Storm in a B Cup

by Lindy Dale

  I locate the auction item in question and I’m about to write my name and bid on the sheet provided, when I hear Angela chirrup, “Oh hi, Jared. How nice to see you. I totally forgot you were coming tonight….”

  I stifle a groan, knowing full well what’s coming next, because Angela never forgets who’s attending any given function. She’s a walking acceptance list. I raise my head and turn to see her greeting, none other than, my plastic surgeon.

  Oh. No.

  That guff about getting out of the house and not paying her back was simply Angela’s ploy to set me up with my own doctor; the man who’s seen me with my one boob swinging in the wind; the man who’s cupped it in his hand in a completely non-sexual way. This man knows I have back fat. Not much, mind you but it’s certainly there.

  My body stiffens in horror and then suddenly, at the sight of that wonderful smile, it turns to jelly. So much so, that my legs are becoming quite wobbly. Cue feelings of dread and heart falling into soles of shoes. Send in hyper-embarrassed state.

  Swivelling towards the table to avoid them, I reason I’ll head further along to see what other items are up for auction. I begin to sidle my way past the group, still in heated discussion about family portraits, but I find that I can’t because Angela has me by the hem of my top. She’s pulling me into her little circle of two and I have no choice but to turn, put a pleasant smile on my face and look as if I was going to talk to them anyway.

  I halt before Dr. Hanson and his green eyes look quizzically down at me, as if he’s trying to place me.

  Gosh, they take the breath away a little. Even with the black-rimmed glasses — he wasn’t wearing them the last time we met — those eyes have the ability to mesmerise. I feel quite giddy now. Which is only making my embarrassment worse.

  “Hello, Sophie.”

  Shit. What do I call him in a social setting? I look helplessly into those eyes and beg silently for assistance.

  “Jared,” he prompts, answering my missive.

  “Yes. Ah, hello. Jared.”

  Angela looks intrigued. “You know each other?”

  “Dr. Hanson is my plastic surgeon.” I give Angela the most withering glare I can muster without him seeing.

  “Jared,” he repeats. “Please call me Jared. I’ll feel like an old man if you don’t.”

  “And you’re definitely not that.”

  Oh. My. God. Tell me I did not say that. Judging by the shocked look on both Jared and Angela’s faces, I’m guessing I did.

  “I’m handling Sophie’s case,” Jared tells Angela, giving nothing pertinent away.

  “He means he’s making me a new boob and a flat tummy,” I add. “It’s okay. I don’t mind Ange knowing.”

  Angela looks at Jared. She looks at me. She appears slightly crestfallen at this news, which goes a long way to confirming my suspicions that she was attempting to up her quota of successful matches for the month. “Well, this is a turn up for the books. I was about to introduce you. Looks like I won’t have to. How are you, anyway, Jared?”

  “Fine thanks.”

  “And the boys?”

  “Well.”

  “Jared has two lovely boys, Nicholas and Jacob,” Angela explains to me, before turning back to him. “Are they still playing up? The last time I saw you, they’d packed their bags over the new nanny.”

  The corner of Jared’s mouth turns up in a lopsided grin. His dimple forms and I go weak at the knees all over again. God, this is embarrassing. I can’t even look at the poor man without drooling.

  “They’ve settled down,” he replies. “I had to show them who was boss, though. Little monkeys.”

  They chat for a while longer, before Dr. Hanson excuses himself and we wander back to the main area. The sound of music is enticing us through the door and both Angela and I are keen to dance.

  “Were you trying to hook us up?” I ask.

  “Of course not. I’m offended you’d even think such a thing. Here, have another drink.” She grabs a glass from the waitress statue and shoves it in my hand.

  “You know I can’t date my doctor, don’t you? And anyway, I’m not ready for a new man. I’ve just got rid of the old one.”

  Angela tosses the glass of champagne down her throat and takes another from the tray. “You won’t have to worry about that now, then, will you? Not if Jared’s treating you. He does have the most amazing eyes though, doesn’t he? He’s an orgasm on legs.”

