Page 28 of Strap In
‘You know,’ Ava says. ‘We don’t have to fuck every time. If you want to just… hang out or whatever, we can do that too.’
The words stay with Jean long after Ava falls asleep, following her through the week. They’re a pleasant distraction from the dread and anticipation warring in the cavity of Jean’s chest every time the funeral comes to mind.
Bogdan slows as they approach a crowd of mourners, and Jean scans every face, searching out familiar angular features. But so many mourners have their backs to her, clustered together in conversation or filtering into the church. Jean’s heart constricts as she catches sight of a chestnut bob tucked back over neat little ears. But there’s no guarantee Marianne still wears the same cut. And her hair might not even be the same colour – so many brunettes their age transition to blonde as the greys take hold.
Peter covers her wrist, and Jean tears her gaze away from the crowd. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘No, I—’ Jean shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s alright. Just let me do the talking.’ Peter squeezes her hand. ‘And we should stick together.’
Jean nods her assent. Then Peter lets go and they step out into the cool March drizzle, the quiet intimacy broken. But – true to his word – Peter doesn’t leave Jean’s side. With a steadying hand on Jean’s back, he guides her through groups of mourners. Jean shakes hands and exchanges dutiful pleasantries, but it’s Peter who steers each conversation, just as he steers them on an inexorable path towards the church.
And all the while Jean glances through the crowd. Mari was always the braver of them – she’d have the courage to appear like Maleficent at the christening. But Marianne was never the villain, and they’re here to celebrate death instead of life.
Inside, Jean gravitates towards an empty pew near the back, where she’ll have an unimpeded view of all those who enter and exit the church. But Violet Grundy waves to Peter, and there’s a gap like a broken tooth in the thick of the mourners. She’s claimed the first pew behind the empty rows reserved for family – and if anyone has the right, it’s Violet. She’d lived and breathed DDH, presiding over Peter’s diary with the same officious pride as if serving a premier or diplomat.
Violet embraces Peter, giving a tight smile as he kisses her powdery cheek. She’d always favoured the young men. As Will’s eyes and ears in the old open-plan office, Violet’s observations often led to feedback so forcefully delivered it would travel through Will’s closed door. Yet she’d also dispense comfort, hard butter candies, and a sprinkling of sage advice – just enough encouragement that the fellow in question wouldn’t give up.
None of these kindnesses were ever afforded to Jean or Marianne. The era of Girl Power had entirely passed Violet by. With hindsight Jean understands her resentment, watching younger women claim education, opportunity, and advancement she herself was denied. But at the time it had stung worse than any comment from her male colleagues.
Little about Violet has changed in the twenty-something years since their paths last crossed. Her hair’s still blow-dried into the same bouffant. Her mouth is overlined with that eternal peach lipstick, a minor miracle it hasn’t been discontinued. And her lips wear a familiar downward twist as she takes in Jean.
‘So, you’re here.’ Violet sniffs. ‘I’d wondered whether the Other One might join us. Always was a troublemaker. No sign of her yet.’
Jean’s smile freezes.The Other One. The nickname she and Mari had shared, as the only female junior associates in the office. ‘Fetch the girl,’ a senior associate might say. Followed by: ‘Not her, I meant the other one.’ It had also been a jibe about her closeness with Marianne, the way they’d been joined at the hip. But how else was it supposed to be when the men closed ranks against them?
‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Violet. I hope you’ve been keeping well?’
‘Mm,’ says Violet, then continues as if Jean hadn’t spoken. ‘Wouldn’t put it past her to intrude. No sense of decency whatsoever.’
A retort sits razor-sharp on the tip of Jean’s tongue: the hypocrisy of Violet, proverbial mistress at a funeral, to talk of decency while she sits behind the dead man’s grieving widow. Jean bites down hard enough that her mouth is awash with copper and salt.
Peter intervenes, giving a subtle nod towards the door. ‘The Deckers are here.’
Jean turns in time to see Lilian being escorted down the aisle by William Junior, frail yet dignified. Behind them comes the daughter – she can still picture the photographs that had sat atop Will’s desk in pride of place. His daughter astride a horse, beaming as she held a trophy aloft. Father and daughter arm in arm, dressed in formalwear at William Junior’s wedding. Daddy’s little girl. It had reassured Jean in the beginning, that she and Mari were only a couple of years younger than Diana. Impossible to forget: a horse-mad girl named for a huntress. She and Mari had joked about that piece of nominative determinism.
But whereas the goddess remained a virgin, Diana and her brother both married; both continued the Decker family line. There are shades of Will in the sombre procession. A grandson with that lantern jaw. A granddaughter’s tearstained face partially shielded from view by a thick curtain of jet-black hair. A little girl, too young to understand what’s happening, peering round the church with curious grey eyes. Even after the family shuffle into the pews, the child stares over her mother’s shoulder. There’s none of Will’s calculation in her expression, nor that knowing gloating look. But still Jean glances away, picking up the order of service.
The minister lavishes praise on Will as a lawyer and a businessman, as a husband and father. And the unspoken eulogy sits blazing in Jean’s throat. But there would be no point burning Will’s reputation to the ground, or damaging herself in the process – not now he is altogether powerless to block Jean from taking his company and making it entirely her own. Marianne would have done it, public self-destruction to claim a pyrrhic victory, but Jean is playing a longer game.
Peter takes her hand then. Only when Jean looks down does she realise the order of service is crumpled into an accordion in her right fist. She smooths it out on her lap, ignoring Violet’s scandalised glare.
Chapter Twelve
The interment is long, the wake longer. After her third cup of tea Jean retreats to the bathroom. Takes her time reapplying powder and lipstick, longer for the tremor in her hand to still. Unwilling to give herself the Joker’s smile, Jean caps the lipstick and twists the hot tap all the way round, letting it run from tepid to scalding. Only when steam rises from the sink does Jean allow herself to withdraw her reddening hands from the water.
She tucks them into her sleeves and exits the women’s room, refreshed. Until Lilian rounds the corner, giving a tremulous smile as she catches Jean’s eye.
‘Jean! I don’t feel glad of much at the moment, but it’s good to see you today.’ She clasps Jean’s shoulders and pulls her in for an embrace, bird-boned beneath her black Chanel suit. ‘You know, I’d always hoped for the opportunity to thank you for the way you stood by William during that dreadful business with Marianne.’
‘Oh.’ Jean clears her throat, dry despite the endless tea. ‘No thanks necessary.’
‘All the same. William appreciated it, and so do I.’ Lilian takes her hand and squeezes the tender flesh, oblivious to Jean’s discomfort. If anything, she appears moved when Jean’s eyes water. ‘Oh dear, the last thing I wanted was to set you off. But you should know that William remembered you fondly. And if you’re ever in Epsom, I’d be delighted to meet for lunch or coffee.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Lilian.’
And though it’s Lilian who kisses her cheek, Jean knows herself to be the Judas.
