‘Uuuumm.’ Lucy paused, thinking. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just don’t know. Except for the idea that it’s “natural” for women to want breasts or bigger breasts or whatever. But I’ve already been down that path, and as far as I can see it’s not so much “natural” as culturally inscribed. It’s all about the objectification of women and the male gaze. Or rather, about women subjecting themselves to the male gaze, you know? Participating in their own subjugation.’

Suzette nodded slowly. Lucy could tell that, this time, she hadn’t provided the answer Suzette was angling for. Sure enough, ‘That’s a really important point that I want us to return to in a moment,’ Suzette said. ‘But first, I want you to try again. Really think about it.’

Lucy really thought about it. The gridlock outside revved and inched.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said eventually, shrugging.

‘That’s fine,’ Suzette said gently. ‘But, can you try rationalising them like this: humans have been using tools for millennia to make life easier for themselves, ergo tools are natural for humans?’ ‘Are you saying breasts are tools?’

‘Not necessarily. But I’m asking: can you rationalise them like that?’

‘Yes, I suppose I can,’ Lucy said, with a defeated sigh.

‘Good,’ Suzette said, nodding.

Ugh. The pointlessness of it all was so infuriating. Therapy shouldn’t be a hoop-jumping exercise. The funny thing was, this was the sort of conversation she’d find engrossing in any other context. But in this room, forcibly, with this woman, and framed about her body—it was driving her up the bloody wall. And the prospect of two more visits, two more hours of being pushed and prodded into thinking in ways about her body that felt not just unnecessary to her, but banal and gratuitous, grated on Lucy enough that she said: ‘I think I’m okay.’

‘Oh,’ Suzette said. ‘What do you mean by that, Lucy?’

‘I just mean I don’t think I need this anymore,’ Lucy said. ‘You told me after the first visit that I wasn’t a suicide risk, and that the reason you wanted to keep seeing me was because you wanted to work with me on the way I think about my body, but to be honest with you, I don’t really want to talk about my body—to think about my body anymore. I mean, I do think about it, but I’d actually rather think about it less. I’d rather just be living in it, if that makes sense? Normalising it, or whatever. These sessions are hindering me being able to do that.’

This was the truth, perhaps the truest thing she’d said to Suzette all morning. She’d spoken about it all in such detail the other night, narrating herself to Flo and Harry in a state of deep and self-indulgent catharsis, and then she’d shotted whiskey and plotted the mutton-birding escapade in the afterglow of that release. She was done talking now. She was ready for action.