Page 112 of While I’m Still Here

Nobody argues as she reaches behind her. The clasp releases. For a moment, she keeps the cups pressed against her chest, and something about that tiny hesitation hurts more than watching forty-three bras burn. Her fingers tighten around the fabric as though her body hasn't quite caught up with the decision her mind has already made.

Then she exhales.

The straps slide slowly down her arms, and she catches the bra in one hand, and Bea stands bare-chested in front of us.

Nobody speaks, and she doesn't cover herself.

That's what I notice first.

Her arms remain at her sides, one hand curled around the bra, while the cold evening air moves across skin that has spent most of her adult life contained beneath one thing or another. Goosebumps rise along her arms, but she doesn't seem to notice.

Her eyes move between the three of us instead. She's checking. I realise it with an ache somewhere beneath my ribs. She isn't waiting for us to admire her. She's looking for pity. For the involuntary glance towards her left breast because we all know what's growing inside it. For some tiny indication that knowing about the cancer has transformed the way we see her body before surgery has even had the chance.

Colin smiles first. The smile of a man who has known these breasts in a thousand entirely ordinary contexts before they became cancerous. A man who has loved the woman attached to them considerably longer than either Danny or I have been here.

Danny raises his wine glass. “To the girls.”

A startled laugh escapes Bea, then she looks at me. I don't look at the tumour. I don't look at the scar that isn't there yet. I look at her. “You look like you.”

Her eyes snap to mine. For a second, her face crumples. She looks down at herself again, studying the body she's spent weeks trying to memorise. “Six days.”

Colin steps closer. “Six days.”

Her fingers tighten around the bra. “Seems a shame to spend them imprisoned.”

Danny's mouth twitches. I look at the bra. “Imprisoned?”

“This.” She holds it up. “Thirty years I've been told my tits require containment. Bras. Sports bras. Strapless bras. Underwire apparently designed by someone with a personal vendetta against women.” She looks down at her chest once more, and when she raises her eyes again, there are tears in them, but she's smiling. “And now I've got six fucking days left with them.” Nobody laughs. “So fuck it.”

She turns towards the incinerator and throws the bra into the fire. The lace catches almost immediately. Bea watches it burn for several seconds. Then, with tears still shining on her cheeks, she raises both arms over her head. “I am officially a free-tittie woman.”

Danny chokes on his wine. Colin covers his face. I stare at her. “A what?”

“A free-tittie woman.”

“That's not a thing.”

“It is for the next six days.” She points at Colin. “No bras.”

He shrugs. “They're your tits.”

“Correct answer.”

Danny lifts both hands before she can even turn towards him. “I fully support this initiative.”

“Of course you fucking do,” Colin mutters.

“I support women's rights.”

“You support nipples,” Colin says.

“I can support multiple causes.”

Bea laughs, but then she looks at me. “Well?”

I have built an entire adult life around saying sensible things. Apparently Bea is going to destroy that too. “Six days?”

“Six.”