I hate this woman. All she's done since I rocked up this morning is look at me really weird and scowl at me whenever I moved a fraction of a millimetre. Who does she think she is? Look, bitch, just because you're tall, blonde and freaking beautiful and you're probably from some filthy rich, posh English family does not mean that you can look down your surgery enhanced nose at me.
"Martha, stop that," Sam Courtenay sighs as he kicks me under the table. I shoot him an innocent smile which only makes him set down his iPad and close the gap between us. "I may be older than you but I'm not blind quite yet. Stop looking at Ros like you want to throw daggers at her."
"I don't want to throw daggers at her," I protest. When I look back at where the curator was standing, her face still looking at me like I was shit at the bottom of her shoe, I decided that, truly, I did not want to throw daggers at Rosamund Aldridge. I smile sadistically. "I want to rip her face off and then make her eat it."
Since I was no longer in full-time education- because, you know, the education system here is totally different to back home- I was trying to keep myself busy with other things. Charlotte, my father's latest baby-mama, has given me some shifts to work at her café while Dad's best mate, Michael Taylor, has given me an internship at his company, all of which were great at keeping me out of trouble. I liked everyone at Charlotte's café, especially Aimee who was close enough to my age, and at Mick's company, I was treated like an adult because no one would dare treat me otherwise. I'm practically like Mick's daughter and only an idiot would piss me off there.
Which brings us nicely back to Rosamund Aldridge. See, I also work at Courtenay Galleries in London, an art gallery co-owned by Sam and his sister, Evelyn. I come here every weekend and act as Sam's right-hand woman, sorting out some paperwork, organising his week ahead, getting him coffee and helping to arrange an upcoming art exhibition. The gallery is really cool and I love being surrounded by such beautiful artwork, they help calm me down, but there is one drawback.
People know her as Rosamund- or Ros, if you're Sam- but I call her Satan's granddaughter behind her back. She's a piece of work never quite seen before and she hates me as much as I hate her. Remembering back to my first day, I was introduced to Ros who promptly spewed out a list of things that I was not to do. At the top of that list- I was not to interfere in Courtenay Galleries in any way possible. I nodded as I listened, frowning when Ros told me that I was never allowed to rock up here in a pair of jeans, her eyes travelling down to my Topshop skinnies, and tried to memorise all her rules.
I was doing quite well, at least for the first three hours. I'd kept out of her way and stuck to mainly going on coffee runs and staying out the back or in the office but then I was summoned downstairs with Sam, and this is where it all went wrong.
The exhibition was a few weeks away and despite having spent months trying to pick out the best items in their possession, Ros and Sam were arguing over one piece in particular. Ros was against putting it on display as it ruined the aesthetic of the exhibition while Sam thought that it was too perfect to keep hidden. This random day in April was the deciding day as to whether or not the item was going to be displayed or not and I was suddenly being dragged right into the middle of it all.
Ros is intimidating; she's tall and has perfect features and she has an air of grace and poise about her that no one can learn, she was just born with it. Her work wardrobe was more like a uniform, full of fitted knee length dresses with price tags well into the hundreds, if not thousands. This particular day, she wore a Roland Mouret dress in sapphire blue and a pair of tall black suede shoes, her blonde hair tied in a half up, half down style and her lips painted a dusty rose colour. Next to her, in my red wrap dress that I'd swiped from Charlotte's pre-pregnancy closet, I looked like a child playing at dress up.
"Martha, do you think this painting should be included in the exhibition?" Sam had asked, pointing at the artwork that Ros scowled at.
I should have said, 'no.' That was the correct answer, at least in Ros' eyes. But I was never one to provide an answer simply based on it being what people wanted to hear. I was honest to the bone which is why, having seen the painting, I had to agree with Sam. It was too perfect to keep hidden.
Since then, Ros has hated me. She undermines me at every turn; it's not hard to undermine me, of course, because she's the curator and all, but she's a saboteur of extreme proportions. She constantly tells me off for stuff in front of Sam and she even went so far as to switch to sugar in the staff kitchen to salt, placing the blame on me because I'm young and incompetent.
