Grace needed a day or two to think about what Marjorie had said. She had a point. Lenny had basically nursed her back to health single-handed, because of her fear of blood; she’d refused to take any responsibility for her own care. It made sense. Of course Marjorie might be wrong, and in that case her marriage would slowly implode, but if there was a chance she was right, she needed to show her husband that she was fine, better than fine: she was healthy, robust and her new breasts were healed and perfect and pain-free. They got a little cold in winter, but other than that she was good to go. It was timely in that Lenny had the morning off as he was flying out to a conference in London that afternoon. She took a shower, plastered herself in cream and perfume and put on her newest and sexiest piece of lingerie. She fixed the girls, positioned them just right. She looked in the mirror, cupping them. ‘We can do this.’

The kids were in school, Stephen was in college and Lenny was downstairs reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. She walked into the room in her black one-piece lingerie and a pair of thigh-high boots, which she’d bought in an online sale when drunk and emotional. He had his back to her, so it didn’t have the impact she was hoping for. She walked towards him and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘You all right, love?’ he said without glancing her way.

‘No, but I will be,’ she said, and she grabbed his face and turned it her way. She was holding him a little too firmly and it was all a little awkward, so she let go and stood back and put her hand on her hip like the kids do on Instagram.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘You know what it is,’ she said.

‘Ah Grace . . .’

‘No,’ she said, and she straddled him on the kitchen chair and kissed him and put his hands on her boobs and held them there. ‘This is happening,’ she said, and suddenly she was on her back on the table and her husband was between her legs and before either could say boo to a goose they were moving together, his hands all over her, and it wasn’t exactly the same as before. For a start it was their first time having sex on the table her children ate their breakfast on, and she wasn’t sure but she thought she could feel a wet teabag on her back – it was different and nice and, above all, sexy as hell. There was life after mastectomy and dermal implants, and there would be life after an oophorectomy.