Chapter Text
December 28th
JC sits awake in bed, watching his wife sleep, his beautiful cheating wife.
Ava, with the moon stretches across her face, is beautiful – as always – with her short brown hair a mess and soft snores and her face pressed half in the pillow. Ave, he could expect this from – almost – he is not exactly innocent in his monogamy either, but Beatrice? That stings and twists within him. They had stood together so long, cutting off the life of their parents and now look at them.
The snow drifts slowly outside, what a Christmas this has been. Beatrice had come by on Boxing Day evening, a smile on her face, pure devotion to Ava you should have seen before but were too blind to understand. She had come back tonight, her blue raincoat, the one she looks after religiously, torn just by the shoulder. A haunted look cast across her face, she looked years older and told him: “I’m in love with her.”
He had thought so.
Music drifts through the street from the jazz bar that had been of his and Ava’s haunts, back when they truly existed within each other’s sphere’s. Back when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other and lived for the hope of it all. When he still travelled for a job and she was living for the very first time. There’s no point dwelling on the past, he knows, but he yearns for the way it used to be, when it was them against the world, when is closest and oldest friend wasn’t in love with his wife.
Betrayal shoots through his body and he knows he ought to be angrier but there was something that had gone from Ava ever since Sister Frances’ trial that had returned with Beatrice’s arrival in New York. He had tried so hard to bring it back, days together, whatever she wanted, he was there, he wasn’t there, they had sex, they didn’t have sex, he did everything she wanted and it still wasn’t enough. He supposes it has something to do with the fact that they have been living more as roommates, than husband and wife. He does love her, but he must admit there is something lacking.
However that may be he cannot ignore the spear cast into his gut, this could have been avoided, they could be halfway through a divorce and there could be no affair or cheating or anything of the sort.
“Baby?” Ava’s sleep-ridden voice disturbs his thoughts. “It’s the middle of the night, why are you awake?”
“Just thinking.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Beatrice came by this evening when you were out.” He shouldn’t have said it but he can’t help it, he feels he deserves this. There’s a beat of silence, the sliver of moonlight that had lightened her face has shifted down to her neck. JC sees it bob slightly and her body stills for one moment.
“Yeah? How is she?”
It’s his turn to be silent. This game where the other knows is painful and rocky.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Her hand touches his, squeezing once before retreating and he turns over.
In the morning.
--
September 23rd
The September sun streams on Ava’s front as she is sure she looks every bit as pretentious as she feels like she’s being right now.
Really, sitting in Central Park in a tight red crop-top and ripped jeans and over-the-ear headphones blasting 1989 at full volume, was a bit much. Her joint rests loosely in between her lips, needing to be relit often, her rolling skills need a lot of work. Summer has not yet let go, the trees still green and lustrous, the gentle breeze warming instead of cooling; it relaxes her to the bones. She loves JC, but he’s struggling to understand her at the moment and every time he looks at her it’s this stifling and confused mess of pity, love and uncertainty that makes her stomach turn. The second that the villain, she supposes, of her life is in jail he walks on eggshells around her; as if she’s going to break.
Was the trail exhausting? Yes. Did it bring back things she didn’t want to remember? Yes. Would she do it again? In a heartbeat.
She knows he’s trying, badly, but he is trying, she supposes she can’t fault him for that. She loves him, loves his easy smiles and warmth, the way that he cannot cook to save his life but always follows her instructions on chopping and stays in the kitchen with her, ready to give her a glass of wine and a kiss and tidy up after her. And yet there’s just something missing, something gone that was once there. It’s safe, and normal, and easy; they’ve always been that couple, the easy one with no arguments and good-ish communication but there’s something gone. Maybe they were too young when they were married, maybe they’ve just grown at different times, either way she’ll fight until she’s bloody and blue to keep it there, but she’s not going to do it herself.
A cloud goes by above her, it looks like Mother Superion, Ava should call her, she’d want to know what happened.
She finishes the joint just as the last song plays out, she quickly starts the album again and stands up, pulling her cap a bit further down her face. The last time she was out without I on, a man came up to her and asked if she had no shame, putting an agent of God in jail; another time someone almost followed her home, wanting to see her studio. Jokes on them, her studio isn’t in her apartment, but the issue still lies within, she should wear a cap when in the city. The walk home is quick, she puts the remains of her joint in a bin and continues the walk home, enjoys the buzz she has from it. Her fingers feel a bit fuzzy, light-headed and spacy. Maybe she’ll be able to paint something other than abstract this afternoon, it’s done her well but she misses painting people, real tangible things. Her head’s been all over the place recently, but now that the trials all over, maybe she can return to it.
Ava chooses not to take the elevator when she returns, taking the steps two at a time to the twelfth floor, perhaps not her smartest choice but, again, she hasn’t been up to anything besides going to court and returning so this is her exercise before she returns to the gym. The apartment is the same as she had left it, only with JC wobbly standing in the hallway trying to get his shoes on.
“Morning! Where were you?” He asks, standing, only one of his pair of vans on his feet, making him lopsided. He’s handsome, with his hair dark curls falling forward and a smile across his face, muscles adjusting to his movements. Her heart doesn’t quicken, her stomach doesn’t fill with lust and desire, no, but she feels safe, contented.
“At the park, sorry, it’s just such a nice day.” Ava says, walking forward and kissing him on the cheek, his skin soft under her lips, his arms warm under her palms as she holds him in place.
