“Oooh, thank god.” My skull aches as I collapse back down in my makeshift nest, my face buried in my hands. “Oh, I didn’t. I didn’t.”

Because no offense to whoever’s in my shower right now, but this is not what anyone dreams of for their first time. Sand-mouth and a lurching stomach. A hazy memory and clumps of feathers stuck to their skin. The freaking carpet.

And I need to get up. Need to destroy all evidence of this nightmare, and politely give my visitor the boot. Now.

“Come on, Effie,” I growl, my voice rough from my mystery antics last night. “Damage control. Go.”

The room tilts as I flop over, pushing onto my hands and knees. If I stare at this one particular feather, crumpled and curled, the rest of the room doesn’t spin so badly.

What day is it? Do we have meetings today?

Oh my god, Mr Coltrane is right. I’m such a mess. He really should have fired me all those times. My legs shake like I’m on a ship’s deck, tossed around by invisible waves as I stagger to my feet, and I clap a hand over one eye as I lurch toward my suitcase where it lies open in the center of the floor.

I’ve clearly rummaged through here at some point in the night. My clothes are a monstrous tangle, spilling out of the case in all directions, and the hot pink vibrator I brought to take the edge off during two straight days in my boss’s company is sticking upright like a mast, proud and horrifying in the middle of my suitcase.

“Shit.” I snatch up a crumpled blue cotton dress and clean underwear and kick the case closed. The lid stays cracked open an inch, no doubt propped up by my vibrator. “Shit.”

Well, that’s that. Goodbye, dignity. There’s no way my guest didn’t see that on their way to the shower, along with the rest of this trashed suite: the white feathers clinging to every surface, the knocked over chair, the pair of boxers hanging from a lampshade. The stripped bed and the sagging white drapes, yanked until they dangle half off the curtain rod.

…Wait. The boxers.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Effie.

Send a lightning bolt. Strike me down.

The shower’s still going once I’ve dressed in a queasy muddle, my guest clearly in no rush to leave, so I stumble across the carpet to inspect his underwear. They’re black, and clearly a good brand. Fancy and well cut, made from high quality fabric. Can you get tailored boxers? If you can, that’s what these are.

I bite my lip as I pluck them down off the lampshade, folding them awkwardly before tripping over to set them on the edge of the bed.

Thank you, I’ll say. So lovely to meet you.

Then, if he still doesn’t get the hint: I really do have lots of work to do.

See, this doesn’t have to be awful! Or awful-er, anyway. Because it’s not my guest’s fault that I clearly made a string of terrible decisions, that I may have ruined my whole career in the space of one night. It’s not his fault, whoever he is, that I’m hungover and disheveled in my hotel suite at—Jesus, eleven thirty—and shit, what time is our flight home? Am I too late? Did I miss it already?