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melodramatically.
    ‘What?’ I say. ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘Look!’ she says. ‘You can’t – take
THAT!’
    ‘What, the wine?’ Is she serious? She is. ‘It’s
all right,’ I explain slowly. ‘In England we can do this.’
And in my head I add the three little words: Now fuck off.
    It goes with all the other things I’m not supposed to do any more,
including eating curry and soft cheese, not eating, running, climbing, arguing,
going on escalators, slapping people, shouting, looking at pictures of George
Clooney and getting stressed.
    But I’ve got an important matter to attend to. It’s
daunting, but once you’re pregnant it simply has to be done. And
it’s no good putting it off, either: my breasts are about to get Bigger.
How Much Bigger, my friends warn me, I can’t possibly imagine. They also
tell me that their dimensions, like the value of all endowments, can go down as
well as up; I could end up, after breastfeeding, with less than I started with.
Well, I can’t help that. For the present I need something that will (a)
make sure they don’t sag, even for a second, and (b) in four
months’ time prevent them from knocking people over in lifts. The last
piece of underwear I had professional involvement in, was my black lace
wedding basque. I went to Selfridge’s and had to bend over to ‘fill
the cups correctly’. But I didn’t mind because it looked fantastic . I took it home, lay on the bed and pretended to be Elizabeth
Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof , only not married to a homosexual
alcoholic.
    ‘I have to get a bra fitted,’ I tell Peter. As the co-perp,
he has to be informed of everything I do, think or feel for the next six
months. ‘But I don’t much fancy the thought of a stranger, you
know, seeing my tits.’
    ‘Can’t you just buy one? Go in like the SAS? Grab a couple
and run.’ This is his solution to the agony of shopping. He has to return
quite a lot of things. ‘You mean deploy the ancient Navajo method of
screwing up the eyes and guessing?’
    ‘The label on this says you’re a ninety-six. Blimey, I
didn’t know you were that big. I quite fancy you now.’
    ‘That’s centimetres, you fuckwit.’
    ‘Oh.’ He looks crestfallen, then brightens. ‘If
I’d known bras would play such a key role, I’d have got someone
pregnant before.’
    Shortly afterwards I get down to the lingerie department of a well-known
department store. The normal underwear looks even tinier than usual, which must
be the Alice in Wonderland effect; I have eaten the cake of conception and am
about to become Huge. Nonetheless the flimsy strings of lace on the racks do
not depress me; I have been assured by everyone that breastfeeding will ping my
figure back to its previous tautness, the only problem being that I
haven’t actually been taut since I was about ten. By fourteen I already
had a stomach that when I ran, jogged up and down like a chicken in a carrier
bag. And every pound I’ve ever put on since has gone straight to it. Now
it’s three chickens. Still! At least now I’ve got an excuse. And
there does seem to be a good choice of the ‘fuller’ models on
show.
    I grab a couple of nice ones to try on while I wait for the assistant.
And that’s when I notice the old model, that I’ve been meaning to
replace for a while. Bra years are definitely longer; this one I’ve had
for – well, it doesn’t seem that long, and is no longer
white and shapely but bizarrely stretched, thin and grey, like an
elephant’s scrotum. I drop it on the seat and it seems to shrivel, like
the witch’s feet in The Wizard of Oz .
    Mmm, though! The new one is WHITE and crisp and even, like mass-produced
meringue. The cups are so firm my tits are now bashing my chin, but the lace
makes me feel a bit gorgeous. I can imagine Peter murmuring speechlessly,
perhaps coming into the bedroom behind me and saying, ‘ Fuck! How much
    did that cost, then?