Page 51 of Strap In
First Wexler makes noises about pressing charges against Hugo. Sends a photo of Leonides looking into the camera with baleful eyes, forehead bruised and lip bloodied; a side-on shot highlighting the goose-egg swelling.
DDH retaliates with the shot Jean had taken of Rhona, face blotchy with tears, blouse torn open. The bruising and scratching beneath. And Jean’s purpled wrist, swollen to twice its usual size.
Despite the cloud hanging over his career, Hugo remains calm, never doubting his sister’s influence. And Rosalind delivers. A permit Leonides was relying on is denied, an acquisition for Hephaestia falls through due to rigid interpretation of an arcane by-law. The kind of paperless backroom deals that Hephaestia will never be able to prove, though they’ll know as well as Jean does that strings have been pulled for the Earl of Wiltshire’s great-nephew.
Every night Jean falls into bed, exhausted in mind, body, spirit. There’s no room for dreams, no room for longing. Yet in the daylight hours it’s Ava Jean wants to share her triumphs with, or find respite with in gentle silence when Hephaestia grows obstreperous. There’s no moreAndreas! Call me Andreas. OnlyMr Leonidesormy clientin Wexler’s hand.
Helen reminds Jean to do physio every few hours, standing over her desk with the briskness of Nurse Ratched until she complies. For her painkillers Jean requires no prompting, desperate for that piercing ache to recede into a low throb. In those molasses-slow minutes between Jean and her next dose, she has never been so grateful for DDH’s air conditioning system.
Still, there are ways of keeping herself busy. Jean continues as Rhona’s point of contact. She explains the decision to end their contract with Hephaestia, an offensive strategy that works to delegitimise whatever claims Leonides might make about the firm – though not Alexander’s shock and fury over losing those bountiful billable hours. She outlines Wexler’s response, offering quiet acceptance and sizeable payouts on the condition that Rhona, Hugo, and she herself all sign NDAs. She summarises the internal legal department’s view of the matter: the best possible outcome for DDH, with no public fallout for the firm or private litigation of individual employees.
‘So, you think I should sign?’ A muffled tapping echoes through the line – even without video, Jean can picture Rhona clicking her pen against the desk.
‘That’s not what I said,’ Jean says, without sting, pacing her office in stockinged feet (tights had turned peeing into a logistical nightmare for her wrist). ‘Rhona, I told you. Nobody will pressure you either way. You have a place here no matter what you decide.’
Rhona’s silent for a long time then, only the steady rise of seconds on her screen assuring Jean the call continues. Outside her window London glitters brighter than the galaxy above. And though Jean knows the Thames to be filthy, there’s no denying its beauty, shifting and sparkling beneath a starless sky.
‘Ms Howard?’
‘Yes?’
‘I appreciate how kind you’re being. But you don’t have to treat me like a wee kid.’ The crackle of a sigh. ‘I know it’ll be bad for the firm if I say no. I can’t stop thinking about that.’
‘Then Peter and I will both go home, since you’re doing our job for us.’ Rhona doesn’t laugh, and Jean doesn’t expect her to; humour is thin on the ground this far into a fourteen-hour day. ‘But really. What would be bad for you, and what would be good for you?’
‘Tha—’
‘No, no. Don’t tell me – not right away.’ Jean rests her forehead against the windowpane, breath fogging its glass. ‘Take time to think. Talk over your options with Isla.’
There was a time when she’d have resented the pastoral care, wiping tears and assuaging fears; being ‘mummy’ while men got on with the business of law. Yet she feels real kinship with the junior associate. Their calls and messages are a trail of breadcrumbs, making sure Rhona can find her way back to the office when she is ready. Jean would sooner accept a dinner date with that lecher Leonides before approving Rhona’s resignation. Her career cannot be allowed to go the same way as Mari’s – and it’s a much sweeter penance than ten Our Fathers.
Each day, regardless of whether they’ve spoken, Rhona sends her a picture from her walks along Cramond. And for the first time, Edinburgh’s lure seems truly worthy of a bucket list. Jean has never supposed herself to be any kind of romantic, but she can’t help wondering what it might be like to walk barefoot along the shore with Ava by her side, the North Sea washing over their feet.
The weeks pass, summer taking firm hold of London. Rooftop bars open, pale sunbathers lie sprawled across towels in parks, and tourists swarm the streets. It’s always a relief, sinking into the leather upholstery of Bogdan’s Jaguar, cool air a caress against her skin. And yet – even knowing how miserable the underground would be, pressed against strangers sweating through their commute, Jean misses having a reason to brave it.
When Bogdan drops her off at home, instead of heading indoors, Jean opens the gate to the residential garden. The air is fragrant with lilies, and the path is lined with the bedding plants the neighbours have been meticulous about maintaining since retirement, petals just beginning to close as the sun retreats behind their row of houses.
Ava, always keen to make sure Jean got outdoors enough, would appreciate this little oasis; the quiet broken only by the bees buzzing past, heavy with pollen. And yet, Jean suspects, she would oppose this garden being reserved for the privileged few.
Jean sinks onto the bench, kicking off her heels to curl her toes in the warm grass – suspiciously verdant amid another hosepipe ban. And, before she can second-guess herself, Jean dials Ava’s number. Grips the bench’s wooden arm so tightly paint flakes off beneath her fingers as it rings.
‘Hello?’
Jean startles, heart working overtime as hope and fear do battle inside her chest. There’s still a hint of a laugh in Ava’s voice, as if she’s just broken off a joyful conversation. ‘Ava. Thank you for picking up. I— I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ A sigh. ‘You said that before.’
‘And I’ll say it again. As many times as you need to hear it.’
‘Jean…’ So much weariness tied to her name.
‘Just listen. Words aren’t the only thing I wanted to offer.’ Jean’s stomach knots tight. If Ava turns her down there will be no saving face, no coming back from the humiliation. ‘I wondered whether you’d like to come over to my house this weekend. For dinner.’
Ava says nothing, though Jean could swear her breath hitches.
‘We’ve spent so much time at yours, and I’d like to return that hospitality. Show you a little bit of my world.’ Jean catches her lower lip between her teeth, tugging a strip of dry skin free, but the sharp sting of it does nothing to distract from the ache behind her ribs. ‘If you’re still interested in seeing it. In seeing me.’
An engine rumbles – if Ava’s on the bus, she’ll be en route to Aaliyah’s straight from work. ‘Okay. Does Saturday work? I’m taking my niblings to the cinema at three, but I could come round after?’