“Nothing to apologise for.” He replies, kissing her softly, she melts slightly, relaxing into his arms.
“Where are you going, baby?” He untangles herself from her and puts on his brown Carhart jacket, it looks good on him, everything does, he’s just one of those beautiful people.
“JFK, I’m picking up Beatrice.” The name doesn’t ring any bells, she’s sure that he would have told her that one of his friends was in town, especially if he was going to the airport by himself. He hates the airport. At the look on her face, he tilts his head and levels her with a disbelieving look. “Ava, I told you last week, Beatrice? My friend from ages ago, she’s moving back stateside after working in Europe? We’re having a dinner party tonight?”
Oh. Oh, she remembers it now, he was wearing a red shirt that night, the tight button up that showed his navel when he was stretching. That was the closest she had been to dragging him into the bathrooms and kissing him senseless in years. They were at dinner, she remembers it now.
“Right, of course, yes, I remember now. I’ll go to the market; should I make paella?”
JC looks slightly frustrated, lips pursing, but relieved nonetheless. His frustration, in turn irritates her, she takes a breath and so does he, neither one of them wanting to have an argument right now. He pulls on his other shoe, which has been in his hand the entire time.
“That would be great. I need to go, you know how traffic is.”
He picks up his keys from the bowl by the door.
“Who’s coming tonight? How much am I making?”
“I was thinking ten? Including us.”
“Okay, sure, I can do that. What-“
“Ava, I have to go, can we talk about this when I get back?”
“Of course, love you.”
“Love you too.”
And with that he opens and shuts the door and Ava breathes. See, it’s not so bad Ava, he still says love you and he means it, she can tell, but it’s still not amazing. It’s like he’s waiting for her to just be better while also not having a clue how to help. She sighs. She was hoping to work this afternoon, but those plans have been derailed, she picks up her keys once again and leaves for the market.
--
JC rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits in the departures section of the airport.
It’s been seven years since he’s seen Beatrice, he wonders it she looks the same, she probably does, she’ll look all noble and kind and stoic until she suddenly goes grey and hunch-backed, he can see the two of them now in a nursing home, shouting at each other because the other’s hearing has gone. He smiles to himself, holding up the sign with a rose in between his teeth. He had missed her immensely. Their weekly calls had quickly become monthly, which in turn became every other month which fizzled into holiday calls and eventual intermittent texting. He didn’t blame her though, things come and go, it’s not like he had tried his hardest either. He is nervous, though, for her and Ava to meet, Ava is charming, loud, irreverent where Beatrice is quiet, witty and ever-conscious of everything, ever; if they don’t mix he may have to jump of the balcony of his and Ava’s apartment.
There’s a flood of people coming out of the glass doors and his hands get deeper into his pockets, that should be her, he checks his watch 12:38, a present from Zori that was far too expensive. Guilt thuds deep in his stomach and he clears his throat to himself, nothing happened, not really, well something small happened but they’re all good now. Him and Ava, they’re good, Ava and Zori, Zori and him, all as good as they can be.
Thankfully that avenue of thought is cut short at the sight of her.
She does look the same, of course she’s the kind of person who ages elegantly. With her dark hair streaked with blonde, a red and blue button up that is more open than he would anticipate it being and blue jeans, she strides toward him. He pulls the rose from his teeth and holds it out to her, she rolls her eyes.
“Have you gotten taller?” He asks, a smile broadening across his face. Beatrice rolls her eyes affectionately.
“You’re ridiculous.” She says, pulling him into a hug. They pat each other on the back and let go, she looks a lot less buttoned up than the last time he saw her. That was after a massive fight with her parents though, and she was still getting used to being her own person, it’s good to see that she’s grown into herself properly.
“It that all you got?” He gestures to her two duffle-bags and a backpack, that are now on the floor where she dropped them for a hug.
“Everything else is getting shipped over, it’ll be here in the coming weeks.” So she is moving here, great, missing her had become one of his favorite pastimes. She lifts one of the bags, he the other and he starts to walk them out to where one of the cars from the company that Ava uses is waiting for them. They get comfortable in the back when she turns to him with a small but mischievous smile, the same kind of smile she’s get after he would sneak a bottle of wine from a gala and she would finally let her walls down. It looks like Finland has done her well, in between doing groundbreaking journalism and what looks like getting various tattoos, he hopes that she’s actually lived a life outside her work and her parents thumbs.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” She says, giving him a mischievous look, one that’s new across her face.
“What?”
“You’re married.”
“Yes.”
“Who is she? I just got an invitation saying ‘I’m getting married, need a witness, hurry up.’”
“And then you didn’t even come.” JC tuts at her, his smile never leaving his face. “Her name is Ava. Ava Silva, and I’m sorry that you couldn’t make it.”
“The painter?”
“You know her?”
“I saw her set of paintings depicting a lonely woman at a party, last May.” Her eyebrows furrow as she thinks back, he can see she loved them, Ava’s paintings have that way about them, so does she. “I was rather enamored with them.”
“Ah, her paintings have that effect on people. So does she, we’re having dinner tonight, all of us, you’re coming.”
“Am I? What if I had plans?”
“I know you don’t.”
“What time should I be over?”
The conversation flows easily, he knew it would. Though she stays hush on her love life, his gentle prying receives no glares but instead a swaying of the conversation into new territory which he accepts. The car travels slowly through the city, past his and Ava’s apartment and stops outside a row of brownstones, of course she bought a brownstone. He shakes his head at himself with a smile on his face before turning to her.
