‘Work’s busy, is all. There’s lots to do before the handover – but I’m fine.’
‘Are you?’ Cora’s dark eyes are alert. ‘You don’t seem happy about much at all, lately.’
‘Did things end with Aiden? Is that what’s got you down?’ Naomi’s hand covers her wrist.
‘You two need to stop,’ Imogen says, an edge of warning in her voice. ‘Whatever it is, Jean can tell us in her own time.’
‘Nonsense.’ Cora drains her drink, gesturing to the waiter for another. ‘What are girlfriends for, if not sharing your problems?’
Laughter bubbles up Jean’s throat. Even before offering to be her girlfriend, Ava had been there whenever she needed her. Listened when Jean wanted to talk. Held Jean when she wasn’t ready to speak. Nobody since Mari has made her feel so seen, and even then, Mari had never been safe the way Ava is. ‘You’re right,’ Jean says, realising all three of them are still watching her. ‘It ended the day I came back from Edinburgh, and I’ve felt lost ever since.’
‘I’m sorry, Jean. It can be difficult when these things end. But let’s face it, you went in knowing that it was never going to last.’
‘Jesus, Naomi.’ Imogen gets into it with the two of them, distracting Naomi and Cora long enough for Jean to try and gather her thoughts. But the back and forth between them rattles round her skull like a pinball, knocking the last of her doubts loose.
‘It could have,’ Jean whispers.
‘You always think that you know best, that you’re the moral arbiter of our little group. But—’
‘It could have.’ Too late the conviction comes.
Cora and Naomi exchange a glance. ‘Darling—’
‘I’m serious. If you want the whole sordid story, you’re welcome to it. But there’s one vital piece of information you need to know before we go any further.’ Jean’s hand trembles as she lifts her cocktail glass, half the margarita spilling out the corner of her mouth. She reaches for a napkin and dabs at her chin while her three oldest friends stare. ‘There never was any Aiden. I panicked and made up a cover story, because I was embarrassed about the truth.’
Cora’s Botoxed brow barely wrinkles, though she frowns. ‘What?’
‘Then who…?’ Naomi blinks slowly. ‘Then who were you having it off with? Who was he?’
Imogen cuts her a glare. ‘Jean might have an easier time telling us who they were if you didn’t keep interrupting her.’
‘They? Were there multiple somebodies? Was this a polyamory situation, or an orgy?’
Jean has to look away from Naomi’s searching gaze. She trails her fingertip across a scratch in the wooden tabletop. ‘Neither. The truth is, she is a woman. Her name is Ava. She came to Edinburgh with me.’
Naomi’s laughter is sharp and clear as broken glass, cutting Jean to ribbons. ‘You’re joking, right? She is joking?’
A moment later Naomi gives a sharp gasp, and Jean’s almost certain Imogen kicked her underneath the table.
‘Ava… as in that woman from the hospital?’ Cora’s brows draw together as, at last, the pieces fall into place.
‘It’s not a joke. It started as a hook-up, and became…’ Jean sniffs. Takes a deep breath. Her composure, her dignity, might be all that she has left by the end of this. She grasps the soggy napkin, twisting and tearing it to shreds in her lap. ‘I don’t have the words to describe it. What we were to each other. It was so unlike anything I’ve ever known.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Cora sinks back against her seat, and even without looking, Jean can picture her incredulous expression. ‘That’s why she was so sore about the whole Aiden situation. But it can’t be serious, can it? You were married to Henry, for goodness’ sake.’
But Ginny cuts through this line of enquiry, reaching under the table to interrupt the napkin shredding as she takes Jean’s hand. ‘Would you like to tell us about her? Ava?’
A crack runs through Jean’s voice, and she rushes to get the words out, knowing it’s only a matter of time before her throat completely splinters under their weight. The subtle pressure of Imogen’s fingers is the only thing holding her together. ‘She was falling in love with me. But I was too much of a coward to admit that I felt the same way. I said things. Stupid, unforgivable things. And she left me.’
Imogen passes her a dry napkin, and Jean presses it to her eyes, burning like she’s run through tear gas.
‘But…’ Cora drums her fingernails on the table. ‘You’re not a lesbian now, are you?’
Jean’s still fumbling for an answer when Naomi speaks. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody magically wakes up gay. Certainly not at our age. Whatever this is, it’s bound to pass.’
Jean grabs her handbag and bolts from the table as a fresh round of debate kicks off, unable to stomach witnessing her own vivisection. And on the street, nobody gives her wild eyes or smeared make-up a second glance – the beauty of London’s anonymity.
She ducks between meandering tourists and striding locals, almost at the tube station when an arm closes tight around her elbow. Jean jerks back, clinging to her handbag.
