Page 8 of Strap In

After that it’s straightforward enough with Ava.

They both get what they want from the arrangement: sexual satisfaction, no strings attached.

In the interests of casualness, Jean only ever texts to ask whether she might drop by that night in the afternoons, as if the thought came to her spontaneously.

But there is a pattern to their meetings, one of her own design: never more than three nights a week, and never two nights consecutively.

Jean clings on to these unspoken rules – she will not let this strange new passion burn through everything she has fought so hard to build, nor let it distract her from claiming the firm.

Jean needs boundaries. Because Ava has woken appetites that Jean never suspected herself of possessing.

She’d never understood the fuss about sex as a teenager; had accepted it as the price of a relationship in her twenties.

A cold fish , Jean’s first real boyfriend at Oxford had branded her.

And privately she’d suspected Ian was right.

But now Jean can’t stop thinking about it.

Ava’s deft fingers, that wicked tongue, the silicone shaft that fills her so completely.

Of course she would never enter their appointments in any diary, analogue or digital, but her days fall into the category of Ava or No Ava .

The Ava days pass in a frenzy of anticipation, Jean counting down the hours until her next orgasm.

And on the post-Ava days, Jean is newly aware of her body, the previously unguessed at capacity for pleasure in every muscle and sinew.

Flashes of their nights together come to her at the most awkward moments.

When Grant mentions his latest lover, a tantalising detail proffered to pull Jean through her push-ups, she can’t help but recall how – mere hours before – she’d been on her hands and knees in entirely different circumstances.

When she catches notes of cedar in a client’s aftershave, Jean pictures the unguarded ecstasy that flickers across Ava’s face as she climaxes.

The most inconvenient memories surface in her dealings with the Henshall negotiations.

Jean has inadvertently created a Pavlovian response within herself.

Whenever she has a meeting with George Henshall, she arranges another with Ava for that night – a reward of sorts.

A way of venting her frustrations that has zero professional repercussions.

There is nothing gentle about those nights.

Jean rides Ava like fury, tugging on her curls, yanking her close enough to kiss.

In retaliation Ava catches Jean’s skin between her teeth, biting hard enough to bruise – always below the neckline, never anywhere another person will see, but a branding, nonetheless.

And it sends her over the edge every time.

Jean fingers the latest love bite as George Henshall rants, under the guise of adjusting her blazer, wakening a delicious ache beneath her clavicle.

Intercedes as the buyer, Katherine, bristles.

With all it had taken to get them into the same room together, sitting at this table, Jean cannot let this meeting go south.

Katherine already cancelled once, all but sending George into apoplectic fit as he got the message loud and clear: Katherine Parker-Kato’s time is more precious than his, and Parkato International has more urgent concerns than taking over one little microchip company.

And now, as Katherine glances at her phone tight-lipped and confers with her counsel, Jean has the distinct impression she’s getting ready to walk again.

She turns to face Jean, sleek black bob swinging. ‘There are other factories that fit my needs, and with much less hassle.’

‘Not in this ballpark.’ Though her heart hammers, Jean matches Katherine’s tone of cool disinterest. ‘And not in this region. That’s why you’re here: you want the factories in Vietnam because they’re by the coast, meaning you can ship larger products by sea and keep your distribution costs to a minimum, maximising profit. ’

Katherine’s carefully plucked eyebrows climb.

But she’s quick to recover herself. ‘At least someone here has done their homework. You’re right about my motives, but wrong if you believe this is my only option.

’ The smile she directs towards Henshall is as bright and devoid of warmth as midwinter sunlight.

‘I’d recommend bearing that in mind as you consider this next offer, which will be my last.’

Her counsel slides a piece of paper across the table, which Hugo lifts for Henshall to examine. Judging by the silent working of his jaw, he’s less than impressed. Before Henshall can kick off, Jean nods in acknowledgement. ‘We’ll take that into consideration.’

‘Good.’ Katherine rises, tugging invisible creases from her Balenciaga blazer. ‘I’ll expect your answer by the time I get back from Kyoto.’

Katherine sweeps from the room, her entourage scurrying in her wake. And Henshall recovers his voice. ‘I am fucking sick of that woman and her puffed-up pride.’

‘George,’ says Lana, his long-suffering PA.

‘No!’ He thumps the table, and Jean tenses. ‘I’ll say my piece. I am sick to the back teeth of dealing with that slant-eyed dyke.’

