‘It’s perfect,’ Jean says, sitting down and helping Ava unload the piping hot Styrofoam containers. As Jean catches the scent of spices and vinegar, her stomach gives a yearning clench. ‘Really. But you didn’t have to get me dinner. At least let me pay you back.’
Ava shakes her head, curls bouncing. ‘No need. Iri gives me a special discount.’
‘Oh.’ Jean pauses with a drumstick halfway to her mouth as a thought occurs to her. Neither she nor Ava had stipulated an exclusivity clause – there’s no reason, she reminds herself, that Ava shouldn’t have other lovers. ‘Are you and she…?’
Ava cracks up, almost spitting out her Sprite. ‘No!’ she says when the coughing fit passes. ‘Iri’s the straightest woman you’ll ever meet. But when she wanted to open a second shop, there was a problem with planning permission, so I helped out.’
‘I see.’ Jean bites into her chicken with relish, ignoring Ava’s amused expression as she devours the perfectly spiced meat.
‘Don’t worry, Jellybean. I’m not giving you the community strap.’
It’s Jean’s turn to choke then. She’s never heard that expression before but has no trouble discerning its meaning. Her eyes water, the pepper and paprika catching in her throat. Ava pours Sprite into her glass and Jean gulps at it, thankful – but not enough to let the nickname slide. ‘Jellybean?’
‘You know.’ Ava tips more chips onto both their plates. ‘Tiny Jean. Jellybean.’
Jean’s eyes narrow into the glare that makes even seasoned associates sweat.
But Ava simply shrugs. ‘I thought it was cute. You know, most women would take that as a compliment. Sweet, delicious, fun to eat…’
‘I’m not most women.’
‘No,’ Ava says. ‘You’re one of a kind.’
Jean’s cheeks radiate heat, and she hopes Ava will simply chalk it up to her coughing fit or the spiciness of their chicken. Her brain reaches, haphazardly, for any topic that will steer them towards safer territory. ‘So, your sister—’ Inwardly, Jean curses menopause brain. Family is hardly a more casual topic. ‘Is she a lawyer too?’
If Ava’s perplexed by this shift in conversation, she doesn’t show it. ‘Doctor. A cardiothoracic surgeon. Which is just as well.’
‘Why?’
‘You know that Gina Yashere joke about Nigerian kids only getting four career choices?’ Ava ticks them off on her fingers. ‘Doctor, lawyer, engineer, or disappointment. And we never could have gone into the same field – too competitive.’
‘Well, your parents must be equally proud.’
‘Not quite. Dad’s the typical white hippyI-don’t-care-so-long-as-you’re-happytype.’ Beneath the mocking, there’s unmistakable fondness in her voice. ‘But Mum would have preferred me to go commercial. She doesn’t get why anybody would spend six years studying just to end up making struggle money at the Afro-Caribbean Women’s Rights Centre.’
Privately Jean understands those concerns. But it’s not her place to voice them. ‘What does that involve?’
‘A mix of things. Giving women legal information, advice, representation… More often than not, they wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise. We mainly support survivors of domestic violence and sanctuary-seeking women.’ Ava dips a chip in ketchup, not looking at Jean. ‘It can be difficult. But fulfilling.’
Jean knows herself to be lacking in the selflessness such a career requires. The daily drudgery of a job without prestige or personal assistants, overworked and undercompensated for it, with no clear path to professional advancement… Yet the stakes are high with every client, the consequences of failure cataclysmic. This work must feed Ava’s mind as well as her spirit. ‘It sounds like you make an incredible difference in your clients’ lives. Your mother must be proud.’
‘Yeah.’ A shrug. ‘But she’s still pissed off that I’m not going to give her grandchildren. Aaliyah’s got me permanently beat on the domestic front – a husband and two beautiful kids.’
The question slips out before Jean has time to measure her words – something of Ava’s spontaneity is clearly catching. And she’s wondered, from time to time, whether Ava’s ardent desire for an older woman might not be connected to some sort of mother wound. ‘Does she mind, that you’re…?’
‘A lesbian?’ Ava rolls her eyes. ‘Saying it isn’t going to make you one, Jean. But no, Mum’s cool. She, Dad, and Aaliyah marched at Pride with me the year I came out. Mum’s even set up a community group in her church, encouraging parents to support their gay kids.’
Jean blinks. It’s not that she’d assumed homophobia was specific to Black families; rather, it hadn’t occurred to her that acceptance might be so straightforward for anyone. Especially not with the church involved. She tears into another drumstick – though Jean’s rapidly approaching full, the tender meat is irresistible.
‘What about you?’ Ava tilts her head, curious. ‘Any family?’
Even now, the question catches Jean off guard. She delays by popping another chip into her mouth, and takes her time chewing. ‘I have a sister. Bridget. Nine years older than me.’
‘And are you close?’
‘No.’ It would have pained their parents, Jean is certain, had they lived. But then if they had survived, Bridget wouldn’t have felt so trapped, being mother and father to a little sister when she was still in need of both herself. ‘We don’t have much in common.’
Ava’s still looking at her. And Jean realises that she has offered altogether too little in exchange for the confidences placed in her. ‘Bridget’s a housewife in Devon. President of her local WI Chapter. Very Jam and Jerusalem.’
