Unquantifiable

C H A P T E R O N E

P R E S E N T  D A Y

I adjust my skirt again for what feels like the hundredth time before stepping out into the summer evening's air. It's still light out for the most part, the golden glow of the sun casting streams of dusky pinks and reds and oranges across a canvas of what would be blue but is now slowly deepening into a dark hue of navy. The small piece of clothing feels ridiculously short with onyx ruching and a rose gold zipper in the back that draws attention to particular assets that a girl wouldn't mind showing off every now and then. But to me it's uncomfortable. It reveals too much of my long willowy legs. Not to mention, the glittery sequin top I've tucked into it, that dips into a low V-shape to reveal an abnormally generous amount of cleavage. According to Avery, it's this type of thing that will make me "stand out" tonight. Or, in her words, "the type of image that will stick". Honestly, I'm not sure my legs or my ass are what I want to be remembered for, but I've never been any good at knowing the latest fashion trends and Avery is basically some kind of a goddess when it comes to that sort of thing, so for one night only I've decided to step out of my comfort zone and trust her. The minute I walk down the front steps of the apartment block, I begin to regret making that decision, longing for my cashmere jumper and ripped jeans; my converses instead of these heels that are already giving me blisters. 

Avery has sent me about fifty texts since she pulled up outside my flat, which was about thirty seconds ago. Considering the amount of times that she's been "fashionably late" I think I'm entitled to a couple more minutes to get ready for what could be the beginning of my career. But she's relentless. 

My phone buzzes, as my foot hits the bottom step and I root through my black clutch to find it. Get your ass in the car Zee or I'm going to leave you to walk. 

But it's dark! I protest with a grin, knowing that as much as Avery likes to complain, she'd never leave me to walk, if only because the venue we're going to is supposed to feature the hottest guys in this inconsequential town and Avery would never say no to hot guys. 

Exactly! Hurry up. 

I smile and deposit the phone back into my bag before making my way to the gun-metal grey Kia that is parked outside, a direct b-line to the front door of the block. Avery honks her horn once. Twice. Crazy woman, I think. I feel unstable on my feet in these six inch heels. My ankles are about to snap like that of a cheaply made, brittle, barbie doll, bought at a convenience store. I hear the car doors unlatch, as I approach and hop inside, the cool air conditioning nice against my already too warm skin. 

"Well, I thought you'd never make it," Avery says, as I reach for the chewing gum pot resting on the dash. I pop one in my mouth, figuring the act of chewing and the taste of mint will take my mind off the anxiety already bubbling inside me. 

"Who was it who said I needed to make a good impression with my image?" I ask, raising a brow. 

Avery is the type of friend that makes you feel inferior on a bad day. Well, most days really. She's stunning with olive skin, mid-length, glossy black hair that looks as though it should feature on a box advertising hair dye and almond shaped eyes that are the most startling shade of green. It's almost offensive the level of beauty she possesses. 

Avery scowls. "What's the name of the venue again?" I give her a side-long look. "What?"

"We've been talking about this for weeks and you can't even remember the name of the place?" I put a hand over my heart and feign a sense of horror.