“C’mon let me see the place.”
“It’s unfurnished and undecorated, Jay, it’s not going to be very interesting.”
“So? I want to see it, please.” He drags out the ‘please’, knowing the she finds it both insufferable and endearing and the second that she tilts her head, ducking it to hide a smile that he’ll get to see inside.
“Fine. Fine.” She gets out the car and opens the boot, he leans forward to dismiss it and leaves to help her. They get into the house and he finds that she’s right, it is bland, but it’s also got good bones. He remembers what his Uncle told him about houses – he was a contractor and the only person in his family that he enjoyed being around – that a bad building can’t be improved with style but a tacky style can be fixed by a good building, doesn’t roll off the tongue, but it’s the kind of thing he uses for his own work now. It’s a bit musty, Beatrice opens a window and searches through her bags, which she had placed on the floor by the window, taking out two packs of something, she opens one and slots it in between her lips, lighting it immediately. It almost shocks him, she didn’t smoke before she went, but he supposes that she had been doing some pretty intense journalism, and he certainly remembered how they smoked in Spain. He doesn’t have a desire to return back to smoking, even though almost everyone he knows continues on with it.
“Oh and here you go.” She says, throwing an unopened back of cigarettes toward him, Finnish script above a picture of a child, a baby holding a cigarette, that was always one of Ava’s favorite pictures on packets. She’s always hated the throat ones, he thinks, he hates them too.
“I quit.”
“Keep it for prosperity then.”
“That’s not how you use that word.” He sing-songs.
“Which one of us is up for a Pulitzer?” She reminds him, a smile on her face as she looks around the room. She looks contented. He’s happy for her.
“I’m an art editor, not a wordsmith, Tris.”
“I’m hardly a wordsmith.” She scoffs, scuffing her feet on the hard-wood floor, suddenly shy. She’s discovered, she can only compliment herself before feeling like her ego is through the ceiling. She takes another drag and JC shakes his head, huffing out a laugh.
“Stop being humble, it suits you too well.”
“Shut up.”
He watches as she looks around the room, and his brain is full of a jumble of memories, a collage, a montage filling his head, throwing himself through these remembrances at full throttle.
“Remember when we stole a bottle of champagne from a gala and watched Jackass 3 with it?” He says and Beatrice’s head comes down from where it was staring at a crack in the ceiling, looking to him with a slightly startled expression.
“Where did that come from? Of course I remember, my Mother was very happy at the thought we were dating.”
JC laughs, bright and loud, echoing throughout the room and Beatrice soon joins in. God, Jeannette Young really thought that they were dating? That would be like dating a sister, it is the kind of thing that she would be obsessed with though. He wonders when the last time she spoke to her parents was, he knows that he is only really just talking to his Dad again, Lilith has never really lost contact, but Beatrice cut them off and left. His phone buzzes, interrupting his train of thought and he sees that something bad has happened with a set of prints at work and he needs to work his magic, he tuts, he booked this off weeks again, for fucks sake.
“Fuck, I’m getting called in, something stupid about a photoshoot. You don’t have to bring anything tonight, but please come, I know you’ll have a good time.”
“Will I now?”
“Yes you will now, love you, gotta go, come by tonight!”
Beatrice shuts the door behind him and looks at her empty space.
This could be good.
--
The apartment is full, warm and noisy and Ava loves every second of it.
Hans and Chanel are talking on the balcony, she doesn’t know how long they’ve been there but she suspects that they’ve gotten through at least half a pack. Each to their own, she guesses, her and JC quit together but she’s gotten closer and closer to taking it back up. Slowly but surely, not diving back into chain-smoking and cherrying but certainly maybe one a week, perhaps two. JC, Camila and Lilith are playing cards, Zori sitting with them but not playing. A feeling of jealousy, righteous but still irritating, fills her stomach at the sight of them together. They didn’t even do anything, but they were close to, close enough for JC to feel guilty enough to stay at Chanel and Randall’s for a week. She sighs and looks away, taking a drink of her Cuba Libre, with an extra (a lot) more rum than it should have in it. Randall is fiddling with the sound system, he had tried to explain what he was doing but she just told him to have a go, soon enough music fills the apartment, mixed well and clearer, whatever he’s done has clearly worked. Michael has yet to arrive, as has Beatrice. A debate sparks about what music to play, Randall – as always - goes for Sinatra, Camila is gunning for any Dolly Parton that’s available while Lilith snarks that she doesn’t care as long as she gets to beat JC at poker.
“Okay, you guys are being crazy. Ava, honey, what do you think?”
What does she think?
“That mixtape we made for Amsterdam. The one for our honeymoon?”
“Oh, I love you, fantastic.” He stands, lowering his cards onto the table. The three words still reverberate in her heart but they don’t do what they used to. He turns and walking a few steps backward, pointing a finger at Camila. “Don’t look at my cards, Cammy.”
“A cassette? Are we back in the 90s?” Chanel complains, coming back inside and sliding shut, Hans behind her.
“They have a good sound.” Hans argues, which devolves into a further bickering between sounds. It’s quickly joined by the sound of Boys Don’t Cry, and it fizzles out, JC deals the others in, Ava continues on setting up for dinner. A knock at the door makes JC jump out of his seat and to the door, he opens it with a cheer. She focuses on weighing out the rice when she sees two figures out the corner of her eyes.
