‘You wouldn’t be intruding.’ Jean tries to say more with her eyes, but still Ava won’t meet them. ‘Not at all.’
‘There – it’s settled.’ Cora chivvies them out into the afternoon, where even London’s polluted air tastes fresh after the hospital. ‘Besides, we could use an extra pair of hands to whip up freezable dinners for Jean.’
It’s the last thing Jean would have chosen, to have her secret lover and two of her oldest friends who are capable of seeing right through her, all in the same place. Yet she can’t bring herself to regret Ava’s quiet presence – and not only because the tramadol has buoyed her up above anxiety’s reach.
Ava’s practical, decanting both ice trays into sandwich bags and refilling them with water so that Jean will have a ready supply to treat the sprain. And though Ava’s eyes are bright with curiosity as she takes in Jean’s home, she exercises that iron self-restraint and refrains from handling Jean’s photographs and mementos. Briefly, she fingers the fridge magnet depicting gondolas in Venice. And Jean remembers details of her honeymoon she hasn’t shared with anyone; how, even as a new bride, sleeping with Henry had been something she tolerated – like brushing her teeth before bed or filing taxes on time.
Ava minces garlic, chops onions and peppers and assorted meats, an uncomplaining sous chef for Imogen. Even now, Jean can’t help but admire the strength and sureness of her hands. Before Ava, she’d been blind to that subtle eroticism, and so much more.
From her perch by the island, Jean encourages Ava to share her vision with Imogen and Cora, and it’s a pleasure simply to listen. The painkillers have well and truly hit her bloodstream, leaving Jean mellow as if she’d had wine with lunch. Best to say little when she’s like this. It’s easy enough smiling whenever one of them looks at her, to ward off fears that she’s dwelling on the previous day – though Jean can see Ava doesn’t entirely buy it, from her furtive stares. That perceptiveness, her knack for reading Jean, extends well beyond the bedroom.
Despite Ava’s doubts, she joins with Imogen and Cora in plying Jean with tea and light chatter; in this bright kitchen, surrounded by women who care about her, the horrors of yesterday begin to recede. It’s as close to okay as Jean can possibly hope for. Until Cora speaks.
‘So,’ she says, dropping bay leaves into the fragrant stew and stirring. ‘Ava. Do you happen to know any young men?’
Dread runs a chill finger from the back of Jean’s neck to the base of her spine. She sits up straight. ‘Don’t, Cora. You’ll make her uncomfortable.’
Cora’s head tilts, avian. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable, Ava?’
‘No… I have a nephew. Theodore. He’s seven now, and already beating me at chess.’ A shrug. ‘Beyond that, not my area of expertise.’
‘It wasn’t a nephew I had in mind.’
‘Cora,’ Jean begins, mouth suddenly dry.
Ginny steps between her and Ava, lifting a spoon for Cora to taste. ‘What do you think? It needs something else – more salt or red wine?’
‘Both.’ Cora turns to face the stove, sprinkling Himalayan rock salt over the beef and stirring in a generous dash of cabernet sauvignon. And though it’s obvious she’s just building up to something, Jean’s mind is a blank – she can think of nothing to stop it from happening. Sure enough, moments later: ‘You don’t happen to know a fellow called Aiden, do you?’
Ava’s head rears back, surprise scrunching her features. ‘No… Should I?’
‘You mean Jean hasn’t told you?’ Cora tips in the butter beans. ‘I thought she’d be bragging about it to everyone.’
‘Cora, that’s enough.’ This time her voice is sharp enough to cut through the conversation.
‘Oh, lighten up Euphemia. When you’re having so much more fun than me, it’s only right that I should get to tease you a little.’ Cora’s smile is wolfish as she refills her wine glass.
‘I’m not having much fun at the moment.’ It’s true: sweat prickles against Jean’s back, pinches beneath her arms.
Ginny’s eyes flit between them like it’s a tennis match, missing nothing.
‘Perhaps not now. But you still have your boy toy.’ She sidles up to Ava, confidential. ‘Jean’s been dangling him over our heads for months. This lad she’s been seeing, in his thirties.’
Jean sees it, the moment understanding breaks across Ava’s face – the flicker of hurt before her expression goes blank. ‘Ava, it’s not—’
‘That’s great, Jean. Good for you.’ Ava’s lips give a spasmodic twitch. ‘The stew’s nearly finished, and the lasagne’s in the oven – I’d better get going.’
‘You really don’t have to,’ Jean says, pain jolting through her wrist as she hops down from the stool.
But Ava tugs the apron over her head, not stopping even when its loop gets caught in her hair, just yanking herself free.
‘Yeah, I do.’ Ava steps around her, pocketing her phone and shouldering her tote. ‘I’m supposed to be watching my niblings this evening. Leah and Simon never get enough time to themselves – both surgeons with two kids under ten.’
Only Jean herself knows that Ava came straight from Aaliyah’s to the hospital, yet her words are clearly stamped with the hallmark of a lie, too much information freely given – any lawyer knows as much. Ginny’s watching Ava with concern. ‘At least let me drive you. I could—’
‘No!’ Ava forces a smile. ‘You’ve both been very kind, and I’m glad you’re taking care of Jean, but the underground’s faster. Bye.’
Jean’s still searching for the perfect combination of words to make Ava understand without giving herself away when the door bangs shut. And Ava is gone, leaving only a faint trace of her cedar scent, but even that’s soon lost to the kitchen’s steam.
