‘They pair up for life, and they return to the same burrow, on the same little, insignificant patch of Tasmanian coast to have their chick, every year. They only have one chick per season, and if they struggle to conceive, or the chick dies, the risk of divorce between birds increases dramatically. Do you realise that’s what you’re playing with?’ her conjured Jem lectures from his lame high horse, and she seethes at the blank page. The cursor blinks back.

How dare he? He, who has begun to avoid her, who can’t help but look pained whenever he catches a glimpse of her ever-growing tapestry of octopuses. He, whose dismay makes her feel like shit.

‘How’s your fella liking the tattoo?’ Kat had asked yesterday, on the twenty-seventh of March and Lucy’s fortnightly trip to Hobart, as decreed by Suzette’s little card.

‘Um,’ Lucy had paused.

‘Oh yeah,’ Kat had said, knowingly. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘No, no,’ Lucy had protested. ‘It’s not “like that”. It’s just a big change for him to get used to is all.’ She was lying—not about the fact that it was a big change, about the fact that it wasn’t like that with Jem. It was like that. It was exactly like that.

‘It is a big change,’ Kat agreed. ‘How are you feeling about it?’

‘Good,’ Lucy said, too brightly.

Kat raised her eyebrows.

‘I mean, I think I feel good,’ Lucy amended. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to get a grasp on things. But I don’t regret it at all and it’s beautiful—you’re doing beautiful work.’

Kat smiled, pleased.

Lucy didn’t tell Kat that while the tattoo did feel somehow right, it had felt more right when that first octopus was stretching and flowing with her skin, and she didn’t tell Kat about the knitted knockers. Kat kept telling her that she was a ‘fucking legend’, and Lucy didn’t want to undo that impression with her woolly appendages, which were so ridiculous. So ridiculous. What had she been thinking by even starting them, even contemplating them?

‘I’m not sure. I reckon they’ll feel too … unnatural,’ she’d said to Suzette, earlier that morning. She didn’t mention the fact that she’d already started them—that they were already underway. She didn’t want to see the glint of triumph in Suzette’s eyes.

Christ. What was it about this woman that turned Lucy into such a, well, if not direct liar, then someone who’s so deliberately deceptive?

‘Unnatural? What is natural?’ Suzette had prompted.

‘I know, I know,’ Lucy said. ‘Natural and unnatural are subjective: it depends on how you rationalise them.’

‘Dependent on how you rationalise them,’ Suzette echoed, nodding her head in a condescending way that made Lucy feel like she was a schoolkid, getting the right answer on a test.

What was it about Suzette? Maybe it was her manner, which had seemed so promising at first.

‘Yes. Very interesting,’ Suzette continued. ‘Now, have a think for a moment; and take your time with this one. How might you rationalise prosthetic breasts as “natural”?’