The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs (13 page)

Twenty Things I Love About My Boobs

1. They didn't turn up until I left school so no boys ever got to snap my bra strap. It's very hard to twang a vest.

2. They catch cake crumbs. Like nature's bib.

3. I keep my pencils under there.

4. They stop men calling me ‘mate' on the bus. (I used to get called ‘son' a lot as a kid but that might have been the hair).

5. They help you learn the alphabet. I know up to H.

6. Mine make a good warm pillow for kittens and boyfriends.

7. I once cheered up a sad friend by flashing my boobs and she laughed (from the surprise, I like to think).

8. They are the bridge between ‘just kissing' and ‘thank God I've shaved me legs cos we're doing it!”

9. They save me from suffocation. (I sleep on my stomach and they stop me from lying too flat.)

10. They're like a built-in bumper. It would be hard to crack a rib with these babies on duty.

11. My boyfriend says they make lovely hand warmers.

12. They are the reason I don't really want to lose weight. (I'll be left with just a gut rather than curves.)

13. The best time of any day is when I take my bra off. Whether I'm at home, on a train, in a cinema or driving (always pull in to release the beasts. Safety first. Comfort second).

14. Motorboating, where someone you know (preferably) puts their face betwixt your knockers and makes the noise of a small engine, can be used as self defence (depending on the size of the boobs and assailant).

15. In a good bra, they make me feel like a 1950s Hollywood starlet.

16. In a certain nightie, I look like Bubbles DeVere. But, wow, is that nightie comfy.

17. In bed, they keep my underarms warm.

18. They can accidentally click a link on my laptop.

19. Their size means I can't see my belly. Therefore it mustn't exist.

20. Underneath them is the first place I get sweaty. A sign to turn the heating down. Like a woozy canary in a mine.

The Ticking Clock

‘Now, just pop your blouse off, and let's examine your breasts.'

Phoebe stiffened. ‘It's OK,' she began. ‘I know … '

The nurse smiled and Phoebe's eyes dropped to the woman's chest. One buttonhole stretching slightly in her shirt. A glimpse of off-white lace. The nurse's breasts were big. A couple of small melons, equally sized, if drooping a little under their weight.

‘You know how to examine your own breasts?'

Phoebe nodded. The truth was she had only a vague idea of self-examination. It freaked her out to touch herself like that. Her breasts freaked her out. Small and not as firm as they should be, like two old golf balls past their best. Considering she was only seventeen, this seemed to Phoebe odd and cruel. If they were this dismal now, what would they be like when she was thirty?

Phoebe shuddered inside. She looked into the nurse's eyes and blinked.

‘Try and relax,' said the nurse. ‘I've seen all shapes and sizes, sweetheart, believe me.'

Phoebe tried to smile but she felt her heart thudding loudly. The nurse was trying to be reassuring, but she had never seen breasts like Phoebe's. No one had seen Phoebe's breasts. She made sure of that.

She'd only come to see the nurse to give a urine sample. Her cystitis was back again. But apparently you had to be subjected to a thorough examination these days. Trapped in a small white-walled office where a bed framed by a plastic curtain taunted you. Not to mention the posters on the walls, illustrating every possible disease a woman could be suffering from.

This was Phoebe's idea of hell.

On the desk behind them, the phone rang, loudly. Phoebe stepped back from the woman, hoping for a reprieve. But the nurse was still staring at her, unmoving, even though the phone kept on ringing behind her.

‘Aren't you going to answer that?' Phoebe was breathless now. She stared at the phone. ‘It might be an emergency … '

The nurse cocked her head to one side. So she wasn't stupid, Phoebe thought. She knew what Phoebe was up to. The moment seemed to go on for ever; the woman and the girl staring each other out. An impasse. Eventually, the nurse sighed and turned back to her desk and the phone. She moved towards it and picked up the receiver.

‘Sandra Taylor,' she answered briskly, a little impatiently.

While Sandra's back was turned, Phoebe took the opportunity to look down at her shirt. A sheer drop, perhaps the hint of two small mounds. She glared at the view. Loathing herself.

The nurse was still talking, and lowering herself on to the chair in front of the desk.

‘I see,' she was saying, her voice dropping a little. ‘Well, put her down on the list, I'll see her when I've finished with this one.'

Phoebe felt the prick of tears coming. Somehow being referred to this way just compounded the horror of this whole ordeal. On one level she knew she was being silly and weak. But she felt sick at the thought of anyone touching her. Feeling for themselves what a weird freak of nature she was.

Phoebe thought of Anna, her best friend. Anna had a strange-shaped bottom, and wide hips, no definition in her ankles. But her boobs. Her boobs were perfect. Evenly sized, round, bouncy. Womanly. Anna would be aghast if she could see Phoebe's terror now. Anna never wasted an opportunity to show off her tits. But Anna didn't, couldn't ever know, what it was like to have such hideous pockets of fat just sitting, useless on her chest. Anna would never know the shame that Phoebe felt every day.