  I think my reply is best kept to myself in this instance.

  “So, how do you know him?” I enquire as we walk. I know Perth’s a small place but seriously, what are the odds that my friend is besties with my plastic surgeon?

  “He and Jeff have been mates since high school. Jared disappeared to London for a few years and returned with a wife and another degree but they always kept in contact.”

  We take a canapé from a passing tray and I nibble on the edges of mine before popping the remainder into my mouth. “And he has two boys?”

  Angela swallows her mouthful of food. “Yes. The eldest, Nicholas, is the same age as our boys. They’ve had a tough time, this last year or so. I’m not surprised they’re acting out. It’s only natural.”

  I don’t like to pry but she has me intrigued. “Why? What happened?”

  “Polly ran off with Jared’s colleague. It turned out the nights Jared was working late to establish the practice, his partner was porking his wife. The boys suffered dreadfully. It was hard for them to understand. Especially when she up and went back to London, virtually deserting them. Heinous cow.”

  “How could anyone leave their children like that?”

  “Don’t ask me. I guess the call of her libido was stronger than the lure of motherhood. She tried to blame Jared, naturally. Said it was his fault for dragging her to live in Australia in the first place and making her give up her career. But he was in no way to blame. He tried so hard to get her to stay — counselling, cutting back his hours. He forgave her for the affair, too, but their relationship was never the same. Then one day, he came home from work to find the babysitter minding the kids and a note on the kitchen bench.”

  “Far out.”

  “He was devastated.”

  “I can imagine.” Seems Dr. Hanson and I have more in common than my breast reconstruction.

  “Since then, he’s been a bit of a lad, new girlfriend every week, that type of thing. Loads of gorgeous statuesque blondes.”

  My mind goes back to the first day I met him. The woman coming from his office was way too familiar to be a patient.

  “But it’s not him,” Angela continues. “Jared’s not like that. He’s been frightened off women, that’s all. He needs to learn to trust again.”

  “And yet you thought it might be nice to thrust him in my direction?”

  “Well, I can hardly be seen thrusting with him, can I?” She throws her head back, laughing boldly. “But seriously, I thought you two would be perfect together.”

  I knew it.

  “You’d cure him of his trust issues. You’re the most dependable person I know.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Forgetting that we intended to dance, Angela and I continue gossiping until Jeff appears, carrying a tray of Bellinis.

  “Where’d you steal those from?” Angela asks. She looks somewhat appalled that her husband has managed to conjure a tray of drinks when others are clearly parched.

  “The waitress looked sad, so I relieved her of her burden.”

  Jeff puts the tray down on a table near us and hands out the first round. I take a glass from him, though I know I probably shouldn’t. We’ve drunk non-stop since we arrived and those teeny things they’re serving, masquerading as food, don’t soak up alcohol well. Also, alcohol and Tamoxifen appear to set off weird menopausal-type reactions in my body, which I probably should have considered before I drank six champagnes.

  “What are you two gossiping about?” Jeff asks. Unlike most men, the idea of two women
chatting about waxing or bras does not send him running for the whiskey bottle. He’s in touch with his ‘feminine side’.

  “We just saw Jared,” Angela replies, giving him a nudge in the elbow.

  “He’s here? Did he bring that blonde he’s been seeing?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure they split up. I had every intention of setting him up with Sophie but it turns out he’s her plastic surgeon.”

  Jeff’s eyes glow with mischief. Sometimes he can be as bad as Angela. “That could be awkward. Or exciting. Depending on which way you look at it.”

  I give him a look. “It was awkward when he twigged who I was. The man has seen me topless.”

  “A sight I’m looking forward to once your reconstruction’s complete. Now I know Jared’s your surgeon, I might see if I can get a bit of input into future cup size.”

  Angela slaps his bicep. “Jeff!”

  “What? You know I’ve always had a love affair with Sophie’s breasts. I’ve been feeling a little lost since one of them went away.”

  “You’re insane.” I laugh.

