It’s dark by the time Jean arrives home. She fixes herself a drink that’s gin as much as tonic, savouring the burn in her throat as she climbs the stairs. In the bedroom she kicks off her shoes and pads through to the bathroom. It’s the size of Ava’s entire open plan living and kitchen area, tiled in Italian marble with underfloor heating.
The shower’s spacious enough for three grown men, not that Jean has ever felt inclined to try it – since Henry walked out, she’s never sought a serious replacement for the His end of the His-and-Hers basins. Instead, her own toiletries and cosmetics have taken over the entire counter. Yet while the bathroom was designed with every possible material comfort in mind, its walls have never echoed with laugher or sighs.
Still, there’s a pleasure here that Ava’s spartan bathroom is incapable of delivering. Jean sets her glass down on the tub’s rim; twists the plug mechanism and turns on the hot tap. As the water gushes into the bath, she pours in a generous dash of oil, eucalyptus and lavender, fresh and cleansing.
Jean peels off her blazer, unbuttons her blouse, unzips her dress. Sets her jewellery down on the dark marble counter. She rolls off her tights and kicks them onto the heap of forgotten clothes. In her underwear Jean perches on the edge of the tub, drinking and trailing her fingers through whorls of steam as it fills. Only when it can take no more without spilling over does Jean turn off the tap, the metal slick with condensation.
The thick blanket of silence is precious after all the words crammed into her day. Jean shimmies out of her underwear, tugs her bra free, and knocks back the rest of her drink. With the back of her hand she scrubs away the drip trailing down her chin. Then, not giving herself time to balk, Jean steps into the bath. One foot then the other, before her brain has time to register the heat.
Sweat beads on her forehead. Inch by inch she lowers herself into the tub, and there’s no room in her head for anything save the burn licking up her calves, her knees, her thighs. Teeth grind, bone against bone, as she crouches; dipping buttocks, belly, the swell of her breast. Every second, Jean reminds herself, is a victory. Not only proof of her own steel-plated will, but a reclaiming of her body.
She stays in for a full half hour, scrubbing every inch of skin until she’s pink as a newborn. The water’s perfectly pleasant by the time Jean pulls the plug. Only now does she allow her body any tenderness, patting herself dry with a fluffy bath towel and smoothing cool aloe vera moisturiser into her skin.
Jean dons satin pyjamas, every movement a caress as the material whispers against her skin. In bed, cocooned in the goose-down duvet, she gives her emails and messages a customary check. After all, crisis may strike at any moment. But there’s nothing that can’t wait until morning. Then, with the same anticipatory buzz of reaching into her bedside drawer, Jean unlocks her personal phone.
There are two messages from Ava.
9:08:
Thinking of you today. Hope the service goes well x
21:57:
Want to come over tomorrow? I’ll be home from six p.m.?
Jean’s heart kicks against her ribcage. The timestamp is less than ten minutes ago. It takes two tries for her thumb to hit the phone icon beside Ava’s name. An eternity yawns between that moment and the first ring. And it occurs to Jean that Ava might not pick up – either because she doesn’t hear the phone, or doesn’t want to spend the remainder of her Saturday night talking about a funeral of all things. Then Jean’s name will show up red on her call log, irrefutable proof of this moment of weakness.
But Ava picks up on the third ring. ‘Hey Jellybean, how are you doing?’
‘I’d be better if you stopped calling me that infernal nickname.’ Yet even as she says it Jean relaxes against the pillows and cushions, putting Ava on speaker and balancing the phone on her knees.
‘Oh, please. You love it.’ A beat. ‘But really, are you alright?’
‘Fine.’ The fact she’s calling at all contradicts that claim. ‘But the funeral… the church was full, but it felt empty. I’d expected…’
‘That’s understandable,’ Ava says, not understanding at all. ‘It’s still a recent loss. Give yourself time to grieve and process.’
There is no way Jean can explain to sunny, straightforward Ava that she does not mourn Will Decker. Not without exposing the shadowy, twisted aspects of herself. ‘I’d rather not talk about it. Tell me about your day?’
Ava’s silent for several seconds. And without being able to see her face, it’s impossible to gauge her reaction. Jean’s on the cusp of apologising and hanging up when she speaks. ‘It was quiet. But good. I went to the gym then met an old client for lunch – she moved into a flat with her girlfriend and their kids. I’ll miss that part of the AWCRC, seeing women flourish. But afterwards I spent the day working on CJC stuff, and it’s all coming together.’
‘What stuff? Did you choose an assistant yet?’
‘Yeah, Beth’s perfect. It’s finding office space that’s a struggle.’ Ava’s sigh crackles through the speakers. ‘The estate agent doesn’t give a shit – it’s small potatoes to him, and I guess I should be grateful he squeezed me in on a Saturday, but nothing he’d found fit my briefandbudget.’
‘If the estate agent is failing to meet your expectations, use another. Try Chanter Pryce. Insist on Judith. Tell her I sent you.’
The click of a keyboard. And a subtle intake of breath. ‘Jean, I appreciate the thought… But this is miles beyond what I can afford, and they’d never be interested.’
‘They will. Judith owes me a favour.’ Several, for the miracle she’d performed keeping Martin Chanter out of trouble with the FCA. ‘Look, I’ll write an email introducing you in the morning.’
‘Alright. That would be great.’ Still, Ava sounds uncertain. ‘I know Robert asked, but you really don’t have to keep helping me.’
‘I know. But I want to.’ And it’s true: all of Ava’s needs are straightforward, even if she doesn’t see it. So easily within Jean’s reach. There’s nothing difficult about connecting and directing – it’s a delicious novelty, pulling strings for someone utterly unmotivated by greed.
‘Well, thanks all the same.’
‘No problem.’ Jean sinks down into the mattress, setting her phone on the pillow.
