‘Maybe not.’ Ava stares at the tea light as if it contains the secrets of the universe. Twin reflections glimmer bright in her eyes. ‘But you could have been. And he’d get to be more than a sex acquaintance.’
‘I don’t—’ Jean lowers her voice, slides a surreptitious hand across the table until her fingertips brush Ava’s. She looks up at the contact, meeting Jean’s eyes. ‘I don’t want more than an acquaintance.’
Ava swallows. Continues as if Jean hadn’t spoken. ‘He’d get more than one night like this.’
Jean shakes her head, her voice low and urgent. ‘Bernard wouldn’t even get one night like this. Because I have no intention of going home with him. He’s a good man, but he’s not… not my preferred acquaintance material.’
And Ava’s unable to resist the baited hook. ‘You’re coming home with me?’
‘I’d been planning to, before you went allFatal Attraction.’ But there’s no sting to her words, softened by the memory of Ava’s understanding when – in a fit of blind panic – she had parted ways with logic and gone a little Alex Forrest herself. ‘Still will, if you want. Perhaps we both have a little Glenn Close in us.’
‘Maybe.’ Ava’s thumb skims Jean’s knuckles, and every last atom in her body becomes freshly aware of the woman sitting opposite.
But then the waitress arrives to take their empty plates and Jean pulls away, lifting her wineglass to drain the dregs.
Chapter Fourteen
Ava leaves her resentment in the restaurant, and the last of the strangeness between them melts away as they approach the theatre. Ava insists on taking pictures before the glowing marquee, a grinning selfie, and a shot with Jean. ‘For Robert, obviously,’ Ava says when she hesitates. ‘It should be enough to get him off your back about helping me out.’ And though Jean has her doubts about Ava’s motives, she edges into the frame.
Inside the stately old theatre, they join the press of people queuing. Ava flashes their tickets, and the usher points them upstairs. Jean follows her up the red carpeted staircase and through the snaking corridor, down the short flight bisecting the curved rows of seating. It’s easy enough to find their places: front row in the circle, with a perfect view of the stage below. Jean’s unable to resist making an enquiry, ‘How do you feel about Bernard now?’
‘A true prince among men,’ Ava says. ‘I’ll name my firstborn cat after him.’
Jean laughs, her knees pressing against the swell of Ava’s thigh as they let a trio of teenage girls past. ‘No doubt he’ll be honoured. But I thought the cat thing was a stereotype.’
‘Not even a little bit.’ Ava leans in close to be heard over the cacophony of voices, lips grazing the lobe of Jean’s ear. ‘Lesbians love pu—’
‘That’s low-hanging fruit,’ Jean retorts, ignoring the irrepressible tingle between her thighs.
‘Well… if I can’t impress you with my wordplay, how about my snack provision skills?’ Ava rifles in her rucksack. ‘I brought us a Twix each. And jellybeans. For Jellybean.’
Jean’s heart flutters as she accepts the bag, like she’s some blushing seventeen-year-old out on her first real date. ‘There’s no possible way you can eat sweets after a two-course meal.’
‘Bet,’ is all Ava says.
Then the lights dim, and an expectant hush falls over the crowd. Ava sits up straight, watching avidly as the curtain rises, and her anticipation is catching. The music is fun, the lyrics whip smart. But it’s the story that really gets to Jean. A self-made orphan with a thirst to prove himself; a lawyer with the ingenuity to use his profession as a ladder and climb.
Every so often Jean catches Ava staring not at the cast, despite the extraordinary magnetism of their performances, but at her. She’s drinking in Jean’s reactions as surely as the musical itself. And every time, Jean returns her smile before turning back to the stage, self-conscious as she senses Ava’s gaze upon her.
The truth of it is that Jean had expected Ava’s interest to ebb over time, once the thrill of introducing a novice to lesbian desires wore off. To be replaced by a string of nubile new conquests who never sweated through her sheets. Yet here Ava is, taking Jean’s hand under a blanket of shadows. Giving Jean a cutesy nickname and bringing her snacks – which, Jean must admit, are incredibly moreish. And all through their candlelit dinner she’d looked upon Jean with more hunger than at the delicious spread before them.
In any other scenario, this evening would make a perfect date. Ava must be thinking along the same lines, with her talk ofBernardandother nights. And Jean accepts that it’s her own fault for muddying the waters with talk of friendship. Yet, it occurs to her, every previous erosion of the boundaries between them has been Ava’s handiwork.
Jean’s first thought is a threat:If you tell anyone that I cried over a musical, then so help me God…But then the lights come up and Ava’s face is shining with tears too. Jean’s mascara is unsalvageable – waterproof was false advertising. Ever practical, Ava reaches into her rucksack and produces a pack of wet wipes, which Jean gratefully accepts. ‘I may not have been a Scout,’ Ava quips, ‘but I do always try to be prepared.’ And just like that her tears are no longer a source of shame.
It’s easy between them, so easy, on the tube ride from Covent Garden to East Ham. Jean grows animated swapping details about which lyrics they’d enjoyed, which scenes had moved them. On her phone Ava displays a picture of the year she’d gone as Alexander Hamilton to Heaven’s Halloween party, complete with pencilled-on facial hair and a straightened ponytail in the style of Lin-Manuel Miranda. It’s utterly ridiculous, yet there’s something undeniably dashing about Ava in costume.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Jean says. ‘You wore this to a gay venue. Where you were hoping to attract other women?’
Ava’s grin takes on a gloating quality. ‘There was no “hoping” about it. Drag kings are always popular, and Alexander’s reliable with the ladies.’
The tube rocks them, roaring through a dark tunnel. ‘I don’t know how to respond to that.’
‘So, we won’t be doing Hamilton roleplay any time soon. Good to know.’
On the way back to Ava’s, walking through the cool night air, Jean’s jaw aches with the effort of stifling yawn after yawn.
Ava makes a pot of coffee on her little stove – Jean should insist on decaf this late, but there’s no resisting that rich aroma. As Ava brews the grounds, Jean can’t help searching out the details of Hamilton’s life. Later, when her brain isn’t sluggish with sleep, Jean will track down verifiable resources. But – for now – she settles for Wikipedia, squinting at the tiny print.
