ALICE Ch 243

Lora heads over cautiously and Kylie follows curiously, beer in hand.

The girl is put together; she’s about their size, although maybe a little curvier. She is busting out of a short, yellow dress that Lora would describe as confident and Kylie would call slaggy. She has a magnificent tan, and her dark hair has the glossy straightness of cosmic levels of heat damage.

She is vaguely familiar. Lora knows that she’s seen her about the paddock at the very least, and maybe in other places, but she can’t be anyone of any consequence, or else she’d properly recognize her. Perhaps she’s with Freedom; most of them are at this hotel as well, but there is a smattering of people from other teams. The Woodcocks are here tonight, and Lora saw George Russell come down to get a Tom Collins wearing a cap and sunglasses, as though that would fool anyone. Twat.

The girl sits upright suddenly, nearly smashing Kylie’s nose. Her hair is askew, and she peers around, then catches the bartender’s eye. She fumbles for her empty glass and holds it up.

The bartender shakes her head.

The girl’s face falls. Then she spots the glass in Kylie’s hand, which Kylie pulls away protectively.

“Are you OK?” Lora asks kindly. “I think you might have bumped your head just now?”

“I’m fine.” The girl spots herself in the mirror behind the bar and fixes her hair absently. “I need to…” she trails off, looking around. “I had a…” She speaks with a bit of an accent that Lora can’t exactly place, but her English is comfortable and natural, albeit thoroughly slurred.

“A phone?” Kylie says helpfully.

“And a…”

Lora’s sober brain comes to the rescue. “Probably a purse or a clutch or a wallet,” she says to Kylie, but there’s nothing like that in sight. “Oh dear.”

The girl comes to the realization that she doesn’t have her phone or anything.

“Fuck,” she says.

Kylie nods. “Pour one out for your stolen phone. How’s that even happen?” she asks Lora. “S’all rich people here, isn’t it?”

“You think the people who work here are rich?” Lora counters, turning to the girl. “What’s your name, love? We will get you a ride home.”

“I’m Katya,” the girl replies, seeming remarkably unbothered by this turn of events. Or rather, she’s distracted. Her eyes are on the bottles behind the bar. “I’m fine.” She starts to get up, and Lora catches her as she predictably loses consciousness and starts to drop like a sack of cabbages.

Awkwardly, she muscles Katya back onto her stool. Kylie finishes her beer, then snaps her fingers a few times in front of Katya’s face. The girl’s head tips back, and her mouth falls open. She begins to snore.

“Go see if anyone knows her,” Lora tells Kylie.

“What? No. I’ll stay with her. You do it.”

Lora groans internally, then checks her reflection and adjusts her hair. There are more than a dozen people associated with F1 in this bar. Someone will know where this girl belongs.