‘You sure?’ Ava pulls back far enough to look at her closely, teasing and not. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
‘Ah,’ says Jean. ‘But satisfaction brought it back.’
Chapter Two
Jean has her card ready when the driver pulls up outside a tower of flats. She taps it against the reader, ignoring Ava’s protests, and steps out into the cool night air. But from there she’s lost – Jean hasn’t set foot in East London for a decade, and has no idea which block Ava even lives in. And she is still finding her bearings when a pack of young men approach, hoods up, filling the air with obscenities.
The taxi pulls away before she can reconsider. Jean tenses, phone clutched tight in her hand.
And Ava’s hand comes to rest in the small of her back. She shouts back at a youth, undaunted. ‘You kiss your mother with that mouth, Daniel Avery?’
Daniel kisses his teeth. ‘You suck your mother with that one?’
The cacophony of laughter confirms Jean’s worst suspicions about that charming little phrase.
‘Say that shit to me again and I’ll suckyourmother.’ Ava fishes keys from her pocket as she speaks, unhurried. ‘I’ll suck herpumpumso good you’ll be my stepson by summer.’
Daniel turns beet red. The group of young men fall about laughing, shoving and jeering at him, whoops echoing long after they’re out of sight. And Jean realises they’re boys really, for all that swagger, more bark than bite.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Ava, unlocking the door and holding it open. ‘They’re harmless really. But if you don’t stand up to them, they think they can get away with anything.’
‘You’ve got quite a tongue.’
Ava summons the lift and leans close. ‘Stick around and I’ll show you what else it can do.’
The pit of Jean’s belly goes tight with want. On weak legs she follows Ava into the lift. Its walls are covered in graffiti and – though there are no obvious puddles – the lift carries the distinctive reek of piss.
Catching sight of herself in the fluorescent lighting, pale and shiny-faced, Jean wonders what the hell she’s doing here. It’s the sort of encounter that might be spun into a funny story for the girls over brunch – except for the sex of her conquest. Jean has no intention of coming out to them over mimosas, or at all.
Though Jean attempts to keep her expression neutral, Ava must read some uncertainty. She strokes Jean’s back through the wool of her coat and says: ‘Don’t worry. My flat’s nicer than this. Scout’s honour.’
Jean cracks a thin smile. Then the lift lurches to a halt. Though Jean follows Ava out into a corridor, mercifully piss-free, it’s as if her stomach remains in the lift, plummeting towards the ground floor.
Then Ava opens her door, painted deep red, and Jean follows her inside. Though she’d never been a Scout, Ava was telling the truth about her flat. They’re standing in a tiny living room opening into the kitchen. The smell of spices permeates the air, traces of cooking detectable beneath the warm vanilla of candles.
The walls are cream, adorned with prints by artists Jean doesn’t recognise – all of it brightly coloured, and all featuring Black women. There’s a compact dining table and four chairs, all painted sunny yellow. Gauze curtains cover the balcony, strips of fairy lights hanging down from the pole, casting a gentle glow over the room. Ava lingers by the door, uncertain, even though they’re in her home.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Jean says, entirely truthful. And the tension melts from Ava’s shoulders.
‘Thanks!’ Ava shrugs off her blazer, folding it over the back of a chair, and holds out a hand for Jean’s. ‘Would you like some coffee? Or would you prefer a tour?’
A tour can only mean one thing. There are two doors – one must be the bathroom, and the other Ava’s bedroom.
Jean kicks off her heels and slips out of her coat, letting it pool on the floor. Takes one step, then another, closing the space between them. Looking directly into Ava’s eyes she says: ‘Give me the tour.’
Then it’s impossible to say who bridges that final gap. Ava’s lips are on hers, gentle, searching. And Jean understands what it is then, to be with a woman who steals your breath away. Her lips part as she gasps for air. And Ava’s tongue glides against hers.
Jean clings to Ava’s shoulders, uncertain that her knees alone can hold her. And Ava’s hands are everywhere, stroking her hair, caressing Jean’s hips, cupping her cheek. It’s as if she’s hungry for the feel of Jean, desperate to touch every part of her. Emboldened, Jean pushes Ava towards the nearest door – the one she presumes is the bedroom, and it must be, because Ava takes her hand and pulls Jean through to another room lit by fairy lights.
There’s a double bed nestled against the wall, neatly made; an Ikea wardrobe and dresser; a bookshelf rammed with paperbacks and weighty law tomes. It’s snug but clean; cosy and comfortable. The best-case scenario for a one-night stand.
Jean’s relief lasts until Ava reaches for the light switch. Swiftly, Jean covers her hand. ‘Don’t.’
A question forms on Ava’s lips and Jean kisses it clean away. Then, somehow, they’re perched on the edge of the mattress. Ava’s hands, slow and sure, skimming the contours of her body. And Jean melts into her touch. Gasps as a thumb swipes across her nipple. Both of them, Jean realises, are rock solid; straining against the lace of her bra. The force of her own want leaves Jean weak.
Then Ava cups her face with unexpected tenderness, caressing the sharp edge of Jean’s cheekbones. Her fingers burrow into Jean’s hair as their lips meet, again and again. And she pulls the combs free with a gentle, practiced ease. Jean’s hair tumbles loose around her shoulders, and Ava looks at her with unguarded desire. Kisses Jean’s mouth, her cheek, her throat. Ava’s voice is barely more than a whisper, breath hot as a brand against Jean’s neck as she says: ‘I’d really like to undress you.’
And Jean laughs at her enthusiasm, until she realises it’s a question. Ava’s hands have stilled their exploration. ‘Be my guest,’ says Jean.
