She stripped off in the bathroom and got into the shower. As she washed she looked down at herself, particularly her breasts, which, to be fair, looking down were hard to miss. She’d always liked her breasts. They were perfectly round, the nipple centred, and even though they’d dropped after four kids, they held a good shape; they were still impressive, and if she was honest a source of great pride. What now? she thought. Just cut them off? She couldn’t imagine it. It was just too drastic – after all, her breasts were such a part of who she was. Knockers Hayes. That’s what the boys had called her, back in the day. They were the first thing her husband noticed about her on the day they met in that cafeteria in the bank. Her breasts, her hair, her eyes, her smile, in that order – he said she was a knockout. Knockers the knockout, that was Grace Hayes before children. After her children she was still a good-looking woman – maybe her curves weren’t in exactly the same places, and some were more exaggerated than others, but she still had those knockers, which by then had been a five-star restaurant for her kids and a private playground for her husband for many long years. She owed her breasts a lot. What now?

Rabbit’s identity lay in her strength and vitality. Her gobby one-liners, her star-crossed love and, of course, her talent. Anything that kid put her mind to she could achieve. When Johnny bought a ticket for Rabbit to go to America, to leave him behind and start a new life, she resisted. She wanted to be with him forever but he would not be moved. He was so determined to free her. So she went and she did everything he asked of her. She lived, survived and thrived. Rabbit returned from America a journalist, and she was a good one, at least in Grace’s humble opinion, but then what did boring banker Grace know about anything?