“Ava, honey, this is Beatrice Young, Beatrice Young this is Ava.” She wipes her hands on her apron and turns to greet this new, mysterious person who is apparently not new to JC at all.
Ava is normally immune to hot people, she’s married to one, but the quiet smile that Beatrice gives her, the hair pulled back into a small bun, dexterous fingers holding a wine bottle easily between them, freckles across her face, she’s sure that she’s doomed. She’s felt attraction to others before, never acted on it, obviously, but Christ, this is, this is, too much, almost. She’s wearing a black button-up and black slacks, it’s tight along her shoulders.
Beatrice gives the bottle of wine to JC who pretends to make a big deal about what kind of wine it is and Beatrice, just laughs, a sound that itches something in her brain. She punches him on the shoulder, and he makes an exaggerated yowling sound and offers her a drink of the wine she brought. Instead they open the fridge and bring out a six-pack of beer, Ava doesn’t feel left out as she watches them interact, giddy with each other, instead it’s a nice picture, seeing JC not be the person he is around Ava; the confused, egg-shell walking person. Beatrice steps forward, raising a hand toward Ava, who takes it and shakes, once, not too hard, but certainly firm. Her hands are cold and slightly calloused, almost dry but not quite. Perfectly imperfect. Her eyes don’t search and scan Ava’s face instead they seem to stay fixated on her and intake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, JC, has neglected to tell me anything beyond bare bones of you.” She has an accent, one that hugs harsh consonants and wraps around vowels. Almost everyone here has an accent, hers sticks in Ava’s ears, just like how Lilith’s did the first time they met; they didn’t like each other but Ava’s not blind, she knows hot people when she sees them.
“When he gets excited, he forgets things.” Ava shrugs and drops her hand, unfortunately mourning the loss.
“I know, I remember.” She says, almost wistfully before catching herself. “I have to say.” She starts, suddenly looking slightly nervous and scratching the underside of her jaw. “I loved your collection about the woman at the party, it, well, it spoke to me.”
“That’s very kind of you, they’re my favourites.”
“I understand why.”
Their eyes continue to stay trained on each other. Ava can’t hear what song it is, can’t smell the food behind her, can’t even taste her Cuba Libre anymore; it’s all this stranger.
“C’mon Tris! I’ve got some people for you!” JC shouts from the other room.
“It appears I’m being summoned. It’s been nice.” Beatrice raises her beer to Ava and leaves to join the others, she watches as she straightens her back and pulls Lilith, Lilith of all people, into a hug, how does she know Lilith? Lilith is her friend. She makes a note to ask later, probably after dinner, she doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. Ava finishes her Cuba Libre and make another, incredibly strong one, noting that the cassette has gone through to Up the Junction, a song that reminds her of her year abroad in London, she had gone to Clapham, she liked it more than she expected. Her mind unfortunately drifts back to Beatrice, wondering where she’s from, she sounds British, but where, Ava is immediately curious, interested in who she is. The way she does with most people she meets, she loves to dig deep into people, to understand and really look at them, to know everything there is to know, the big life changing things and the itty bitty shit that makes them them.
“May I help you with anything?” The person plaguing her mind says, leaning on the island in the middle of the kitchen, a beer her hands; Ava wonders, for a forbidden moment just how capable those hands are. Get a goddamn grip, Silva.
“What? Of course not, have fun.” She scoffs, she lets JC help because he knows her limits and what not to do, she doesn’t even let Camila help though they can actually cook. It’s the only time that she has complete and utter control over a situation, she doesn’t particularly like or enjoy exercising it but when she’s cooking, it’s all hers.
“Please.” She steps forward and Ava gets the scent of some kind of cologne that makes her slightly dizzy. “I like to be useful, and, I’m afraid I’m not good around groups of people for a while.”
Ava feels for her, and she assumes that Beatrice is less of a talker and more of a do-er when it comes to making friends, the little she’s heard about her from JC backs that up. She steps back and wipes her hand on her apron, a stupid one that says ‘kiss the cook’ that JC got for her years ago, its faded and stained but it works and it reminds her of when they were younger.
“Well, it that case, would you rather chop shit or measure shit?”
That makes a smile fall out of her, one that seems to come against her will, it makes something bubble in Ava’s gut. This is bad.
“Chopping would be fine with me.” Ava watches as Beatrice flicks her sleeves up her arm, folding them tightly until they rest on her bicep, flexing as she picks up the knife next to the chopping board.
“Perfect.”
Beatrice is usure about how to act around Ava, she’s almost always unsure about how to act around new people. The others were nice and they asked the right number of questions without prying too hard but she just, just, can’t talk too long without getting a headache. She was happy to watch them talking amongst themselves, gaining information in throwaway jokes and how each of them fall into each other. JC had made a conscious effort to stay on the side of his chair furthest from a woman called Zori, she’ll ask him about that later, most likely alone. Lilith was close to a woman called Camila, kind and smiling, with a wicked sense of humor that doesn’t match her appearance and yet made perfect sense. The others she can get a hold of but Ava, Ava is special. She’s the person who JC has chosen to spend the rest of his life with. She’s beautiful, distractingly so, with a taught jaw and surprising muscles tightening underneath the lights of the kitchen. Beatrice wishes she knew about her more but the questions die on her tongue, she had used up all of her social energy on the group in the living room and the first time they had met. She clicks her neck and starts to focus on chopping the three red peppers next to the board.
“Chunks or julienne?” She asks, in lieu of anything actually important.
