Page 9 of Strap In

Ava buzzes her in, and Jean gets the lift to the ninth floor. The door’s on the latch, so Jean lets herself in and locks it behind her. Ava’s working at the sunny little table, typing hell for leather.

‘Just give me a minute,’ she says without looking up. ‘And I’ll be right with you.’

Jean says nothing, fully aware of how irritating it is to be pulled out of a task prematurely. If she’d known Ava was busy, she’d have stopped to pick up a sandwich at Waitrose. Still, it can’t be helped – Jean doesn’t want to encourage communication beyond the strictly necessary.

She takes off her coat and shoes, gravitating towards Ava’s bookshelf.

There are well-thumbed novels by Malorie Blackman, Bernardine Evaristo, Jackie Kay, Zadie Smith.

The memoir Anita Hill published after giving testimony against Clarence Thomas – Jean pushes it back onto the shelf, and instead examines a framed photograph.

It’s a professional shot, Ava clad in a flame-red bridesmaid dress, and Jean can’t help but smile at the ever-present boots peeping out from beneath its hem.

The bride stands beside Ava, every bit as tall and slender.

She’s got the same plump lips, high cheekbones, and broad button nose.

The same warm brown eyes and playful smile.

But her skin is significantly darker than Ava’s, contrasting beautifully with the white of her gown.

And her hair has been straightened smooth.

‘That’s Aaliyah. My sister.’

Jean startles, almost dropping the frame. She hadn’t heard the door open, and Ava moves softly in socked feet.

‘She’s beautiful. And very like you. Are you…’ The first half of the question slips out before Jean can think of a prudent way to finish it. There is no tactful way to bring up the disparity in pigmentation, but they’re otherwise identical.

‘Biracial?’ Ava takes the photo, setting it back down on the shelf. ‘Yeah.’

‘That’s not – I wondered, but I didn’t feel entitled to your life story.’ The silence stretches between them, and Jean’s sure of having made a blunder. ‘That isn’t what I was going to ask, though.’

‘No?’

‘No. Are you twins?’

Ava’s smile is instantaneous, softer and sweeter than any Jean has yet witnessed.

‘Yeah, we are. Aaliyah was born six minutes before me, and she’s been bossing me around ever since.

I guess you could say the printer ran out of ink.

’ She cracks up at the look on Jean’s face. ‘You’re allowed to laugh.’

And Jean does, half in relief at having bridged this sticky moment between them. Then Ava’s pulling her close, kissing her deep and slow. Jean flicks the light off without breaking away, her body sparking to life as Ava’s hands wander.

But as Jean hits the mattress, her stomach gurgles. And the warmth in her cheeks has far more to do with shame than desire.

Ava pulls back. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Yes.’ Jean kneels, presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. ‘For you.’

‘God, you’re sexy.’ Ava pushes Jean back against the mattress. Kisses and nips a trail down Jean’s throat. Ever so careful, she undoes Jean’s blouse, a button at a time, nuzzling the newly exposed skin and sending Jean into a frenzy.

And Ava’s right above her stomach when it rumbles again – an unmistakable growl. For the longest moment of Jean’s life, they’re perfectly still. Then Ava’s rolling over, switching on the bedside lamp. And the moment’s gone. ‘Sorry,’ Jean says.

‘Don’t be – everyone needs to eat. Matter of fact, I’m getting pretty peckish.’

‘Then we’d better get on with it. The sooner we both come, the sooner we can have dinner.’ Only as the words leave her mouth does it occur to Jean they might be construed as an invitation. ‘Separately. After I leave.’

Ava looks at her, incredulous. ‘What, fuck buddies can’t eat together?’

‘It makes things messy. I’d rather keep the nature of our arrangement’ – Ava snorts, but Jean ignores her – ‘clearly defined.’

‘Then why didn’t you eat earlier? You’re obviously starving.’

Jean sighs. ‘After work my driver dropped me home. And then I got an Uber straight here. When precisely would I have had time to eat?’

To her amazement, Ava simply laughs. ‘Girl, you’re hangry. Wait here and I’ll get us food that will blow your mind.’

She’s up off the bed before Jean can protest, throwing on a coat and grabbing her purse.