What idiot doesn't know the difference between salt and sugar?!
Thankfully, Sam didn't fall for Ros' lies and has continued to keep me here at Courtenay Galleries.
"Martha, I do not condone violence in the workplace," Sam laughs. Today, we're trying to figure out the order in which the artworks will be put on display so that I can finalise the exhibition programme and send it to the printers. "If you and Ros play nice, I'll give you a bonus this week."
I frown. "First of all, you don't pay me so you can't give me a bonus. Secondly, bribing me not to mortally wound your curator is not good management. Thirdly," I say before taking a deep breath. "There is seriously not enough money in the world to stop me from maiming that cow."
"Martha, be nice," Sam practically begs me.
"Samuel," I say, using his full given name. For some reason, whenever Sam talks to me, he always starts with my name and it's totally annoying. "I am always nice. It's not my fault that you misinterpret what I say."
Not bothering to wait for Sam to tell me off even more, I pick up my iPad and head off to where Ros waits for us. She scowls when she sees what I'm wearing. I fight the urge to tell her to go to hell and shoot her an overly bright smile instead.
"Rosamund," I greet her.
"Martha," she replies.
When Sam finally joins us, we get the meeting underway. We tour the gallery with Sam and Ros arguing about how the layout should be. Last week, we did the first walk-through and had almost decided on the finer points but all that work from just seven days ago may as well not have happened.
I tuned out after a while, turning to an app on the iPad where I could draw and create what I thought would be the best layout for the event. I even went so far as to star the areas where the real standout artworks could go, including the one that Sam insisted we have. Using symbols to mark specifics, I got lost in what I was doing. It wasn't until I felt someone tap my shoulder that I finally looked up.
"God, she wasn't even listening to what we were saying," Ros says, a clear distaste in her voice. She should count her lucky stars that I didn't have anything sharp at hand because if I did, she'd be missing an eye or two by now. Ignoring me, like she always does, Ros turns to Sam. "Samuel, when are you going to come to your senses? This child does not belong in this environment, this world. She's going to make us a laughing stock and you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
Sam opened his mouth to speak but he was too slow. Instead, I growled and said, "What is your problem? I've been working really hard but around here, with you, it's like pushing shit up a hill." Instantly, when I go on the defence, my Australian accent becomes thicker and I crack out every insult in my arsenal. It's not pretty. Or lady like. Dad's certainly going to kill me when he hears about this. "You know what, you can stick your fucken job up your arse and while you're at it-" I pause to hand my iPad to Sam before flicking Ros my middle finger. "Sit on this and rotate. Like, fuck off, seriously. You can stick this job up your arse."
Not waiting to appreciate the shocked look Ros wore, I quickly left the gallery, not even bothering to collect my belongings. I even ignored Sam's pleas for me to return, outrunning him as I zigzagged my way through the London crowds. I made it home sooner that I thought, no doubt due to the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and quickly ran to my bedroom. I vaguely remember hearing Charlotte's voice but right now, I didn't want to see anyone. I just needed to calm down and possibly Skype my best friend.
That was another downside of living in London now- I missed my best mate, Tessa. We'd been joined at the hip since we were in kindie and being away from her was horrific. We talked every week and I was up to date with all the gossip from back home, including how my ex-boyfriend was now rooting that airhead from his English class that kept flirting with him even though he already had a girlfriend.
Pulling out my laptop, I do a quick time check to see if I'd be calling Tessa in the middle of the night but then I shrug my shoulders and hit the call button anyway. She'll answer, no matter what the time is.
"Yo, fuck face," Tessa's familiar voice fills my room as her delightful face takes over the screen of the laptop. "What's the dealio?"
I laugh at how crass she can be. We're like spirit sisters, I swear, because Tessa is the only person that is on my level. "Oh, you know, I think I totally just got fired from the gallery job that didn't actually pay me."
"Yeah? How come?" Tessa asks, repositioning herself on her couch. Her twin brother momentarily comes to the screen and says 'hi' before wondering off again. Hunter and I never did get along. "Did you destroy one of the priceless artworks or something?"
