‘Of course I can help you,’ Flo says, eyeing the pattern. ‘These look pretty straightforward, really.’ And then she snorts. It’s an ugly, choked snort; but so obviously a snort of laughter. She doesn’t mean to, and she feels terrible for laughing at Lucy, who’s just bared herself to Flo, and is sitting there, so vulnerable. But, it’s just, Flo can’t get past the fact she’s staring at a diagram of breasts. A pattern, yes, but a diagram of breasts, with nipples and everything. It’s just, well, a bit funny, and—god, she’s being so immature.

‘Sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just—’

‘I know,’ Lucy interrupts. An embarrassed smile crumples her face. ‘It’s so bloody odd, isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when the psychologist suggested it. Apparently, they’re massive in the U.S.’

‘Massive in the U.S., hey?’ Flo chuckles.

Lucy laughs too. ‘Yeah, well, you know what those flashy American women are like.’

And now they’re both laughing; blushing still, but laughing, and not at Lucy and what she’s been through and what she’s still so evidently going through, but at those American floozies with their knitted bazookas.

‘So what?’ Flo asks, peering at the pattern again. ‘You put them in your bra?’

‘Yep,’ Lucy says. ‘So you, like, pick a pattern to match a cup size, and then … yeah, wear them in your bra whenever you feel like it. It’s better than stuffing your bra with socks, I guess.’ Lucy lets out another pained laugh. ‘Oh my god, Flo, it’s just so weird, isn’t it? I don’t know if I’ll ever wear them and Jem and I burnt all my bras a few weeks back, so I’ll have to buy a new one if I even want to.’ She huffs an exasperated little sigh out of one side of her mouth. ‘But at least it’s not like they’re kinky.’ She laughs again. ‘And now that I say that, I don’t know if it makes them less weird or not, but there you are.’

‘There you are indeed,’ Flo agrees. ‘Do you have any wool yet?’

‘I don’t have anything. I thought if you could help me, I’d go up to Hobart this weekend and get some wool and needles and stuff.’

‘Well, don’t worry about the needles—I’ve got plenty. And if you don’t mind them looking a bit ramshackle, I’ve got a few scraps of wool about the place we could use. Just leftovers, you know.’

‘That’d be amazing!’ Lucy says.

‘Oh well, it’s not like I’m using it for anything.’ Flo shrugs, and then, realising what Lucy just told her, asks: ‘Did you just say that you and Jem burnt your bras?’

‘Don’t ask.’ Lucy shakes her head again, as if exasperated by herself. ‘Is that a car?’

Flo had heard it too: the burr of a diesel engine, the crunch of tyres on gravel. ‘Well that was good timing, ay?’ She gets to her feet. To her surprise, she feels calm and collected; all her earlier jitteriness has melted away.