Then the door closes behind her – and for the first time Jean finds herself alone in Ava’s home.

It’s an unexpected intimacy. Part of her wants to rifle through the crate beneath Ava’s bed; find out what other toys she owns.

But it’s the photographs that really call to her.

Jean rolls out of bed with much less grace than Ava had managed, scanning the other pictures displayed around the flat.

There’s an official graduation photo of a baby-faced Ava in cap and gown, grinning at the camera.

She’s flanked on either side by her parents – a beaming Black woman startlingly like her daughters, and a scholarly looking white man with a greying beard and owlish glasses.

There are other shots, more recent, of Ava dancing with a group of women Jean doesn’t recognise – the cropped haircuts, masculine clothes, and proximity between two of the dancers lead her to suspect the nightclub’s a gay venue.

A faded polaroid of a tiny, beaming Ava being held aloft by a Black man – more a boy, really, despite his height – who looks up at her with infinite tenderness.

He doesn’t, she notices, appear in any recent shots.

Jean’s favourite is a slightly blurry print from a beach she doesn’t recognise.

Ava with her arms wrapped around two young children with her same golden skin and loose curls, all three of them laughing.

There’s so much love in these photos that Jean finds it unbearable.

She retreats to the kitchenette. And though she has no idea where Ava’s things are kept, it’s small enough that there’s a short process of elimination.

Jean finds two matching plates, cutlery, even paper napkins, and lays them all out on the sunny yellow table, complete with placemats.

An old habit comes to her, and she can’t resist folding the napkins into swans.

Ava’s laptop and paperwork she moves to the other end, careful to keep the documents in order.

The sheet on top catches Jean’s eye, with a logo she doesn’t recognise – Lady Justice, eyes blindfolded, scales held aloft.

The figure on one side has dark skin, the figure opposite pale, and both are equally weighted.

In bold lettering it reads Colourblind Justice Caucus .

The writing beneath looks like the draft of a governing document, with notes scrawled in the margins, words underlined, and others crossed out.

If the big work goals Ava mentioned amount to setting up a charity, no wonder she doesn’t have time for a girlfriend.

Then the key turns in the lock. Jean remembers herself – that she has no business reading any of this, no interest in Ava’s career – and drops the document, scooting into the kitchen to fetch glasses as Ava steps inside, carrying a brown paper bag stamped with Iri’s Peri Peri .

Her eyes go wide as she takes in the table.

‘Oh my days, this looks fancy!’ A frown creases her brow.

‘It’s just chicken and chips, I hope you don’t mind.

I’d thought since you had wings at Strata, you’d like it, but—’

‘It’s perfect,’ Jean says, sitting down and helping Ava unload the piping hot Styrofoam containers. As Jean catches the scent of spices and vinegar, her stomach gives a yearning clench. ‘Really. But you didn’t have to get me dinner. At least let me pay you back.’

Ava shakes her head, curls bouncing. ‘No need. Iri gives me a special discount.’

‘Oh.’ Jean pauses with a drumstick halfway to her mouth as a thought occurs to her. Neither she nor Ava had stipulated an exclusivity clause – there’s no reason, she reminds herself, that Ava shouldn’t have other lovers. ‘Are you and she…?’

Ava cracks up, almost spitting out her Sprite. ‘No!’ she says when the coughing fit passes. ‘Iri’s the straightest woman you’ll ever meet. But when she wanted to open a second shop, there was a problem with planning permission, so I helped out.’

‘I see.’ Jean bites into her chicken with relish, ignoring Ava’s amused expression as she devours the perfectly spiced meat.

‘Don’t worry, Jellybean. I’m not giving you the community strap.’

It’s Jean’s turn to choke then. She’s never heard that expression before but has no trouble discerning its meaning.

Her eyes water, the pepper and paprika catching in her throat.

Ava pours Sprite into her glass and Jean gulps at it, thankful – but not enough to let the nickname slide. ‘ Jellybean? ’

‘You know.’ Ava tips more chips onto both their plates. ‘Tiny Jean. Jellybean.’

Jean’s eyes narrow into the glare that makes even seasoned associates sweat.

