Page 6 of Strap In

It’s easy enough finding a man who will agree to a Happy Hour date.

Cheap drinks, female companionship, and the possibility of sex – what’s not to love?

Frank doesn’t work comparable hours, so he’s readily available at six p.m. on a weekday.

But compatibility isn’t foremost in Jean’s mind.

At least not with the human shield she has procured – walking, talking plausible deniability.

Anything to keep from appearing desperate.

There’s no time to go home and change after work – she’s leaving early enough as it is – so Jean wears a bottle green dress and tan heels to the office.

Paired with a blazer it just about passes as a business look.

Helen’s the only one brave enough to comment on her outfit, telling Jean she looks irresistible in the lift up.

And just this once she’s happy to let the familiarity slide.

Even with two whole hours shaved off, the day crawls by.

And Jean scarcely touches her lunch, anticipation coiled tight and heavy as a python in the pit of her belly.

She dials in to conference calls, proofs the Leonides policy documents, coaxes Henshall into another round of negotiations.

Pushes the knowledge that Ava might not even be there to the back of her mind.

At twenty-past five Jean logs out of her computer, buttons her lime green peacoat, and heads out of the office. Helen wishes her a good evening, her face the picture of innocence.

Peter stops Jean on her way to the lift, squeezing her shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you’re taking our talk about work-life balance on board,’ he says. And Jean grits her teeth in what she hopes will pass for a smile.

By the time she gets to Strata, Frank’s waiting outside. Tall, white, unexceptional. Grizzled hair down to his shoulders, blowing on red hands. His eyes light up as he catches sight of her. ‘Jean! You look even better than you did in the picture.’

‘Thank you.’ Jean says, submitting to a kiss on the cheek. ‘Shall we go inside? I reserved a table.’

Frank leads the way, holding the door open for her. And right away the heat wraps around Jean like a duvet.

Happy hour is a popular choice, the hubbub of chatter drowning out that eternal electronic thump disguised as music. Of the few empty tables, it’s easy to guess which is hers – right in the centre, close to the bar, with a panoramic view of the venue. Just as Jean had requested.

If Frank is curious about why she didn’t ask for a booth or at least a table far from the crush of the bar, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he holds out Jean’s chair and asks what she’d like to drink.

The moment he leaves, Jean scans the bar, eyes searching. Her heart leaps, a fish out of water, as she catches sight of Ava. Her head tilts back as she laughs – today the curls are piled on top of her head, held in place with a burgundy scarf, exposing the slender column of her neck.

Sat beside her is a plump white girl with a heart-shaped face, framed by a sleek dark bob. And her eyes are glued to Ava. She tips forward, laughing. Rests a familiar hand on Ava’s shoulder. And it’s still sitting there when Frank returns, blocking Jean’s view.

He sets her martini down on the table and holds out his pilsner.

‘Thanks.’ Jean clinks her glass against his bottle, and swigs her drink. It’s not dirty – Frank forgot the olive juice – but the gin still does the job.

‘Blimey.’ Frank nods to her glass, already half empty. ‘You must be thirsty.’

Jean laughs as if he’s said something witty. ‘Long day at the office,’ she says, lips curving upwards. ‘So, Frank. Tell me about yourself.’

And it works like a charm. Frank waxes lyrical about his paintings, his technique, his upcoming showing at a gallery in Shoreditch.

Jean nods and makes sounds of approval in all the right places.

But her gaze slides under Frank’s ear, to where Ava’s arm wraps ever so casually around her companion’s shoulders.

Either they’re still laughing at the same joke or something else has amused them. Perhaps Ava’s regaling her date with stories of past conquests; the middle-aged woman who’d asked to be railed then ran away.

Jean’s chest constricts at the thought. The dull roar of chatter, the relentless heat, it’s all too much.

‘You okay?’ Frank’s hand covers her own, slick with sweat.

Jean pulls away. Her eyes lock with Ava’s. She pushes her chair back. ‘Would you excuse me for a minute?’

Without waiting for an answer, Jean pushes through the throng, not looking at Ava’s table as she passes.

The bathroom is mercifully empty. As Jean runs cold water over her hands, the door swings open.

‘Jean.’ In the mirror her eyes are full of concern. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Fine.’ And now Ava’s here, it’s true. Jean breathes in the stale air; steadies herself as she grabs a paper towel. ‘Actually, I hoped I’d bump into you.’

Still Ava lingers by the door. Not going. But not coming any closer either. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Jean turns, dropping her towel into the bin, looking Ava in the eye. ‘I shouldn’t have left that night. I’m sorry.’

Ava’s silent for a long moment. She tilts her head, considering, a lone curl brushing her cheek. ‘Is that all you wanted to say?’

Jean presses both hands to her stomach to still their shaking. But she doesn’t look away. ‘No.’

The admission’s short, but it costs her, and Ava sees it. She steps closer; near enough to see Jean tremble. Leans in close enough to kiss her. But Ava just smiles. Says: ‘How quickly can you get rid of him?’

