“Where does that go,” Mum says, pointing to the sports bra I’m holding.
“In here,” I say, opening the bottom drawer containing all my beautiful brightly-coloured underwired bras.
“Why don’t you get rid of those?” Mum says. We’re tidying my drawers, or rather Mum is. Am sitting on the floor, distressed at my beloved elderly clothes being thrown out.
Pulling the garments out of the drawer, I line them up on the bed. There’s my lime green Freya one with the pink stitching; the Arabella which I loved so much that I purchased it in brown with green stitching and a matching g-string and also in black with pale pink stitching and matching thong. There’s the periwinkle silk one printed with fuchsia shapes and the fuchsia ribbon straps from that expensive boutique that’s now shut down. There’s the yellow gingham Panache** balconette with the baby blue flowers around the edges. That orange, pink and purple one was a favourite: it had a matching nightie, long since deceased. There are the two black wonderbras and the nude Freya Deco ultra bra. My other nude Deco with the graphic flower print in green and blue which somehow gives the line of all of them. All those pretty straps to peek out under clothes. All that money spent. My whole lingerie collection, assembled over sixteen years or so, but useless now.
“You can’t wear them,” Mum says. “And we don’t know what size or shape you’ll be after the next lot of surgery.”
“Fine,” I say, bundling them into a bag. “If I can ever wear proper bras again, I’ll treat myself to some new ones.”
And as soon as I’ve drop them into a bag and closed it, another weight has been lifted. All those years of fiddling with bra straps and worrying about lacy panels showing are over.
“Your bust still looks nice,” Suzie says, later, as I show her my empty bra drawer.
“But I’m just wearing the training bras still,” I say. “There’s hardly any support and…no, that’s my fake boob. Look at my other side.”
She moves to my other side, wrinkles her nose, stares, shakes her head.
“Looks fine to me,” she says.
“Not droopy?” I say. Looks a bit droopy to me. I’ve spent years hoisting my bust up under my chin, terrified of that middle-aged-lady-droopy-look.
“Not at all. You’ve got a good shape in that training one,” she says. “Impressive actually.”
“Thank you darling,” I say. We share a hug.
Happy Friday everyone!
*2012. By Meg London. First book in the “Sweet Nothings” series of murder novels set in the Sweet Nothings lingerie shop in Paris, Tennessee. Who knew that there was a “lingerie crime” genre…
** searching for “lingerie crime”, I see that the founder of Panache was murdered in a senseless attack. RIP Anthony Power 😢. Have attached a beautiful Panache bra in his memory.