Page 114 of The Stranger

She scoffs.

“Your own doctor?”

“You might as well suggest I ask him to examine my hemorrhoids!” she almost shouts.

“Lavender, he’s an obstetrician. Of course he’ll talk to you about⁠—”

“For God’s sake, I don’t have hemorrhoids. But if I do get them, I won’t be discussing them with Doctor Delicious.”

“Wait, is your obstetrician Mr Travers?” I ask, wide-eyed with wonder.

She nods eagerly. “My blood pressure spikes massively just from sitting in the waiting room. He says it’s white coat syndrome, but it’s not—it’s him. It should be illegal for OBGYNs to be men, let alone the hot men.”

“White coat syndrome!” I scoff. “That’ll be for the benefit of the fathers-to-be, so as not to upset their delicate little egos. They don’t call him Dr. Pussy for no reason.” The man is renowned through the London hospital system for both clinical excellence and for being hotter than hell.

“Ew, don’t tell me he’s a walking HR Violation.”

“The man is deliriously and very happily married.”

“Well, I’m happy for him and for HR, but I cannot ask that gorgeous specimen of a man about my melons.”

Plums, more like.

“So what do you think?”

“About the good doc or your boobs?”

“Primrose,” she growls.

So I assume my doctor’s face. Serious. Competent. Caring. Or in other words, I try to stop my eyebrows from shooting off the top of my face as the screen blurs again.

“Oh, yes. I can totally see now,” I say quickly, worried she might be about to pull off her T-shirt. “Your boobs are much bigger. Huge. Massive, in fact.”

“No need to overdo it,” she mutters mulishly.

“Lavender? It feels really weird talking to your boobs. Any chance we can continue this conversation face-to-face?”

“They’re the same size, aren’t they?” Her unhappy expression comes into focus.

“I don’t flippin’ well know!”

She narrows her gaze. “You’d better come back to London. I’m going to need you to make sure Raif doesn’t really die when I murder him. I bet he had La Perla swap the labels on my new bras.”

That sounds exactly like the kind of thing Lavender’s husband would do if he thought it would make her feel better. Pretty sure he’d find a way to pull down the moon if she asked for it. While she’s always had a chip on her shoulder over being a member of the itty-bitty titty committee, it doesn’t seem to bother Raif. Weirdly, neither does her personality. The man is absolutely besotted.

I mean, he’d have to be to put up with her, an uncharitable little voice pipes up from somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, she’s my sister, and I think she’s amazing. She’s always known what she wanted and just gone for it—gone for it and gotten it. But the mold was broken when she was born, and that’s probably a good thing for the world because, by God, she can be a pain in the arse when she puts her mind to it.

“I didn’t know La Perla did maternity bras.”

“Did you know they did bikinis?”

“I knew that was you!” I exclaim. “What did you do with my one-piece—and my shorts?”

“I donated your swimsuit to the British Museum. They’re going to use it in a Roaring 20s exhibition. And your clothes, well, I tried to donate them to Oxfam, but they wouldn’t have them.”

“Mean! What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“Nothing at all. If you’re a pensioner. Come on, Prim. Knee length linen shorts?”