“Julienne?” Ava teases and Beatrice fights the tendency to hide her face and blush, instead she lets her face flush red and rolls her eyes, the same way she would with JC.
“Thin strips.” Beatrice answers, though she’s sure that Ava already knew that.
“Thin strips is perfect. How do you know Lilith?” Ava asks, the question comes out of nowhere, but then Beatrice remembers the open-plan aspect of the flat and the fact that Ava must have seen her pull Lilith into a tight hug. She hasn’t talked to her since she left London at seventeen, having skipped a year and completed secondary school early; Beatrice has thought them close enough to remain in contact, but at that point her spine was about as strong as a matchstick and she did understand why she had stopped communication completely. The most recent contact she had gotten was a postcard delivered to her office congratulating her on her nomination for the Pulitzer, with an apology and a phone number. She had no idea the other woman had talked to JC earlier, that did hurt, but he did cut ties with his family earlier she supposes. She’ll let bygones be bygones, she had missed her, now all she needs is to get dinner with Mary and Shannon and she’ll firmly be back in the States.
“We went to school together, ran in the same circles as me and JC. She left home early, so we lost contact with her.” She says, keeping it simple. Many things have changed but it’s obvious that Lilith is still an incredibly private person who wouldn’t want that kind of information shared. “How do you know her?”
“Same University, hated me when we first met, I am not a very tidy person and she did not like that.” Ava speaks quickly, charmingly, almost tripping over her words as a smile stretches over her face, she lets out a bark of a laugh at the end that makes Beatrice, in turn, smile slightly.
“That sounds like Lilith, how did you win her over?”
“Our friend cannot cook for shit, she burnt ramen to a charred crisp. And I can’t do much-“
“Don’t put yourself down, Ava.” She immediately interjects, Ava continues on, as if not hearing her but Beatrice sees as she jolts in slight surprise at the sentence.
“-but I can cook.”
“Then I will follow your lead.” Beatrice says, after a moment of silence, and Ava somehow relaxes at the statement. She walks to another cupboard and grabs a second chopping board and starts on the chorizo before pushing of the counter and stirring a pan of mushrooms on the stove.
“Woah, Ava Silva letting someone help? In the kitchen? I can’t believe my eyes.” Chanel drawls, and Ava points the knife at her and threatens something that Beatrice can’t quite catch. The others crowd on the other side of the island, where Beatrice is chopping up the next thing she was given, chicken breasts.
“The last time I tried that she towel whipped me so hard that it left a mark.” Randall says and they all laugh, she takes a drink of her beer with her non-chickeny hand, JC looking at her. A knock at the door signals someone new, JC jumps up to the door and cheers a loud ‘Mikey!’ at the person entering.
“I apologize for being so late, I hope this will make up for it?” He holds up a square bottle of clear liquid that makes Ava chortle with joy and almost run across the kitchen to him. “You’re going to make your Ava special, yeah?”
“No, I want to be able to feel my body when I go to sleep tonight.” She replies, taking the bottle with some reverence. Though Beatrice is clearly missing out on the joke that’s making a smatter of laughter appear throughout the flat, she doesn’t feel like a fly on the wall, left out at all, just watching them.
“Who’s this?” The man, tall and thick, tousled blonde hair on his head, shaking off his jacket and putting it on a series of pegs with practiced eased. He says it and nods toward Beatrice, who steels herself for yet another introductory conversation.
“This is Beatrice, a friend of JC’s.” Ava says, over her shoulder, pouring a few hefty glasses of the clear liquid and adding cloudy lemonade to it; it’s odd, after spending so long in Europe, seeing lemonade like that once again.
“Well, any friend of JC’s is a friend of mine.” He smiles, coming toward her with an outreached hand, shaking hers once, twice, they’re soft, as if they’ve only ever been kept inside gloves and on pillows and have never touched a harsh New York Winter or a thorn from a flower. “I’m Michael.” He’s British and it makes her feel slightly more at ease, she has nothing against Americans, she’s spent most of her adult life surrounded by them, but she doesn’t half mind hearing a fellow Brit.
“Bea! Is it okay if I call you Bea?” Ava asks, giving a glass of drink to Michael, her warm and slightly dry hand falling onto Beatrice’s forearm. She wants to say no, it’s what her Father called her when he still enjoyed her company, but it sounds so joyous from her that she immediately gives in.
“Of course.” She takes a look at the cloudy drink, in a tall glass with lines cut across it in a check pattern, not to dissimilar to the Greene King pub glasses of your youth. “What is it?”
“This is the finest tequila you’ll ever have, seriously, no hangover in sight with this shit.” Ava smiles, taking a drink and humming slightly from it. “Have I mentioned that I love you, Michael?”
“Not nearly recent enough.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek and pulls her into a quick hug. “Now I have to go kiss my husband.”
With that he’s gone, giving Hans – the tall, Swiss bartender that was happy when she spoke to him in quick German – a sound kiss on the lips before joining the others around the table. It’s sweet, and Beatrice almost wishes for that kind of sweetness with someone. It’s not exactly missing from JC and Ava, but something there isn’t quite right. Speaking of, Ava picks up her chopping board and adds the chicken to the steaming pan, it shouldn’t be much longer now.
