by Lindy Dale
“What’s up? You okay?”
“I can’t go.” Now, my lip is wobbling. He’s being so sweet, I just might lose it over his shirt in a second.
“Why? You love a party.”
“I look ridiculous.”
His eyes travel down to my top. “You look pretty. The colour is nice.”
“It’s horrible.” Nothing is going to placate me, not even Brendan’s manly attempt at sensitivity.
“Then why’d you buy it?”
“It looked nice in the shop.”
“Ahh, the thin mirrors, eh?”
Brendan doesn’t believe that shops put those thin mirrors in their change rooms to trick you into buying stuff you’d never buy any other time. Nine times out of ten I get home and discover what I saw as good in the shop makes me look like a heifer.
“I look like my mother.”
“It’s not your usual style. Why don’t you get changed? We have a couple of minutes.”
I can’t believe the words have sprung from his mouth. Brendan, the stickler for being on time and constant nag about me not being ready is giving me some leeway. I squint at him in the mirror, trying to ascertain who this new loving, caring fellow is.
“I have nothing to wear. My cute tops are too revealing.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It’s not like you go round with your tits out, like some chicks do.”
“No. I mean, now that I have this…” I gesture in the general area of my prosthesis, “…this thing, they’re too low cut. You can see my bra or, if I bend, my lack of cleavage. There’s no happy medium.”
“Don’t bend then?” He gives me a grin and I know he’s trying to cheer me up. “What about that one that shows your shoulder? You know the blue one with that big sleeve that gets in my drinks? I like that.”
He’s trying to describe the sapphire-coloured one shoulder top with the bat-wing sleeve, of course. It’s revealing but in a very subtle way. And it makes my shoulders look lovely. Lovely shoulders would totally negate having one boob. Plus, the covered shoulder is on the side of my prosthesis so if I take it out and slip it in a strapless bra, I might be able to pull it off.
I grin at him in the mirror. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Turning, I wrap my arms around him and press myself into the strength of his chest. “Thank you,” I whisper into his neck.
“I aim to please. Now, get a move on. The party waits for no man and we’re already late.”
And the real Brendan’s back.
Within five minutes, I’ve rushed to change, attached the breast form to my chest with wide medical tape, so it won’t pop out of the strapless bra, and redone my hair into a low ponytail at my nape that hangs over my bare shoulder. The hideous top is lying on the bed in a crumpled heap but I don’t care. I look in the mirror and I feel content. Now, I am me.
I head down to get in the car and we speed off towards Hilary and John’s place. It’s the fault of the bloody Tamoxifen, I think as I sink into the seat, the sound of Brendan’s voice, telling me about his day, washing over me. When Dr. Downer gave me the script and we discussed my options, she mentioned there were minimal side effects to taking this drug, but I think she may have underplayed how minimal they are. Since I started, I’ve turned from a rational sane woman to a blubbering hormonal mess. Not to mention the headaches, the bloating that makes me the size of an excessive overeater in the space of five minutes or the incredible urge to fart at the most inopportune moments. Sometimes, I have such a lack of control over my bodily functions, I feel as if I’ve given myself over to testing. I was never like this before. Still, it’s better than being dead. I could have been that.
We arrive at the party and wind our way through the crowd looking for the birthday boy.
“Hey.” Brendan waves an arm at Hilary and John, who are stood in half in, half out of the bi-fold doors, looking like they’d like to stop saying hello and go get a nice stiff drink.
“Sophie!” Hilary exclaims. “How are you, babe?”
“Pretty good. You? You look like you’ve lost weight.”
Hilary runs a hand over her hip. “A couple of kilos. Chasing Weston around is a better workout than going to the gym.”
Weston is Hilary and John’s toddler son. Gorgeous child. Hideous name. Sounds like a biscuit.
“Well, you look great.”
“Thanks. You look fab, too. I can’t believe you’ve been going through this. You don’t look sick. You look so rested.”
“Weeks of sitting around on your bum will tend to do that.”
“Oh you!” She gives my arm a slight punch. “You weren’t sitting around. You were recuperating. Oh, by the way, Melinda’s here.”
Hilary knows about my problems with Melinda. Since my operation, I managed to get hold of her only once. She was standoffish and guarded, not her usual effusive self. It might be good to clear the air in person. I still don’t know what I’ve done to offend her, other than get a life threatening illness.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“She was over at the bar a second ago, but I can’t see her now.”
It appears Melinda has seen me first and has gone into hiding.
Deciding to cross that bridge later, I hand the token bottle of alcohol over to John. “Happy birthday.”
“Cheers.” He kisses my cheek and peeks inside the bag. “Nice. My scotch cabinet was starting to run low.”
I feel bad. I’ve given the most generic male present in the world because until two hours ago, I’d completely forgotten the party was for John’s birthday. The bottle shop was the only thing left open at five o’clock on a Saturday. It seems, along with the other symptoms from the Tamoxifen, I’ve also started suffering from dementia.
“It’s not much,” I mumble by way of apology.
Waving my apology away, Hilary takes the present and puts it on the sideboard with some other gifts. “We’re glad you’re here. That’s gift enough for us. Now let’s go get a bloody drink. All this smiling and being nice is making my face ache.”
