‘Yes!’ Jean has to push the word out past the blockage in her throat, and it comes out more forcefully than she intends. ‘That would be – yes. Saturday is perfect.’
‘Cool. I’ll drop the kids off at Al’s on the way. Say half six?’
‘I can’t promise haute cuisine – I’m still wearing this stupid splint half the time. But there’ll be good wine.’ Jean’s lips curve upwards – if Ava is to forgive her, this will seal the deal. ‘And I think you’ll enjoy dessert.’
‘Jean Euphemia Howard. Are you propositioning me?’
‘No!’ Jean’s face burns, though the sun has dipped beneath the roof – she has very deliberately not tried to seduce Ava into forgiveness. ‘There really is dessert. Get your mind out of the gutter!’
Laughter bubbles through the line, pouring over Jean like champagne.
Chapter Twenty
Ava arrives at precisely six-thirty. She wears a tank top and a check shirt long enough to skim the hem of her cutoffs – the sight of so much bronzed bare skin on display has Jean seriously questioning her decision to leave sex out of the forgiveness campaign.
One of those legs turns inwards, leaving Ava pigeon-toed as she lingers on the doorstep. ‘I brought Pinot Grigio.’ She holds the bottle aloft. ‘It’s supposed to be good in summer.’
She’s nervous too. Elation soars in Jean, bright and powerful as a firework. Ava wouldn’t be nervous if she were indifferent, uncaring about this evening’s outcome. Jean takes the bottle, sweating softly against her palm. ‘Perfect – I’ll put it in the fridge.’
Without Cora and Imogen, freed from the necessary cage of secrecy, Ava is easier tonight. She explores the space, taking in Jean’s photos and curios; the various awards lining her shelves. But it’s not any of the glass trophies Ava goes for – she lifts a silver frame tarnished with age down from the shelf, peering intently at the photo.
‘My parents,’ Jean says, coming to stand beside her. They’re younger even than Ava in that shot, beaming newlyweds on their honeymoon.
‘I can tell. You have your dad’s hair and colouring, but your face is the image of your mother’s.’
Jean takes the picture. As a child she’d longed for her mother’s looks – she’d seemed as glamorous as Jane Birkin, even in mended clothes. But beauty had burned brighter in her sister, with just a smidge left over for Jean herself. ‘People have been telling me that my entire life, but I never see it.’
‘I do.’ The air between them grows charged, thick and heavy as the moment before lightning strikes.
Jean pulls away, though every part of her yearns to tilt her face up towards Ava’s. ‘I’d better check on dinner; it should be ready now.’
‘Let me help?’
In the kitchen she passes Ava a pair of oven gloves and stirs the sauce bubbling gently on the hob. Ava lifts out the salmon then the roasting tray of vegetables, setting them down on broad marble chopping boards.
Sure enough, the salmon is baked to perfection when Jean prises open the tinfoil, steam scented bright with citrus. She cuts off two generous slices, retrieving her pot from the stove to drizzle them with lemonbeurre blanc. Finally, as Ava tips the vegetables into a tureen matching their dinner plates, Jean garnishes each portion with fresh cut lemon and dill. ‘Voilà! Dinner is served.’
Between them they carry the dishes through, Ava darting back into the kitchen before Jean can. ‘I’m pretty sure this counts as haute cuisine,’ Ava says, setting down the tureen of potatoes.
They sit on opposite sides of the table, and Jean shakes her head. ‘There’s nothing to it – you just season the fish and vegetables, then throw them in the oven. Even the sauce only takes fifteen minutes.’
Pink and sizzling, the salmon is perfection, melting beneath the gentle pressure of their forks. ‘If I were you, and I could cook like this, I’d eat salmon every single day.’
‘It never seemed worth cooking an entire fish for one. This was my fallback meal whenever Henry and I had friends over.’ Jean could curse herself – dwelling on past lovers is the ultimate date faux pas.
But Ava’s eyes are alight with curiosity. ‘He’s your ex-husband, right?’
‘Yes. He’s Lawson and Pierce’s legal director now. We were together for just over a decade.’ Jean sighs. ‘There were so many times when I thought Henry and I were better as friends than as lovers, especially after we got married. But past a certain point there’s no rowing back.’
Ava’s laughter is low and musical. ‘Been there. A major peril of the lesbian scene: the dating pool and friend pool are one and the same.’
‘I never thought about that. In the straight world it’s assumed that friendship is a step on the way to something else between a man and woman.’ In retrospect it had been obvious Henry wanted her from the beginning, but Jean was blindsided by his declaration – until realising just how far it might work to her own advantage. Henry’s ring was a shield to ward off male advances, and incontrovertible proof that she – Jean Howard – was therightkind of woman. ‘But he was decent, safe. And I wanted…’
Jean breaks off, on the cusp of revealing far more than she’d intended. Barely halfway through her first glass, it’s not the wine loosening her tongue, but Ava.
Sensing Jean’s unease, she moves the conversation along. ‘What’s he like? Henry, I mean.’
‘Thoughtful. Slow to anger and quick to forgive. Always ready to laugh. In another life, I think the two of you would get on like a house on fire.’
