Page 124 of While I’m Still Here

Beatrice ‘Bea’ James

The morning I lose both my breasts begins with Danny fucking Clarke burning toast.

There are probably more dignified ways to begin a bilateral mastectomy day. Soft music, perhaps. A meaningful sunrise. Some quiet moment of reflection in which I stand at the bedroom window with my hands pressed against the breasts I've spent the last six days aggressively liberating from the tyranny of underwear and contemplate the fleeting nature of the human body. I imagine women in films wake up looking beautiful on mornings like this, their hair artfully arranged across silk pillowcases while a handsome man brings them tea and tells them everything is going to be all right. Personally, I would settle for waking up without a man attempting to burn my fucking house down.

At five twenty-seven in the morning, my smoke alarm goes off.

I wake with such violence that I nearly headbutt Colin, who has somehow managed to wrap himself around me during the night. I remember a rough agreement that everyone would keep their limbs to themselves—this lasted approximately four minutes before Danny was complaining that Marcus’s corpse feet were touching him. Marcus gleefully informed him that his feet weren’t touching him and suggested that it may be a ghost, and Colin intervened, telling them both to shut the fuck up because his girlfriend had to be at the hospital in less than seven hours.

I have no idea where Danny is now, but the sudden absence of his body in the bed, combined with the smell of burning bread drifting up the stairs, suggests he’s the cause of all of this.

“IT’S FINE!” Danny shouts, immediately followed by an almighty crash and a considerably quieter, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Colin sits upright beside me, his hair sticking out at an angle that would ordinarily demand that I take photographic evidence for later. He stares at the bedroom door for a moment, apparently attempting to establish whether we’re being burgled, murdered or subjected to another one of my mum’s surprise visits.

Marcus, who was sleeping on my other side, is already out of bed and pulling on his trousers with the grim determination of a man who woke up knowing exactly which idiot is responsible. “What the fuck is he doing?” Colin asks, rubbing his face with both hands.

“Cooking, apparently,” Marcus replies, voice gruff.

By the time I find Colin’s T-shirt and stumble downstairs, the alarm has stopped screaming, though the kitchen still smells as if someone tried to cremate a loaf of Hovis. I’m wearing absolutely nothing beneath the T-shirt because I remain a Free-Tittie Woman until somebody medically revokes the title later this morning, and I feel that after thirty years of underwire-related oppression, the girls deserve to enjoy their final hours without unnecessary restrictions.

Danny stands on one of my kitchen chairs, waving a tea towel beneath the smoke detector; a plate of blackened toast sits on the counter, smoke curling from the toaster, and, inexplicably, a banana lies on the floor. Marcus is standing beside the open kitchen window, watching Danny with an expression of such profound disappointment that I briefly wonder whether this is the moment he finally decides the entire relationship arrangement has become more trouble than it's worth.

“I was trying to make breakfast,” Danny explains when he spots me in the doorway, though his expression suggests he has only just remembered I exist.

Marcus turns towards him. “She isn't allowed breakfast.”

“I know that now, Marcus,” Danny sighs.

“You knew that last night. We discussed the fasting instructions at least three times.”

Danny climbs down from the chair, nearly loses his footing on the final step and points the tea towel at Marcus as though he's presenting evidence in court. “There was a lot happening last night, Marcus. Forgive me if I wasn't committing every single conversation to my long-term memory.”

Colin appears behind me just in time to hear this, and I feel his hand settle against my waist as he surveys the kitchen. “Are you seriously blaming last night's sex for burning toast?”

“I didn't blame anything on the sex,” Danny protests, looking personally offended by the accusation. “I merely suggested that my cognitive functioning may have been temporarily compromised by an unusually demanding evening.”

“Your cognitive functioning was compromised long before last night,” Marcus informs him, reaching over to unplug the toaster.

I look at the banana on the floor. “Why is there a banana down there?”

Danny follows my gaze, frowns and appears to consider the question with genuine seriousness. “I honestly couldn't tell you.”

“Wonderful. I'm going to hospital in an hour and a half, and my kitchen has now become a bomb site.”

Colin bends down to retrieve the banana while Danny attempts to salvage his toast by scraping the burnt bits into the sink. This produces approximately three tablespoons of charcoal and an increasingly irritated Marcus, who takes one look at the mess and removes the plate from Danny's hands before he can cause further structural damage to my kitchen. “Why were you making toast in the first place?” Marcus asks him. “I thought we'd agreed not to eat until Bea could.”

Danny stops scraping, and Colin stops examining the banana. I look between them. “I'm sorry. What?”

Danny closes his eyes. “Oh, fuck.”

Marcus looks at him with the weary resignation of a man who’s just discovered the village idiot has also been appointed village spokesperson. Colin, meanwhile, becomes extremely interested in returning the banana to the fruit bowl, a rather spectacular attempt at avoiding eye contact considering he's standing about two feet away from me. I fold my arms. “What do you mean, until I can eat?”

“Nothing,” Danny replies.

“Daniel.” He looks at Marcus for help. Marcus stares back with no intention of helping. “Colin?”

My best friend finally turns towards me, looking rather sheepish. “We decided we'd wait until after your surgery to eat.”