Free Sins of Innocence by Jean Stone Page A

only problem was, she was on the wrong side of the camera.
    The muscles of her intestines tightened. “If it’s malignant, I want the surgery done right away.”
    His eyebrows raised. “You don’t have to decide this minute. You can take the weekend to think about it.”
    P.J. shook her head. “No. I want it over with. I haven’t got time to waste on decisions.”
    “You could also consider an implant,” the doctor said. “It’s an option, and it can be done at the same time. Or,” he added, “you might choose to wait. Would you like to talk with a plastic surgeon?”
    P.J. resisted the urge to look down at her breast. Suddenly she felt exhausted.
    “Implants are controversial aren’t they?”
    “Yes. But I have many patients who are doing just fine with them.”
    Just fine. What the hell did he know? He is a man. A male. One of that gender who worships the breast. Ogles it. Pants over it. Then says not to worry if you have one chopped off. It can be replaced. We men can still ogle. And everything will be just fine. “I think I’ll wait to make that decision.” She was amazed at how authoritative her voice sounded now, how in charge of the situation she seemed. She was P.J. Davies again. Creative. Controlled. Corporate material. “Just tell me one more thing, doctor. If I need a mastectomy, how long will I be out of work? I have a very demanding career.” Her words had become accusatory, as though this interruption in her life were all his fault.
    He closed the file and handed P.J. the prescription sheets. “Plan on a couple of weeks, at least.”
    A couple of weeks. No big deal, she rationalized. There would still be plenty of time to get production going on the Joubert Jeans TV spots. If … if any of this nonsense turned out to be necessary.
    P.J. cleared her throat. “One more thing, Doctor. Dr. Reynolds said over eighty percent of breast lumps are benign. Is that true?”
    He cleared his throat. “As a rule, yes.”
    She hesitated. “Can’t you tell … can’t you tell from my mammogram? If it’s … benign?”
    “We can never be certain of anything, P.J. Not until the biopsy results have been completed.
    P.J. sat alone in the living room of her sprawling condo, wrapped in a huge quilted robe, trying to get warm. Somehow she had taken a cab to the hospital, had the tests, and made it home. It was past six. She had phoned Bob from the hospital and told him she’d have to take a rain check on the weekend. When he said his kids would be disappointed, she’d felt a twinge of guilt, but she knew there was no way she could go. She didn’t want to share this with Bob.
    If not Bob, who? Her mother? P.J. winced at thethought. The emotional crack between them had only widened over the years.
    She picked at a shard of polish around her manicured fingernail. Was there a friend she could call? No. P.J. had never had any close friends. She’d spent the past twenty-three years throwing herself into her career, determined to be the best at what she did. When she wasn’t working, she was with a man. Any man. As long as he could help her career move forward.
    She put her feet up on the marble cocktail table and rested her head against one of the loose pillows of the soft celery-colored sectional, thinking about the men in her life. In the seventies they had all been young and great-looking. Account executives, mostly. Whenever she’d walked into a restaurant or a disco or spent a Sunday afternoon jogging through Central Park, P.J. was with a hunk. They were tight and firm, and they exuded sex. Wherever they went, heads always turned, as though strangers picked up on their sensual scent. And the sex was great. And plentiful.
    In the eighties P.J. had mellowed a bit, turning to older, better-established men. Agency owners, CEOs of profitable clients. What they lacked in exuberance, they made up for with attention. White roses, Dom Pérignon, baubles from Cartier, and an occasional promotion along the