‘Your voice.’ Jean wants to comment on how it never seems to stop with the stupid questions; yet they are the bridge carrying her from one unbearable second to the next. ‘The tap dripping. And the hand dryer next door.’
‘Wonderful,’ Ava says, as if she’d recited pi to the thirty-seventh decimal place. ‘Now name two things you can smell.’
‘Really?’
‘Just go with it.’
Jean does as she’s bid. ‘Cheap lemon cleaning products. And that scent you wear. With the cedar and jasmine – and something else that I can never place.’
Ava’s smile is at once ordinary and breathtaking. ‘It’s patchouli. Last but not least, is there anything you can taste?’
‘The mints they put out after dessert – there’s peppermint, but also an ungodly amount of sugar.’ Jean rolls her eyes. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Yeah.’ Ava rocks back onto her heels. ‘Okay, now you’re a bit more settled I’ll get our things.’
‘What about Rhona?’ A quarter of a century spent cultivating the respect of her peers, a healthy degree of fear from her underlings, flushed down the toilet in a single afternoon. Rhona will never look up to Jean again, let alone trust her – the ache of it is piercing.
‘Rhona’s fine. A little shaken, but Amari’s going to hang out with her for the rest of the sessions and evening drinks.’ Ava plants a kiss on her forehead. ‘You hang tight here and then we can go.’
The tightness in her chest – the panic attack – flares back into life as Ava rises. ‘It would be more expedient for you, for the CJC, to cut ties with me. Publicly, at the very least. You don’t need my mess staining your reputation.’
Ava sinks back down, cupping Jean’s tear-slicked cheek. ‘Not going to happen, Jellybean. Not in a thousand years.’
‘You should think about it,’ Jean says to her retreating back. There are worse parting gifts to bestow than pragmatism.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ava refuses to leave Jean, bundling her into the taxi then reciting Jean’s home address as she buckles both their seatbelts. As Jean stares in disbelief, she looks up. ‘Don’t worry. I haven’t gone Full Glenn. But I called your office, and they put me through to Helen. I told her. So that your firm can get their crisis management people on it.’
Helen.She’ll learn all about Jean’s sordid history at DDH soon enough. The whole office will. Nothing travels faster than gossip in the legal community. She and Peter had known about Amelia Hawthorne’s drink driving and resultant stint in rehab before she’d even reached the clinic.
And now – despite all Jean has done to keep her life clean and uncomplicated – her own dirty laundry is being aired in front of her colleagues and peers. And her sex-acquaintance-turned-friend. Marianne couldn’t have exacted a more perfect revenge.
Jean slumps against the door, peering out at fuzzy cars and buildings, rain pattering against the windows. Her eyes drift closed, though it’s impossible to sleep with the driver swerving between lanes and cursing cyclists. But there’s comfort in the pretence – no need to make conversation, nor reckon with any of the questions Ava has left unspoken.
She reaches for her bag when the sway and curve of the streets grows familiar. But Ava covers her hand. Says: ‘It’s okay. I’ve got the Uber covered.’
Weariness bone-deep, Jean doesn’t have the energy to argue – though she makes a mental note to repay Ava’s kindness tenfold as she emerges out onto the pavement. Jean opens the gate; has it halfway closed when she realises that Ava’s following her. ‘You’re coming in with me?’
‘Of course.’ Yet Ava lingers on the street, uncertain, as the rain continues to pelt them. ‘I don’t think you should be alone right now. But we can call someone – Imogen, or Cora, or Peter – if you’d be more comfortable with them.’
Jean doesn’t move despite the deluge. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’
Ava looks at her with an intensity that makes Jean’s shoulder blades prickle. ‘Because you deserve it. You’ve had a terrible shock.’ Ava steps closer, gaze never wavering. ‘And because I – I care about you, Jean. So much.’
‘But it—’ Jean’s voice splinters. She clears her throat, tries again. ‘It was all true, Ava. What Marianne said. Every lousy fucking word.’
‘She’s hurting. And so are you.’ Ava reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair back beneath Jean’s hood, and she shivers as those fingers brush against her ear. ‘Now let’s get inside, where it’s dry.’
With clumsy fingers Jean fishes the keys from her bag. And though her trousers are surely soaked through, Ava says nothing to rush Jean.
They step inside, Ava disappearing into the kitchen. And Jean sinks down onto the stairs, limbs leaden. She’s dimly aware of the kettle boiling; the only sound other than a clock ticking. The house is quiet in a way that Ava’s little flat, with its steady hum of ambient sound, never is. Until now Jean has never considered the moneyed hush of Kensington to be hollow. Lifeless.
Then Ava reappears with two steaming, mismatched mugs. She hands one over and squeezes in to perch beside Jean on the stair. They’re pressed together from shoulder to elbow, hip to knee. Ava’s closeness is a balm, warming her surely as the mug cupped in her hands. She watches, expectant, until Jean sips the tea.
It’s so aggressively sweet that Jean can picture a cavity forming and growing with every mouthful. Yet she carries on drinking, too tired to protest. All the while Ava strokes her back. And Jean’s heart is slower, her hands steadier, by the time she finishes.
‘That’s good,’ Ava says. ‘Is there anything else you want? I could make dinner, we could watch a film, or you could rest if you’re tired.’
