Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  *****

  A couple of hours later, x-rays in hand, I sit myself down in the chair at Dr. Downer’s desk.

  “How’s everything been going, Sophie?” she asks, peering over her glasses that are perched precariously on the end of her nose. “I hear you’re doing a bit of a new thing at your shop.”

  News travels fast in Perth.

  “Yes. Vintage handbag rental among other things. We’re reinventing ourselves. The launch is in a week or so. Would you like an invitation? I’d love for you to come.”

  “Thank you. Yes. There’s nothing I like more than a pretty handbag.”

  It’s funny, isn’t it? I’d never have pictured Dr. Downer as a pretty handbag type of woman. She looks too… solid?

  “So, the results of your tests came back negative. You’re still in the clear,” Dr. Downer says, as she leads me to the examination bed and asks me to take off my top. She begins to examine my wounds and feel around my remaining lymph nodes.

  “Good, because I wanted to talk to you about where we go from here. I want to have the other breast off and have two implants.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Sophie. The rate of survival now you’re being treated is well into the ninetieth percentile.”

  I’m not about to be talked out of this now I’ve made up my mind. “I know that and this is nothing to do with survival rates. This is more to do with my sanity. Firstly, if I have two implants, they’ll match and secondly, I can’t handle the stress of the ultrasounds and mammograms every six months. When they showed me the images of a new cyst this morning, I was practically hysterical. I’ve only just stopped shaking. I can’t deal with cancer again.”

  “Both valid points.” She tells me to put my top on and goes to sit at her desk. By the time I get back, she has a sheath of sheets on the table between us.

  “So you’re serious about the bi-lateral mastectomy?”

  “Deadly.”

  She gives a hint of a smile. “Okay. I’ll get the forms filled in and give Jared a call. Usually I remove the breast and he comes in last and does the cosmetic reconstruction part.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  I leave Dr. Downer’s office feeling relieved and somewhat happy. I know some people would say I’m being alarmist and over reacting but this is the right course of action for me. That time in pathology only served to confirm it.

  *****

  I get back to the shop to find Lani supervising the men who are attaching the new sign over the verandah and door of the shop. She’s using a series of hand signals that would almost be construed as rude in other circumstances but the men seem to understand what she’s on about.

  “How’s that for cool?” she asks, pointing up to the sign that the men are now securing in place.

  “Please tell her it’s fabulous,” one of the men yells down the ladder. “She’s had us up here for over half an hour. My arms are beginning to wilt.”

  “Fabulous,” I say to Lani. I mean it, though. The new sign and logo are fabulous. And once we’ve given the interior a spruce up to match, it’ll be perfect.

  “Thanks boys,” Lani says. “I’m going inside now. Can I offer you a cold beverage when you finish?”

  “A cuppa’d be great, love,” the first guy says. “Unless you’ve got a beer in the fridge.”

  Lani snorts at the idea and we walk into the shop together.

  “I’ve picked a few paint colours,” she says, as we go out the back to put on the kettle. “See what you think. I’ve finalised the menu for the finger food with Angela and the drinks are being delivered the day before. Angela suggested we pay Carly to come for the night. She’d make a great cocktail waitress and it’ll leave us time to mingle.”

  I wander to where Lani has a selection of paint swatches strewn across the table, along with fabric choices for the sofa and soft furnishings. Everything is cream and gold and tones the colour of weak black tea. They’re beautiful and I tell her so. Just what I’d envisioned.

  “The painting party’s organised for Saturday afternoon and Sunday. I figure we can get it done in that time,” I say, keen to show her I’ve been doing something too, because it looks as if she’s done the lot while I’ve been hobnobbing around doctors’ rooms. The change since I asked Lani to be my business partner is unbelievable. It’s like she was waiting for an opportunity to show me she’s not a ditz, that she’s going to be a really good business woman. “Rory wants to come and help too, though I think he may be more of a hindrance. I might see if Hugh Farmer will take him for the day. He hasn’t had a play date with Harris for a while and Angela will be here with us.”

