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I don’t thinkI’ve ever been so exhausted. Every single part of me aches, from my muscles to my brain. My vision is blurry, I don’t remember what the last real meal I ate was, and I’m pretty sure I’m running on less than four hours of sleep a night at this point.
Definitely running on fumes right now.
My phonepingsand my already dark mood darkens even further.
FROM:Finn Hawthorne
SUBJECT:RE: RE: RE: Ground floor toilets
BODY:No, I’m not sure the lighting is working. Looks too seedy. Can you come and give your thoughts?
Another ping.
FROM:Cynthia Zensi
SUBJECT:RE: The Pevensey concepts
BODY:Pevensey have accepted the bid. Work begins shortly – will organise a schedule for you.
Another.
FROM:Caleb Burrows
SUBJECT:Congratulations!
BODY:Dear Amber, I hope all is well. I’m pleased to let you know that the payment has cleared and the contract has been signed on both ends. The house is officially yours! Give me a call and we’ll discuss the hand over of keys and anything else. Best, Caleb.
Although that last email fills me with nothing but joy, I pick up my phone and do something I haven’t done in years: I turn it off. The screen goes black and I feel the first sense of peace I’ve felt in almost two weeks.
How did I get here again? Ah, yes. Cynthia.
All roads to my personal hell seem to lead back to Cynthia.
In just one annoying conversation, she single-handedly undid everything Hawthorne and I had been working toward with this new friendship of ours. With my new workload for The Pevensey, my time at The August Roomhas dwindled down to a few hours a week. Hawthorne and I barely see each other now, and he’s reverted back to sending me nit-picking emails every couple of hours.
As annoying as it is, I can’t even say that I blame him entirely. We’re less than two weeks out from the launch party and there’s still so much to do. I should be there coordinating the finishing touches, making sure the furniture is in the right places, and ensuring the rooms are dressed properly. It doesn’t help that every day something new seems to go wrong.
Yesterday, it was the cushions. Apparently, there’d been a mix-up and Simon from the warehouse accidentally sent the wrong pattern covers. Cue about twelve missed calls and a slew of increasingly panicky emails from Hawthorne.
The day before that, it was the tiling in the bar area on the second floor. One of the contractors had done a sloppy job with a small patch of tiling and it needed to be fixed. It wasn’t a big deal and I would’ve beenallover it if I’d been there. But I wasn’t, and so Hawthorne had been left to spiral.
Allegedly.
Today it’s the lighting. I have no idea what he means by it looking “seedy,” and I’m half-heartedly considering that maybe —maybe— he’s making these problems seem bigger than they are in a misguided attempt to bring me back to The August Room.
But I don’t have the time or the energy to figure out if he’s playing games. The team at The Pevensey are almost as demanding as Hawthorne is and don’t even have the decency to be charming or attractive when they’re sending me demanding emails at all hours of the day. I’ve just spent the entire day in Brighton with them, taking photos and documenting every inch of the huge manor house they’ve purchased for their next location.
This project is a designer’s dream, and I hate how disinterested I am in it.
Bailey says I have burn out.
We’ve barely spoken over the last few weeks, an unfortunate consequence of me drowning in an increasingly impossible workload and Bailey desperately trying to stay afloat after a horrible breakup. She’s been slow to respond to my messages — not that I can blame her given the situation — but I think she’s finally starting to come out of the worst of it. When she’s ready, maybe we’ll talk about how I never thought her ex was good enough for her anyway, but right now all she needs is a friend and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
So I haven’t told her much about what’s really going on. She doesn’t know about Cynthia’s mind games or how truly drained I am, how I’m barely eating, or how my days start before the sun rises and end well after it sets. I stick to petty complaints about Hawthorne’s emails and hope she can’t see through it.
She does, though, of course.
She’s my best friend in the world, the closest thing I have to a sister, and even through a haze of heartbreak, Bailey can see that there’s something wrong.
