Page 8 of Strap In
She dries her hair, pinning it into her ever-present up-do – professional, with just a hint of feminine softness. Slips on sheer tights, a cream blouse, her hunter green tweed suit. Spritzes her pulse points with Chanel. Applies a subtle coat of make-up, the look men take to be natural when it’s anything but. Then – always last – her pearls, cool at the base of Jean’s throat.
Bogdan arrives with the telepathic sense of timing that saw him promoted to be her personal driver. Ready to face the world, Jean gets into the company car, just early enough that the streets of London are still driveable. Gliding through the City she reads Henshall’s latest list of demands, updated since last night; though it’s his company’s salvation, her client is doing his damnedest to slow the deal, perhaps even sink it. She’ll talk to Peter before proceeding – better not to leave a paper trail voicing these suspicions to their managing partner. More straightforward, Jean signs off on Hugo’s promotion. Their hungriest intern has earned a seat at the table.
Bogdan slows to a halt, and Jean slides from the back seat, stepping out into the City’s heart. And though the arctic breeze chills her legs, cutting through ten denier tights, Jean can never resist appreciating this view. Skyscrapers stretching up between wisps of cloud, DDH a finger pointing straight to the heavens. Glass and chrome reflecting the watercolour blue of a winter sky.
Ava too will be making her way to work, out there under the same pale sunrise. And perhaps she’ll spare a thought for Jean. But that’s an end to it. They will never be more than a fond memory to one another.
In the lobby, Helen’s waiting as always, poised with her tablet and Jean’s breakfast – eggs, spinach, and a scalding red eye to launch her into the day. They go over her itinerary on the ride to the top floor, in a lift perfumed only by lavender carpet shampoo. And Jean settles into her office, reading documents as she eats – until word of a client’s insider trading yanks Jean’s attention from breakfast. Data breaches are an ugly business, confirming the public’s worst fears about fat cat financiers crossing any line for profit. But, whatever else happens, DDH will come out of this smelling like roses.
Afterwards, there’s no hope for her eggs, but plenty for the firm. Jean brings Alexander’s team up to date on the Leonides brief, referring them to frameworks and by-laws drafted for rapidly expanding corporations, designed as a safeguard against every problem they’re capable of imagining – and at least a few they aren’t.
The days that follow are much the same, herding associates and fending off disaster. There was a time when it thrilled Jean – when this was all she wanted. But now it leaves her weary, falling into her king-sized bed by midnight. And when Jean’s tired, she’s vulnerable to thoughts of Ava.
The memory of her doesn’t fade with time. Ava’s there when Jean closes her eyes at night. There when Jean opens her eyes in the morning. There when Jean opens the drawer in her bedside table and slips the vibrator down beneath the covers. Shuddering and sticky-fingered, Jean has no resistance to fantasies ofwhat if.
Jean’s bed has never felt this empty; not since the divorce. And even then, she’d missed the warm bulk of Henry far more than their rare nights of passion. Bearing in mind the old adage – that the best way to get over the last one is with the next one – Jean curls up on the sofa, sips a martini, and swipes through a selection of men. Bankers, executives, civil servants. All her own age and standing. Ideally suited, on paper. But not a single smile intrigues her. Not the way Ava’s knowing grin has got under her skin.
Even work can’t fully snap Jean out of it. Peter suggests a sabbatical without a trace of irony, asking how their team can take time off for burnout if leadership won’t do the same. And Jean makes all the right noises. But inwardly she seethes. Jean’s performance hasn’t suffered from the temporary madness of her personal life, and she hasn’t missed a single step with Leonides. Managing partners don’t step back for a few months; they step up here and now. And it’s Jean whipping the firm into shape while Peter wines and dines clients; Jean managing the Leonides case, ensuring their investigator – Carl – tracks down everything from the money Leonides shelled out through a subsidiary to prevent a paternity lawsuit, to his high turnover of PAs.
On his way from her office, Carl pauses, asks if there’s anything else he can help with. And there’s a moment of madness when Jean is tempted to give him a personal assignment. There’s not much to go on. Ava, low thirties, ethnically ambiguous. She’s some manner of lawyer; lives in a block of flats in Newham. With those details Carl could almost certainly track her down. He’s accepted private commissions from the partners in the past, tailing cheating spouses and tracking down a runaway daughter.
