There was one particular girl whose breasts I envied above all others. Whenever Cassie Barnett took her shirt off in the change rooms and leant forward to get something from her bag, her breasts would swing down, bulging against her bra like swollen water-balloons. I couldn’t help but steal envious glances at her deep, creamy cleavage every chance I got. One day, Cassie caught me looking and loudly guffawed. ‘Enjoying the show? What are you? A lesbian?’

I blushed deeply, and Chloe and Bonnie, who were nearby, shot me sharp, disapproving glances.

I fretted that word would get out, but it didn’t, perhaps because—if I’m honest with you—I was small and popular and a bit of a bitch in a ‘cool girl’ way, while Cassie was robustly built and unpopular. More likely, what saved me was the general consensus that Cassie herself was a lesbian, because, of the school uniform options, she chose to wear the maroon polo shirt favoured by the boys rather than the button-up white blouse any self-respecting girl would wear, and even though she never wore her windcheater, she always had it tied around her waist.

‘She probably likes you and that was her way of hitting on you,’ Bonnie whispered as we hurried down the corridor to our next class, books clutched to our chests and ponytails swinging officiously behind us. I agreed nastily and felt bad straight away. But, just in case—and even though I couldn’t help but glance, very quickly, at Cassie’s chest whenever I felt it safe to do so—I never spoke to Cassie again.

Standing there, flat and scarred under the fluorescent light, as the surgeon and nurses fussed around me, I relived the guilt and mortification of my childhood, the disappointment and yearning of my adolescence, and a thought took hold: imagine being able to wear a strappy sundress or top with a low-slung back without worrying if the ugly band of my bra would peek above the fabric, not having to worry if my bra-free breasts appeared wizened in dresses cut for bustier women. Imagine having Cassie-like breasts that would swing forward so round and perfect. I looked down at the sizers and saw in them the promise of a set of breasts that would hold their own in every garment, in every flimsy, lacy bra. And I found myself feeling grateful that I’d had a double mastectomy because Jem was right: it meant that, despite the strange folds of skin and the silver and purple scars, my chest was a clean slate; there was no original to get in the way of artistic licence.

Who wouldn’t?, I asked myself then, and still do, even now. Given the chance to remake their body, who wouldn’t opt for the body they’d always wished for?

So I instructed the surgeon: ‘A tad bigger’ again.

No one raised an eyebrow. It was all perfectly cordial. But even at the time, I felt like I’d done something wrong. Like I was a cheat.