Storm in a B Cup - A Breast Cancer Tale (28 page)

My mouth drops
to the floor. My eyebrows shoot into the stratosphere. “Oh Angela. You
haven’t.”

“It wasn’t
me.
 
It was Jeff.
 
I’m totally blameless this time.”

Which is an
absolute joke because in every other instance, she would be anything but
blameless.

I turn to Jeff.
“How could you?”

Have they not
got the hint yet? There will be no shenanigans between Jared Hanson and myself.

“It sort of
slipped out. I didn’t mean to. We were playing squash last week and I mentioned
that we had a spare seat on our table. Before I knew it he’d invited himself.
Honestly.”

I roll my eyes
in disbelief. “Well, don’t go getting any ideas about him driving me home or
anything. And if I hear one innuendo, or silly sexual joke I’m leaving.”

“Yes, Boss.”
Jeff chuckles. “I understand perfectly.”

The master of
ceremonies stands and coughs into the microphone. He smoothes his silver hair
and begins to explain the rules.

“Looks like
Jared’s late, anyway,” Jeff comments.

“That’s
unusual,” Angela adds. “He’s normally so punctual.”

I ignore them
and try to focus on what’s being said at the front of the room. With these two
on board, our team is going to need every scrap of help it can get. I wouldn’t
want us to be disqualified because Angela does something against the rules.

We sit listening
for a minute or two, when a ruckus begins at the back of the room.
 
A loud female voice is telling someone,
in no uncertain terms, that she doesn’t care if the games are commencing, she
must be allowed in, she has a seat reserved on the Cressley’s table.

It’s Melinda.

Wearing a
tailored black jumpsuit and heels so high she could see into the penthouse
apartments in the city
—
from the outside
—
she shoves the woman on the door aside and prances into the room. Her
long, dark ponytail flicks over her shoulder as she goes. She’s like an
elegant, black panther and ten times as haughty. “Sorry, I’m late, everyone. You
can start now.”

Trust Melinda
to make a grand entrance.

Melinda glides
between the tables, coming to a stop at ours, giving us a full frontal of her
crotch. She's clearly not wearing underwear, as even a blind man could see she
has a bad case of Camel Toe. Ignoring that the master of ceremonies is
attempting to start the first round of questions, she purrs. “Hi
everyone."

“You’re not
sitting here, Melinda.” Angela’s tone is icy, which is out of the norm. She’s
friendly with everyone.

“I wasn’t
intending to. We’re sitting at the Cressley’s table. I was merely stopping by
on my way there.” She points to the table up the front where Cressida Cressley
is tapping the face of her watch and pouting, so her lips look a bit like a
cat’s bottom. It’s nothing compared to the silence emanating from around the
room. It feels more like a funeral than a fun night out. The whole school
community is watching to see what’s going to happen next.

“Oh, hello
Sophie.
 
It’s been such a long
time, babe.”

Not through
lack of trying on my part, I think. She’s behaving like she hasn’t been
avoiding me for the past six months.

I look over her
shoulder to see who the ‘we’ she’s referring to is, expecting to see one of
those bitchy tennis women she hangs out with at times but unless they’ve
changed sex and have become quite snappy dressers since I last laid eyes on
them, I’d say Melinda is here with Brendan.

My Brendan. Or
should I say my ex-Brendan.

“Hi, Sophie.”

Suddenly, my
head begins to pound. It feels like someone's detonated a bag of dynamite in it
and the blood is rushing to the surface of my skin, looking for an outlet.
Brendan is with Melinda? How could this be?

I watch as she
pulls him from his hiding place behind her and hooks her arm through his, a
gesture she’s seemingly done a million times before.

Beside me,
Angela’s face resembles that of a dying fish. Her jaw is flapping up and down
and she’s gasping for air. This is obviously a new piece of information for
her, too. “You’re here… together?” she asks, giving my knee a nudge under the
table.

