‘You’re rather, er, big up top, aren’t you?’ Emma’s forehead creased with anxiety. ‘Is that a problem? I’ve only had them since April. I’m working on my balance, I promise!’ ‘It’s not that: it’s the bouncing, m’love. And you look a little out of place next to the other girls.’ Emma opened her mouth to speak. ‘You’re a lovely girl,’ the director hastened, ‘And I’m sure you’ll be a fine addition to the chorus line. Just find a way to strap the girls down, eh?’ He swept off to talk to the choreographer, leaving Emma mortified and embarrassed, but determined to make Cecil happy. So, the very next day, she had bought a minimizer bra, an elaborate contraption the department store assistant promised her would keep her errant, wobbly new breasts in check. Rehearsals from that point on had been a much more comfortable and dignified affair, with Emma’s ample globes now a distant memory, squashed tightly down into her armpits, the remaining swell in a much more sensible ratio with her otherwise. He handed over the big plastic envelope with a cheerful “Cheerio” and walked off to his van, walking around it checking he still had all his wheels before driving off with a cheerful wave. Can’t be too careful round here, where I live, the thieving’ buggers are quick an’ quiet when it suits ‘em. I only keep my wheels codes they’ve got locking nuts on ‘em and the tyres are virtually bald as Jean-Luc Picard.I checked the name and address on the package. “To Maurice Alfred Jackman”, at my address. Fuck! My real fuckin’ name’s my fuckin’ business.Now you know why I insist on being called ‘Jack Jackman’.I closed the door, although it was colder inside the flat than outside. I ripped open the big envelope and shook out a thin padded envelope about 150x200mm, with a repeat of my name and address in block capitals on the front. I turned it over and read the return address, and whistled. My old man himself, Jonathan A Glover, no less, lately of some exotic location in Burbank,.
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