Page 50 of Strap In

The venue isn’t difficult to find, a five-minute walk from Waterloo Station.

The building has a beautiful exterior, cheerful yellow panels and broad windows.

From the website Jean had learned that it’s run as part of a social enterprise – and that ethos can be felt the moment she steps inside the foyer, where a magnificent ficus tree stretches up towards the glass ceiling.

Children’s laughter echoes down from the upper floor, where signage indicates there’s a nursery.

Beside it there’s a printout emblazoned with the Colourblind Justice Caucus logo with a downward arrow.

A lift ride later, she queues for the registration table, alone amidst clusters of people she recognises from the party.

Nobody else within her line of sight has a solid card invitation – they display either phones or paper printouts to the women manning the desk.

And when Jean reaches the front of the line, a girl with tight sisterlocks hops to her feet.

‘Oooh,’ she says, coming round the table. ‘You’re at the Crenshawe table. Come with me.’

Jean follows her along the corridor. ‘Is that a good thing?’

‘It’s Ms Harris – Ava’s – personal table.’ The girl turns back, smiling sheepishly. ‘I’m Beth, her assistant. And I’m still getting used to using her first name. Too many years in corporate.’

Beth keeps up this excited flow of chatter all the way, which is just as well because Jean’s mouth goes dry as they step into the main hall.

The space is filled with round tables dotted with a smattering of people – the majority are still lining up to register.

Only the leftmost table by the stage is almost entirely full, and it just so happens to be the one Beth is leading her towards.

There’s no sign of Ava at the table, nor elsewhere in the hall. But Aaliyah sits by Simon in an elegant shell pink dress suit, pausing mid-sentence as she catches sight of Jean. Laila’s there too, resplendent in a gold-stitched sari, bangles chiming as she stands to kiss Jean’s cheek.

Ava’s parents are just as effusive. Chibundo pulls Jean close for a sweetly perfumed hug, which she returns, realising that Ava has neglected to tell her parents about their split.

Even Alasdair – a bowtie his only concession to the occasion – seems pleased to see her again.

‘Comrade Howard! Glad you could join us.’

‘I’m glad to be here,’ Jean says, meaning it. ‘And honoured that Ava has seated me with all of you.’

‘Mhmm.’ Aaliyah doesn’t look up from her phone.

Simon winces as he meets her gaze, with a subtle shrug as if to say You know how it is… And Jean does – any overt friendliness on his part will lead to marital strife. After the divorce she’d missed it, having an automatic ally at every family event.

Jean can’t resist another quick scan of the room, searching out warm brown eyes and an easy smile – but still no Ava, though the hall is filling.

She looks back in time to catch Chibundo frowning at her firstborn, a reprimand taking shape on her lips.

But – before she can speak – Jean introduces herself to the only person at the table she hasn’t yet met: a slender woman with deep mahogany skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes cat-like in both shape and intelligence.

‘You’re Kelani Griffith.’ Jean shakes her hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you – I’m Jean Howard. And I’ve never seen Ava more excited than when you agreed to join her board.’

Only as the words leave her mouth does Jean realise, they aren’t strictly true. Ava had been just as buoyant the first time she’d been permitted to go down on Jean… but that’s not an anecdote she can share in polite company.

Kelani grins, exposing perfect white teeth. ‘Jean! Ava’s told me so much about you. I gather you’ve been a huge help behind the scenes.’

‘It was nothing.’ Jean takes the place marked out by her name card, in between Kelani and Ava’s empty chair, conscious of Aaliyah’s gaze cutting into her. ‘Truth be told, I enjoyed the distraction from my usual work. Everything Ava wanted, everything she needed, it was easy enough to give her.’

Aaliyah’s lip curls. ‘Everything?’

Jean’s eyelid twitches, but Kelani continues as if there has been no interruption to their conversation. ‘Well,’ she says, expression thoughtful, ‘maybe you should do it more often.’

‘What?’ Jean’s laughter rings too loud, too bright in her own ears. ‘Helping out my friends?’

‘Consultancy work for charities and non-profits. You have a gift for it.’ At Jean’s stunned expression Kelani simply shrugs. ‘Just a thought.’