The cassette drifts few a couple more songs and Ava hums along, dancing in a dorky way that makes Beatrice smile. There are a couple of times that she tries to get Beatrice involved but she simply points to her glass as if dancing will make her spill her almost finished drink, when in reality she’s just enjoying Ava being Ava, and she’s not sure that Beatrice’s own dancing will fit in, she doesn’t really dance; too afraid of eyes, too afraid of where to put her hands, where to look. So instead she watches on and take a drink form her, admittedly, delicious tequila. A pinger dings and Ava smiles, opening the over.
“Are you hungry you filthy animals?” Ava says, her tone tilting into an impression of the movie from Home Alone and JC smiles, Ava is so beautiful when she’s being an idiot, when she laughs at her own jokes and comes into the kitchen with a massive pan of paella, oven gloves on to hold it. Michael moves forward to touch it but she smacks his hand away. “Not yet, and it’s hot, don’t be a dick.”
It’s a sort of organized chaos once they’re all seated, JC hands out as much as possible to everyone, Hans is opening a new bottle of wine while arguing with Chanel in German, Beatrice intercepting a few times and Hans motions his hand toward her as if she’s agreeing with his point. She’s fit in like a puzzle piece, right in the top left where a bit of sky looks the same as every other tile but it takes forever to get them right. As always, there’s a five minute break where everyone just enjoys Ava’s cooking, there are a few mumbled ‘amazing as always Ava’ through full mouths but apart from that, just chewing and the scraping of plates.
Ava looks at her friends and feels a sense of calm wash over her, this is good, this is lovely, this takes her mind off all the bad immediately. She has another mouthful and sees that everyone is almost halfway through their first plates, which means the five minutes of silence are almost up and the conversation will be ignited once again.
“Ava! Any new paintings on the way? You know the abstracts sell well.” Randall asks, a cheery grin across his face. She takes a gulp of her drink, the tequila warming her as it makes its way to her stomach. The truth is, she hasn’t, not since the trial. A few scribbled-out abstracts that came from a place of rage, anger at everything, the kind that even the justice of seeing Sister Frances’ smug face behind bars couldn’t wash away. She wants to paint something tangible, something that reminds her of being human, feeling completely full again.
“There’s always something on the way.” She teases, hoping that coy will mean that she can wiggle her way out of this. The others whoop slightly at her and she shrugs, pretending that her heart is hammering and stammering in her chest.
“Well, I certainly can’t wait to see them.”
“Hear, hear.” Hans laughs, raising his glass. “To Ava, and the wonderful food she always gives us.”
“You guys don’t have to-“
“Hush darling, let us like you.” Chanel interrupts her protestations and raises her glass, just as the others do.
“To Ava.” They chorus, clinking, drinking and dropping. And then it’s like the spell of food has suddenly gone, everyone back into their little conversations, low-level buzzing and laughing that can help leave Ava’s blissfully empty.
“I read your Pulitzer article, I have to say, it was pretty intense.” Zori says, leaning back in her chair. JC watches as Beatrice’s chewing doesn’t stop for a second, though it’s clear the question has made her slightly uncomfortable, the same way that any mention of her work in Finland does.
“I will take that as a compliment.” She replies, taking a drink.
“How did you find all that out? I mean, you literally got a group of pe-“
“I went undercover because money was being siphoned out of a company, I went undercover for an embezzlement charge; I found out a lot more.” She cuts Zori off, finality in her tone. He had read the article too, of course, everyone who knows Beatrice has, even her parents talked about it, albeit briefly, in their monthly newsletter that he has never been able to get out of. He knows that she uncovered deplorable things from a group of sleazy CEOs in a Finnish company, he knows that she had found the pictures, and to find pictures like those, you have to look hard, and you have to see them. “That’s it.”
It's unquestionably an ending to the conversation.
“So what else did you get up to in Finland? Besides getting nominated for a Pulitzer?” JC asks, skirting the idea of the last seven years without talking about work.
“Yeah, Tris, any lovers?” Chanel asks, wiggling her eyebrows and shoulders in a way that gets a chuckle from Beatrice. JC lets out a short breath in relief, Zori is a one, but she’s a one that stays ever present in his head; blonde curled hair that he remembers being bed-mused, dark eyes that he has spent a long time getting lost in. His eyes snap to Ava, who looks in between the two of them and looks to his best friend, face saying nothing, he’ll find out later he guesses. Christ, his life is a mess.
“I wouldn’t say, lovers Chanel, you always romanticize my life.”
“So you’ve been screwing around?”
“There have been nights. And dates, and someone who I thought I was dating but it turns out we were not.”
The conversation moves quicker after that, JC notices that Ava slows down her drinking after they eat and he follows suit. Beatrice looks at ease, she talks to everyone barring Zori and if she notices then she doesn’t say anything. Beatrice also insists on cleaning the dishes, it takes him, Ava and Lilith to tell her to sit down, he can tell she’s getting anxious so he helps her clear away at least, that’ll calm her a bit. They leave the plates in the sink, he’ll do it later when Ava’s gone to bed, and go back to the table. He sits and watches as she pats her pockets, bringing out a packet of cigarettes, taking a moment before turning to Ava.
“Do you smoke?” She asks Ava, Ava who hasn’t picked up a cigarette in months, his Ava who he wants Beatrice to get on so well with.
“I’ll come out with you.” Ava says, he’s glad they’re getting along, for a moment he was worried that they wouldn’t. He takes a drink of his wine and zones in on a conversation between Randall and Chanel, ignoring the fact that Zori is laughing at something Camila says and her hand falls onto his thigh when she loses balance on the chair slightly. He ignores how it jolts warmth up his thigh, he moves his thigh and feels her hand fall and misses the touch. He downs his drink.
