Irene had a reputation for being brutally honest. Her colleagues had long accepted that she’d tell it like it was—whether you wanted to hear it or not.
Take Emily, for instance, who spent an entire morning flirting with the new IT guy while breezing through customer orders like a woman possessed. “I hope you know his wife’s in labour right now?” Irene casually dropped. And just like that, the flirty banter fizzled out.
Or Lucy, who swore this time she’d quit smoking—patches, mints, even a miracle e-cigarette she puffed on every half hour. Irene, ever the buzzkill, chimed in, “Ever noticed how no one’s ever seen the ingredients list for that ‘magic’ cigarette? Funny, that.”
People tiptoed around Irene, dodging her razor-sharp comments like landmines. She didn’t care. The truth was the truth, after all. But really, who actually *wanted* that kind of honesty?
When Irene left for a training program abroad, the office collectively exhaled. Smoke breaks went uninterrupted, new clients got flirted with, and “Mad Friday” antics escalated—dark corners and questionable decisions included. Married or single, no one was safe.
Then she returned three weeks later. Gone were the stiff dresses, towering heels, and suffocating perfume. Instead, she shuffled in wearing faded jeans and an oversized jumper—clearly two sizes too big—her hair in a messy bun, sunglasses glued to her face until she vanished into her office. Even her signature scent was swapped for something lighter: *Truth* by Calvin Klein.
Stranger still? She didn’t scold the receptionist for forgetting the meeting notes. Didn’t snap at the IT bloke for his endless calls to his wife. Even the lawyer buried in paperwork got a free pass.
“Failed the training,” the lawyer concluded.
“Caught the flu,” the receptionist guessed.
“She’s in *love*!” Emily cackled.
“And that’s why the jumper’s drowning her?” the translator smirked.
“Either way, the meeting’s in an hour. Less gossip, more prep.”
Except an hour later, Irene still hadn’t shown. The team fidgeted, impatient.
Then the IT guy—perched by the window—gasped, “Blimey, there she is!”
Everyone stampeded to the glass.
Across the street, in a cosy little café, sat Irene. But not *their* Irene. No makeup, no sharp edges. Just her, laughing at some bloke’s story like she hadn’t a care in the world.
*Their* Irene. *Laughing.*
Back in the conference room, jaws hit the floor.
“Honestly, I couldn’t find my blouse this morning,” Irene said to Simon, grinning. “So I nicked your jumper.”
“Prefer you without it,” he shot back.
She flushed, swatting his arm. “Stop it.”
“Can’t,” he murmured, leaning in. “We need to wrap up and get to mine. Or yours. Don’t care. Since the airport, *everything’s* different.”
“Agreed.”
He smirked. “By the way… your jumper’s inside out.”
“Oh, *brilliant*.”
“Definitely coming to mine, then. It’s coming off.”
She laughed, pulling out her phone. A second later, the reception phone rang.
“Good afternoon, you’ve reached Sterling & Co.! Irene Whitmore? Right. You’re… *expected* at the meeting? You—what? Off sick? Oh! Get well soon!” The receptionist sprinted to the conference room.
“Irene’s down with something!” she announced.
“We *see*,” the IT guy muttered, watching Irene—perfectly healthy—slip into a car with a stranger. “She’s gone for days. Don’t even bother calling.”
“Why not?” the receptionist blinked.
“Ever rocked up to work in an inside-out jumper?” Emily smirked. “Worn shades to hide *last night’s* evidence? Couldn’t care less about makeup because your head’s still *somewhere else*?” She tossed her hair. “That’s not flu. That’s *love*.”
The room digested this.
“‘Off sick,’ ‘failed training,’” Emily sang, strolling out. “Told you. She’s a whole new Irene.”
“For how long?” the IT guy grumbled.
Emily gave him a *look*. “Depends on you lot, doesn’t it?” And with that, she was gone.
