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1
Charlize
I’m going to 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 breasts 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. The shoe broke and I went flying, landing on my ass.
Damn 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 few 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 the kind of heels that cause arthritis, back pain, heel deformity, ugly toes, overstretched Achilles, and bunions. Yes, I’ve read the data on heels.
And dresses? I’d rather not be squeezed into one that is so tight my breasts and my lungs want to take out a restraining order on it.
And that 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 purse that I unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the cubicle. Yes, 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,everwants to hear comes from behind me.
My. Dress. Rips.
I freeze, willing it not to 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, my God, why does this shit always have to happen to me?” I mutter as I stand. “I told Poppy 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 current priority in life 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. One that willpayme in bank notes.
My mother’s voice rings loud in my head—"You need to find a man, Charlize!”
Ugh.
My mother.
I grab my bra and put it back on, ignoring the itchy welts I’m covering. I then wiggle my dress up and into place. It has a zip at the back that I carefully attempt to pull up. It plays nice; however, I can feel what the problem is. When I stretched to reach for my phone, the fabric has ripped on one side of the zip, right down to my bottom.
Opening the door of the cubicle, I peer out and find no one else in the bathroom. As carefully as I can, I make my way to the mirror and turn to see how bad the dress looks from behind.
Oh. God.
It’s gaping open.
Anyone who walks behind me will be subjected to my back, half my ass, and a flash of my red thong.