“We decided tonight
might be a good time to announce our relationship,” Melinda simpers.

Suddenly, I am
engulfed with rage. I want to slap her. I want to get up from this table and
punch her right in her cosmetically enhanced nose. After I deal with Brendan
that is. A communication between his nether regions and my clenched fist is in
order.

“And how long
exactly have you two been an item?” The sarcasm is thick on Angela’s tongue.

Melinda gives
an airy wave of her hand. “Oh, you know. A while. We didn’t like to say
anything though, not with Sophie going through her illness and everything.
We’ve been friends for such a long time, it seemed only fair.”

That’s a bit
rich. It’s my ex she’s dating. And has been for quite a while, judging by their
familiarity.

I stand up,
fighting the urge to push them both over as I pass.

“Can you excuse
me for a minute? I think I’m going to
—
.” And at that moment, a massive projectile of vomit erupts from my
mouth and sprays across the front of both Melinda and Brendan’s chests. A
strangled screech fills the air. I’m fairly sure it’s come from Brendan. He was
never good with body fluids.

“
—
Be sick.” I finish my sentence, wiping the back
of my hand across my mouth. I want to laugh at the horrified look on Melinda’s face
but, honestly, I’m so mortified, all I can do is gape. Oh, and dash from the
room and out to the foyer.

I round the
corner in the direction of the toilets and run, forehead first, SLAP! into the
rock hard chest of Jared Hanson. Could this night get any worse? I'm crying and
red faced and I must stink of
 
sick.

“Sophie? What’s
wrong?”

His hands come
up to brace my shoulders, which is fortunate because after the collision we’ve
had, I think I may have a slight concussion. I rub my head and suck in a deep
breath.

“Nothing. I’m
fine.”

“You don’t look
fine.” His eyes are scrutinising my face in a worried manner.

“It’s nothing.
I had a bit of a surprise.”

“One that
caused you to bolt from the room like your bum was on fire and you can’t find
the extinguisher?”

A watery smile
graces my lips. “Something like that. I just discovered my ex, Brendan, is
dating my friend Melinda, the one who’s been ignoring my phone calls for the
past eight months.”

“Ahh.” Jared
gives a slow nod. “And you’ve put two and two together and decided that this
may have been going on while you and Brendan were together?”

“It certainly
explains a lot of odd behaviour.”

Like the way
they disappeared at Hilary and John’s party and how Melinda cut me out of her
life so quickly. What else could she do, if she were having an affair with my
partner? I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye if the shoe were on the
other foot. Yes, the pieces seem to fit — the sudden need to buy new
clothes (which I attributed to my cancer), the change in cologne that he’d been
wearing since before we met. Even the furtive phone calls in the toilet add
weight to the theory. I collapse against the wall. I feel deflated and rather
gullible that this was happening under my nose and I didn’t see the signs.

“Can I get you
anything?” Jared asks. “A cool drink? A shotgun?”

“That might be
handy but I think I need a minute to process this, before I decide what to do.
I might have to clean up a bit too. Eau de Puke isn’t first my choice in
perfume.”

In the perfect
movie world, I’d probably storm back into the room, barge up to the Cressley’s
table and tip a jug of something slimy over Brendan’s head. The entire
gathering would, of course, give me a standing ovation and he would be exposed
for the cad he is. But this isn’t the perfect world and no matter how they’ve
behaved I feel I’m a little above such a childish action. Perhaps I could
ignore them? Pretend like I don’t care?

Jared brings me
back to the present. “If it’s any consolation I know exactly how you feel.”

Of course, his
wife and the partner.

“Really?” I
feign ignorance.

“My wife Polly
had an affair with my practice partner. That’s why we’re divorced.”

