Page 19 of Strap In
‘You don’t have to decide right away.’ The doors open and Katherine steps out into the gleaming lobby. ‘The offer stands – for you I’m willing to wait.’
At Ava’s suggestion Jean takes the District Line directly through to East Ham, sweating even with her portable fan on the highest setting. And though Jean had fantasised about how they might spend those bonus minutes and seconds, her feet ache with every step as she approaches Ava’s block of flats. She kicks off her Louboutins the moment she crosses the threshold, ignoring the softening of expression that typically accompanies words liketinyandadorable, dumping her bag by the door.
Ava’s eyes narrow as she takes in the racket poking from Jean’s tote. ‘What’s that?’
‘Badminton.’ Jean approaches, leaning in to kiss her. But Ava’s not so easily distracted.
‘Yeah, I can see that. And you brought it here because…?’
Jean’s sigh stretches into an uncontrollable yawn. There’s no reason for Ava to know anything about her life at DDH – personal details, one and the same with professional in Jean’s case, are off the table as far ascasualis concerned. Yet she’s watching Jean with a troubling curiosity. ‘Our managing partner noticed that I seem—’ Jean shakes her head. She isnotdifferent. This arrangement changes nothing of consequence. ‘That I’ve been leaving the office earlier on occasion. And I needed an alibi of sorts.’
‘You told him you play badminton?’ Ava presses her lips tight together.
‘As opposed to what?’ Jean rolls her eyes, flopping down onto the couch. If they’re going to have this conversation, she might as well get comfortable. Though of course her fan, the last line of defence against hot flushes, chooses this moment to crap out. ‘Let’s circle back to that merger tomorrow – I’m off to get my back blown out by my lesbian… sex acquaintance and her strap-on.I don’t think so.’
Ava’s silent for a long moment – and when at last she speaks, Jean gets the impression her initial question has been weighed up and discarded. ‘So, you went out and bought a racket?’
‘No! My PA did.’ Helen asked all manner of questions about Jean’s specifications and preferences until, at last, Jean offered an extra day’s leave. And Helen returned precisely forty minutes later with the racket and receipt, silk press immaculate despite the rain.
‘Well, la-di-da Ms Executive Level Business.’ Ava retrieves a tower fan from the cupboard and angles it towards Jean before joining her on the couch, lifting Jean’s feet onto her lap. She’s just about to pull away, conscious of how they must smell after a day crammed into tights and heels, when Ava’s thumb presses into the curve of her arch.
Pleasure radiates from this point of pressure, so sudden and unexpected that Jean can’t stifle a moan. Emboldened, Ava grips her foot properly, kneading the ache from Jean’s flesh until she lies slack against the cushions. Those hands and their knack for bringing her bliss… Combined with a steady flow of cool air, it’s nothing short of heaven.
Jean opens her eyes when Ava stops, unwilling to put her disappointment into words.
‘I have an idea.’ Ava speaks hurriedly, not quite meeting Jean’s gaze. ‘And before you freak out, there’s no conflict with the terms of our arrangement. You keep yawning, and I’m shattered after work, so maybe we could put on facemasks and drink wine. I’ll get some lotion and give your feet a proper massage. Are you in?’
It sounds wonderful – which is what fills Jean with misgivings. She’s supposed to be keeping things simple. And what possible interest could Ava have in her beyond the physical? ‘That doesn’t sound like sex acquaintance behaviour, unless – this isn’t some kind of fetish thing?’
‘Yeah, actually it is,’ Ava says, deadpan. ‘But not mine. I figured we could sell pictures of your feet on OnlyFans and spend the proceeds on a filthy weekend away.’
Jean rolls her eyes. The more time they spend together, the less Ava’s joking is restricted to post-coital moments. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
Now Ava’s dark eyes watch her, intent. ‘Which part?’
‘Well – why my feet? Why not yours?’
‘Because they’re dainty and French manicured.’ She strokes Jean’s toes. ‘Or is itFrench pedicured? Either way, you’re standing on a gold mine.’
Jean laughs in spite of herself. And ten minutes later she finds herself in one of Ava’s oversized t-shirts, tighter around her own bust, face mask on and glass in hand. None of Ava’s bottoms would fit her, so Jean simply luxuriates in her pants – it’s cooler anyway. Ava herself wears boxers and a camisole, hair tucked into a deep red silk bonnet. She opens a tub of cream scented with minty eucalyptus and aloe vera, and it’s pure ecstasy when Ava works the cool salve into Jean’s soles.
And Jean’s mind drifts as Ava massages each foot in turn, lavishing attention on heel, arch, ball. The space between each toe.
Ava had been joking about the feet pics – though Jean’s less certain about the filthy weekend. It’s been years since she had to think twice about booking a trip, though she rarely takes her days of annual leave – they’ve been piling up like the interest on her portfolio. Longer still since she had to scrimp and save for anything. But Ava must, if her tiny flat and eclectic mix of second-hand furniture are anything to go by.
The flat is decorated to Ava’s tastes, but it doesn’t reflect the sharp edge of her ambition; the drive it takes to build an organisation from the ground up, adding countless hours onto a working day already comparable with Jean’s own, or Katherine Parker-Kato’s. Not for the first time, it occurs to Jean that these women from disparate parts of her life are similar – ambitious biracial lesbians sharing an unconventional relationship with gender.
The daughter of an English financier and a Japanese engineer, Katherine kept her mother’s name too and leaned into her multiracial status to make the most of connections on both sides of the globe. She built an international tech conglomerate, becoming a millionaire by twenty-two and featuring on Forbes 30 Under 30. Now Katherine herself and the company are worth billions – the knowledge of which had only stoked that egotistical gammon Henshall’s resentment.
While Ava’s features are more ambiguous, the surname Harris standard British, she’s obviously made a similar choice. Her books, her art, her very career – all of it speak of a strong tie to Ava’s Black heritage.
Sensing Jean’s gaze, she looks up. ‘Everything to madam’s satisfaction?’
Jean flexes her toes, pleasure resonating in the muscles. ‘Oh yes.’
‘You look like you’re having deep thoughts.’
‘Probably nothing you’d consider profound.’ Perhaps Ava will think her gauche or clumsy. But then she’s never yet made Jean feel foolish for the multitude of things she doesn’t yet know. And there’s an intimacy to this beyond sex, sitting top to toe on the sofa dressed purely for comfort. ‘Ava, can I ask you something?’