  We stand for a bit longer, finalising plans and settling on the colours for the interior. Then the doorbell rings and I go out onto the floor, my head swirling with ideas and enthusiasm.

  Later in the afternoon, as we’re doing a spot of re-organising and thinking about how the new displays for the window are going to look, Rory comes bounding in the door with Angela and her two. She’s kindly offered to collect him from school until the launch. That way I can work an extra hour or so and help Lani get everything ready.

  Rory drags his bag in the door behind him, leaving it in the pathway of potential customers. It’s bulging with heaven knows what. Hurdling over it, he runs up to me waving a certificate.

  “Mum, Mum! Guess what happened?”

  “You got signed to play for the Eagles?” I joke.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not old enough to play for the Eagles. I won a prize. A super, big, prize and I had my photo taken for the newspaper.”

  I sit on the sofa under the window and pat the space beside me. “Now, that’s a story I’d like to hear. Tell me more.”

  “You know that walkathon? The Breast Cancer one?”

  I certainly do. It’s been like a noose around my neck trying to collect sponsorships. Plus, Rory’s been hounding everyone we know to sponsor him, right down to the postman. Even the grumpy man in the fresh produce shop wasn’t spared.

  “Yes?”

  “I got the most in the whole of Western Australia. This lady came to school to give me this certificate. We had a special assembly and everything.” He hands the award over proudly.

  “Wow. Well done, Mr. Rory.” I stare at the amount on the certificate. He raised that much? “I’m so proud of you.”

  “The lady gave me so much prizes, I can hardly carry my bag.”

  “So many prizes.”

  “Yeah. That. Oscar threw a fit when he didn’t win.”

  “You mean Melinda’s Oscar?”

  “Yeah. And he said my prizes were stupid and he didn’t want them anyway.”

  Typical. Like mother, like son.

  “But I said it wasn’t about the prizes, it was about helping ladies with Breast Cancer. That’s right, isn’t it, Mum?”

  My child is a saint. He’s had so much happening in his little life lately and yet he manages to think of other people. I pull him to me and give him the biggest hug I can. I smooth his soft wavy hair. “That’s right honey. And I think the money you raised will help lots of ladies.”

  “Mum?” he says, lifting his face from the spot on my chest.

  “Yes?”

  “When are you getting your new boobie? Did the doctor tell you?”

  “Soon. Why?”

  “That fake one feels so weird. It’s like cuddling my bike helmet.”

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  Chapter 31

  “I have a present for you.” Lani hands me a brown paper-wrapped parcel tied with a huge raffia string ribbon.

  It’s the night of the launch. The shop looks glam. We’ve painted the walls an antique cream colour and the old shelving and furniture has been revamped with crisp white paint. Two junk shop chandeliers, kindly wired in by Lani’s dad who’s an electrician, are sparkling overhead adding to the glow of the fairy lights we’ve entwined in the hop vines along the picture rails. A pair of vintage linen curtains — artfully reinvented and washed b
y Lani — swag the window framing the display of treasures. Even the old glass counter-cum-display case fits perfectly with the theme.

  I look down at the package Lani’s placed in my hands. A stab of remorse, that I didn’t have the forethought to organise something similar for my new partner, pinches at my insides. “You didn’t need to do this. I didn’t buy you a ‘Happy Opening’ gift.”

  “It’s not exactly an opening gift. It’s a bit of fun.”

  “Oh.”

  Confused, I pull the bow and let the string fall on the counter. The brown paper unwraps easily as Lani hasn’t used tape and inside I find a stack of magazines. Now, I’m more bemused. It’s certainly not a ‘Happy Opening’ gift.

  I pull out the copies of Playboy and Sports Illustrated. The covers are emblazoned with photos of scantily clad women. I can understand why men might find these things attractive but surely Lani didn’t envisage them as light hospital reading for my next round of surgery? She’s not that mad. “What are these for?”