Phoebe was approaching a panic attack. She was starting to sweat now. When she looked down at herself again, damp patches were spreading, under her arms, then spattering the midriff of her cotton shirt. Her neck was damp too. Her hairline. She concentrated on breathing out, keeping her eyes on Sandra's back. Sandra was still talking, scratching her head now. She seemed stressed. Phoebe felt hopeful. She slowly bent to pick up her jacket and eased it on. She buttoned it up over her damp shirt, already feeling calmer as she covered herself up. Phoebe picked up her bag and put it over her shoulder. It was heavy with all her school coursework. She breathed out. And in. And out again.

‘Look, I'm with a patient now.' Sandra's voice was getting louder. ‘I'll see Mrs Evans when I've finished my booked appointments –' She sighed loudly, clearly interrupted by the voice on the other end of the call.

Phoebe cleared her throat and Sandra turned at the sound. She frowned and cupped her hand over the receiver.

‘One moment,' she mouthed at Phoebe.

But Phoebe was already out of there. In her mind she was at the bus stop, waiting joyfully for the bus, ecstatic to be free.

‘I'm sorry, I really have to go,' she said quickly, forcefully. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Just a minute,' Sandra said firmly into the phone. ‘I'll be with you in half a minute,' she told Phoebe.

‘I'm sorry,' said Phoebe, already opening the door. ‘I'll come back another time.'

And without waiting for Sandra's response, Phoebe fled.

Her mother was marking papers at the kitchen table when Phoebe arrived home. Phoebe's mum lectured in Politics at the university. She was deep in concentration, which suited Phoebe. She didn't want any questions. Not even about the cystitis.

Phoebe hung up her coat and filled the kettle. In its shiny metal she saw a distorted view of her shirt, creased now. The reflection made her chest look bigger. Like it might look if only she wasn't her. Phoebe. She looked away. The sound of the water boiling roused her mother.

‘Sorry, Phoebs,' she said, sounding tired. ‘How was your day?'

With her back to her mother, Phoebe smiled, glad of her mum's absentmindedness.

‘Fine,' she said quite happily. ‘Same as usual really.'

She poured water into two mugs and added teabags. When she had made the drinks she turned and put a mug down in front of her mum.Her mother was yawning now, stretching.

‘Thanks.' She picked up her tea and blew on it.

Phoebe shut her eyes, relaxing.

‘Oh. What did the doctor say?' her mother asked, remembering.

Phoebe's eyes opened and she shrugged. ‘I just gave a sample,' she said easily. ‘I'll get the results back in a week or so.'

Her mum nodded, satisfied with the answer.

Phoebe looked momentarily at her mum's breasts. They were normal. She felt a surge of anger. Why were her mum's breasts normal-sized when hers were so pathetic and ugly?

‘Mum?' she said, sitting down across from her. ‘I want a breast enlargement.'

Her mother's eyes widened and she swallowed a mouthful of tea, putting her mug down carefully.

‘I'm … Sorry, darling. Did you just say you wanted a breast enlargement?'

Phoebe nodded. She managed to keep the colour coming to her cheeks. Just saying that out loud felt shameful. Admitting the problem. But also shallow and ridiculous. Like a minor celebrity in
Heat
magazine. Phoebe's mother was staunchly progressive. A feminist. This would not go well. It would take all Phoebe's powers of persuasion. It would take a giant effort of manipulation.

But it would be worth it.

Her mother was studying her. She didn't look angry. A bit shocked, perhaps.

‘Are you serious?' she said. She raised an eyebrow.

‘I hate my breasts.' Phoebe's voice was remarkably calm. Saying it out loud had also brought more weight to her problem too.

Now she just needed to bring more weight to her pitiful mammary glands.

Her mother was shaking her head.

‘But you have beautiful breasts,' she told Phoebe. ‘You're a beautiful young woman.'

‘You don't know,' Phoebe said quickly, panicked at being talked out of it now that she had decided. ‘You haven't seen me naked in .… in, like six years.'

Her mother looked amused, and Phoebe felt annoyance ripple through her.

‘Don't laugh, Mum. It's not funny.'

Her mother stopped smiling. She reached out and tried to take Phoebe's hand.

‘Phoebe. You're seventeen. You're so young.'

But Phoebe put her hands in her lap, pushing them down through the gap in her thighs.

‘Exactly. I should have the perfect body, shouldn't I, by now? I've stopped growing. I'm never going to have bigger tits.'

Her mother winced at the word ‘tits'. She withdrew her hand, and stood up from the table. Then she walked out of the kitchen.

