There are wild moments when she considers calling Ava. If this were one of her covert romance reads, then Jean would race across the city and implore Ava to take her back. But what on earth would she say? What possible combination of words could have the power to repair things between them?
Jean picks up a pen, jotting down options and scribbling them out. Rejecting the trite, the easy refuge of justifications, the self-serving. It takes Jean several evenings to produce something she doesn’t entirely hate. And in the end, she settles on unvarnished honesty:
Dear Ava,
I know that I’m probably the last person you want to hear from. And if you throw this into the rubbish (or recycling) then I completely understand. But – on the off chance you’re still reading – I would like to apologise. Without reservation. I’m so sorry for those awful things I said to you. Not one of them was true. For what it’s worth, and I imagine very little, the work you do is courageous and necessary. It has changed, and will continue to change, people’s lives for the better. It would be impossible to put a price on it all. And I should never have implied that your work, or that of your sector, is limited to monetary value alone.
Having been raised with your mother’s faith, you will be familiar with St Peter as heaven’s gatekeeper. And though it’s been a long time since I left the church, it’s an image I find myself coming back to. Of the two of us, you are a far likelier candidate for entry. I was eighteen years old when you were born – already an adult in the law’s eyes, if not quite reality. But you have long since outstripped me in the good you have managed to achieve within your lifetime.
If we were up against each other in court, you’d use what I said to you that night as evidence against this claim. And I’d have very little defence, except to say this. You came so close to the truth – to my truth, one I’ve spent decades burying – and it scared me. I don’t say that to excuse my actions. I could, and should, have handled it better. Given you even a fraction of the grace you have extended to me.
As well as an apology, I owe you something else. You have the right to know that the months we spent together were the happiest I’ve ever been. And loving you is the truest thing that I have ever felt – I was a coward and a fool to deny it. To deny you.
I wish you nothing but the best with launching the CJC, and whatever comes next.
With much love,
Jean
On her way to work she has Bogdan stop beside a post box while she nips out to send the letter, the driver behind tooting his horn and making eloquent use of gestures all the while. But Jean feels better – lighter than the day she’d made her First Confession – for having sent it. For trying to make amends.
Text had always been Ava’s preferred method of communication, or perhaps the only one she’d trusted Jean would allow her in the beginning. And yet, though Jean receives a steady string of messages – Ginny with the news that Amelia Hawthorne has lost her licence, and an unspoken reminder of her affection; Naomi and Cora with apologies sent within minutes of each other, leading Jean to suspect they’d met up to discuss an approach – not one is from her. Not, Jean reminds herself, that she’d expected a response.
It’s easy putting her personal phone out of reach, if not out of mind, while she throws herself into the tribunal. Valerie Priestley and her IT company stand accused of wrongful dismissal by seven female employees, all with small children, all of whom had been fired within a year after their maternity leave ended.
It’s an uphill battle, defending the indefensible – one that takes Jean’s utmost concentration. She resists the urge to ask Valerie how she could have been so stupid, following the same predictable pattern of behaviour every time. Though her reasoning changed – poor timekeeping, low performance, a role becoming obsolete – the timeline remained identical. Instead, Jean has her team pulling information that can work in their favour: Valerie’s trio of Women in Business awards, the money she has donated to women’s refuges and scholarships for girls in STEM, viral videos from her company’s Take-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day.
It would be a home run for Lawson and Pierce, the opposing side in the case, if Valerie didn’t have DDH money. Carl quickly strikes gold digging through the dregs of the dismissed women’s lives. The ringleader of the posse, fired officially for the dip in her performance, attends weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in her local church hall.
Jean feels grubby as she picks through his findings. Matters are complicated even further by the fact her ex-husband, always so moral, is heading up this case on behalf of the women. It doesn’t matter, or at least it shouldn’t – Alexander’s the one who will face Henry across the negotiating table, and in the courtroom. And the divorce had been straightforward, a neat division of assets uncontested by either party. Henry had tried to be generous, ashamed of his outburst towards the end. And Jean had remained fair, guilty over her relief at being free from all the love Henry had tried to give her.
Their paths haven’t crossed since they signed the papers. Which is why Peter is nothing short of astounded when Jean proposes she visit L&P’s office for this preliminary round of settlement discussions. But he doesn’t argue; just gives Jean the afternoon off.
Henry’s eyes go wide at the sight of her. He’s always had the most dreadful poker face, always worn his heart on his sleeve – likely why he’s never risen beyond senior associate. And certainly it was a factor in their marriage failing. Whereas Jean’s ambition had grown with every passing year, Henry’s had waned. While Jean climbed higher still in DDH, Henry moved to a smaller family-friendly firm, married a music teacher, and took full paternity leave for all three of his children. By all accounts Henry is happy in his new life. And yet he’s gracious at this unexpected reminder of the old, rising to shake Jean’s hand.
‘Henry,’ she says. ‘You’re looking well.’
And it’s true – fatherhood suits Henry. The kids have kept him active enough to avoid middle-age spread and, though his sandy hair is undeniably greying, the lines he’s acquired since their last meeting suggest a life filled with laughter.
To his credit, Henry doesn’t return the compliment. He’s kind, but honest too – and Jean’s grateful for the lack of pretence. ‘Jean – I wasn’t expecting you, but it’s good to see you again. Really.’
Her eyes prickle at his sincerity, and Henry squeezes before letting go.
‘Yes, well.’ Jean clears her throat. ‘Rhona Baird is one of our more promising junior associates, and she’ll be taking the lead today.’
Rhona looks almost as shocked as Henry, though she recovers quickly, stepping forward to shake hands with him and the young brunette from L&P.
‘That’s a great idea,’ Henry says. ‘Hannah, why don’t you take point too?’
The junior associates launch into it, haltingly at first. Going over red lines, potential concessions, and the grey area in between. Rhona looks to Jean after every other sentence, as if searching for approval. Only once does Jean have to intercede, when Rhona comes perilously close to admitting wrongdoing on their client’s part, Henry’s half-smile just visible behind his hand. But the rest of the time Jean busies herself with taking notes, Henry doing the same. And gradually their underlings grow used to this role reversal. Rhona sits up straighter, parrying every one of Hannah’s attacks, and Jean’s pride is absolute.
Afterwards, Rhona returns to the office, a spring in her step. Hannah too disappears, still glowing from Henry’s praise. Then there’s just the two of them, and the room’s as quiet as their house – newly Jean’s – had felt after the divorce. And with Henry loading up his briefcase, she might not get another shot. Jean steps closer, pulse pounding at her throat so hard she’s nauseated.
‘Did you ever wonder… about me?’
Though he puts down the papers to give Jean his full attention, she can’t meet Henry’s gaze. Keeps her eyes fixed on the silken knot of his tie. ‘When we got divorced. I keep coming back to what you said, about how it felt like being married to a widow. Did you think that maybe I might be… might be a—’
But Jean can’t get so much as a whisper past the lump in her throat, solid as a golf ball. Hot tears slide down her cheeks. And she covers her face, mortified. Her emotions have never been far from the surface since Ava left, the blank professional mask lying in tatters at her feet.
