That was what her picture had been missing – someone to admire the dancing woman. She paused. Was he admiring the woman? Or the dance? Something to think about.

Laurel went to her room before dinner for some alone time, emotional from the unaccustomed experience of supporting Daisy, feeling an uneasy mixture of relief at Daisy’s smile and guilt at sneaking behind Rea’s back.

Discarding her paint-daubed clothes she caught her reflection in the mirror, blue bra clashing merrily with green pants. She paused to consider, dispassionately, how she’d draw her own little frame rather than the more willowy woman of today’s sketches. Her top-heaviness was not the classic dancer’s proportions of those she’d been watching on YouTube. But ordinary women also danced, women with significant breasts, apple or pear body types and extra chins, didn’t they? Why should she be studying only professional dancers?

She’d hate to be guilty of making all women think they should possess ballerina bodies.

The subject of her new painting could be a woman whose hips didn’t balance out her bust and whose legs could use a couple more inches. Experimentally, she half-turned, throwing up her arms and studying her reflection over one shoulder, noting the crease at her waist, the elliptical shape of her breasts. Then she thrust an arm behind her. Turning up her face, she checked out the mirror again through the corner of her eye. That was an interesting pose. It took a mental effort to hold it because her boobs were thrust out, rather than hidden by loose clothing. Loose clothing had always been her protection against those who thought it was OK to stare. She was fine with men liking big boobs, but not the leering.

She straightened up and studied her body in the mismatching underwear.

Alex definitely used to be a fan of her shape … until she stopped attracting him. She missed being desired. Her new painting would be of a woman enjoying being exactly who she was and dancing for the hell of it; the watching man would sexually desire that flawed everyday woman without caring whether her body could make babies. The theme would be: this woman’s not perfect but that’s fine.

‘Laurel?’ Rea’s voice came from just outside the door, startling Laurel into opening it without pulling on her clothes. Rea took a step inside. ‘Daisy fancies takeaway. Blimey, you got the boobs for both of us, didn’t you?’ She gestured at Laurel’s overflowing bra.

Yanking open the nearest drawer, Laurel found a clean top to pull on. ‘Takeaway’s fine by me.’ She wished the boob remark, even from her sister, didn’t prompt her to instantly hide her body.