Martha Fletcher has only ever had one job- Executive Assistant to Sam Courtenay.
She'll schedule his diary, pick up his dry cleaning, usher girls out of his apartment first thing in the morning... nothing was out of bounds until one night, that blur...
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Martha practically lives with me now. That small wardrobe space and top drawer I gave her quickly turned into her overtaking three-quarters of the wardrobe and condensing my share of the dresser to the bottom two drawers while she occupied the other four. Her makeup and hair products litter the counter space in the bathroom and I've found more hairpins than I would have liked randomly dotted around the place. Every room I go into has somehow been invaded by my girlfriend and all her things.
I don't care, though. I'll never tell her this but I actually like the fact that her presence has permeated every corner of my home. In fact, before this week, I tended to call it my house, not my home; Martha changed all that the second she flounced through the door, using the key I had given her, armed with a bouquet of fresh flowers that she quickly placed in a vase and then set on the side table in the living room. It gave the house a lived-in touch that suddenly made it into a home. Our home.
If it were any other woman, I'd freak out at the thought of my private space being overrun but somehow, with Martha, it felt right. That's why I'd quietly tidy up behind her, place her bathrobe on the peg behind the bathroom door, clean her twenty different bottles of hair products away and put her used makeup wipes in the bin if she ever forgot.
It was all the little things put together that made me happy. Yesterday, I came home to find her dancing wildly to George Ezra on the radio while cooking another dish from Charlotte Delaney's family's recipe book. Carefree, she danced like no one was watching; she probably didn't think anyone was watching her but I was and the second she spun, her eyes locking mine, instead of becoming self-conscious, she continued to dace, giving me a seductive smile. Joining her, we danced like lunatics in the kitchen, laughing all the while, before I finally gave her the kiss I'd been longing to plant on her lips.
A few nights previously, she had made the effort to invite my grandmother to dinner. Since their introduction last week had been smooth- my grandmother adored her- Martha and Gran had been having regular phone calls. This morning, a card arrived in the post, addressed to Miss M. R. Fletcher. It was in my grandmother's neat handwriting. Nervous about what it could be, I opened the envelope to find an invitation, requesting Martha's presence at our annual May Day picnic at the Amesbury estate.
On top of all that, however, was the fact that waking up next to Martha every morning this week has been bliss. After returning to London, I felt a seismic shift in our relationship and as I explained to Dan when I met with him for lunch today, that was nothing to be scared of. I loved that we had somehow moved our relationship up a notch. I was serious about Martha and I wanted everyone to know that.
"When's the wedding, then?" James Saylor, the soon-to-be ex-husband of Martha's friend, Nina Taylor, asked. The American was here along with everyone else that was headed to the nightclub with us. The girls- namely Keira Delaney- had decided we should all go out on a bonding night of boozing and boogying. Her words, not anyone else's. James was a nice enough guy but I hadn't hung out with him enough to fully get a grasp of what he was really like. Logan Leahy, Keira's boyfriend, approved of him and I like to think that Logan has good taste in friends. When I give James a confused frown, he laughed and motioned to where most of the girls were standing. "You and Martha. I mean, looking at you two and the set up you have, you're married in all but the eyes of the law. Your relationship is the opposite of mine and Nina's. We're married when we shouldn't be and you're not married when you should be."