"Nope," I shake my head. Bracing myself, I take in a deep breath before I start to recall what happened between Ros and me only a short hour ago. Tessa sits there enthralled until I finish. Then she just sits in silence before laughing her arse off. "It's not funny, Tess!"
She continues to laugh. "Funny? Oh, dahl, it's fucken hilarious! I am beyond proud of you."
I start laughing along with her only to be cut short by the noise of someone knocking on my bedroom door. Thinking that it would only be Charlotte, I ask Tessa to stay on the line and shout, "Come in!" Instead of seeing Charlotte's concerned face fill my doorway, Sam stands there, my backpack in hand. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm returning this," he says. Walking into my room, he closes the door slightly and makes his way over to sit at the edge of my bed. Handing over my backpack, he suddenly frowns at me. "You ok?"
I nod. "Just dandy, thanks."
"I'm sure you are," he laughs at my attempt to seem upbeat. It only makes me want to hit him, though. "I saw the drawing that you did on the iPad. It was good, well thought-out and actually, it was exactly what we were looking for. I've told Ros that that is what we're going with and she's agreed-"
"Yeah, right!"
"She has," Sam asserts. He smiles to himself before his green eyes look over at me. "She didn't have much of a choice, though. I told her if she continued to treat you like she's been doing, I'd fire her and blacklist her name in ever art gallery in the city, and beyond. Also," he says, clearing his throat. "Don't listen to anything she says about how you dress. Personally, I like the skinny jeans look on you, so if that's what you want to wear, go for it. At Courtenay Galleries, you answer to Evie and me, not Ros. I'd really like it if you would reconsider sticking this job up anyone's arse because you're really good at it, Martha. So good that I'm even considering giving you a pay rise."
"You don't even pay me, Sam," I remind him for the upteenth time since I first started working there. Brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, I sigh and look over at him. "You're serious about the money?"
He nods.
"And the skinny jeans look is ok?"
Again he nods.
"And I can kill Ros when I come back?
He nods. His eyes widen. Then he frowns. "No! Martha, seriously. So, what do you think? Are you willing to come back to the gallery?"
"I'll have to think about it," I tell him. He smiles and gives a short nod of his head. Pushing my backpack closer to me, he gets up from the bed and makes his way to the door. When he's halfway out, I call him back. "I've thought about it. Seeing as you begged me, I'll come back."
"I didn't beg you, Martha," he pointedly tells me. When he sees my blank expression, he shakes his head and smiles. "Fine, whatever. It's great to have you back. Oh, just another thing before I leave- while I admire your very colourful vocabulary, try to curb it while you're at work, yeah?"
With a roll of my eyes, I nod. "Fine. I'll see you on Tuesday, Sam."
He shoots me another smile of his and waves before exiting my room, closing the door behind him. Turning back to my laptop, I see Tessa squinting at me, a sure sign that I'm about to be interrogated. "Who was that? Is he your boyfriend? Are you two rooting? He sounds sexy as hell. Is he single? Why was he in your room? Is this like a Fifty Shades thing? Martha Rhiannon Fletcher, what is going on in London that I don't know about?"
Hello, people of planet Earth!
How are you on this fine Sunday?
Ok, so this wasn't a Charlotte update, as you probably already know by now. I'll write that one tomorrow, but I did see that some of you were asking for a Martha POV chapter. Your wish is my command!
So, did you enjoy?
Who agrees that Martha's vocab is very colourful indeed?
What did you all think about the Martha-Sam relationship?
As you may know, this book is the second in a series (Hello being the first one!) and I've chosen who my next 'target' is going to be. The third book, which will start shortly after this one ends, will focus on...
Drum roll!
Martha!
Ok, so admittedly, it's only an idea right now, but I'm thinking of calling it Girl Friday and it'll follow her as she becomes Sam's Personal Assistant! What do you think? Yay or Nay?
The other option was to follow Sam and the story be called Bride Tribe.
So, you know... options! Comment which you think would be better.
I have this week off, so expect a few more updates than normal. It'll be for one week only, so don't think you're going to get it every week! Well, until after July 14th, anyway!
See you tomorrow, my lovelies!
Sarah, xx