Beatrice shuts the sliding door and pulls out a cigarette, watching as Ava shivers slightly. She wishes she had something to make her warmer. There’s a question waiting on her tongue, her and JC had sure talked but it was purely surface level stuff. He’s an open book of a man, but he’s hardly unearthed the things that have ultimately changed his life from the last time the two of them had spoken in person. She’s known about him getting, married – but not to who, she’s known about his promotion and the things but not how he’s felt about it. She lights the cigarette, taking a deep breath and exhaling through her nose. She scratches at the underside of her jaw.
Ava watches the motions, how she holds the cigarette and takes a drag, how she scratches at herself, not out of necessity but out of thought. She knows that she is often qualified as a bit too much, eccentric even, often; but she’s more perceptive than others give her the credit for. In the only semester of College she went to, there was a psych 101 class dedicated to the idea of how someone smokes, how it defined them. Lilith rolls her own, quickly and efficiently, hardly any tobacco and holds it similar to how Ava did, locked in between the two phalanxes at the ends of her index and middle fingers. The only difference being that Lilith keeps her hands tense, straight, where Ava’s flopped around, normally being window dressing to a wild story of her past. And this is how Ava knew that the class was bullshit, because, according to 1950s psychology, that would mean that Lilith was a dreamer and Ava was pessimistic. Which, although there are touches of dreams and pessimism within the both of them, that is not how Ava would describe each other at all. Hans holds his in between his third and fourth finger (‘the European way Ava!’) and JC held his in an okay, a remnant of his pot days, clarifying him as a ‘tense individual’, once again incorrect.
The way Beatrice holds hers though, trapped right in the knuckle in between her first and second fingers, the way she takes her right hand and smokes out the left side of her mouth, virtually covering the bottom half of her face; the skeptic. A journalist, skeptic of those around her, it’s the only one that makes sense. The way she quickly inhales and exhales first, keeping it only in her mouth before taking in a long drag that she ghosts and traps to her lungs. She has a sneaking suspicion that Beatrice would look good in abstract.
“Has he been alright?” Her voices draws Ava out of her ramblings, maybe those Cuba Libres were a bit too strong after all.
“What do you mean?”
“JC, he, I- he’s never been the best at sharing his emotions, especially the big ones. So I was just wondering if there’s anything big I missed. Well, besides you.”
Ava is struck by the woman.
“Nothing massive, besides the wedding, he is better on the anniversary of his Mom, is on texting terms with his Dad again. Though, he hasn’t been forthcoming on anything recently.” She doesn’t really know why, she said the last part to this random person she’s just met. Well, she supposes Beatrice is close to him, and there’s something so, easy about the other woman that just makes Ava feel like she can say anything.
“Why is that?”
“I had to be a witness in a trial, it was pretty big for me, like put his life on hold big.” She says, curling into herself slightly. Despite her earlier thoughts, she doesn’t exactly want to talk about that part of her life, not just yet. Beatrice just nods, clearly at a loss as to what to say but Ava doesn’t mind, it’s much better than pity.
They finish in silence, Beatrice putting out the cigarette in the boring plastic ashtray that Ava once stole from a bar down the street and before they got back inside Beatrice catches a hold of her.
“Thank you, for looking after him, but don’t forget to look after yourself too.”
Oh. Oh.
--
“What did you think?” JC asks, later on that night, as they get ready for bed. Ava still taking off the remnants of her makeup and him already in bed, a book resting on his lap. The others hadn’t left too long ago, drinking like fish, losing at cards and Beatrice joining along with them. It felt slightly surreal, and yet like it’s the perfect thing, like it’s just what they’ve been missing.
“What?” Ava almost yells back, not able to hear him over the bathroom fan.
“Of Beatrice? Did you like her?” He asks again, louder.
JC watches as she takes a second, stilling in the mirror before nodding.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t know what it means.
--
25th September
Come over, we need to talk x
Isn’t really the text that you want to receive from your ex-almost-mistress. JC sighs and runs a hand through his hair, he needs to wash it. It’s also not the text he wants to have while talking to his wife over breakfast about their plans for the coming week. Ava’s frustrated about her painter’s block, he rests his hand on hers and she relaxes.
“It’ll be okay Ava, it always has been and it always will.”
“I love you.” She says and it jerks his heart, even after all this time, it makes his heart beat and worries melt.
“I love you too, baby.” He answers, leaning over to give her a kiss. “I have to go, work’s calling me in early, I’ll see you tonight?”
“Of course.
And that’s how he ends up in front of Zori’s bright red front door. Her apartment is 1990s beatnik with Stevie Nicks and Bob Dylan plastered everywhere. There are bottles of wine with half-burnt candles on them, incense everywhere, and the curtains forever closed, the light and thin nature of them leaving orange patterns flat against her corduroy sofas and renovated 1950s furniture. She makes him a cup of coffee and sets it down without a coaster on the coffee table, leaving a circular mark, he takes a drink and gets straight to business.
“What do we need to talk about?”
“Can’t old friends just catch up?” She says, coy and teasing, as if the whole thing is a joke, as if it’s not something that gnaws him up inside.
“Zori.”
“Fine.” She puts down her cup of tea and sits next to him on the sofa, arm on the back, lips tempting. “I’m here to convince you to have an affair.”