After Jean’s disappearance it’s not difficult convincing Frank that she’s ill.

An allusion to hot flushes and night sweats is all it takes to deter his attempts at rescheduling.

It’s high time the change of life gave Jean something in return, she thinks.

Her cheeks warm with a different kind of heat as Jean slips out onto the street, striding along Islington’s broad pavements, unable to believe her own daring.

She lingers by the tube station, opening her phone to scan Alexander’s update on Leonides. But it might as well be written in Greek – Jean reads through the same paragraph three times, taking nothing in. She gives up then, scrolling emails, though the cold makes her fingers clumsy.

Jean shifts from foot to foot on her heels, scanning the steady flow of commuters streaming into the station. Her signature red soles lend Jean an extra four inches of height, and a sharp feminine edge that says don’t fuck with me .

Perhaps Ava means to stand her up. Repay the slight of being walked out on that first night.

It’s exactly what Jean would have done, once upon a time.

And she can’t help but admire the calculated savagery, even as disappointment cuts through her with the glacial sharpness of the January wind.

But just as Jean opens the Uber app, a flash of burgundy catches her eye.

Ava jogs towards her pink-cheeked, aided by the practicality of those combat boots. And Jean’s heart swells. ‘You certainly took your time,’ is all she says.

‘Sorry. I felt guilty ditching Zara – she’s nice.’

‘Then why didn’t you stay with her?’ The words carry an acid sting Jean hadn’t fully intended.

But Ava only smiles, and once again Jean has the sense of being utterly transparent. ‘Because,’ Ava says, ‘there are far more interesting things than nice. Now let’s go back to mine – if we’re quick we can get the tube straight through to East Ham.’

‘I don’t mind ordering us an Uber.’

But Ava shakes her head. And though she keeps a straight face, there’s a wicked gleam in her eye. ‘This way’s faster.’

Jean’s pulse quickens. Who is she to argue with such logic?

She follows Ava down into the station, tapping her card against the barrier and passing through.

It’s been years since Jean was forced to rely on the tube – she’d fallen in love with the plush comfort of DDH’s private car service upon making senior associate, and taken them as her due by the time she’d ascended to legal director.

But the underground isn’t as bad as she’d expected.

While the air still reeks of metal, grease, and unsavoury heat, the warmth is welcome.

Mercifully, the tsunami of rush hour has ebbed to a steady trickle.

Ava whisks her into a near empty carriage, the nearest commuter half a coach away.

And while Jean hates the thought of being crushed up against a stranger, she doesn’t mind the press of Ava’s leg against her own.

Though her face is a mask of composure, Ava’s knee jigs up and down, restless.

It’s this rare display of nerves that gives Jean the courage to speak. She leans in close to Ava, though there’s nobody to overhear above the train’s dull roar. It is essential that Jean make this one thing clear: ‘I’m not a lesbian. Or bisexual. Or whatever else you’re calling it these days.’

Ava nods, placid. ‘Okay.’

The lack of resistance catches Jean off guard. She’d expected to be presented with evidence to the contrary and have Ava, the all-knowing lesbian, pass judgement. To be met with a smirk at the very least. ‘What do you mean, okay ?’

‘Exactly that. It’s not my place to define your sexuality.’

‘Oh.’

A frown wrinkles Ava’s brow. ‘You seem disappointed. Do you… want me to tell you that you’re a le—’

‘No!’ Jean clears her throat, looking around.

But there’s nobody except her and Ava; their reflections bent towards one another in the window’s dark mirror.

‘No. I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.

That you understand I’m straight. I don’t have relationships with women.

And I can’t offer you anything beyond a casual, discreet… arrangement.’

Ava’s lips brush against Jean’s ear, sending a shiver through her. ‘You mean you want to be fuck buddies? Cool. You could have just led with that.’

‘So that… arrangement…’ Ava’s lips twitch, and Jean would find it maddening if she weren’t currently anticipating how good they’ll feel clamped around her nipple. ‘It works for you, too?’

Ava nods. ‘It might not be success the way you’d define it, but I have big work goals this year. And that doesn’t leave room for dating. But a girl still has needs.’

Curiosity snags Jean’s attention – perhaps Ava is not without ambition after all.

But asking about these plans, cherished above romance, would fly in the face of casual and discreet .

And it would be madness for Jean to break her own rules so soon after making them.

So, instead she says: ‘Deal.’ Holds out a hand for Ava to shake.

A current jolts through her fingertips as their palms brush together. And ever so subtly, Ava’s thumb caresses her knuckles. In that moment Jean knows beyond a shadow of doubt that she won’t be the one to end their arrangement.

Anticipation pulses between her thighs as Ava says this is their stop; guides Jean up and out into the streets.

The night air can’t touch Jean as she strides towards that now familiar high-rise.

Ava marches along beside her, urgency feeding Jean’s own.

Fortunately, the boys have found somewhere warmer to spend their Wednesday night – they make it into the lift without interruption.

Jean doesn’t even mind the piss scent this time, knowing it’s a small price to pay for the pleasures that await her.