A while later, I’m standing next to Hilary and Angela in a corner of the courtyard. We’re drinking bubbles and giggling over the guy standing next to us. He’s a workmate of John’s or a long lost cousin or something. His hair is blowing in the evening breeze. The only problem is, he’s plastered it with so much hairspray it’s blowing straight up like a weird sort of Mohawk, then floating back into place across his forehead to cover his bald spot. He’s totally clueless. He thinks we’re checking him out and he’s started to puff out his chest like a Black Cockatoo searching for a mate.
Hilary turns to me. “So, it’s okay to drink when you have cancer?” Her eyes indicate the bubbles in my glass. I’m only having a couple, having struck a deal with Brendan to be the designated driver.
“As far as I know. Nobody said I couldn’t, so I’m operating under the guise of ignorance. I don’t have to cut things out, just be sensible, which is pretty much what I do already. I’m certainly not going to be one of those survivors who only buys organic produce and bangs on about Reiki healing.”
“But what if it’s the cause? What if it was your boozing that gave you the cancer?”
“You make me sound like a raging plonker.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was only asking. And you’re not a plonker, by the way. That Catherine What’s-her-face, you know, Sienna’s mother? She’d drink you under the table. Now there’s a plonker.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
I put my glass down on the edge of the planter box.
Hilary frowns. “Aren’t you going to finish it?”
“It’s fine. I didn’t want it anyway.”
“Because of what I said?”
“No. I don’t feel like it. I’ve been a bit off since I started on the medication.”
I give a sigh. I hate talking about it. I hate thinking about it. I hate everyone asking me. Hopefully, the novelty will wear off soon and we can get back to norm
al.
“So DO you know what caused it? The cancer?” Hilary probes, taking a huge glug from her own glass. Clearly, the possibility of catching Breast Cancer from champagne has not dampened her enthusiasm for a drink.
“Not a clue. There’s no history in my family. I don’t smoke and apart from massive amounts of chocolate, I eat healthily. I could probably ramp up the exercise but I not sure that’s ever been linked to Breast Cancer.”
Angela leans towards me. “Nobody would ever know you’ve had it. If anything, you look even healthier than before the diagnosis.”
“It’s the mastectomy.” I laugh. “Instant weight loss. Guaranteed.”
“You’re dreadful, Sophie.” Hilary cackles. She polishes off the rest of her drink goes off to do the rounds, promising to return shortly.
“Take your time,” Angela says. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Have you met the people John works with?” Hilary asks, with a snort. “They’re so far up their own arses they can’t see daylight. I have no intention of talking to them for a millisecond longer than is necessary to be polite.”
She wanders off into the crowd as the band begins their set and Angela and I find a spot on a step at the back of courtyard. It’s a good place to be because the party is extremely lively for a bunch of 40-somethings. People are doing shots and showing each other intimate parts of their anatomy. There’s a man demonstrating drunken hip-hop moves on the pool deck and the servers hired for the night are having an awful time trying to navigate past his ‘caterpillar’. I’m waiting for the crowd surfing to kick off.
Down in the middle of the courtyard area, Melinda has finally appeared. She’s chatting to Brendan and in her usual flirty way, has her hand on his sleeve. Even though her lashes are batting at him double-time and she’s flicking her hair over her shoulder seductively, I can tell they’re discussing me; they keep on looking in my direction. I hope she’s telling him how guilty she feels for giving me the cold shoulder, not so much as an e-card came in my direction when I was in hospital. I hope he’s telling her how sad I’m feeling because of it. I can’t. Every time I get closer than ten metres away, she disappears or gets a sudden attack of something contagious I wouldn’t want to catch.
The song changes to Gary Glitter’s Rock and Roll Part One and the man with the blowing hair pushes his way in beside Angela and I. He’s holding a large glass of red wine high above his head, so it won’t spill. Its vinegary scent is assaulting my nostrils so I move a little closer to Angela who’s on my left.
The man gives me what was probably a very sexy smile once, before his teeth started to show their age. Up close, they’re sort of yellowing but at least they match the bleariness of his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, his elbow digging me in the ribs. “There’s not much room, is there?”
“No.” I return his smile and go back to listening to the music.
The man begins to jiggle his leg in time with the beat. “I used to love this song when I was a kid,” he yells.
I continue to concentrate on the band. They’re really quite good.
“I’m Mike,” the man says. He leans closer. His glass balances precariously between two fingers. It’s threatening to spill down my sleeve.
“Sophie.”
I shuffle as close as I can to Angela. She’s biting on the rim of her glass and trying not to laugh. “You’ve got an admirer,” she whispers.
“Seems that way. Is there any room on the other side of you? He’s invading my personal space.”
“Not unless you want to sit in the planter box.”
The band begins to thrash out an AC/DC classic and Mike moves a little closer. I’m physically trapped between him, Angela and the wall. I want to ask him to move but I decide it’s easier to ignore him as he seems to have given up trying to chat me up and is watching the band, an almost smug sort of expression on his face.
Then I notice why.
