‘You didn’t have to make me breakfast.’
‘Who says it’s for you? I always get pancakes on my birthday. Aaliyah’s are way better, but we’ll have to make do.’
Guilt knots Jean’s stomach tight. She’d forgotten Ava’s party plans, the reason for her overnight bag, after everything with Marianne. ‘Oh, Ava, I’m sorry. I’ve messed up your birthday from the start. Did Aaliyah mind you not coming over last night?’
‘She knows it was an emergency.’ Ava turns to pour a tablespoon of fresh batter onto the skillet. And Jean doesn’t have the energy to call her on the evasion.
‘Let me take over.’ Jean side-steps Ava, lowering the heat and prying the scorched pancake loose. It’s almost impressive, the way it manages to be simultaneously burnt and undercooked.
‘Why, because you’re such a domestic goddess?’
Jean spoons butter into the pan, tilting it left and right so the bubbling liquid covers the pan. A decent birthday breakfast is the least she can do. ‘I grew up Catholic – Pancake Tuesday is our culture.’
And it’s a relief, throwing herself into the familiar task. Serving Ava perfectly fluffy birthday pancakes, drizzled in lemon and sugar. They share a plate, Ava feeding Jean mouthfuls when she picks at it.
‘I’ll wash up,’ Ava says when they’re done. ‘But first I need to call Aaliyah, tell everyone to go ahead without me.’
‘You can’t miss your own birthday party, Ava. Especially not when it’s your farewell party too.’ Jean cups her cheek, waits until Ava meets her gaze. ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’
‘Jean, I’m not leaving you.’ Her eyes are serious. ‘No way, no how.’
A solution presents itself, dazzling in its simplicity. And what does being careful matter now that her reputation lies in tatters? ‘Then take me with you.’
At last Jean will be able to satisfy her curiosity about Ava’s parents; her old colleagues from ACWRC; the friends Ava has mentioned in passing over all their nights together. But Ava’s quiet for so long that doubt begins to gnaw at Jean’s gut. Perhaps the secrecy of their arrangement had suited Ava too – after all, how would she go about introducing a white woman eighteen years her senior?
‘Never mi—’
‘Are you su—’
They both break off, and Jean flushes. ‘You go first.’
Ava nods, though the words are slow to come, heavy with deliberation. ‘Are you sure that’s something you’d feel comfortable with?’ Her hands come to rest against Jean’s shoulders. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d be over the moon. But you’ve always been so adamant about keeping things on the downlow.’
‘And where did all that caution get me? At this point, gay rumours would be the very least of my problems.’ But the words do nothing to dispel the cloud gathered on Ava’s brow. Jean sighs. ‘I have to admit that I’ve been curious about your life; the people in it.’
The palest blush graces Ava’s cheeks. ‘Yeah?’
‘Oh yes.’ Jean steps closer, leaning against Ava. ‘If it’s at your parents’ house, does this mean I get to see your childhood bedroom?’
‘Only if you promise not to laugh at my old posters.’
‘Scout’s honour,’ Jean says, and finally Ava cracks a smile.
Getting ready doesn’t take long. Ava rocks a pale peach linen suit, curls piled into a bun atop her head. Her usual boots have been replaced by Birkenstock sandals. She spritzes herself in scent – and if Ava hadn’t tucked the bottle into her bag afterwards, Jean might have been tempted to mist the spare pillow with it. But surely a trace will linger.
Though Ava teases her about femme stereotypes, Jean doesn’t take much longer than she does. In this heat, there’s little point in anything more than minimal make-up – sweating through it is an inevitability. So, Jean sticks to the basics, going for a pillar box red lip. She picks out a chartreuse sundress, simple save for the deep V in the bodice held together by a bow over the bust, and a pair of tan wedge sandals.
Ava’s mouth hangs open as she takes in the ensemble, gaze pogoing between Jean’s breasts and her eyes.
‘Is it too much?’ Jean lingers at the top of the stairs. ‘I can change if you’d prefer something more formal.’
‘You’re perfect.’
Less so by the time they arrive, wilting from the underground’s furnace-like heat. Yet there’s a bounce in Ava’s step as she leads Jean down the driveway of an Edwardian semi-detached house with a hodgepodge of flowers blooming from bright ceramic pots. Ava unlocks the door with a key fished from her own pocket, gesturing for Jean to go in ahead of her.
She steps into the corridor of a house just as bright as the front garden, with statement walls in loud primary colours and a riot of funky prints covering its furnishings. A colossal vase filled with fresh blooms emerges through a doorway, Leah’s face obscured behind it.
‘Ava! Perfect timing. We’ve just finished tidying and vacuuming.’ Her peach bodycon dress displays every curve to its best advantage, and Jean has the discomfiting realisation that the body beneath is likely a mirror of its twin. Perhaps Aaliyah even has the same constellation of freckles on her back.