He’s dealt with the tawdry before, and been nothing but discreet. But the thought of explaining her one-night stand with another woman to the taciturn PI… It’s not that Carl would judge. He’s seen all sorts. And his daughter married her long-term girlfriend last summer; Jean herself approved the firm’s gift of cut-crystal champagne flutes. It’s that Carl has only ever known Jean as straight. There was never any evidence to the contrary. And Jean would sooner reach into her own chest and hand over her bloody, still-beating heart than expose that part of herself to an employee’s scrutiny.
Still, Jean regrets not knowing more about Ava. A surname; a place of work. With hindsight she realises they’d have tumbled into bed no matter how she’d steered the conversation – red pill or blue, it mattered not. She bids Carl goodbye and returns to her files.
After work, exactly one week since Ava railed her (Jean had googled the term and given her vibrator an extra workout as she mused on its meaning), Jean returns to Strata. Bogdan’s puzzled by her instructions – there are no meetings in Jean’s calendar, and she’s not the type to stop for nightcaps. At least, not as far as her driver knows – Jean uses Uber for her dates and hook-ups, scrupulously careful to avoid leaving a paper trail via her account with DDH’s car service.
But Jean doesn’t give him a backwards glance, striding into the bar and claiming the same stool where she’d sat waiting before. She orders a dirty martini from the young bartender, still struggling to grow his peach fuzz into a beard, scanning the bar as he prepares it. The booths are all full and the tables joined together for a birthday party – Jean peers between balloons, cranes to see past relatives hugging hello, but there’s no sign of Ava. No irrepressible curls, no eyes alight with mischief, no teasing smile.
Still, the night is young. Jean waits, sipping her drink and scrolling through her emails. Orders another drink as the family behind her are served their main course. It’s possible that night was Ava’s first time in Strata too – that she’d never been before, will never return again. There are thousands of pubs in London. And Ava had seemed spontaneous, bold – not necessarily a creature of habit.
The booths are half empty by the time the family are served cake, Jean on her third martini. She watches as two waitresses carry it out, a roman candle fizzing sparks while three generations sing. The light blurs and Jean turns away, blinking until she’s regained composure.
The bartender hovers, drying a glass. Clears his throat. ‘She’s usually here on Wednesdays.’
Jean lowers her martini. ‘What?’
‘The woman you were… talking to last time. She comes by for Happy Hour.’
Jean gapes, not believing her luck. And the barman must take her silence for confusion – he slides a small blackboard along the counter, times and prices chalked around smiling bottles. And Jean snaps a dutiful photograph. But she doesn’t need it. Already the details are branded onto her mind, a plan taking shape.
‘Thank you,’ she says, sliding a crisp twenty across the counter.
Chapter Four
It’s easy enough finding a man who will agree to a Happy Hour date. Cheap drinks, female companionship, and the possibility of sex – what’s not to love? Frank doesn’t work comparable hours, so he’s readily available at six p.m. on a weekday. But compatibility isn’t foremost in Jean’s mind. At least not with the human shield she has procured – walking, talking plausible deniability. Anything to keep from appearing desperate.
There’s no time to go home and change after work – she’s leaving early enough as it is – so Jean wears a bottle green dress and tan heels to the office. Paired with a blazer it just about passes as a business look. Helen’s the only one brave enough to comment on her outfit, telling Jean she looks irresistible in the lift up. And just this once she’s happy to let the familiarity slide.
Even with two whole hours shaved off, the day crawls by. And Jean scarcely touches her lunch, anticipation coiled tight and heavy as a python in the pit of her belly. She dials in to conference calls, proofs the Leonides policy documents, coaxes Henshall into another round of negotiations. Pushes the knowledge that Ava might not even be there to the back of her mind.
At twenty-past five Jean logs out of her computer, buttons her lime green peacoat, and heads out of the office. Helen wishes her a good evening, her face the picture of innocence.
Peter stops Jean on her way to the lift, squeezing her shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you’re taking our talk about work-life balance on board,’ he says. And Jean grits her teeth in what she hopes will pass for a smile.
By the time she gets to Strata, Frank’s waiting outside. Tall, white, unexceptional. Grizzled hair down to his shoulders, blowing on red hands. His eyes light up as he catches sight of her. ‘Jean! You look even better than you did in the picture.’
‘Thank you.’ Jean says, submitting to a kiss on the cheek. ‘Shall we go inside? I reserved a table.’