Phoebe slumped in her chair. Her mother had signalled the end of the conversation. Phoebe should never have said ‘tits'. She'd gone about this all wrong. Silly and weak. Like her silly weak tits.

But then her mum returned, and she was holding an album. It was old. One Phoebe remembered from when she was small. She hadn't looked at it in years.

Her mum sat down. She pushed away her laptop and her papers and opened the album.

‘Come over here,' she told Phoebe, quite gently.

Phoebe was in no mood to go down memory lane, but she rose and sat down on the chair next to her mother. She sighed heavily. Petulantly. Her mother pretended not to notice the moody teenager beside her. She leafed through a couple of the spreads in the album, but stopped at one, holding the album up so that they could both see it properly. She pointed at a picture of a girl in a bikini, sitting on the end of a jetty. Her blonde hair pulled back, wet from swimming. The girl was skinny, broad shouldered but pretty much flat-chested.

‘That was taken in the south of France,' said her mother, wistfully. ‘I was eighteen, and it was the first holiday I'd had without my parents.'

‘Oh. Yes,' Phoebe didn't want to be pulled in to whatever trick this was, but she stared at the picture. Her mum looked very pretty, tanned and all limbs. Long legs, slender arms, slightly boyish, but undeniably attractive.

‘So,' said Phoebe obtusely, after a pause. ‘It's a nice picture, Mum.'

Her mother lowered the album.

‘I didn't wear a bra in those days. I never felt I needed to. I was quite convinced my breasts were never going to grow any bigger than they were then.'

Phoebe twitched. She didn't want to hear this.

‘And then, a few years later, I was working as a teacher. It was my first year out of training and I wasn't having a very good time. School was difficult, I didn't feel I fitted in. The headteacher was strange around me. Awkward. I had no idea why, until one of the other teachers, Lynne – haven't seen her for years now – told me there were a few comments about me going around amongst the staff. Comments about my general “free and easy” way of dressing. Lynne told me … ' Phoebe noticed her mother blushing. ‘Barbara told me that my nipples were a particular source of interest. Or more accurately, disapproval. She told me I should think about buying a “decent” bra or two … '

Phoebe shared her mother's embarrassment. She bit her lip, cringing slightly.

‘So,' her mother went on. ‘I took myself off to Marks and Spencer and did a rather ill-informed dash around the underwear department. It was such an alien environment to me that I just took whatever bra looked about my size and put it in my basket. I knew nothing about measurements … I just assumed they would more or less do the job. But then I was cornered by a sales assistant. An older woman with a tape measure slung around her neck. She took one look at my basket and took charge of the situation.'

Phoebe was interested, despite herself.

‘She measured you?'

Her mother nodded. ‘I was mortified. I had never revealed my breasts to anyone other than my reflection, in the mirror at home. To have a perfect stranger … ' She shook her head.

Phoebe nodded in recognition. She felt a sense of calm descending.

‘This woman … she was very matter of fact, though. She muttered something about one breast being slightly bigger than the other, but in a way that suggested this was not a surprise to her. She measured my back and then she disappeared for about ten minutes. When she came back she handed me four enormous-looking bras and told me to get dressed again.'

Phoebe stared at her mother, who turned to face her. She was smiling again.

‘I was twenty-four. In the time since that picture in the south of France was taken, I had become a 34C. I must have grown three-and-a-half cup sizes in six years. I hadn't noticed. I saw myself in one way, you see. Flat chested. And that was that.

Phoebe felt herself flopping. As though her whole body was easing off on itself.

‘So,' her mother said, stroking Phoebe's hair away from her face. ‘What I'm trying to tell you, Phoebe – you impatient girl – is that your body does change. Sometimes in ways you don't like very much, but sometimes … in a way that is a pleasant surprise.'

Phoebe was silent. She felt suddenly foolish. But, relieved, of course.

‘OK,' she said gruffly. ‘Perhaps I will wait on that breast enlargement.'

‘Good.' Her mother's eyes remained on her for a moment, before she lifted her gaze to the clock on the kitchen wall.

‘Good Lord, is that the time,' she said, a little agitated. ‘I completely forgot about my appointment with Doctor Seberg at six.'

She got up quickly, picking up her handbag and throwing in her car keys. ‘I shouldn't be too long. It normally only takes twenty minutes. I'll make dinner when I get home.'

‘Who's Doctor Seberg?' said Phoebe, already thinking about phoning Anna and spending an evening watching DVDs instead of studying.

Her mother was wrestling with her coat and moving out into the hall.

‘My little magician,' she called in a comical tone, opening the front door. ‘Non-invasive cosmetic procedures are his speciality … ' But her voice was swallowed up by the sounds of the outside world.

Phoebe took a moment to register her mother's parting words, before the front door slammed, leaving the house in silence.