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“You’re burnt out, babe,” she told me when we last spoke. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but she still found the space to worry about me. “You need a break.”
Andyes. God is she right. But I can’t really afford to take any time off right now. Because, as my estate agent Caleb has so helpfully informed me, I’ve just purchased a house. While I can afford it on my current salary, living any kind of comfortably depends on this promotion. I can’t give Cynthia any reason to snatch it from me — not that she needs one.
The thought of having to move back into my parents’ house if this all falls through is maybe the only thing keeping me going. And I’m truly hanging on by a thread right now.
I dig through my bag and find my phone as my train pulls into London Victoria station. The silence has been a welcome reprieve on my journey back from Brighton, but I should really turn it back on and try to put out some fires before I crawl into bed.
As soon as the screen sparks to life, about twenty email notifications come through at once. A couple are from Cynthia, one is from my bank about my new mortgage, but the rest are all from Hawthorne. Alongside the emails, there are notifications for sixteen missed calls– all from him.
Sixteen.
I don’t know if he’s playing games or if he has genuinely reverted back to the neurotic asshole I first met nearly three months ago, but enough is enough.
It’s late and the sky is only getting darker as I stomp toward the underground entrance. I know he’ll still be at the club. Powered by nothing but fury and exhaustion, I quickly fire off a quick response to his latest email.
FROM:Amber Wyatt
SUBJECT:RE: URGENT
BODY:Give me 20 mins. I’m on my way.
18
FINN
You’re goingto need to trust me on that.
Trust me on that.
Okay, I’ve trusted her, and look what’s happened.
It’s been three days since I last saw Amber in person, and even that was only for a few minutes before she rushed out again. She’s become a ghost in this building and without her, what was once a well-maintained ship has suddenly started leaking. Aside from Ric, her contractors don’t listen to me, and when things go wrong, there’s nobody here to steer them in the right direction.
I have Amber’s concepts and her floor plans, but it’s a whole different beast trying to bring them to life. I can’t tell if something is a genuine mistake or if it’s just because a certain colour or design choice just translates differently in real life. Amber’s also been making changes as she goes along — some at my request and others because she realises something else might work better in person. Her initial concepts are only about eighty percent accurate at this point, and it’s difficult to keep track of what’s supposed to be different and what’s not.
How she keeps it all in her head is beyond me, but I’ve done what she asked.
I’ve delegated.
I’vetrusted.
And now I’m less than two weeks away from the launch party and the walls in the second floor lounge look like vomit.
Literal vomit.
They’ve been painted a horrific shade of yellow mixed with green, and staring at it almost makesmewant to puke. I don’t know who would willingly paint a room this colour, but I know that I need it changed now. But Ric isn’t here, and the guy he’s put in charge seems unbothered by the vomit-coloured walls.
“That’s the colour we were told to use,” he says with an indifferent shrug. “Our job here is done. If you want it repainted, you’ll need to talk to the boss man about booking in some more hours.”
“You can’t be serious.” I gesture wildly at the wall. “Why would I willingly choose this colour?”
The guy laughs. “I did wonder. ’Cause, you know, it looks like—”
“I know what it looks like.”
He grins like this is all a big joke. “Like I said, talk to the boss man and let him know. It’s 5 p.m. and my boys are done for the day.”
So,he’suseless, and it doesn’t help that my emails to Amber are going unanswered and every time I call her it just goes straight to voicemail.
