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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"I love your brother and everything but seriously, he's doing my head in over this wedding," my best friend, Charlotte Delaney, complained as we met at La Petit Pâtisserie, her cafe in London. She rang earlier in the morning to see if I was free for some BFF time and after getting Martha to move some appointments around, I made sure that I hot-footed it down here so I could have some cuddles with Charlotte's baby daughter, Seraphina. "He's micromanaging everything and I want to tell him to stop but that's rude."
I nod along to her words, agreeing in part with everything she said. I could well imagine Daniel putting his stamp on all the details, bossing people around and generally being a pain in the arse, trying to make Charlotte and Isaac's wedding perfect. He was exactly the same when it came to his and Sophie's wedding; he was a groomzilla who very nearly lost quite a few friends and family members with his stinking attitude in the run up to the wedding and if he weren't careful, he was about to do the same again. To be honest, I still find it ironic that he's planning another wedding at night while arguing for assets in peoples' divorces during the day. He was like Clark Kent and Superman or Bruce Wayne and Batman, or any other character with a superhero alter ego.
"Be assertive with him and tell him that you're taking back control of your wedding," I advise her. Bouncing a grumbly Seraphina on my knee, I try to spoon feed her some mashed banana but her eyes were fixed on my strawberry and elderflower fraisier, her tiny hands extending in that direction. I kept pushing the plate further away but that just made the baby even more cantankerous. Looking over at Charlotte, I see her attempt to stifle a laugh. Rolling my eyes, I turn the conversation back to her upcoming wedding. "You could always blame the hormones after you rant at him. We all know pregnancy makes up emotional. Or if you really want to scupper his plans, run away to the registrar's office and marry before going to France."
Charlotte stopped sneaking crumbs of my fraisier to Seraphina and looked up at me like I'd solved all her problems. "Sam, you are a genius! I could kiss you right about now," she blurts out and then twists her face up in disgust. "Ew, no, I take that back. That is so wrong. You're dating my daughter. Gross. We are never kissing."
Laughing at her revulsion, I tell Charlotte that I have absolutely no intention of ever kissing her. After all, as she said, she's Martha's soon-to-be step-mother (even though Charlotte always refers to Martha as 'my daughter') and she's in a relationship with Isaac Fletcher, the one man that I would hate to cross for fear of retribution if I ever stumbled across him in a dark alleyway. That man is otherworldly when it comes to the fierceness with which he protects those closest to him. I once saw him lecture my niece, Léa, after she stole Seraphina's favourite kangaroo teddy and if that's how he disciplines a six-month-old, I'd love to see what he can do to a twenty-six-year-old.
Like I said, I'd love to see it, not love to be on the receiving end of it.
That said, Charlotte was now actively entertaining the idea of her and Isaac 'eloping' to the nearest town hall and marrying in secret ahead of their French ceremony. She wouldn't have to worry about a dress, flowers, cake or anything else and by the time the other 'wedding' came around, she wouldn't be as nervous over her custom-made gown, the imported florals or the handcrafted cake that one of her uncles is making. It was, according to my best friend, the perfect solution.