But it stays with her long after a trio of adoring young women appear to interrupt the conversation, requesting selfies with Kelani. She autographs copies of her book, personalising each one as the hall fills.

Then – at last – Ava appears in another of her bold, funky suits, this one a deep plum that complements her tawny skin.

As she exchanges hugs with her family, Jean realises that her hair is different – a short bob shaved in at the nape.

The sharp definition suits her, emphasising high cheekbones, the length of Ava’s slender neck.

Ava kisses Kelani’s cheek, the pair of them buzzing with excitement.

Then she’s face to face with Jean, and any possible plan of action vanishes as she catches the distinctive notes of Ava’s cologne.

Longing pierces Jean’s breast. More than anything she wants to pull Ava close, to beg her forgiveness – but it’s impossible in this room, packed full of people, under Aaliyah’s fierce scrutiny.

And besides, the last thing she wants is to weigh Ava down with added worry when it’s her time to soar.

Ava too freezes, though her eyes are in constant motion. Her arms flutter by her sides, like she’d considered embracing Jean and thought better of it. ‘You came,’ is all she says, half wondering. As if there had ever been any question of it.

‘Of course.’ The words thrum with everything still unsaid.

Ava steps closer – whether towards Jean or her own seat remains uncertain, because Beth materialises at her side, whisking Ava and Kelani off to wait by the stage, where the CJC logo is projected onto the screen behind a podium. And Jean, weak-legged, sinks back into her chair.

Kelani, the star turn, goes first. She describes the thousands of requests that find their way into her inbox every single year, the struggle of wading through them all even with an assistant – and how Ava’s proposal for the CJC had stood out right away.

That her vision for the law and her passion for racial justice had aligned perfectly with Kelani’s own.

‘But there’s only one person who should be up here telling you about the Colourblind Justice Caucus,’ Kelani says. ‘Our founder and CEO, Ava Kehinde Harris.’

Ava mounts the stage to much applause. Amari whistles, drawing Jean’s gaze to the ACWRC table. Then she’s standing at the podium, eyes sparkling in the spotlight as she takes in the crowd; the hundreds of people brought together by her vision of what could be.

She’s less polished than Kelani, who has spent the last two and a half decades speaking in increasingly busy lecture halls and theatres around the world, but better than Jean will ever be for her raw honesty.

Utterly heartfelt as she describes the loss of Ephraim; how it had shaped the trajectory of her life.

And Jean’s pulled back to that midpoint on the Cramond Causeway, when Ava had shared her devastation in personal terms.

Here and now, Ava’s voice cracks under the weight of offering her grief up to colleagues and strangers.

Jean’s heart walks a tightrope of pride and fear as Ava falls silent, taking several moments to gather herself.

But then she’s talking about the CJC’s aim of sparing other families that pain, and the room lights up with spontaneous applause.

Chibundo buries her face in Alasdair’s shoulder, and he holds his wife tight.

Laila’s cheeks glimmer with silent tears – Jean retrieves a packet of tissues from her clutch and presses it into her hand while Ava carries on speaking.

‘It’s a strange thing to say at the birth of a new organisation.

But in the end, I’d love nothing more than for us to become obsolete.

’ A rueful smile. Then Ava’s thanking her newly formed team, her friends and family – Jean’s heart stutters at the sound of her own name on Ava’s lips – and every last person who has shown up to help launch the CJC.

The applause is rapturous, Ava’s path back to their table slow and meandering.

But wherever she goes in the room, Jean is conscious of her, an invisible string knotted behind her ribs, pulling taut whenever their eyes meet.

The main course has been served by the time Ava sits down, bright-eyed and restless.

And though the food is sumptuous, Jean can scarcely touch it, her throat too tight to swallow.

Throughout the afternoon Ava is close enough that Jean could cup her face, tracing it from cheekbone to jaw, yet remote as the sun while shining just as brightly.

Jean isn’t alone in hoping for a quiet word with Ava – the entire hall is packed with people longing for the same thing.

Ready to pledge their support, or simply eager to witness Ava’s sparkle up close.

There are drinks afterwards on the rooftop terrace – it’s mild for early October, and a perfect opportunity for Ava’s team to mingle with those likely to donate time and resources. Jean’s glass of prosecco is purely ornamental, fizz an impossibility with her stomach roiling.