Page 57 of Strap In
Looking back on it, Jean’s certain these are the words that damned her, sealing the deal on this cosmic jinx.
After the plates have been cleared away, in the lull between dessert and coffee, delegates hop tables to network. Ava takes Rhona to meet her colleague Amari while Jean swaps pleasantries with Amelia Hawthorne, a surface-level conversation, yet intent enough to ward off unwanted interruption. When Jean’s companions reappear, Amelia turns back to her own table. And it’s just as well because Jean’s face freezes in a rictus smile as she catches sight of the third woman.
The chestnut bob has long since grown out, hair spilling down past her shoulders. Yet instead of dyeing it she’s let every strand pale to natural silver. It frames her angular face just so, giving the impression of an elf queen plucked straight from a Tolkien novel, flowing robes replaced by a sharp charcoal suit. Those eyes have lost none of their old intensity, vivid as the sky on a midsummer afternoon. Yet they hold none of the old warmth as they take in Jean gaping up at her.
‘Hello Jean.’ Her voice is the same too, those smooth polished vowels they’d practised with one another until it became habit.
Ava steps forward, a new wariness in her expression. ‘This is—’
‘Marianne.’
‘It’s Kate now.’ She sits down in Rhona’s empty seat. ‘Kate Brennan.’
‘Your mother’s maiden name.’ The reason Jean has never been able to find her on Facebook, nor dig up recent Google results.
‘I needed a fresh start after what Will did to me.’ She reaches across the table, twirling the stem of Jean’s wine glass between her fingers. ‘And you.’
Jean’s heart stutters. A twitch starts beneath her eye and, even when Jean presses her hand to the skin, it carries on with the spasmodic pulsing.
‘I – I’ll leave you two to catch up.’ Rhona rises, the scrape of her chair drawing Amelia’s interest. She’s gone before Jean can think how to manage this moment being witnessed by a subordinate; gone before it even occurs to Jean that management is needed.
‘Give us a minute,’ Marianne says to Ava.
But she rests a hand on the back of Jean’s chair. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’
‘Go on,’ Jean says. There isn’t a single word Marianne’s likely to speak that will improve Ava’s opinion of her. Soon she will realise that Jean isn’t kind at all; not when it really counts.
Still Ava hesitates, a thousand unspoken questions shining in her eyes.
‘Please,’ Jean whispers. The edge of her pinkie finger brushes almost imperceptibly against the side of Ava’s hand, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. Yet Jean sees it, the moment her touch nudges Ava into acceptance; Marianne’s knowing smirk as she retreats.
‘Mm.’ Mari swigs the wine, leaving an orange lipstick kiss on the glass. ‘I always wondered whether you’d get there. The selfish part of me hoped you’d be just as isolated and unsure as I was, when I had to start from scratch. But this is better – I’m going to enjoy pulling the wool from Ava’s eyes. She’s so… principled.’
The room swims, all the surrounding chatter impossibly far-away – or perhaps her peers, scenting trouble, have fallen silent to better hear her humiliation. Jean tries to take a steadying breath, but it’s as if every last drop of air has been sucked from the hall’s domed ceiling.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jean says, the world narrowing to her and Marianne. She’s close enough that Jean could reach out and touch her, feel the warmth bleeding through that severe jacket. She’s on the far side of an impossible gulf stretching out between them, all that love and warmth and loyalty lost to the chasm below. ‘If I could take it all back, if I could return to that moment… I’d make entirely different choices.’
Marianne drains the glass, lips turned down though the vintage is sweet. ‘You actually believe that, don’t you? It’s this comforting lie that you’ve wrapped around yourself all these years. Same old Jean – whatever version of events best suits your interests becomes the truth.’
‘It’s not a lie. Every single day for the last twenty-five years I’ve regretted betraying you.’ Jean’s eyes burn with unshed tears, but she doesn’t look away from Marianne, doesn’t break the tenuous thread of connection between them. ‘Losing your friendship hurt more than anything.’
Henry had known it too; having held Jean together through her grief over Marianne, it was obvious that Jean didn’t feel the same devastation when he too began pulling away. A friendship cherished far more than a marriage.
Marianne’s eyes glitter hard and bright as diamonds. ‘Then why stab me in the back?’
‘I was scared!’ The cups and saucers jump as Jean slaps the table. ‘Terrified out of my mind over losing everything I’d worked for – my career, my reputation, any prospect of advancement.’
‘So you took all that frommeinstead?’ Marianne’s smile grows bitter. ‘Made me into the liar. The attention seeker. The whore. Pleading temporary insanity doesn’t get you out of this one, Jean.’
‘Will did that. To both of us. But he’s dead now.’ Marianne’s fury dims, replaced by dull shock. And Jean leans forward in her seat, pleading, heedless of the stares she’s attracting. ‘Peter’s retiring this autumn. Then the firm will be mine.Ours. I’ll fast-track you to where you should have been: senior partner. And it’ll be just like we imagined when we were young.’
‘You still dream about that?’ Mari’s bright malice fades. She stands, looking at Jean for a long moment, considering. And hope flutters in Jean’s chest, a white flag on the battlefield.
Jean rises, unable to keep the note of pleading from her voice. ‘You don’t have to decide right away.’ She swallows, ignoring the eyes swarming over her like ants. If she can just make this right with Mari, they can run damage control.Together.Come back to this very lunch next year with an empowering session on DDH’s all-female management. The year after that, a rebrand: swap Will’s name for Marianne’s – or Kate’s. Whatever she prefers. ‘Take your time, think about it.’
‘I don’t have to.’ Mari steps closer, close enough that her breath grazes Jean’s cheek. ‘I’d rather be flayed alive and have my flesh covered in salt than ever work with you again.’
Jean sinks against the table, legs slack. And Marianne presses her advantage, not a trace of mercy to be found in her face.
