might be summer, but it is still Scotland – and of course the weather doesn’t hold.
They wake up to the sound of raindrops pattering against the windows, the musical gurgle of water spilling down the gutter.
Jean opens the blinds and finds the beach utterly deserted, save for a lone dog walker wrapped in a mac.
‘Well.’ Ava rolls over onto her stomach, squinting out the window. ‘What’s on the schedule when it’s raining?’
The water’s dull grey, cloud so low that Jean can’t even make out the little island, let alone the lush greens of the opposite shore. But nothing about the misting rain feels oppressive; it cocoons around them like a blanket. ‘I want to go swimming.’
‘What?’
‘In the sea. Let’s do that today.’
A slow grin spreads across Ava’s face, carving a dimple into the swell of her cheek. ‘You’re a wild woman, Jean Howard. I could tell from the moment we met.’
Jean laughs, incredulous. ‘I’m not wild – it’s perfectly logical. If we go outside, we’re going to get wet no matter what we do. So, it might as well be swimming.’
‘Wild swimming for a wild woman,’ Ava says as she retrieves her tankini.
And Jean has to turn away from those long golden limbs as she shimmies into the lycra set.
She pulls on her own swimsuit in the bathroom – a traditional cut, textured across her stomach, with in-built cups for added support around the bust. She’d bought it almost five years ago for a trip to Mandalay, and it’s tighter now, but that can’t be helped.
A bathing suit had never been high on her list of priorities.
Yet this negligence pays off as she pads back into the bedroom.
‘Should we take our towels, or will they just get we—’ Ava’s jaw hangs open as she takes in the sight of Jean’s body poured into her one-piece. ‘Oh my days. Just as well we’re going wild swimming, otherwise I’d need a cold shower.’
Jean swats her with the towel before wrapping it around herself. ‘Yes to the towels – we can put them in a bag to keep them dry-ish. But it’ll be freezing when we get out, and I’m not showing my cellulite to every passing dog walker.’
Ava pauses midway through knotting her hair into a pineapple. ‘I don’t think anyone who catches sight of you in that swimsuit is going to be thinking about cellulite. It doesn’t inspire a single thought that I can articulate without being sent straight to horny jail.’
‘You’re ridiculous,’ Jean says. And yet it’s impossible to entirely scrub the smile from her face. ‘Come on.’
They jog down the beach holding hands, skirting stones and seaweed.
The rain is cool against her cheeks, the sand even more so underfoot – and as they draw closer it occurs to Jean that the ocean will be glacial.
Scotland in July is still ultimately Scotland.
Yet Ava is undeterred. She stuffs her towel into the bag and sprints into the water, shrieking as she splashes up to her knees, thighs, waist. Then Ava dives beneath the water and Jean doesn’t breathe until she surfaces, gasping as water streams down her face.
‘G-get in! It’s amazing.’
‘That might be more convincing if your teeth weren’t chattering.’ Still, Jean folds her towel up into a square. Kicks off her sandals. Tiptoes across the shoreline.
Her toes go numb as Jean steps deeper into the water, chill climbing her calves, and it’s the opposite of the baths she’d taken to scrub away any trace of Will.
Jean slows to a standstill, frozen stiff.
Even now, even here, she can’t escape the memory of him.
The old bastard would have laughed himself silly to know that Marianne had turned on her; that even from the grave he can reach far enough into Jean’s life to punish her.
But then Ava’s there, lacing her icy fingers through Jean’s warm ones, walking backwards as she guides Jean into the water. She’s right there as Jean throws herself into an ungainly breaststroke, cheering as if she were witnessing Diana Nyad swimming from Cuba to Florida.
Whether it’s her body acclimatising to the ocean, or simply the irresistible effect that Ava has upon her, Jean no longer feels the cold.
She swims parallel to the shore, gliding through the water, sure now of her own strength.
Ava follows, dipping below the softly rippling waves; surfacing before Jean, laughing and drinking in the crisp air.
Vitality has always shimmered just beneath Ava’s skin, sparkled bright in her eyes – but with her curls plastered to her face, cheeks pink with cold, Jean has never seen anyone so gloriously alive.
Jean swims to her, treading water as she pulls Ava close.
‘What are you doing?’ Ava’s breath is hot against Jean’s cheek, minty fresh from her toothpaste.
‘Being wild.’ Jean pulls her close for a kiss, tasting salt on Ava’s lips.
It’s too brief, not enough, their legs cycling beneath the surface.
Jean turns away from the wonder in Ava’s eyes and swims back to shore, leading the way back to their bungalow on trembling legs.
But even after they’re inside and out of the rain, warmed by a shower and towelled dry, Jean’s body doesn’t still.
She goes to Ava, fishing in the drawer for a clean t-shirt, and stills her searching hand. Wordless, Jean leads her to the bed. And there can be no mistaking her meaning.
Obedient, Ava sits down on the mattress, But, when those hands wander, skimming the inside of Jean’s bare thigh, she stops them. ‘Not yet.’
A question forms on Ava’s lips, but Jean eases her back down against the mattress. Leans down to kiss Ava breathless, rolling a nipple between her fingertips until Ava’s straining up towards her.
Jean kisses her slender neck, nipping at Ava’s pulse point.
Nuzzles at the hollow between her breasts.
Though Ava savouring her curves has softened Jean’s perception of her own body into something resembling acceptance, something about these pert little tits – the way the swell of them fits perfectly moulded to the curve of Jean’s palm – wakes the animal part of her brain.
At first Jean had put her interest in small breasts down to feminine jealousy, the grass always being greener on the other side.
But Jean groans as the bud of a nipple furls tight between her lips, Ava’s desire waking her own.
Jean grinds against Ava’s leg as she shimmies down the bed, craving firm pressure against her clit. But there’s one thing Jean craves more than her own pleasure – Ava realises it too as Jean reverses further still down the mattress, pulling the damp slip of Ava’s underwear away with her.
A trembling hand cups Jean’s cheek, tilting her face up to look at Ava. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Jean’s voice is husky but certain. ‘I want to taste you.’
In answer Ava parts her thighs, revealing a flash of pink between her wiry curls.
Jean lowers her head, breathing in musk as she traces the folds of Ava’s sex with her tongue.
Ava shudders the moment she makes contact, parting to the gentlest probing.
Her cunt is impossibly hot, slippery against Jean’s mouth and cheeks and nose.
But the knowledge that all this secret slickness is just for her spurs Jean on, her tongue searching out every last drop.
Ava tastes briney and fresh as the ocean, smooth as an oyster against Jean’s lips.
She cries out as the point of Jean’s tongue darts across that perfect pink pearl.
What Jean lacks in experience, she makes up for with enthusiasm, or tries to; when Ava’s stomach jerks as she sucks in a breath, when her thighs tremble, Jean takes it as sign she’s moving in the right direction, lapping until her tongue grows numb.
In the end it takes her mouth and her fingers working in tandem to get Ava there, rubbing frantic circles round Ava’s clit while her tongue delves inside.
But get there Ava does, clenching tight and shuddering, thighs locking Jean’s mouth flush against her.
It is messy. It is primal. And it is utterly glorious.
Jean pulls back, gasping for air and wiping her face clean. And Ava, chest heaving with the force of her orgasm, looks up at Jean with a fresh, dazed sort of wonder.