Rhona warms to her topic, enthusiasm matching knowledge. Even the jocular doubts of Wexler, whose family wealth sprung from Texan oil fields, aren’t enough to throw her off the scent. Nowicki murmurs something, and Leonides nods approval.
Jean flashes the junior associate a rare smile as she fields questions. Though nobody could accuse Rhona’s suit of being stylish, it is at least well-tailored. And with her hair pinned back in a bun, Rhona has every appearance of a woman growing to be comfortable in her own skin. In this way Jean will grow the firm, beyond what Will Decker ever imagined possible.
Ava’s proposal of working together proves a godsend; those companionable hours are her only incentive to leave the office. Ava’s energy grants her a second wind. With the months dwindling away to weeks before Ava leaves ACWRC for good, she’s tying up loose ends while laying the groundwork for her future, as well as running herself ragged with overtime to compensate for her guilt over leaving. In spare moments, Jean can’t resist helping – redrafting an email to sound more authoritative, providing introductions with firms likely to donate time and resources, and the less quantifiable task of holding faith when Ava is plagued by doubt.
There are nights when they lose themselves in each other, and just as many when they curl up together, exhausted. As those nights together stack up, Jean can’t resist the tug of responsibility, a compulsion to keep Ava from subsisting on Twixes and Monster Energy drinks. During a late-night call with Peter, Jean fries them up a mushroom omelette – simple yet filling, and far less fattening than Iri’s fare. Ava wolfs it down so eagerly that Jean takes to cooking for them, always adding a third portion to the fridge in the hope Ava will consume at least one vegetable in the time they’re apart. It works, too – even the Tupperware filled with spinach and garlic sits gleaming on the draining board by her next visit.
On weekends Ava insists they get up and out, strolling around Plashet Park or meandering through East Ham Nature Reserve, savouring the churchyard quiet of St Mary Magdalene. To her surprise, Jean adores the latter – an unlikely reprieve from London’s relentless urgency. She takes a morbid pleasure in finding the graves of those lost aboard the Titanic. And though the headstones are weathered, the church crumbling, new life is relentless even in the face of decay. Tiny chiffchaffs flit from branch to branch among the plush green leaves. Bluebells carpet the ground and perfume the air.
The reprieve from texts and calls, emails and Slack channels, is golden. There is no particular need for Jean to be anything other than present in this soft intimacy; a closeness that binds them even without hand-holding or kisses. Though there are moments when Jean catches herself slipping; wishing for the possessive warmth of Ava’s palm against her back, but in public Ava’s restraint is meticulous.
And yet, in private moments, the solidifying friendship between them enables Ava to grow bold. ‘Can I ask you something?’
Jean looks up from her document, taking off her reading glasses to scrub tired eyes. ‘Evidently: you just did.’
But Ava doesn’t meet snark with snark – and her pensive expression alerts Jean to the fact that something bigger is coming. Sure enough: ‘No, I meant… something personal.’
Wary, Jean saves her progress, though she doesn’t close the laptop – work may yet prove a welcome refuge. ‘Such as?’
‘We’ve done a lot of stuff, right?’
‘You’ll have to be more specific.’
‘Things you hadn’t tried before.’ Ava licks her lips. ‘But things you enjoy.’
Every act a revelation, Jean thinks.No use denying it.‘Go on.’
‘But we’re also… friends. So, can I ask you something? With my friend hat on?’
‘You could have asked me several somethings by now.’
Again, the barb merely glances off Ava. She clicks her pen open and closed against the tabletop. ‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about. Specifically, why you never want me going down on you.’
Heat scalds Jean’s cheeks, though when she presses her fingertips against the blush Jean’s skin remains smooth, unblistered. ‘That’s not a friend question.’
Ava shrugs, the strap of her camisole slipping down a smooth bare shoulder. ‘Sure it is. Women talk about sex with their friends. Classic female bonding ritual.’
‘Well, yes.’ Jean clicks open a new window, but doesn’t add anything to the Google Doc. ‘Platonic friends. Not the female friends they’re also having sex with.’
Ava’s brows climb. ‘Oh, so you’re an expert in sapphic friendships now?’
A look is all it takes to blunt that mocking edge. Whatever else has shifted underneath the surface, at least Jean has that to fall back on.
‘Okay, okay. But you can ask for things. You know that, right?’
The concern knitting her brows together is genuine, yet Jean can’t help but laugh. ‘I never have to, not with you. This is complicated for me, in so many ways, but – in that regard – you make it very simple.’
‘If you don’t want to, I’ll respect that. Of course I will.’ Ava picks at the laminated corner of a placemat. ‘But this is a first for me too. I’ve never been with a woman that didn’t want…’
‘Well, you could always find another sex acquaintance if you feel something’s missing.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ Ava says, voice deliberately even. ‘And I think you know that.’
‘Yes. I do.’
A beat.
‘Look, don’t take it personally. I never enjoyed that.’ Jean’s gaze remains fixed on the blinking cursor. She doesn’t want to see pity or any of its cousins peering at her from soulful brown eyes. ‘Why do you care so much, anyway? It’s not like you get anything out of it.’
