Page 70 of Strap In
Thomas and Sandra Baird
At Jean’s thunderstruck expression, Ava reads the card over her shoulder. ‘Fucking hell. Did you save Rhona’s life?’
‘Nothing that dramatic.’ Jean sticks the champagne inside and closes the fridge. ‘They’re just kind people.’
Ava stares at her, clearly not convinced.
‘You know.’ Jean steps closer, fingering the button of Ava’s shirt. ‘If we’re not going to the shop anymore, that opens a slot in our schedule. Any ideas on how to fill it?’
Ava’s breath hitches. ‘I… might have some ideas.’ Her fingers close round Jean’s before they can wander. ‘But if you’re not able to talk about it, or you don’t want to, I’m not going to push. You don’t need to use sex to distract me.’
Jean stills, fingers sandwiched between Ava’s hand and her heart.
‘In fact, while we’re talking about it, we don’t have to do anything like that if you don’t feel in the mood. I get that what happened with Kate brought up difficult things for you. And I’d never assume…’
Jean stands on tiptoe, silencing her with a kiss that’s both chaste and lingering. ‘You really are incredibly sweet. A year ago, it never would have occurred to me that a woman might be the most perfect gentleman I could meet.’
It’s Ava who looks away first, though she doesn’t drop Jean’s hand. ‘How about we spend the rest of the afternoon on the beach?’
Cramond is every bit the haven Rhona promised; quieter than Portobello yet just as beautiful. Though the glorious weather draws out tourists, Jean and Ava are able to set out their towels on the sand and sunbathe in relative seclusion day after day. They share decadent packed lunches, a hefty bottle of SPF50, and a settled kind of slowness Jean never imagined herself capable of enjoying. Side by side they listen to children’s laughter, the gulls’ pealing cries, the steady hush of ocean against shore. It’s easy being silent with Ava – and should Jean’s mind wander south to London’s eternal machinations, the subtle brush of her fingertips against Jean’s ankle is enough to anchor her here in the present.
Conversation flows easily as the River Almond into the North Sea. As they watch a boy construct a sandcastle, Jean shares her snatches of memory about a holiday to Blackpool with her parents – her mother’s hair rippling in the breeze, Dad lifting her and Bridget onto the back of a donkey, her absolute wonder at those twinkling lights against the ink-black sky.
When the tide permits, they hike across Cramond Causeway, the watery sand a perfect mirror for the sky above. And the path before them stretches out into blue infinity. Here, in the liminal space between land and sea, Ava opens up about Ephraim, the gentle giant of a man who had thrown Ava up in the air and caught her every time.
As a child uncertain of her place in the world, often lonely because she hadn’t fit neatly into one group or another, Ephraim’s love had been a sanctuary. He was the first one Ava came out to, before even Aaliyah, aged twelve. And he’d died three weeks later after getting into a fight with a group of white boys who’d pelted him with slurs. The police had taken Ephraim alone into custody after breaking it up, ignoring his complaints of a headache, locking him in a cell overnight. In the morning they’d found his body, still warm.
Ava’s eyes remain fixed on the horizon as she recounts the tale, curls rippling round her face. Her pace does not slow. Overt comfort would not be welcome. But Jean links their fingers, lengthening her strides to fall into step beside Ava. They pass a family of walkers, exchanging cursory greetings – and even then, Jean doesn’t let go, though she feels it in her stomach when the father’s eyes dip to their joined hands; feels it long after he’s a speck in the distance.
‘I could say all that useless shit about how sorry I am,’ Jean says, breathless. ‘What a terrible tragedy. But the truth is nothing ever fixes a loss like that. You just spend the rest of your life walking round with this gaping wound. An empty space where they should be.’
Ava slows then, a pace more in keeping with the natural span of Jean’s footsteps. ‘I know it won’t bring him back, the CJC. But maybe other people can escape that empty space for a bit longer.’
Jean shares a confession too, out on the island, where wild heather grows, and such things feel possible. ‘I never had a relationship like this, in my personal or professional life. Even my marriage was largely transactional – I gave Henry what I thought he wanted and played the role of wife, and in return my life got closer to the conventional markers of success.’ Jean shakes her head, wind whipping at her hair. ‘But with you? It’s so different to anything I’ve ever known.’
Ava doesn’t say anything then. Just lets her hand brush across Jean’s on its way to the picnic basket. And Jean lets herself bask in the sun, the sea air, this perfect moment.
It might be summer, but it is still Scotland – and of course the weather doesn’t hold. They wake up to the sound of raindrops pattering against the windows, the musical gurgle of water spilling down the gutter. Jean opens the blinds and finds the beach utterly deserted, save for a lone dog walker wrapped in a mac.
‘Well.’ Ava rolls over onto her stomach, squinting out the window. ‘What’s on the schedule when it’s raining?’
The water’s dull grey, cloud so low that Jean can’t even make out the little island, let alone the lush greens of the opposite shore. But nothing about the misting rain feels oppressive; it cocoons around them like a blanket. ‘I want to go swimming.’
‘What?’
‘In the sea. Let’s do that today.’
A slow grin spreads across Ava’s face, carving a dimple into the swell of her cheek. ‘You’re a wild woman, Jean Howard. I could tell from the moment we met.’
Jean laughs, incredulous. ‘I’m not wild – it’s perfectly logical. If we go outside, we’re going to get wet no matter what we do. So, it might as well be swimming.’
‘Wild swimming for a wild woman,’ Ava says as she retrieves her tankini.
And Jean has to turn away from those long golden limbs as she shimmies into the lycra set. She pulls on her own swimsuit in the bathroom – a traditional cut, textured across her stomach, with in-built cups for added support around the bust. She’d bought it almost five years ago for a trip to Mandalay, and it’s tighter now, but that can’t be helped. A bathing suit had never been high on her list of priorities. Yet this negligence pays off as she pads back into the bedroom.
‘Should we take our towels, or will they just get we—’ Ava’s jaw hangs open as she takes in the sight of Jean’s body poured into her one-piece. ‘Oh my days. Just as well we’re going wild swimming, otherwise I’d need a cold shower.’
Jean swats her with the towel before wrapping it around herself. ‘Yes to the towels – we can put them in a bag to keep them dry-ish. But it’ll be freezing when we get out, and I’m not showing my cellulite to every passing dog walker.’