But Ava simply shrugs. ‘I thought it was cute. You know, most women would take that as a compliment. Sweet, delicious, fun to eat…’

‘I’m not most women.’

‘No,’ Ava says. ‘You’re one of a kind.’

Jean’s cheeks radiate heat, and she hopes Ava will simply chalk it up to her coughing fit or the spiciness of their chicken.

Her brain reaches, haphazardly, for any topic that will steer them towards safer territory.

‘So, your sister—’ Inwardly, Jean curses menopause brain.

Family is hardly a more casual topic. ‘Is she a lawyer too?’

If Ava’s perplexed by this shift in conversation, she doesn’t show it. ‘Doctor. A cardiothoracic surgeon. Which is just as well.’

‘Why?’

‘You know that Gina Yashere joke about Nigerian kids only getting four career choices?’ Ava ticks them off on her fingers. ‘Doctor, lawyer, engineer, or disappointment. And we never could have gone into the same field – too competitive.’

‘Well, your parents must be equally proud.’

‘Not quite. Dad’s the typical white hippy I-don’t-care-so-long-as-you’re-happy type.

’ Beneath the mocking, there’s unmistakable fondness in her voice.

‘But Mum would have preferred me to go commercial. She doesn’t get why anybody would spend six years studying just to end up making struggle money at the Afro-Caribbean Women’s Rights Centre. ’

Privately Jean understands those concerns. But it’s not her place to voice them. ‘What does that involve?’

‘A mix of things. Giving women legal information, advice, representation… More often than not, they wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.

We mainly support survivors of domestic violence and sanctuary-seeking women.

’ Ava dips a chip in ketchup, not looking at Jean. ‘It can be difficult. But fulfilling.’

Jean knows herself to be lacking in the selflessness such a career requires.

The daily drudgery of a job without prestige or personal assistants, overworked and undercompensated for it, with no clear path to professional advancement…

Yet the stakes are high with every client, the consequences of failure cataclysmic.

This work must feed Ava’s mind as well as her spirit.

‘It sounds like you make an incredible difference in your clients’ lives. Your mother must be proud.’

‘Yeah.’ A shrug. ‘But she’s still pissed off that I’m not going to give her grandchildren. Aaliyah’s got me permanently beat on the domestic front – a husband and two beautiful kids.’

The question slips out before Jean has time to measure her words – something of Ava’s spontaneity is clearly catching. And she’s wondered, from time to time, whether Ava’s ardent desire for an older woman might not be connected to some sort of mother wound. ‘Does she mind, that you’re…?’

‘A lesbian?’ Ava rolls her eyes. ‘Saying it isn’t going to make you one, Jean. But no, Mum’s cool. She, Dad, and Aaliyah marched at Pride with me the year I came out. Mum’s even set up a community group in her church, encouraging parents to support their gay kids.’

Jean blinks. It’s not that she’d assumed homophobia was specific to Black families; rather, it hadn’t occurred to her that acceptance might be so straightforward for anyone.

Especially not with the church involved.

She tears into another drumstick – though Jean’s rapidly approaching full, the tender meat is irresistible.

‘What about you?’ Ava tilts her head, curious. ‘Any family?’

Even now, the question catches Jean off guard. She delays by popping another chip into her mouth, and takes her time chewing. ‘I have a sister. Bridget. Nine years older than me.’

‘And are you close?’

‘No.’ It would have pained their parents, Jean is certain, had they lived. But then if they had survived, Bridget wouldn’t have felt so trapped, being mother and father to a little sister when she was still in need of both herself. ‘We don’t have much in common.’

Ava’s still looking at her. And Jean realises that she has offered altogether too little in exchange for the confidences placed in her. ‘Bridget’s a housewife in Devon. President of her local WI Chapter. Very Jam and Jerusalem.’

‘That never appealed to you?’

‘No.’ Jean hesitates. ‘My ambition, more than anything, killed my marriage. I always put work first. Truth be told, an arrangement like this suits me far better. No expectations, no obligations, just…’

‘Occasional fried chicken and regular orgasms?’

‘Precisely.’ Jean pushes her empty plate away. ‘But you’ve only delivered on one front so far. Now I want the other.’

And Ava doesn’t disappoint.