‘I always wondered about you, Jean. Did you enjoy getting on your knees for him, or was it the price you paid to get ahead?’ Her words are a fist to the gut, stealing Jean’s breath. But even if she could speak Marianne leaves no room for interruption. ‘Either way, it hasn’t worked out too badly.Managing partner after your big promotion. Nobody left to blow on your climb to the top.’
A sharp intake of breath – not her own, but the crowd’s. Jean’s vision swims, a sea of shocked faces blurring together, the chandelier overhead breaking into a kaleidoscope of crystal and light. And Ava materialises by her side as the first tears fall.
‘What the fuck, Kate? None of what you’re saying is fair. And you’ve done enough work with trauma to know that.’ Though Jean has never heard her speak so harshly, Ava’s hand is gentle resting against Jean’s back, subtle and steadying.
Marianne’s gaze flits between them. And her lip curls. ‘Fair?I feel a responsibility to tell you who Jean Howard really is, Ava.’
‘I know exactly who Jean is,’ Ava says, her chin at a defiant tilt. ‘You’re the one that I misjudged.’
Ava, who always thinks the best of people. Ava, who would likely have made entirely different choices – better choices – had she been in Jean’s shoes. Jean stands, rooted to the spot as her life implodes.
‘Then you’ll know that our old boss, William Decker, abused his power over us. And when I reported him for sexual misconduct, Decker and Dennings, as it was then, opened an investigation.’ Marianne makes no effort to keep her voice down, and her words ripple through the hall, killing any pretence of conversation across the room. ‘And when they interviewed her, yourfriendhere lied. Said Decker was innocent of all wrongdoing, and she couldn’t imagine him going after any female subordinate.’
Humiliation scorches Jean’s cheeks. Her voice can’t squeeze past the ache in her throat. And Jean remembers a different kind of pain; the ache after Will had jammed his turgid pink slug between her teeth until she’d gagged. Ava too is silent, and it’s a relief that her beautiful face is so blurred Jean can’t make out her expression.
‘Jean Howard is a liar who would throw anyone and anything under the bus to get ahead. She kept her mouth shut when I needed help, but was all too happy opening it when Will Decker ha—’
‘Enough!’ Ava’s voice ricochets against the walls, stripped of all warmth and gentleness.
Jean doesn’t know whether that fury is directed at Marianne or herself. She doesn’t stick around to find out. The shock of Ava’s voice jolts her back into motion. And the same self-preservation Marianne had condemned her for carries Jean from the hall on shaking legs.
Steps jerky, she teeters into the corridor. But a group of delegates is clustered at the other end, queuing to get into the bar. And there’s no stemming these tears, the dam of Jean’s self-control crumbling against the pressure behind her eyes. Before they can take notice of her, Jean pushes through another door.
Inside is a single toilet, one sink, a lone dryer positioned low down. The disabled loo. It’s wrong for her to take up this space, yet Jean can no more cross the threshold again than she could crawl across hot coals. She slides down the wall to sit on the filthy floor.
‘Jean?’ A knock on the door. ‘Jean, it’s Ava.’
Jean closes her eyes. As revenge goes, it’s nothing short of perfection – Marianne poisoning her relationship with the only woman Jean has craved since.
‘I know you’re there. Please let me in.’
It will be worse if Ava makes a scene in the hall. Better that she come inside and denounce Jean to her face. Jean reaches up to unlock the door, pulling both knees to her chest as it swings open.
But there’s no condemnation hardening Ava’s features. She kneels before Jean without a thought for her suit. ‘Hey. Look at me. Let’s take some deep breaths together, okay?’
Only then does Jean realise that ragged wheezing sound is coming from her chest. She gives a jerky nod.
Breathes in. And out. In. And out. When she’s calmed enough to speak, she says: ‘I think I’m having a heart attack.’
‘No.’ Ava grips her hand. ‘It’s a panic attack. You’ll be alright soon – I promise.’
‘A panic attack?’ Jean knots her fingers in her hair, pulling it free from the careful chignon. ‘That’s stupid – those aren’t real.’
‘Yeah? Then you won’t have any problem naming five things you can see.’
Ava’s still giving her that look, like she’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Jean casts her eyes around the dingy bathroom. ‘There’s the sink. Mirror. Paper towel dispenser. Bin. And the baby changing table.’
‘Good job.’ Ava rests a hand atop Jean’s knee, squeezing. ‘Now give me four things you can feel.’
‘Sweat – this blouse is plastered to my back, my hair’s sticking to my forehead.’ When Jean leaves this bathroom, it won’t be with her head held high – rather, as a smeary, sticky mess. Her breath hitches painfully tight. Anyone who looks at her will see the ugly truth of Marianne’s words. ‘Oh God.’
‘You’re fine,’ Ava says. ‘Look at me, Jean. Three more things. You’ve got this.’
‘My shoe’s chafing at the ankle – I think there’s a blister.’ Ava nods encouragingly, but Jean’s mind is like a hummingbird, flitting from thought to thought too quickly to zero in on any one sensation. Until Ava squeezes her knee again. ‘Your hand; it’s warm. And, uh, the tiles are cold through my tights.’
Damp too, though the thought of mystery bathroom liquid seeping into her clothes doesn’t bother Jean – Marianne has stretched her mind to stress capacity. Wild laughter gushes from Jean, snot bubbling from her nose. Ava simply fishes a tissue from her pocket and wipes Jean’s face. It is without doubt their least erotic exchange of bodily fluids to date – there can be no coming back from this, assuming anything remains to come back to.
‘You’re doing so well. Tell me three things you can hear.’
