Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (20 page)

The glasses are
full, so I hand one to her and nip into the bedroom, returning with the remains
of the bowl of
Jaffas
.
 
I’m not sure the flavour will mix with
Shiraz but I’m willing to try.

Lani plonks
herself into one of the beanbags. Her knees are under her chin and she’s trying
to rearrange her skirt so only a minimum amount of leg is visible but all I can
see is her outstretched hand, awkwardly clenching her wine so it doesn’t spill.
I put the bowl of chocolate in between us and arrange myself in the other
beanbag. Lani’s put her wine down and is now fiddling with the controls of the
music system on the iPad. Suddenly,
Adele
blasts around the living room, singing
Rolling
in the Deep
.

“Oops,” Lani
says with a smile. “I forgot you don’t have furniture to soak up the volume. I’ll
turn it down.”

“No. Don’t.”

“Won’t it wake
Rory?”

“His bedroom
door’s closed and, anyway, he’d sleep through a cyclone. I trained him that way
when he was a baby.” I laugh and take another few
Jaffa
balls. “This is the perfect break up album,” I say, listening
to the lyrics.

“My thoughts
exactly. It’s sad. It’s bitter and twisted. And later, when we get a bit
pissed, we can do karaoke to
Rumour Has
It.”

 
I clink my glass with Lani’s and take a huge gulp.
“Perfect. I should be over Brendan by tomorrow at this rate.”

Chapter 20

The days go on
much as before. The next Saturday, after footy, Rory and I go shopping for some
new furniture to fill the cavernous space in our family room. I’m sure Brendan never
considered we might need something to sit on when he took the sofa. He was
probably thinking about retrieving the things he contributed to the
relationship, feeling that he was taking back what was rightfully his. I hate
him for that. I hate him for his anal, obsessive, sticking-to-the-rules ways.
But at least we have a roof over our heads.

In the last few
days, I’ve travelled from a place where I’d gladly take the biggest knife I
could and cut off Brendan’s balls, to one where I cried for the loss of my life
as I knew it. I’ve been angry one minute and resigned the next. I’ve been gung
ho about getting on with it and then bereft, feeling as though my lungs have
been removed and replaced with rocks that are making it impossible to breathe. I’ve
wanted to give up on a few occasions, especially when I discovered Brendan withdrew
most of the money from our joint emergency account, the account that was
earmarked for my surgery.

Which has left
me pondering, is he doing these things to purposefully be hurtful or does he
truly have no clue?

Despite
everything, I’m trudging on. I have to. Brendan might be gone but Rory’s here.
He’ll always be here and his welfare is my main priority.
 
I have other things to concentrate on
too, like being fit and healthy for my surgery
—
after I find the funds to pay for it, that is. Fortunately,
I’d rejoined the gym before the cash disappeared so I’m working hard to be toned
by the time the surgery rolls around. And if I happen to see Brendan and he
wants me back, well, bully for him. The big middle finger is the only thing
he’ll be getting from me. I won’t let him ruin my life and Rory’s and,
honestly, after everything that’s happened in the past few months, the break up
is like one more bump on the road. I can get through it like everything else.

To get me
started on the right track, Angela’s bought tickets to a Breast Cancer cocktail
fundraiser, which is sort of ironic, I know. She’s nagged me about it for days,
wanting to know if I’ve gotten a babysitter, do I have something cute to wear?
She wouldn’t even let me reimburse her for my ticket, so I’m beginning to think
she may have an ulterior motive. Angela’s notorious for trying to set people up.
I think she fancies herself as Perth’s answer to the
Millionaire Matchmaker
.

The function
centre in King’s Park, where the event’s to be held, is an unassuming looking
building set into the side of a grassy knoll on one side and a cliff face on
the other. As we drive up to the front door, flanked by huge grass trees, I
realise I must have walked past it a thousand times without ever noticing it. King’s
Park has that effect on you. The eucalypts along Fraser Avenue are so
spectacular, it’s easy to overlook other, simpler features.

We get out of
the taxi and make our way down the gravel path towards the double doors. The
place is lit up like a Christmas tree and snatches of music are dancing along
the hall and out to greet us. I’m happy, which is quite an unusual sentiment,
given the variety of feelings I’ve dredged through lately.

“This was a
great idea, Ange,” I say, as we enter the room. “I’m so glad you pressured me
into it.”

“Should be fun,”
Jeff says.

“Anything beats
sitting at home looking at the space where your couch used to be.” Angela has a
twinkle in her eye that tells me she’s planned for it to be a
very
fun night. Especially, if she
manages to pull off whatever it is she’s clearly got up her sleeve. I sincerely
hope she’s not going to set me up with one of her divorced friends. I may be
feeling better but a relationship isn’t on the radar at this point in time. The
concept doesn’t even register on Google Earth.

After Jeff
deserts us, having seen someone he knows, Angela and I stand for a bit, making
up our minds what we’d like to do first.

“I wonder if
they’re going to feed us?” Angela asks, her eyes scanning the room in search of
a tray of food.
 
“I haven’t had a
bite all day.”

“It’s a
cocktail party,” I reply. “I’m sure they’ll have finger food of some sort. Let’s
ask that waitress when we get a drink.”

“Good plan.”

We make our way
to where a waitress is perched on a fake stone pedestal, impersonating a statue
and looking frightfully bored. Her body, swathed in some type of toga to make
her look like a Greek Goddess, is frozen in place while her arm, is moving as
if by remote control, thrusting the tray in people’s paths as they pass.

“Bet I can make
her smile,” Angela says, readying a finger to give the poor girl a tickle under
the armpit.

The waitress
doesn’t flinch. She stares over our heads and glides the tray to a spot under
our noses. I think she may have heard that joke before.

I take two
glasses and we wander round the corner to the silent auction area.

“By the way, I
meant to tell you when you got in the taxi how nice you look tonight,” Angela
remarks. She’s sipping her drink and eyeballing the room in a distracted
fashion.

“Thanks. I’m
feeling more like my old self. You know, I don’t think I comprehended how much
Brendan squashed my personality until he left. It’s like a weight’s been
lifted. He never let me speak or have a contradictory opinion to his. And I’m
sure I was an embarrassment at times rather than the accessory he wanted for a
girlfriend.”

“I always said
he was a prick.”

“Yes, you did. On
more than one occasion, if I remember. I wish it hadn’t taken me such a long
time to see it. I can’t believe I defended him so staunchly.”

“They do say
love’s blind.”

“I must have
qualified for a cane and a seeing eye dog, then.”

“That top is
gorgeous,” Angela says, changing the subject. “Where’d you get it?”

“I’ve had it
for ages.
 
It didn’t fit until this
week.”

“You look
thinner. I hope it’s not because of Brendan. You need to stay healthy.”

“I’m sure he’d
like to take credit, but I’ve actually started going to the gym again.”

“Good for you.”

We stop at the
end of a long stretch of tables. A group of people is perusing the lots up for
auction and there’s much discussion in front of us as to the ‘real’ cost of a
family portrait package and whether you could DIY it. I know there’s a weekend
away up for grabs, somewhere here, so I begin searching along the trestle. A
mini-break for Rory and I would be lovely. Room service and a massage would
make my life complete.

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?