Risk (Vault 1)

1

Charlize

I’m going to fucking kill Poppy.

It’s her fault I’m currently sitting in a hotel toilet cubicle half-naked with welts the size of I-don’t-know-what under my boobs and on my back, caused by the tiniest strapless lacy bra known to womankind. I had to pull my dress down and rip that sucker off so I could have a good scratch, and now I have scratch marks all over me that make it look like I’ve been tackled by a grizzly bear.

It’s also her fault that when I finally get up the courage to put said bra back on and fasten the tightest red dress I’ve ever worn back in place, I’m going to have to walk out of this public bathroom wearing only one shoe. The heel on the other one snapped when I skidded on the shiny tiles in the bathroom, resulting in a twisted ankle. The shoe broke as I went flying, landing on my ass. And yes, I now have a huge bruise on my ass.

Like I said, I’m going to fucking kill my cousin for making me wear a bra, dress, and shoes I would never choose to wear, to her wedding. “The society wedding of the year, Charlize” as my mother has taken every opportunity to tell me over the last six months.

Insert eye-roll.

Kill me now.

No, seriously, do it.

I love girl stuff just as much as the next woman, but honestly, when did it become mandatory to put ourselves in so much pain just to attend social functions? I can do heels, just not heels that make me look like an Amazonian woman. And dresses? I’d rather not be squeezed into one that is so tight my boobs and my lungs want to take out a restraining order on it. And that damn strapless bra with that allergy-causing stuff on it? As soon as I get home, I’m burning it.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I reach down to grab it out of my bag that I unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the toilet. Yeah, disgusting, I know. All those germs down there, but I was desperate to get that bra off.

As I reach for the phone, the sound a woman never ever ever wants to hear comes from behind me.

My. Dress. Rips.

I freeze, willing it to not be true.

Holding my breath, I twist my arm around to the back of my dress to feel for a rip, and sure enough, I find it.

“Oh mother of effing God, why does this shit always have to happen to me?” I mutter as I stand. “I bloody told Poppy that I had a dress I could wear, but no, she wants me to wear this damn dress.”

It’ll help you meet a man, she’d said, as if meeting a man was the highest thing on my agenda. To be clear, it isn’t. No, my main priority in life at the moment is to meet someone who can print bank notes that no one would ever suspect of being counterfeit.

I kid.

Kind of.

Actually, I just need a job. That will pay me in bank notes. Rather than in casseroles cooked lovingly for me. See, at the moment the only “job” I can get is the one where I help my seventy-one year old neighbour, Muriel, with her art. God love her, she still paints every day. She doesn’t really need my help, but after I’ve dedicated hours each day to finding a job, I find myself on the couch in her art room reading books and chatting about life while helping her mix colours and cleaning up once she’s done. Muriel has the most amazing collection of books I’ve ever come across. About art, history, architecture, politics, travel and so much more. Some days I want to skip the job hunting and just curl up on her couch with a pot of tea and all those books.

My mother’s voice rings loud in my head—you need friends your own age, Charlize, and a job. Get a damn job!

Ugh. Parents!