But instead of a desperate man she comes face to face with Imogen, pink-cheeked and breathing hard. ‘I called you,’ she says, still panting. ‘But I don’t think you heard. I stayed to give Naomi and Cora a piece of my mind, and I’m not fit enough to run and yell at the same time.’
‘I think Grant’s still accepting clients.’
‘I think I’d rather step in front of a bus than go to the gym.’ Imogen steps closer, ignoring the commuter who swears at her. ‘You’re one of the only people in this world I’d voluntarily run anywhere for, Jean Howard. And don’t you forget it.’
Then she launches herself at Jean, wrapping both arms around her. And Jean doesn’t care that her mouth’s full of silky blonde hair, or that with this fresh round of tears she likely resembles Pennywise. She doesn’t even care about the spectacle they’re making. It’s good to simply be held.
Imogen insists on getting the tube with her. But instead of heading home, they take a detour round Kensington Gardens, making the most of early autumn sun. The leaves on the trees are just beginning to yellow, the elaborate arrangements of flowers losing their bloom – yet there is beauty in the day, in Imogen’s gentle understanding, and Jean wouldn’t wish for a single thing about it to be different. Except for the promise of knowing she’d see Ava again.
It’s a relief, opening up to Imogen. Voicing those secret, soaring joys and her deepest buried fears. Her friend listens without judgement to the whole story as they stroll through the park, asking the occasional question and nodding while Jean clarifies.
Ginny is quite delighted by what little Jean shares of their sex life, and utterly charmed by how persistently Ava had attempted to elevate their relationship beyond the physical. She throws back her head and laughs at Ava’s transparent jealousy over Bernard. ‘Oh, Jean. It sounds like she’s head over heels.’
‘Maybe once. Not anymore.’ It’s easier to say it while they’re walking, while she doesn’t have to look into Imogen’s eyes. She describes the holiday; how she’d felt like another person entirely, enlivened by the sea air and Ava’s heady affection. How perfect it had been until that final night.
As Jean recounts that argument – their first and last – Imogen guides her to sit on a nearby bench, producing an unopened bottle of water from her bag. Jean downs half of it in a few gulps, dehydrated from the killer combination of day drinking and tears.
Ginny rubs Jean’s shoulder, steady and firm. ‘But did you apologise to her afterwards? Have you tried to make things right?’
Jean can only shake her head, watching a pair of swans glide majestically across the pond, a perfect trail of ripples expanding in their wake.
‘Oh, Jean!’ Ginny’s voice startles even the fearless London pigeons from an overhead tree. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because. Naomi’s right – it would be ridiculous coming out at my age. I can’t just change everything about who I am. And the timing couldn’t be worse for the firm.’ Jean sighs, leaning against Ginny. ‘Plus, she could be much happier with someone far less complicated. A woman that’s out and proud, young… not a closeted older woman cripped by Catholic guilt.’
‘Maybe it’s not a change. Maybe it’s who you’ve been all along.’ Imogen toys with the gold links of her necklace, running the chain between her fingertips. ‘I sometimes wondered about you and Marianne. It used to make me jealous, how much you adored her.’
Jean’s head snaps up. It had never occurred to her that any of her friends might have perceived Marianne as a rival. ‘Ginny…’
‘Then I thought, maybe it’s a different kind of love. You took the divorce in your stride, but losing Marianne – it dimmed something in you. Something that hasn’t been bright and alive until this year.’ Imogen twists then, giving Jean no choice but to look at her. ‘Sure, Ava could have someone else. But she still chose you – even knowing this was new territory for you, even when you were in complete and utter denial about how much you wanted her. Ava could have walked away at any point, but she chose you instead.’
Jean slumps back against the bench, impossibly weary. All those years regretting what she did to Marianne, only to make the same mistake twice. She blinks, forcing herself to concentrate on a cloud in the shape of a seahorse, complete with curling tail. She can’t remember now whether it had been Bridget or their mother who’d lain blankets out on the grass so they could look up and find all manner of fantastical creatures riding across the sky. ‘If I do this, if I start telling people that I’m a lesbian, it’ll be the end for me and Bridget. She’ll never accept it.’
‘You don’t have to make any big announcements to your sister. It’s not mandatory.’ Imogen takes her hand. ‘But I am grateful that you trusted me enough to let me know.’
Jean squeezes back, tight enough that her bones grind against Ginny’s. ‘I’m not sure Cora or Naomi feel the same way.’
In typical Imogen fashion, she mulls it over, not rushing in with meaningless assurances. ‘They were shocked,’ Ginny says. ‘And they were idiots – that I don’t dispute. But Cora and Naomi both care about you. And I think they’ll come around.’
It’s difficult to share her optimism – even now, the echo of Naomi’s laughter rings loud. ‘And if they don’t?’
Imogen considers, the breeze rippling through her hair. Her smile is warmer than the noonday sun. ‘Then it’s us against the world.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Afterwards, Jean’s world doesn’t end with that coming out. The days continue to pass one by one. And, as the shock wears off, Jean realises she can breathe a little easier. Imogen hasn’t rejected her. Imogen has carried on loving her, if the steady stream of phone calls and invitations are any indication. And though Jean wishes Ginny would just let her wallow, she’s grateful too.
There’s even a present. It arrives in a discreet cardboard box: an anthology of writing from men and women that, for all manner of reasons, came out in mid to later life. At first Jean tries to ignore the book, stuffing it in an anonymous corner of her shelves. But the rainbow spine catches her eye every time she steps into her home office. While she’s poring over the Priestley case documents, highlighting and underlining, it’s there in the corner of Jean’s vision.
Even during her days at the office, an entirely rainbow-free space, it weighs on Jean’s mind. A constant source of temptation, just like Ava had been. So, when she gets home, she kicks off her shoes, pours a glass of wine, and curls up with the book in her armchair.
The essays are honest – terrifyingly so – and completely heartfelt. And though the lives of the contributors couldn’t be more different – a primary school teacher and an army general, a civil servant and a comedian Jean’s never heard of – their stories are all the same in one key respect. Not one among them regrets coming out. They write of it as a weight lifted; the ability to breathe.
Even after she turns the last page of the final chapter, Jean hungers for more such stories. She finds the memoir of a Jewish housewife who realised she was gay after being captivated by a painting of a woman’s naked body. A blog post from a romance author whom, after twenty years of marriage to a man and two children, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a lesbian. All her subsequent releases have been sapphic, and Jean downloads them onto her Kindle, more discreet than old-fashioned paperbacks. If lesbianism is at odds with the image she presents to the world, Mills and Boon is its very antithesis.
And yet, Jean is forced to admit, they are good stories. Compelling, well-written… and rather sexy. She breezes through the novels at night, and becomes reacquainted with her vibrator. But though her intentions start out strong, it’s never the characters Jean pictures as she bucks and trembles. The sweeping emotions call Ava to mind too. Before her, Jean would have written it all off as hyperbole used to sell books in much the same way Valentine’s Day is used to hawk cards. Now, though, she’s familiar with the yearning. The laughter. The way her entire world seems brighter when shared with the right person.
But the relentless optimism is where these stories lose Jean. A character makes a dreadful mistake, often around the seventy-five per cent mark. And by the end they are forgiven, back in the arms of their beloved, love having conquered all. Real life has never offered Jean such an abundance of second chances.
