Only then does it occur to Jean she missed dinner. She devours her sandwich, lining her stomach for a fresh round of painkillers, as they outline every possible scenario. Leonides could press charges for Hugo’s assault and go public, attempting to take control of the narrative. Rhona could choose to press charges against their client. Rhona could agree to sign an NDA, becoming wealthy in her own right overnight. Or she could go to Leonides’ enemies in the press – theGuardianor theNew Statesman. There’s also the scorched earth scenario: Leonides makes a very public exit, bad-mouthing the firm and taking an infinite supply of billable hours to a rival. If DDH stays silent, the firm looks weak, but if they comment publicly on a former client, unprofessional enough to alienate prospective business.
But Jean can’t think about that right now, the fight to keep her victory from turning to ash. Her mind is too full of the ache, that gaping white bathrobe, Rhona sobbing like a child in her arms.
‘I’m not going to lean on her,’ Jean says. ‘Whatever Rhona chooses.’
‘And I wouldn’t ask you to.’
Dawn’s creeping over the horizon by the time they finish, the sky shifting from black to blue like an old bruise. All that remains is for Jean to confess her own guilt. ‘This is my fault, Peter. I told her to work more independently; that she had to stop running every little decision by me if she was ever going to stand on her own two feet.’
‘It really isn’t. You handled that situation admirably, and met our duty of care to Rhona.’ Peter rubs his knuckles against his eyelids. ‘In retrospect it was so obviously a set up – to have Nowicki there so that Rhona would feel safe, then conveniently disappear when it was time for Leonides to sink his claws in. But it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to charge across London and rescue her in time.’
‘I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.’
‘You’re very kind, Jean. But you are selling yourself short.’ Peter leans forward, earnest now. ‘You did something extraordinary in going to Rhona. You protected her, even though it couldn’t have been easy.’
Jean has to look away, then. ‘Perhaps it was time I made amends.’
‘You can’t keep blaming yourself for that.’
‘Of course I can,’ Jean says, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Though generous, DDH’s healthcare package doesn’t cover emergency medicine – so there’s nothing for it but to have Bogdan drop her at hospital on the way back from Peter’s. He offers to wait, but Jean’s eaten into enough of his weekend, even with overtime. There’s little to do except look at her phone as the minutes tick by – Urgent Care, it turns out, is something of a misnomer.
She texts Rhona, typing out and erasing multiple drafts of a message until striking the right balance of professional tact and personal support, all the slower for her left hand’s clumsiness. They message back and forth until Rhona has a plan of action for telling her parents – even while drowning in her own sorrows, the junior associate remains unfailingly kind.
I hope you have someone in your corner too, Ms Howard.
And Jean knows precisely who to call. In that moment it’s so obvious, so simple.
Ava picks up on the third ring, and Jean’s eyes prickle at the warmth of her greeting. ‘Hey, Jellybean! What’s new?’
‘Nothing good.’ Jean’s throat thickens, her eyes blurring. Everyone else is too wrapped up in their own drama to care, but she feels utterly ridiculous, tearing up like a character in a soap opera. ‘There was an… accident. I’m alright except for my wrist – they’re going to x-ray it.’
She’s still trying to puzzle out an acceptable way of asking to set aside the terms of their arrangement for a day when Ava speaks: ‘Where are you?’
Jean names the hospital, slumping back against her seat, teeth gritted against the pain. She breathes deep and slow, in and out, imagining each one as the wall of a square – Dr Byrne’s old exercise for moments of overwhelm. Then Ava’s there, faster than Jean could have imagined possible, jogging into the waiting room. Their eyes lock across the rows of chairs, and Jean’s heart seems to levitate, lighter than it’s been since the moment Hugo walked into her office.
Ava rounds the rows of seats and crouches before Jean, openly drinking in every detail. ‘Hey! What happened to your wrist? Are you okay?’
‘Don’t worry; I told you, it’s nothing serious.’ For just a moment, Jean lets herself rest a hand on Ava’s shoulder. But an unbearable longing fills her ribcage. And Jean pulls away before she forgets herself.
Ava reaches up to touch her own shoulder; the place where, moments before, Jean’s fingers had sat. She closes her eyes, and for the briefest of moments Jean sees her own sorrow echoed on Ava’s face. Her hair’s combed back into a ponytail, her face, bare arms, and t-shirt all speckled with indigo paint – only then does Jean remember that she’d planned to help her sister decorate the Clark family’s new home this weekend.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jean says, for the interruption and much more besides. ‘You were busy – I shouldn’t have called.’
‘Don’t be silly, Jean! You’re hurt – of course I came.’ She takes the neighbouring seat, undeterred.
‘I’m fine – really. I don’t even think it’s broken.’ Gingerly, Jean lifts her arm for Ava’s inspection.
‘Jesus. That looks sore.’ Ava sucks in a breath as she takes in the swelling, the unmistakable bracelet of fingerprints bruised mauve. ‘How did it happen?’
Jean breathes in air stale with sickness, disinfectant, and canteen food. ‘That I can’t tell you.’
Ava’s tone changes, shifting into something Jean’s never heard before; something utterly at odds with her usual warmth: fury. ‘Who hurt you?’
‘I can’t talk about any of it until we figure out how to proceed.’
‘What’s there to figure out?’ But Ava’s eyes narrow, and a second later she answers her own question. ‘Did aclientput his hands on you? Fucking hell, Jean!’
