Cupping her hands underneath her breasts, she pushed them up slightly then let them go. Gravity deemed the only way for them to flop was south. She remembered having been inspired by those liberated ladies of the Swinging Sixties who, allegedly, threw all caution to the wind and made a bonfire of their bras. Letting her perky little darlings live free two decades ago might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but that invigorating liberation was having a knock-on effect now.
I’ve been having one final, brutal, word cull of the final draft.
This is one of the scenes I’ve cut when my MC realises her life is stagnating and I would like to share it with you.
After Lisa turned thirteen, Elizabeth Galsworthy-Grant turned into a one-woman precursor to Tinder. She became obsessed with finding her daughter a husband, preferably a wealthy one, so she would never have to contemplate that nasty three-letter word job. She could never understand why her efforts were always so unappreciated by her rebellious daughter, with her feminist views and ridiculous mantra…’I don’t need a man to complete me.’
We had spent other significant birthdays together, but I just didn’t want to celebrate being a bloody quadragenarian.
Two weeks off over Christmas and I’ve finished re-writing the book, with the sagely wisdom and worldly-wise take of forty-year-old.
Amy’s performance as Nollie Fairtree singing Honey Bun bought the house down, much to Connie’s pique.
She still tried to make an effort on the fashion front but, tottering around in ridiculously high heels every day, was beginning to take a toll on her ankles.