  “Research.”

  I must look confused because she continues before I can answer.

  “So you can look at the breasts these girls have and get some ideas for your own new puppies. I’ve marked a few pages that look particularly natural.”

  And indeed she has. A number of bright orange sticky notes are protruding from the sides of the magazines. One page, which must be of particular interest, has a double sticky note allocation with arrows pointing into the magazine. I flick to the first marked page. A naked girl lays draped along some type of animal rug, possibly polar bear? She has a sultry look and the biggest set of knockers I’ve seen in my life. Even Donna Wilde — the girl I went to school with who had a breast reduction in Year Twelve because she was a Double F cup — wasn’t as big as this girl.

  “You think that looks natural?” I ask, attempting to hide my shock at what Lani thinks is natural.

  Lani titters. “Of course not. She looks like she has airbags glued to her chest. I marked that one as an example of bad implants. It was only a laugh.”

  “Thank heavens. I thought you were advocating I look like that. How do those women buy tops to fit anyway? Is there some sort of online store for women with massive fake boobs?”

  “More than likely. I can Google it if you like.”

  “Hmm. Maybe later.”

  At that moment, the doorbell tinkles and a woman appears. She’s carrying an unusual floral arrangement that’s as wide as the doorframe and almost as tall. The background of the bouquet is darkened twigs of cherry tree covered in hundreds of delicate white blossoms in full bloom. They’re a perfect foil for the display of white Narcissus that fills the rest of the massive crystal vase. It’s over the top and gaudy, yet strangely beautiful in an oriental sort of way. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  I shove the magazines in my handbag and put on a smile. “Hi, can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Sophie Molloy.”

  “That’s me.”

  The woman places the flowers on the counter. The arrangement is huge, dwarfing both the register and Lani, who’s standing beside it looking slightly gobsmacked.

  “Did you make this?” Lani asks the delivery girl. She begins to search the blooms for a card while I sign for the flowers. “God, if only I could make flower arrangements like this. It’s amazeballs. I wonder who it’s from?”

  “We can probably rule out Brendan,” I quip. Since the quiz night, he’s been more disgruntled than ever. He’s been on my case day and night, making it as hard as he can for me to get on with my life. Lani thinks it’s because he’s jealous of my new ‘boyfriend’ and I tend to agree. At least, now, the house has been sold, so as soon as Rory and I pack our stuff and move to the cute cottage I found for us, I’ll never have to listen to his rants again.

  After the delivery girl leaves, Lani hands me the envelope she’s discovered, spiked into the green florist foam. I peel back the flap and slide out the card. It’s not girlie florist writing. This writing was done by a man. A man with a rather untidy hand.

  Sophie,

  The Chinese believe cherry blossoms are a symbol of new beginnings and that the narcissus bestows good luck and a flourishing of careers and creativity.

  Wishing you the best on your grand re-opening tonight.

  Jared Hanson

  I’m flabbergasted. He’s clearly given this a great deal of consideration. I’m afraid if I start pondering what that means, I’ll read things into it that aren’t there.

  “Who’s it from?” Lani asks.

  “Jared Hanson.” I hand her the card.

  A slow ‘wow’ passes over Lani’s lips. “He really does like you. That whole fake boyfriend thing was just a ruse to hold your hand.”

  “Nooo!” This can’t be happening. If I’m going to have a boyfriend I want it to be one I can actually touch, not someone I have to fantasise about when I’m alone in my bed. I did enough of that when I was fifteen.

  “Maybe this is his way of letting you know he’s around, you know, like for later on, when he’s not your doctor?”

  I consider this idea. “Or maybe he’s one of those thoughtful people who send flowers for every occasion. We are acquaintances. It’s probably only a friendship thing.”

  Lani and I stand staring at the enormous bouquet, maybe hoping an answer will fly out of the foliage. Part of me doesn’t want to believe Jared likes me as more than a friend but another part is hoping that this means what I think it does, because the feelings I have for him now are definitely not doctor-patient related.