  “I was actually serious. This cancer thing of yours has been very draining on me. I mean, whose breasts am I going to look at now? We both know those fillet things enhance Ange’s. When the bra comes off there’s nothing there.”

  Angela slaps him again. “Can we change the subject please?”

  “Of course. How about a dance? I think I’ve consumed enough wine that I won’t care if I look like a complete tosser. You come too, Soph. I’ve always wanted a threesome.”

  He puts his drink down on the table and, taking us both by the hand, drags us to the dance floor.

  Dancing with Jeff and Angela is an experience, to say the least. Having had little of it in recent times, I’d forgotten why he likes to have a few under his belt before venturing into this territory. Rather than relying on skill, Jeff, it seems, has perfected the attention-grabbing, tacky dance move. The Sprinkler, the Lawn Mower and a step that involves mimicking the Amish — I think it’s called the Butterchurner — are part of his repertoire. He knows how to raise the roof like he’s recently ported out of a dance video from 1982, which makes me wonder if maybe Angela and I are the ones who should have had more to drink. He’s very embarrassing and to make it worse, Angela is totally egging him on. In fact, she’s suggesting moves that even I’ve never heard of. And I graced a fair few clubs in my earlier days.

  As Jeff begins to demonstrate his version of the Macarena, or it could be the Bus Stop, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn, almost falling because my feet are tied in knots from his attempt at instruction.

  It’s Dr. Hanson, I mean, Jared.

  “I’ve come to rescue you,” he says. “Would you like to dance? On the other side of the room away from this dope?” He gestures to Jeff who has moved on to some form of 50’s swing dancing with Angela as the swing.

  A sense of gratitude sweeps through me. “Oh, could we, please? As much as I love Jeff, I’m worried he’s going to do a Cyclone or something and I’ll lose a tooth or get a black eye.”

  Jared chuckles fondly and we thread our way to the other side of the small dance floor. “It’s happened before. You’d think he’d learn but he’s operating under the same assumption he was at Uni.”

  We begin to dance.

  “Which is?”

  “Women like men who dance.”

  “They do, but not like that. He looks like a rotary clothes line.”

  “Which is how most accidents involving Jeff happen. Once, I had to patch up Angela’s face after he swung at her.”

  “He hit her?” I gasp.

  “As he was demonstrating the Lawn Mower,” Jared explains. “He was wrenching his elbow back and got her front on in the upper lip. He didn’t know she was standing behind him. She was lucky not to have lost a tooth.”

  “He’s a menace to the dance world.”

  “Lovable menace, though. We’ve been mates for years.”

  “Angela said.”

  “What else did she say?” He quirks an eyebrow.

  “Not much.”

  I’m certainly not going to tell him she was trying to set us up or that I know about his wife. That’s private business. Besides, he might be one of those types that get offended if others know things they shouldn’t. I can’t risk offending him. He has to like me so that when he’s reconstructing my body he’s completely on the job, not thinking about how he wished I wasn’t his patient. I need him to concentrate on his cutting and sewing.

  “What about you? What’s your connection to the Byrnes?”

  “Their son, Hudson, is in the same class as my son, Rory. We’ve been friends for a couple of years.”

  We move around a bit and Jared takes a step closer. “And yet I’ve never met you before, other than at the surgery?” he ponders, leaning in closer so he can talk over the music. “Strange, considering she’s always trying to fix me up with her friends. But you do have a partner, so I guess that’s why.”

  I stop dancing. My feet are suddenly nailed to the timber floor. My mouth is making a flapping motion that would normally be associated with speech but nothing is coming out. This is uncomfortable, to put it mildly.

  “Um, I don’t have him anymore. He left me.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I reply, knowing that even if my face is burning, it’s nowhere near the colour of his, now he knows Angela was attempting to play cupid before she discovered our connection.

  “So this was a set up?” He sounds peeved. “I wish she wouldn’t do that.”

  “I think I need some water. Do you mind if we stop dancing?”