Mike, who is clearly under the influence of too much pinot, is feeling me up. And the main problem with this scenario, other than I don’t know him from Adam and I’m in a steady relationship, seems to be that he’s feeling up my fake boob.
No wonder he’s looking so smug. The poor guy must be thinking he’s in because no sane woman would let a guy touch her boob within seconds of meeting. And because the breast is a fake, I have no idea how long he’s been doing it for. He’s probably counting his lucky stars that I haven’t punched him one and dreaming about the wild sex we’re going to have in the toilet in ten minutes or so.
I look down to where his free hand is on my right breast and then I look him in the eye. “Ah, Mike?”
“Hmm?” His sexy smile is now a bit of a leer.
“If you’re after a thrill you might want to try the other one.” I indicate his hand, massaging the silicone. “Because that one isn’t real.”
He looks bemused.
“It’s fake, Mike. I only have one breast.”
He appears even more baffled.
“That one gets put in a box when I go to bed. I had Breast Cancer,” I yell, right as the music stops.
Mike snatches his hand away, as if my boob has suddenly caught fire or something. His face turns the colour of his wine as the entire crowd turns to check out what mischief Mike’s got himself into this time.
He looks at my breast, mutters something unintelligible and flies off into the crowd so fast he’s almost airborne. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the crowd surfing began.
“What’s his deal?” Hilary nods into the cloud of alcohol fumes Mike has left in his wake. She has returned with a tumbler full of champagne, having got sick of refilling or someone pinching it every time she put it down.
“He discovered one of my boobs is not like the other.” I giggle.
“Seriously? He was feeling you up?”
“Yep.” I relay the incident, as Hilary stands with her mouth open.
“Only you, Sophie. It could only happen to you.”
Chapter 17
I think Brendan is suffering from the effects of a big night this morning. Even though Rory is staying over at the hotel with Mum and Colin, he was up as soon as the sun peeped through the curtains. I heard him stumble into the ensuite, barely missing the wall in the semi-darkness. I heard him rifling through the drawer where we keep the headache tablets and then I heard him turning on the tap. There was a groan after that, then everything was silent. For a very long time.
“Feeling seedy?” I ask, when he emerges sometime later, like a bear with a sore head. Literally.
“What do you think?” He’s standing in the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is mussed. The curtness is a sure sign he’s hurting.
“Why don’t you come back to bed for a bit, then? I’ll make us some tea and toast. We can read the paper.”
“I don’t want to come back to bed.”
“Is something wrong?”
I sit up and stare quizzically across the room at him. He looks angry. His hands are folded across his chest, defensively, as he leans on the doorjamb.
“Was that Mike guy chatting you up last night?”
So this is why he’s grumpy. Brendan might not have truly accepted the physical change in me but deep down his feelings haven’t changed. He’s jealous.
“In a fashion. Where were you anyway? You disappeared as soon as we got in the door.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, if you’d been by my side, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Who said he was flirting with me, anyway?”
“Uh… I was talking to John on the phone. He said that Mike guy felt you up and everyone at the party saw. John was pissing himself laughing about the whole thing. Why didn’t you do something?”
I could ask why he was talking to John on the phone in the loo but I don’t.
“Because I didn’t know he was feeling me up, Brendan. I was listening to the band. He spoke to me. I only answered to be polite.”
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous.” He strides into the room and reaches for his folded track pants on the table next to his side of the bed.
“I’m not. I didn’t know what he was doing because he was playing with my prosthesis. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not part of my body. It has no sensation. Therefore, if someone touches it and I’m not looking, I won’t be aware.” I feel like I’m talking to a five-year-old. He’s certainly behaving like one. He’s practically pouting.
Brendan looks at me as if I’m lying. Then, suddenly, something changes and his face softens. He tosses the pants back to the floor and crawls into bed beside me. Maybe he knows he’s behaving irrationally. I would never let a guy do that to me under normal circumstances.
“Did you say tea and toast?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Can you make it strong and sweet? And raspberry jam on the toast. Lots.”
I lay back, arranging the covers around us. I put my head on his chest. His heart is pounding harder than it normally does. I rub his side and tickle the skin in the crook of his elbow. I haven’t given up on the idea that he might want to have sex. A hangover has never been a deterrent in the past. And it’s been over two months.
“Aren’t you making tea?” he says, shuffling his body away from mine.
“In a minute.”
I reach up and kiss the soft skin on the side of his neck behind his ear. I nip his earlobe.
“I have a fucking hangover, Soph. If you’re not making tea, I’m going for a run.” He moves to get out of bed and I jump up, throwing the covers back.
“Stay there,” I say, wondering why the hell I bother. Seriously, I am beginning to think he has a personality disorder.
I stand behind the kitchen bench in my little white knickers and my white singlet top. I dangle the teabags and watch the toast and, all the while, I can’t help but think it’s not jealousy that has made Brendan behave the way he has this morning. Any other time, he would have been all over me like a rash, ripping my underwear from my body because another man had paid attention to me, but not now. As I watch the tea swirl in the mug, I have this overwhelming feeling of dread and it’s telling me that Brendan doesn’t want me anymore. But that can’t be true, can it? He was so nice to me before we went out last night. He was really trying to be compassionate.