  *****

  Two-hours later, the event is over. Lani and I are sitting in the middle of the shop floor with our shoes off, giving each other a foot massage. The room is silent apart from our occasional groans of agonised pleasure. Around us, the shop is strewn with empty champagne glasses, soiled napkins and not one item of stock is in the place it was when we started.

  Lani taps my ankle, signalling it’s time to stop and I let out a small whimper of sadness.

  “Well, I think that went extremely well,” she says, kicking her shoes towards the base of the counter and standing. She begins to collect the empty glasses and stack them in the catering box. “We’ve signed about twenty girls up for immediate rentals and the waiting list for each bag is huge.”

  I pull myself to my feet and stretch my arms over my head. Making so many sales and taking addresses of potential customers for our email list has been an exhausting process but one that was worth it. Lani and I have set ourselves up. We need to continue the momentum. I turn and head for the window, where a line of glasses has been left along the sill. “I think we were a staggering success.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So let’s get this mess cleaned up and get home. I’m knackered.”

  “Me too. Knackered but happy.”

  We buzz around, finishing the cleaning and putting the stock back in its rightful spot. Lani turns off the computer while I gather the lists we’ve made tonight and put them out the back to be entered into the data base. When I return, the massive bouquet, is standing proudly on the counter, like it’s watching over us, congratulating us for a job well done. I still feel slightly freaked out by it.

  “What should I do about these flowers, Lan?” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it appropriate to ring and say thank you?”

  “Of course, it is.”

  “But I don’t have his phone number. If I ring Angela and get it, he might think I’m stalking him.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake! No he won’t.”

  “But isn’t it weird to have my plastic surgeon on speed dial?”

  “Only if you ring his number and then hang up after he says hello. That would be weird. Anyway, he started this. He sent the flowers.”

  I bite my lip. “I guess so.”

  “Go on, do it. Do it. Do it,” Lani chants.

  I duck into the kitchen and get my phone from my handbag. This is so strange,
I feel like a teenager ringing a boy for the first time. I send Angela a text asking for Jared’s number. I can’t bring myself to call her face to face, not when I know the teasing I’ll get, especially when it was her intention to set us up from the start. I can see her, sitting on her sofa with a glass of wine, crowing that her scheme worked. She’ll never stop gloating.

  Now, I’m standing with the phone in my hand. I’m staring at the text Angela has sent, the one with Jared’s number. Can I do it? This is taking the relationship from acquaintances to friends, isn’t it? Are we allowed to be friends? Does he even want to?

  “Hello?”

  As soon as I hear the familiar voice, I want to hang up. My heart is in my throat and it’s beating so hard, it’s blocking my circulation. I can’t hang up, though. He’s seen my number. It’s not blocked. He can easily ring me back.

  “Uh, hi. Jared?”

  “Yes?” His tone is more a question than an answer.

  “It’s Sophie. Sophie Molloy. I hope you don’t mind, I asked Angela for your number.” Suddenly, I feel extremely anxious, like I should not be doing this. “I’m not being stalker-ish,” I rush on. “I wanted to ring and say thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

  There’s a quiet buzzing from the other end of the connection and I think, yep, I’ve done it this time. I’ve overstepped the boundary, whatever the hell our boundary is.

  “That’s great, Sophie,” Jared replies. His voice is easy and genuine. “It’s not the least bit stalker-ish. Doing drive-bys of my house or sending me mix CD’s in the mail might be cause for alarm. So if you were thinking of going down that route, I’d probably stop now.”

  “Damn,” I laugh, amazed at how he’s able to make me feel so comfortable, even over the phone. “You’ve totally ruined the surprise.”

  “I’d hope, by now, we’d consider ourselves friends. We are ‘dating’.” He releases an amused chuckle at the memory.

  “Yeah. I guess so. Anyway, thanks again for the flowers. I’ll see you soon.”