Page 9 of Strap In
Frank leads the way, holding the door open for her. And right away the heat wraps around Jean like a duvet.
Happy hour is a popular choice, the hubbub of chatter drowning out that eternal electronic thump disguised as music. Of the few empty tables, it’s easy to guess which is hers – right in the centre, close to the bar, with a panoramic view of the venue. Just as Jean had requested.
If Frank is curious about why she didn’t ask for a booth or at least a table far from the crush of the bar, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he holds out Jean’s chair and asks what she’d like to drink.
The moment he leaves, Jean scans the bar, eyes searching. Her heart leaps, a fish out of water, as she catches sight of Ava. Her head tilts back as she laughs – today the curls are piled on top of her head, held in place with a burgundy scarf, exposing the slender column of her neck.
Sat beside her is a plump white girl with a heart-shaped face, framed by a sleek dark bob. And her eyes are glued to Ava. She tips forward, laughing. Rests a familiar hand on Ava’s shoulder. And it’s still sitting there when Frank returns, blocking Jean’s view.
He sets her martini down on the table and holds out his pilsner.
‘Thanks.’ Jean clinks her glass against his bottle, and swigs her drink. It’s not dirty – Frank forgot the olive juice – but the gin still does the job.
‘Blimey.’ Frank nods to her glass, already half empty. ‘You must be thirsty.’
Jean laughs as if he’s said something witty. ‘Long day at the office,’ she says, lips curving upwards. ‘So, Frank. Tell me about yourself.’
And it works like a charm. Frank waxes lyrical about his paintings, his technique, his upcoming showing at a gallery in Shoreditch. Jean nods and makes sounds of approval in all the right places. But her gaze slides under Frank’s ear, to where Ava’s arm wraps ever so casually around her companion’s shoulders.
Either they’re still laughing at the same joke or something else has amused them. Perhaps Ava’s regaling her date with stories of past conquests; the middle-aged woman who’d asked to be railed then ran away.
Jean’s chest constricts at the thought. The dull roar of chatter, the relentless heat, it’s all too much.
‘You okay?’ Frank’s hand covers her own, slick with sweat.
Jean pulls away. Her eyes lock with Ava’s. She pushes her chair back. ‘Would you excuse me for a minute?’
Without waiting for an answer, Jean pushes through the throng, not looking at Ava’s table as she passes.
The bathroom is mercifully empty. As Jean runs cold water over her hands, the door swings open.
‘Jean.’ In the mirror her eyes are full of concern. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Fine.’ And now Ava’s here, it’s true. Jean breathes in the stale air; steadies herself as she grabs a paper towel. ‘Actually, I hoped I’d bump into you.’
Still Ava lingers by the door. Not going. But not coming any closer either. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ Jean turns, dropping her towel into the bin, looking Ava in the eye. ‘I shouldn’t have left that night. I’m sorry.’
Ava’s silent for a long moment. She tilts her head, considering, a lone curl brushing her cheek. ‘Is that all you wanted to say?’
Jean presses both hands to her stomach to still their shaking. But she doesn’t look away. ‘No.’
The admission’s short, but it costs her, and Ava sees it. She steps closer; near enough to see Jean tremble. Leans in close enough to kiss her. But Ava just smiles. Says: ‘How quickly can you get rid of him?’
After Jean’s disappearance it’s not difficult convincing Frank that she’s ill. An allusion to hot flushes and night sweats is all it takes to deter his attempts at rescheduling. It’s high time the change of life gave Jean something in return, she thinks. Her cheeks warm with a different kind of heat as Jean slips out onto the street, striding along Islington’s broad pavements, unable to believe her own daring.
She lingers by the tube station, opening her phone to scan Alexander’s update on Leonides. But it might as well be written in Greek – Jean reads through the same paragraph three times, taking nothing in. She gives up then, scrolling emails, though the cold makes her fingers clumsy.
Jean shifts from foot to foot on her heels, scanning the steady flow of commuters streaming into the station. Her signature red soles lend Jean an extra four inches of height, and a sharp feminine edge that saysdon’t fuck with me.
Perhaps Ava means to stand her up. Repay the slight of being walked out on that first night. It’s exactly what Jean would have done, once upon a time. And she can’t help but admire the calculated savagery, even as disappointment cuts through her with the glacial sharpness of the January wind. But just as Jean opens the Uber app, a flash of burgundy catches her eye.
Ava jogs towards her pink-cheeked, aided by the practicality of those combat boots. And Jean’s heart swells. ‘You certainly took your time,’ is all she says.
‘Sorry. I felt guilty ditching Zara – she’s nice.’
‘Then why didn’t you stay with her?’ The words carry an acid sting Jean hadn’t fully intended.
