Irene had a sharp tongue. Everyone at the office knew her as the woman who never minced her words. Whether you wanted to hear it or not, she’d tell you exactly what she thought.
Take Emily, for instance, who spent an entire morning flirting with the new IT bloke while breezing through her workload. “I hope you know his wife’s in labour right now,” Irene cut in. Just like that, the flirting died.
Then there was Victoria, who struggled for months to quit smoking. Patches, mints, even that “miracle” vape—nothing worked. Every half hour, she’d duck out for a puff. “Ever seen the ingredients list on that thing?” Irene mused. “No? Funny, neither has anyone else. Wonder why?”
People steered clear of her. Her words stung, and no one fancied being on the receiving end. But Irene didn’t care. The truth was the truth—no matter how inconvenient.
When she left for a training stint abroad, the office exhaled in relief. Smoke breaks, flirty client meetings, wild Fridays with stolen kisses in dimly lit corners—married or single, everyone indulged.
Three weeks later, Irene returned—but not as they knew her. No stiff dresses or towering heels, no heavy perfume or immaculate makeup. She shuffled in wearing ripped jeans, an oversized jumper, her hair in a messy bun, and dark sunglasses she didn’t remove until she vanished into her office. The only scent clinging to her was the faint whisper of *Truth* by Calvin Klein.
She didn’t scold the receptionist for unfinished paperwork. She ignored the IT guy glued to his phone, whispering to his wife. The lawyer buried in files went unnoticed. Nothing provoked her.
“Failed the training,” muttered the lawyer.
“She’s ill,” guessed the receptionist.
“She’s in love!” cackled Emily.
“And that’s why she’s swimming in that jumper?” scoffed the translator.
“Either way, the meeting’s in an hour. Best get ready instead of gossiping.”
But an hour later, Irene still hadn’t shown. The conference room buzzed with restless energy.
Then—
“There she is!” The IT guy, stationed by the window, pointed.
Across the street, in a cosy little café, sat Irene. But not *their* Irene. The sharp-tongued, perpetually irritated woman was gone. Instead, she was *laughing*—head tilted, shoulders shaking—at whatever the man opposite her was saying.
The office crowd pressed against the glass, disbelieving.
“Couldn’t find my blouse this morning,” Irene said to the man—*Simon*—and grinned. “So I stole your jumper.”
“I prefer you without clothes,” he murmured.
She flushed, swatting his arm. “Stop.”
“Can’t,” he leaned in. “We need to ditch work. My place or yours—don’t care. Since Heathrow, nothing’s been the same.”
“Agreed.”
“By the way,” he whispered, “your jumper’s inside out.”
“Damn it!”
“Which means we *definitely* go to mine. So I can take it off.”
She laughed, pulling out her phone and dialling. A moment later, the office receptionist’s phone rang.
“Good morning, you’ve reached Harlow & Co.! Oh, Ms. Winters? Right… They’re waiting for you in the meeting. *What?* You’re not coming in? Oh—ill? Get well soon!”
The receptionist burst into the conference room. “Our Irene’s sick!”
“We can see,” the IT guy muttered, watching as a perfectly healthy Irene climbed into a stranger’s car. “She’s gone for days. Don’t bother calling.”
“Why not?” the receptionist frowned.
“Ever come to work wearing an inside-out jumper?” Emily smirked. “Or sunglasses to hide the fact you had a *very* good night? When you don’t care about makeup because your head’s still floating somewhere else?” She shrugged. “That’s *love*.”
The office absorbed this.
Emily turned to leave.
“*Ill.* *Failed the training.*” She tossed a look over her shoulder. “Told you—she’s in love. And now she’s *different*.”
“For how long?” the IT guy grumbled.
Emily levelled him with a knowing stare.
“That,” she said, “depends on you lot,” before striding out.
