Page 26 of Painted Truths

I grab my bag to get my mobile phone as the girls continue their chatter. Another round of drinks is delivered, courtesy of a table of hot, significantly older businessmen across the room. The men smirk when the three of us raise our glasses in thanks.

"Right, ladies." Freya raises a carefully groomed brow. "Time to move on because those guys think they're in there like swimwear."

I snort into my margarita while still rooting for my phone with my other hand. "Where the hell is it?"

Frustrated, I tip the entire contents of my bag out onto our table as Anna and Freya quickly grab all the odds and ends that go flying everywhere.

Maybe I'm an easier drunk than I thought.

Shrugging off the thought, I look through the mess. Wallet, keys, a compact mirror, lipstick, mascara, EarPods, a sachet of ketchup from Maccy D's, and some old receipts, but no phone.

I could scream.

"Ladies, that's my cue. I've left my phone at the office."

My announcement is met with groans and pleas to just forget about it, but I think I might have reached my shut-off valve anyway. Those margaritas were more potent than I thought.

"Sorry, girls. Raincheck?"

"Of course, sweetie. Here's my phone. Put your number in it, and I'll give you a ring in, say, twenty minutes to make sure you're okay and in your Uber."

After doing as Freya instructed, I spy my almost full margarita looking so lonely on the table. Grabbing it, I pop a brow at the girls.

"Waste not, want not." I put the glass on my head and drain every single delicious drop to raucous cheers from all and sundry.

Depositing my glass onto the table with a flourish and slightly flushed cheeks, I hug both girls goodbye. Then, turning, I bid farewell to the rest of the office, who are still drinking and bantering at the table next to ours and make my way to the bar's front door.

Great! It's coming down in buckets.

I rapidly debated the pros and cons of just leaving my phone until tomorrow as the building only closes on Sunday and just using Freya's phone to order an Uber, but in the end, I decided to just get it over with. A little rain never hurt anyone.

Steeling myself against the torrent, I pull my coat over my shoulders and tie it tight around my waist. Then, realising the lesser of two evils is to use my handbag as an umbrella, I hold it over my head and dash out into the deluge without second-guessing myself any further.

The DeMarco building is a mere two-minute frantic dash down the street. Well, it would have been two minutes had I not been wearing ridiculously high shoes. The price women pay for fashion!

By the time I reach the foyer, I look no better than a drowned rat, though my handbag has kept my hair and face from getting overly wet from what I can see in the silver of the elevator door while I wait for it to descend.

I begin to feel a little bit wobbly, which I suspect is from both the adrenaline-filled sprint through torrential rain and the margaritas. I somehow managed to lose count of how many I'd had, but I think it was only four.

Oh no, make that five. I'd almost forgotten that last one I'd downed, courtesy of those silver foxes.

Oops.

Giggling to myself, I hop into the elevator and stab the button for my floor while eyeing myself and the damage in the mirror. Not as bad as I'd initially reckoned. My hair is dampened, but not drenched. My face is clean and rain-streaked. My clothes are plastered to my curves, though my coat keeps most of the moisture off my body. I'm not feeling the cold, at least not yet.

Upon further inspection, I see that my eyes are slightly glassy, but, in my defence, I never really let loose. This new me, she damn well deserves to let her hair down for once.

The elevator dings as it reaches my floor. Before I get my phone, I decide to nip to the loo to dry off using the hand dryers. Bee-lining to the Ladies’, I duck inside the familiar door, though I would put money on there having been more cubicles in here earlier.

Once I finish my business, I wash up and stand by the hand dryer for several minutes, just trying to warm my cold hands. My hair is all askew now from standing so close to the hand dryer, so I quickly unclip the hair grips holding up what had been a sleek chignon when I left my apartment this morning.

My hair cascades down my back like a familiar safety blanket when I release the final clip. I run my fingers haphazardly through it in an attempt to tame the tangles before grabbing my slightly less wet coat, thanks to the hand dryer, and making my way out of the restroom.

Furrowing my brow upon my re-entry to the office, I'm slightly turned around.

"What the-?" My murmur sounds louder than it should in the low lighting of the empty office space. Office space that looks like mine… but doesn't?

Did they give the office an overhaul?