She’s never been so upfront about it, it was always just glances and brushing of hands and a few clandestine stares, none of it he’s proud of, none of it he wants to repeat, but the allure, the tantalizing nature of secrets, it calls to him. Zori is a siren and he has to stuff wax into his ears and drown her out, no matter how much he wants to fall into this.
“For fucks sake Zori, I won’t, and I should tell Ava about this.” He slams his hand on the table and stands, pacing in front of the table.
“And where does she think you are right now?” He grits his teeth, not answering. “Exactly, you’re already lying to her.”
“I’m not going through this again, we are not having an affair, we are just friends, nothing more. I have a wife, who I love, I don’t need anything else.”
“Why can’t you have both? Have your cake and eat it? We’re good together JC, and you and Ava have been falling apart for a while now, don’t lie to her, don’t lie to yourself and most importantly, don’t lie to me.”
JC’s not going to take this, he starts toward the front door and hears her footsteps behind him.
“I chose her, she is my wife, I love her.” He throws over his shoulder, opening the door.
“Fine, but just so you know, my door is never locked.”
He slams her door and heads to work.
--
Ava doesn’t plan her day-to-day, routine bores her and when she’s bored she becomes a flight risk, so she allows a routine to come and flow naturally. She has her headphones on again, some ambient stuff at full volume to drown out the sounds of the world but not enough that she can’t think. Her and JC won’t be struggling for money for a few months, but she wants to paint, she can’t sit by a canvas one more time and watch the hours dwindle while she has nothing, nothing, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, nothing.
“Ava?” She hears and she turns to see Beatrice, JC’s Beatrice, too hot for her own good Beatrice standing there, in the middle of the street looking like she doesn’t know what to do with herself after she said Ava’s name. Goddamn it, she’s cute too, shit. Ava pulls off her headphones to talk to her. She’s in jeans this time and a flannel that’s done tightly on her forearms and open so low that Ava can see her sternum.
“Beatrice, hey, how are you doing?”
“I’m good, the weather’s surprisingly nice.” Beatrice replies, taking a look around and if Ava looks at her jaw too long, no she doesn’t. Her hair is down, dyed at the tips and pushed back with sunglasses.
“Yeah, just wait, there’ll be no Fall, just immediate Winter.”
“Oh Christ, that doesn’t sound nice.” She grimaces and Ava holds back a smile
“Eh you get used to it.” There’s a lull in the conversation and Ava takes a jump. “Do you wanna grab a coffee?”
“Sure.”
They walk side to side in silence, elbows bumping each other with every step. Ava wishes she could say something but it feels like words fail her, thankfully it doesn’t feel forced, or bad, just simply a thing that exists and that calms her. They stand outside the coffee shop in silence and suddenly, she doesn’t want one. Beatrice seems to hesitate too, one of her hands moves from deep in her pocket to fiddle with her sunglasses, taking them off and then fixing them.
Maybe she wouldn’t be good in abstract, maybe Ava count paint her as she is, free yet stoic, kind but concerned, and nice. There doesn’t seem to be a cruel bone in Beatrice’s body, unless you count the ones that are ensnaring Ava with every step, every interaction. She needs to stop thinking like this, stop allowing herself, it’s not allowed, it’s not her place, it’s not.
“Do you want to go to the park? Bask in the sun?” Beatrice asks and it feels, for some reason, relieving. Ava lets out a sigh, a breath that had been held without her knowledge.
“I’d love to.”
The park isn’t too far away and they get there quickly, the sun watching their every step. They end up on a bench under a tree, the sun spilling and dripping through the lush green leaves and suddenly Ava has the feeling to draw them as they are. She sighs to herself, and Beatrice lights a cigarette and they remain in silence, a kind silence that doesn’t make her overthink, it just lets her mind wander nicely over thoughts and feelings, not getting sunken into them. The truth is, Ava’s had enough, enough of almost everything, she just wants to paint a person, a landscape, shapes that have meaning beyond a theory, she want to do what she enjoys again. And she wants to stop being known as the star witness in the Sister Frances and St. Michael’s orphanage trial, she wants to be Ava Silva, painter.
“I’m just sick of it.” Ava says, out of no where and she realises that while she just thought all of that in her head, Beatrice just heard those five words. To her credit, she doesn’t laugh or make fun of her, she just nods and takes a sip of coffee.
“Of what?”
“All I’ve gotten are interviews about the trial, about that, all I want it to paint again and for people to care about that, not that kind of shit.” She says it in one large tumble and Beatrice stares at her, looking so intensely Ava fears she sees every part of her mind.
“I understand. I did this big piece, this important and good thing that I did but, I don’t want to do it again. I just want to write something that people will enjoy, something fluffy.”
An idea rolls into Ava’s mind, the kind of idea that could very easily make the both of them very happy. She turns to Beatrice, who is mid-drag and smiles, Beatrice looks a bit confused but smile back nonetheless.
“This is kinda stupid but, you want to write a puff piece, right?”
“I’m sure it’s not, but yes, go on.” Ava rolls her eyes at Beatrice, who speaks so earnest and open that it makes Ava crack open a bit, and feel like she’s been seen a bit too much.
“And I want people to stop talking to me about Sister Frances, right?” She continues, before she can think about that too much.
“You want me to write a piece on you.” Beatrice realises, a smile burning it’s way onto her face, a twin one making it’s way onto Ava’s, she feels the way it pushes her cheeks and begins to ache the muscles.
“Yeah! What do you think?”
“Alright. Excellent. When would be good for you?”
“Next week?”