  “Of course not. Are you all right? I haven’t offended you?” He’s looking at me oddly and I know he can see the flush that’s spreading across my cheeks like a grassfire in a field. He’s assumed it’s from embarrassment but it’s not. It’s the bloody Tamoxifen having its nasty way with me. Even my eyelids are going red. I’m certain they are, because they feel like someone’s set a blowtorch to them.

  I fan my hand in front of my face, which is utterly pointless. I mean, it’s a warm evening. A limp wave isn’t going to cool the expanding inferno.

  “I haven’t embarrassed you, have I?”

  “It’s the Tamoxifen, I keep getting hot flushes at the craziest moments. Last week I got one in the middle of a trip to the dentist. She thought I was having a reaction to the anaesthetic.”

  At least I have an excuse other than being mortified that my friend has attempted to hook me up with my doctor.

  “Do you want to go out onto the terrace where it’s cooler? I’ll get you some water.”

  I smile gratefully. “That sounds fabulous.”

  I go outside and find a spot in the corner overlooking the garden. The breeze is cool against my skin but I so wish I could take this top off. The sweat is forming a rivulet down my sides and the fabric is starting to cling in places where clinging is not good.

  Jared returns with a large bottle of icy water and a beer for himself. I take it and stick it on my chest, letting the cold of the bottle and the condensation seep into my flaming chest.

  “Aren’t you going to drink it?” he says.

  “In a minute. At the moment, it’s doing a great job as an icepack.”

  “I can get you another to drink if you like.”

  “No. This is fine. But thanks. I feel heaps better already.”

  He nods. “Your colour’s starting to settle.”

  We stand for a minute facing the city lights and gazing out into the night. Both of us are deep in thoughts of some kind or another. Then Jared turns to me. “Did you know that Angela was trying to hook us up?”

  “Heavens, no! She didn’t even know we knew each other until I told her in the auction room. I had an inkling she was up to something earlier in the week but you know Angela.”

  “She won’t take no for an answer.” He shakes away a frown. “One day she’s going to get me into dreadful strife.”


  “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this. If I’d been aware, I would have let her know I wasn’t interested. I mean, you’re my doctor. There’s a law, isn’t there?”

  He steps a metre away from me, indicating that indeed there is and that maybe, for a tiny moment he may have forgotten that we’re not simply two people.

  “Look, we can go back inside if it’s bothering you,” I say.

  “I’m not bothered, Sophie. You seem like a nice girl. And I’m allowed to have a life, as long as it doesn’t involve a relationship with a patient.”

  “I wasn’t insinuating…”

  “I know you weren’t.”

  I look up into his amazing eyes and I think to myself, oh, but I wish you were.

  Chapter 21

  For some reason, Tuesday’s always a busy day in the shop but today we’re having a busier day than usual. It started before lunch when a bride came in looking for a vintage cocktail hat to wear instead of a veil and moved rapidly on to three very picky women on the hunt for the right shade of red handbag. By the time they left, the pile of handbags on the daybed we have for customers to relax on was almost to the ceiling and I was so drained, I was tempted to swish them to the floor and lay there for a bit. The whole experience was worsened when, after half an hour of back and forth, they bought the cheapest one I had in stock. And it wasn’t red. It was black.

  Now a group of girls, one of whom is a regular customer, has come in wanting hats for a Bridal Shower High Tea. They’re going traditional and Madmen, so fifties style hats, purses and garden party dresses are the order of the day. Lani and I pull out a few options and just when I think we have everyone sorted, the door of the shop opens and a man comes in. He has a letter in his hand but he’s not the delivery guy. Our delivery guy looks like the guy from Legally Blonde but with a blue uniform rather than brown. He has very neat hair that’s always in a jaunty side part and he has a freckle below his left eye. I know this because he’s always staring at me and jiggling his eyebrows as I sign for packages. This man looks nothing like that. In fact, his face is so stern, he’s a little scary and his mono-brow looks so much like a caterpillar, I wouldn’t be shocked if it crawled off his forehead.