Ira was sharp-tongued in conversation. As long as her colleagues had known her, she never minced her words—whether you wanted to hear them or not.
Take Emily, for instance, who spent a whole morning flirting with the new IT bloke while breezing through orders. She was practically floating around the office. “I hope you know his wife’s in the maternity ward?” Ira cut in. And just like that, the flirting fizzled out.
Then there was Victoria, struggling for months to quit smoking—patches, special lozenges, nothing worked. She even bought one of those “miracle” e-cigarettes, sneaking out every half hour for a puff. But Ira shut that down too. “Ever seen the ingredients list for that thing? No? Funny that. Neither has anyone else.”
People steered clear of Ira—no one wanted to be on the receiving end of her bluntness. She didn’t care. The truth was the truth, after all. But who really needed it?
When she left for a training program abroad, the office breathed a collective sigh of relief. Smoke breaks around the corner, flirting with new clients, wild Friday nights, and stolen kisses in dark corners—married or single, no one held back.
Three weeks later, Ira returned. Usually in a sharp dress, stilettos, heavy perfume, and full makeup, this time she walked in wearing battered jeans and an oversized jumper—two sizes too big. Not a scrap of makeup, hair in a messy bun, and sunglasses she didn’t remove until she’d slipped into her office. Instead of her usual scent, just a whisper of *Truth* by Calvin Klein.
And—crucially—no snarky comments. No snapping at the receptionist for unprepared meeting notes. No berating the IT guy for constantly being on the phone with his wife. She didn’t even glance at the stacks of files the solicitor was buried in.
“Failed the training,” the solicitor concluded.
“Must be ill,” the receptionist guessed.
“She’s in love!” Emily cackled.
“Hence the jumper two sizes too big?” smirked the interpreter.
“Either way, the meeting’s in an hour. Better prep, not gossip.”
But an hour later, Ira still hadn’t shown. The team fidgeted, waiting. Then the IT guy, perched by the window, blurted, “Look! There she is!”
Everyone rushed to the glass. Across the street, in a cosy café, sat their Ira—but different. Not just barefaced and casual-haired, but *laughing* as a man across the table spoke to her. *Their* Ira. Laughing.
They watched, transfixed, as she toyed with her coffee, her whole demeanour lighter.
“Honestly, I couldn’t find my blouse this morning,” she told the man—*Simon*—with a smile. “So I stole your jumper.”
“Prefer you without it,” he shot back.
She flushed, swatting his arm. “Stop.”
“Can’t,” he leaned in. “We’re finishing early today. My place or yours? Doesn’t matter. Since we met at Heathrow, nothing’s been the same.”
“Agreed.”
“By the way,” he added, amused, “your jumper’s inside out.”
“Oh, bloody hell!”
“Definitely mine, then.”
She laughed, pulled out her phone, and dialled. Back in the conference room, the reception phone rang.
“Good morning, thank you for calling! Ms. Ira? Right. Erm—you’re expected at the meeting. You’re *not coming in*? Oh. Not feeling well? Righto, get better soon!”
The receptionist dashed to the meeting. “Ira’s ill!”
“We can see,” the IT guy muttered, watching Ira—perfectly healthy—slip into a car with a stranger. “She’ll be gone for days. Don’t even bother calling.”
“Why?”
“Ever come to work in an inside-out jumper?” Emily smirked. “With sunglasses to hide the fact you had a *very* late night? When you couldn’t care less about makeup because your head’s still with *him*?”
The room absorbed this. Emily shrugged. *”Ill. Failed the training.”* Please. She’s in love. Now our Ira’s someone else.”
“For how long?” the IT guy grumbled.
Emily eyed him. “That’s up to you blokes,” she said, and walked out.
Funny how one man’s attention can soften edges a whole office couldn’t. Makes you wonder—was she ever that sharp, or just waiting to be seen?