Hugo’s jaw drops – Jean’s certain he’s heard worse on the journey from private school to his private members’ club, in rooms filled with other men just as white and wealthy, but this is the first time he’ll have heard slurs in a professional setting.

‘That’s just as well,’ Jean says, gathering her papers. ‘Because this will all be over inside a fortnight. I’ll leave you to think things over.’

She strides from the boardroom, Hugo close behind.

Knows deep in her heart that Marianne would have done more than be curt with Henshall.

Even back in their junior associate days, she’d had the courage to speak up; to cite policy and enact procedure in the face of wrongdoing.

As always, Jean finds herself falling short against Mari’s memory.

But Jean hasn’t made it this far by pushing back against men’s bullshit directly.

The top job will be hers, and where is Marianne now?

When they’re alone in the lift, Hugo clears his throat. ‘Anything else I can do for you today, Ms Howard?’

‘No. Go and bring Alexander and his team up to speed, then you can go home.’ He won’t – Jean recognises the hunger in his eyes, the way Hugo is at his sharpest on the days when his path intersects with hers. But at least she offered.

Their illustrious founder, Will Decker, never would have gone home when there was still work to be done.

And it’s the work ethic he’d nurtured in her that keeps Jean at her desk until at least nine.

Not every Ava Night, but those following on from them.

She’s too close to let up now. And the Leonides case requires close management – few of the junior associates have yet to work with an international client operating on this scale, but then few men have built empires on a par with that of Andreas Leonides.

Jean pores over his portfolio, the history of his business; the legend of his self-made success, going from a paper-round age twelve to buying the foundering local news outlet age twenty and bringing it into the modern era.

From there Leonides had developed an unshakeable instinct for which businesses were salvageable, and which ought to be stripped for parts, buying and selling his way into the Forbes 500.

Jean admires his ingenuity, knowing firsthand the struggle of inventing oneself from thin air, no money or social standing to fall back on.

It’s engrossing work. But tonight is an Ava Night, and Jean will do better for coming back refreshed in the morning.

She logs out of her computer, packs her things, and leaves her office with Helen. No doubt she has her suspicions, but Helen’s smart enough to know when to stay silent – a quality Jean prizes in an assistant.

Of course, Peter catches her on the way out. ‘Jean! There’s something different about you, but I can’t put my finger on it. Whatever it is, keep doing what you’re doing.’

‘Thank you,’ Jean says, straight-faced. ‘I’ve taken up badminton. It’s an excellent way to destress in the evenings. In fact, I’m on my way to meet my partner now. So, unless there’s anything urgent…’

Helen’s looking resolutely skywards, as if the overhead lighting has become suddenly fascinating. But Peter buys it.

‘See!’ He nudges her. Peter has known Jean long enough – first as her boss and then, since Will’s retirement, the closest thing he has to an equal – to get away with it. ‘You thought work-life balance was nonsense. But now look at you. Glowing, isn’t she Helen?’

‘Absolutely.’ Helen’s face is the picture of innocence. ‘Maybe I should take up a new sport.’

‘You see, Jean? Leading by example.’ He clasps her shoulder as they step out into the lobby. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Could you excuse us please, Helen?’

Jean swallows, mouth suddenly dry, as Helen disappears through the revolving doors.

She has been waiting for Peter to bring up the matter of succession, not wishing to force his hand.

And then, like an actress at the Academy Awards, she will settle on an expression of gracious surprise as a response.

‘I would like you to represent DDH at the London Legal Network Conference. Be the face of the firm.’ Peter’s eyes twinkle. ‘And try to have some fun while you’re there. What do you say?’

‘Really?’ Her smile at least is entirely unfeigned. ‘If you think it’s best, I’d be glad to step in.’

They bid each other goodnight, and Jean mulls it over in the car.

It’s not how she would have chosen to soft launch her leadership of DDH.

Whereas icebreakers and reverse mentoring are exactly the kind of blue-sky crap Peter thrives on, there’s a higher chance of Jean having fun during a root canal.

Yet for all his faults Peter has changed the culture of DDH for the better.

Standards have tightened considerably since he took the helm.

On the first day of her internship the junior associate charged with watching over Jean had asked whether her carpet matched her drapes, and from there it had been open season – she’d taken a vicious pleasure in leapfrogging Angus to associate, more still in laying him off when she was promoted to management.

But there was no Marianne to share her victory with, and that hollowed out the joy.

The life that should have been theirs was Jean’s alone.