I shut my bedroom door behind me and lean against it, my head reeling. My heart is beating too hard. My right hand is tingling. I remember slapping Cami on the back, and horror curls up inside me.
Beth acts like it’s a simple thing to do, to pound a fragile little baby with just the right amount of pressure. But I don’t know how to do it. I can’t hit my daughter. I’ll accidentally go too hard. I’ll hurt her.
I cross the room to my office area and slump into the desk chair, looking out of the window but seeing nothing. Tears of frustration burn my eyes.
I’m just so fucking exhausted. I dragged Cami’s cot in here last night—there was no way I was leaving my baby sleeping in the lounge, where I might not even hear her crying if she needed something.
I don’t think either of us got more than thirty minutes of consecutive sleep the whole night. I didn’t even finish working until 1AM; when I eventually crawled into bed, my head splitting with an oncoming migraine, she started crying at the top of her lungs. And she wouldn’t stop.
Nothing I could do would settle her. She wouldn’t eat. She spat out her dummy. Hugging her just made her mad. Eventually, at four in the morning, she accepted her bottle, glugging down half of it and finally dropping off for a few minutes. I had to be up at six, so I just gave up on sleep and jumped into the shower, leaving the door open so I could hear her.
I’d just gotten dressed when she started screaming again. I realised that she needed her nappy changed, so I did that, dressing her in a new little romper. As soon as I did the last button up, she started shrieking—and then threw up all over her clothes. I cleaned her up with baby wipes as best as I could, then dressed her in a new romper. I had just enough time to make a cup of coffee before she started screaming again. I gave her the last half of her bottle. And then she filled her nappy again. And then she spat up on both our clothes again and burst into tears.
I ended up sitting with her in bed, numbly holding her as she screamed and sobbed, getting angrier and more frustrated as every minute went by. I didn’t know what to do. I had a meeting in forty minutes, my suit was stained, my head was bursting, and nothing I could do would make my baby stop crying. Eventually, at six in the morning, Jack just strode into my bedroom and took her off me, leaving me to head back to my ensuite bathroom to throw up my painkillers.
The thought of doing it all again every night for the next six months makes me want to pull my hair out.
My phone buzzes on the desk, and my stomach sinks. It’s my boss. Of course.
I’ve been overloaded with work ever since Jack and I started Trinity Games. Unlike Jack, I never quit my old job at RedPress Software, which means I’ve been working about sixteen hours a day for the last year. Before Cami came along, I liked the challenge; I didn’t have much else to do, other than work. But now it’s becoming completely impossible.
Sighing, I swipe to answer the call.
“Bright,” my boss barks. “We need you in the office for the budget meeting with Marcellus. Where the Hell are you?”
I frown, racking my brain for the name. “Marcellus? You mean the investor?”
He sputters. “Of course I mean the bloody investor. You know any other pains in the neck called fucking Marcellus?”
I swallow back a groan. Marcellus is a recent investor in the company. Apparently, he lost a lot of money after some startup he bought into failed last year, so now he’s decided that he’s going to oversee our financial decisions personally.
Which would be fine if he knew anything about finances. Or economics. Or computers. As is, he’s completely useless; all he does is ask stupid questions, but he’s so goddamn rich that we’re not allowed to say no to him.
“You didn’t tell me about any budget meeting,” I tell him.
He growls. “I sent you an email about this last night. Are you telling me that you haven’t done the presentation?”
“I’m telling you that you haven’t told me about any presentation,” I bite out. “I can’t read your mind. I’m not bloody telepathic.”
There’s a long pause. “Check your email, Bright. And then get the fuck over here. Bring last quarter’s tier three education budget report. You can write the presentation in the car.”
The line goes dead. I swear, opening up my email and scanning my inbox. I could swear he didn’t send me a message last night.
He did. I need to be in the office in twenty-five minutes, and it’s a twenty-five minute drive.
“Motherfuck,” I swear under my breath, jabbing the button on my printer and loading up the budget report. The printer starts spewing out paper, and I pull open the door to my wardrobe, changing into clean clothes. My hands are shaking as I button my shirt. I can hear Cami giggling outside my bedroom, and the sound makes me wince. God, my fucking head. I lurch for the drawer under my desk and yank it open, patting around for a packet of ibuprofen. I’m pretty sure you’re only meant to take two, but I pop three out and dry swallow them, rubbing my throat as they stab the inside of my oesophagus. The printer beeps, and I grab the papers, pushing out of my bedroom.
I immediately trip over something. I get the vague impression of Beth sitting on the floor with Cami, surrounded by toys, before the papers go flying and I sprawl onto the ground. Pain sears through my head, stabbing like an ice pick behind my eye.
“Oh my God,” Beth says, jumping up. “Shit, are you okay?” She touches my back.
I shake her off me, sitting up and squeezing my eyes shut as I wait for the pain to fade. “Did I mess up my papers?” I ask tightly, rubbing my temple.
“Um… yeah, they’re kind of everywhere,” Beth says apologetically.
I groan, looking around me.
The room is a tip. The floor is littered with squashy pink cubes, spread haphazardly over the lino. My papers are mixed in with them, scattered and disorganised. In the middle of it all, Cami lays on her belly on a pink mat, watching me with big eyes.
Shit.
“For God’s sake,” I snap. “Would it kill you to not trash our flat? This is a bloody mess.” I gather up my papers, stacking them together. God knows how long it will take to get them in order again. Probably half an hour. Which I just don’t have. I run a hand through my hair, panic flushing through me. I’m so screwed.
I stand, blinking back the starburst of pain behind my eyes. “Can you clean this up, please?” I get out through gritted teeth, bolting for the door.
“Sorry,” Beth says from behind me. Her voice sounds oddly quiet. “I—I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
I barely hear her, grabbing my briefcase and heading out of the flat. It’s going to be a shitty day.