“That’s too
bad.” I can’t believe he’s sharing this with me. What happened to that
detached, stand-offish man? The one who was only my doctor? “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I had
the boys to think of. And she was running about the town, bad mouthing me to
all and sundry. One of us had to behave like an adult. I used to dream of a bit
of good old retribution though, like her getting fat and not being able to fit
into her clothes or getting an awful facelift that only I could fix with my
superior surgeon’s skills. Which I wouldn’t.”

I giggle. He’s
making me feel so much better.

“Do you think I
should go back in?”

“Yep. Don’t give
them the satisfaction of seeing you rattled. Why don't you go and straighten
yourself up? I’ll wait here and we'll go in together. That way it won’t look so
obvious I’m late. Damn babysitters.”

When we get
back to the open doors of the hall, I steel myself, ready to go in. Luckily,
the quiz appears to have started without me and every head on every table is
bent in quiet discussion. Heaven help the opposing tables should hear what you
choose as a final answer.

We’re about to
step inside when the master of ceremonies calls, “And that’s the end of Round
One. You have one minute to get your answer sheet to the judges. In the
meantime, here’s the first of the spot prize questions for the night….”

The crowd
breaks into healthy chatter, reviewing answers and deciding whether they want
to enter for a chance at the spot prize.

“Where’s our
table?” Jared asks, as we walk.

“This way.”

Our table is
near the front and, by the time we get there, I can see Melinda and Brendan.
They’re standing chatting to Jeff and Angela like they never had an affair,
like they’re satisfied that I scurried off in tears. And somehow, miraculously,
they seem to have cleaned every molecule of vomit from their bodies. I hate
them. I hate them so much, the word is inadequate to describe my loathing.

“You’re looking
well,” Melinda remarks as we stop before her. “Considering your dreadful
ordeal.”

Oh. My. God. How
can she stand there, after what she’s done to me, and say that? I could
so
punch her right now. I raise myself
to my full height, complete with ten centimetres extra for heels. I stare right
into her kohl-rimmed eyes. My mouth opens to speak, and as it does, I feel a hand
clutching mine.

“I don’t
believe we’ve met. I’m Jared Hanson.”

Jared holds out
his other hand for Melinda to shake. He gives her the sort of smile that could
make the hardest of women melt into a puddle of orgasmic jelly at his feet.
Even I’d like to melt, and I’ve seen it before.

As she takes
his hand, Melinda gazes into those fabulous eyes of his. “Jared. Nice to meet
you. I’m Melinda Benson.”

Jared smiles
again. He knows how to pile on the charm. “I know. Sophie’s told me about you.”

Such a shame none
of it was nice, I think.

Melinda’s eyes
travel down Jared’s body, stopping at his hand, locked with mine. She appears
to be in shock, as well she should be. I know I am. I was under the impression
we’d gone back to the doctor-patient-friend thing. Now he’s holding my hand?

“And you’re
with Sophie?”

“Yes, we’ve
been together about a month now.” To complete the ruse, he reaches over and places
a kiss on my cheek. I would faint from the touch but Melinda’s face is so
priceless, I’m dying to see what she’ll do next. She looks as if she’s
swallowed a bucket full of glass. And beside her, Brendan’s knuckles are white.
He’s clenching them in and out.

It’s bitchy, I
know, but I have to rub it in. “Jared and I met at the hospital. He’s a plastic
surgeon.” I give special emphasis to the last two words. There’s no need for them
to know anything else about our relationship. Hell, I don’t even know. His constant
switches in attitude are confusing me more than when I thought the guy who
lived next door to my flat was a girl.

“A plastic
surgeon, you say?” Melinda gulps.

I want to sing.
I want to say, ‘ha ha, my boyfriend is better than yours,’ but I bite my tongue
and smirk because singing might be taking it a step too far. We both know any
type of doctor is up there in the suitable husband book for Melinda. It’s one
of the reasons why she’s never been married. The majority of the nicer men
didn’t measure up professionally. Which makes me wonder how serious this thing
between her and Brendan is. I suppose it could be she’s culled her list of
requirements with age.