‘Blimey.’ Cora fills the sink with soapy water. ‘I hadn’t realised Aiden would be such a sore subject. I’d just assumed that because they’re round about the same age, they might know one another.’
Though Cora has come dizzyingly close to the truth, still she remains blind to it. And Jean ought to be relieved – it is, after all, the best-case scenario. But all she feels is weariness. ‘I’m going to lie down,’ she says, putting the ice Ava made into a sandwich bag and holding a handle with her teeth to tie it shut.
She pads out of the kitchen, every step a throb in her wrist.
‘You’re like a bull in a china shop,’ Ginny hisses, just audible above the extractor fan.
Cora makes a noise of disgust, not bothering to lower her voice, words following Jean up the stairs: ‘Yes, yes. But I want to know what happened there. Did Jean steal that girl’s boyfriend? Is that why she’s helping Ava out, to ease a guilty conscience?’
Jean doesn’t stick around long enough to hear the response, closing the bedroom door behind her. She fumbles her phone in the one-handed attempt to unlock it, calling Ava on speed dial, heart in her throat as it rings.
And rings.
Ava could be on the underground, Jean reasons.
And rings.
Perhaps she’s put her headphones on, walking through the city centre. There is always music in Ava’s flat; it’s like water or air to her.
And cuts out.
Or maybe she’s plain angry. It’s a theory that bears out when Jean wakes that evening, dry-mouthed and aching. She dials Ava again. But the call goes straight to voicemail. Twice more Jean tries before giving up – she can take a hint. Though Jean does leave a text:
I’m sorry. Can we talk?
That depends. Sorry about what you did, or sorry you got caught?
Caught, as in red-handed. Caught, as if Jean has committed some type of crime.
I couldn’t have been clearer about my situation. And I’m sorry todaywas difficult, but my friends can never know.
There’s a difference between not telling your friends about me andmaking up a male lover. If you can’t see that, there’s no point takingthis conversation further.
Jean’s thumb jabs the screen, typing and deleting.That’s totally out of…No.You’re blowing this whole thing…Too confrontational. In the end, she settles on:
It’s not that big a deal. Nothing has changed.
She waits, face lit by the screen’s pale glow. But the three bouncing dots do not appear, though Ava has read the message.
Chapter Nineteen
After that Ava doesn’t take Jean’s calls. And when Jean texts suggesting that they meet up, she’s met with monosyllabic refusals.
Can’t.
Work.
No.
There’s nothing easily refuted; with a mere fortnight left at ACWRC, Ava’s no doubt swamped, too conscientious by far to leave anything half-finished. But no matter how busy Ava was in the past, she’d always had time for Jean – even on the nights they’d sat working side by side, absorbed in their own tasks, Ava’s care had been palpable in the endless cups of tea and kisses dropped atop her head. All of that is gone now, hidden behind a wall of impenetrable silence.
From that dreadful moment of premonition before Cora resurrected her phantom lover, Aiden, Jean had known Ava would take it badly. But she couldn’t leave any room for doubt to creep in. Couldn’t risk being outed by ambiguity. And if Ava can’t see that, she’s not as open-minded as she evidently believes.
Jean will not beg for scraps of her time or attention. She won’t plead. Won’t make herself contemptible. But a soft, secret part of her buried deep inside Jean’s chest wants to – that’s the scary thing. Knowing how easy it would be to surrender. Every day without contact, the prospect grows sweeter.
It’s almost a relief, throwing herself into damage control. All-consuming work that requires laser focus and a pristine attention to detail. Long days spent in the war room, snatching only a few scant hours of sleep at night when the painkillers kick in.
And yet, in spite of the sleep deprivation, Jean is buzzing. Adrenaline fizzes through her veins like sugar – she wonders if this is how Thatcher or Napoleon felt, their power feeding itself in a perfect circuit. Every decision she makes has far-reaching consequences, and always it is necessary to think twelve moves ahead. How Wexler might parry, what could be gained, what risks being lost as a result, and on and on and on.
