Sam stared at me, mouth agape as he processed my words. Suddenly, he frowned and opened his mouth to say something only to wisely pick up his beer and drink it in large gulps. "Well, that's not ideal," he finally said, stating the fucking obvious. "Is he ok with her being around?"

I scoff. "Not really but he's tolerant enough of it," I grumble. I glare at the soda water in front of me and curse the fact that I'm pregnant. As much as I tried to persuade myself that the drink was something stiff and heavy, it was still soda water at the end of the day and drinking it was not going to help fix the problem. I miss the days of downing gin and tonic. "Who does she think she is? Just as Martha was settling and Isaac is happy and we're building a life and family together, she waltzes back in and thinks that organising a birthday party for Martha is going to solve everything! That, my friend, is the definition of crazy. She is a crazy bitch. Cray-zee."

Ever since Isaac came home and admitted that he'd met up with Alyssa last week, I've been fuming on the inside. As much as I want to appear cool about the situation, I really am far from being cool with it. Why the hell is she back now? Where has she been these past few months while Martha's been living in London? She hasn't made much of an effort to keep in touch before now, so really, what is her motive?

I think Isaac can see past my demeanour, too. He's not buying my I'm so chilled with this attitude when really, I want to beat the crap out of him for meeting with her behind me back and agreeing to them hosting a joint birthday party for Martha. 

"Does Martha know that Alyssa's back on the scene?" Sam asks, genuinely worried for the girl. Or really, he's worried about himself. 

We both know that once she gets to know about her mother's reappearance, she'll hit the roof and we'll all be in the firing line. Martha's only just calmed down enough that we're not constantly putting up with her sarcasm every second of the day. Her defence mechanism has very nearly gone into retirement but this would just bring it to the fore again and I, for one, am not ready to deal with that again. 

"No," I laugh humourlessly. "Could imagine how she'd be if she did know? Urgh, Sam, I'm just so... there's no word for it. I hate the whole situation. Why can't she fuck off back to Sydney and be gone?"

While I can blame my attitude on wanting to protect Martha from her mother, there is another issue that's plaguing my mind. It's silly but at the same time, totally understandable from my point of view. With Alyssa in Australia, I can pretend that she doesn't exist and that Martha is almost like my own child. But having Alyssa around drills home to me that I am not the mother of Isaac's children; I'll only be the mum to one of them. 

This experience is a first for me but parenthood, the joys and pitfalls of pregnancy and giving birth, well, it isn't new to Isaac. He's been here before and I can't help but feel that he isn't as excited about it as I am. 

I mean, if you've been to Disneyland once, are you as excited about going the second time around? 

"Well, as long as she fucks off back but lets Martha stay here, I'm on board with that plan," Sam mused. I shot him a look and watched as he withered under my stare. He drank the remains of his beer and motioned to the waiter for another round of drinks. "Do you know how impossible it is to find an assistant like her? Impossible, I tell you. What you told me a few weeks back, about how I underappreciated her, it was true. She knows what I need before I even know that I want it. It's creepy but indispensable. The day Martha moves to another country, I'll be on the first flight following her, that's all I'm saying."

"In a professional manner, right?" I tease him, finding humour in something for the first time in days. Sam nods once and in that small gesture, he sucks all the fun out of it. I throw my head back and stare at the ceiling of the pub we're currently sat in. "Do you think Isaac still has feelings for Alyssa?"

Sam splutters, dousing me in some of his cold beer that he was attempting to drink. "I am so sorry," he apologises quickly, throwing me a tissue so I can wipe my arm. With the back of his hand, he wipes his chin. "Char, I can categorically tell you that Isaac does not have any lingering feelings for Alyssa, whatsoever. Don't start thinking along those lines because you are so far from the truth, it's painful to watch."

I narrow my eyes on Sam. If he can 'categorically' tell me that, it means that Isaac's told him something. They had Boys Night on Thursday so they must have discussed it. What did Isaac say? 

"What do you know that I don't know?" I demand. I move quickly despite my seven-month pregnant condition and lean across the table so I can stare at Sam. His eye twitches. "What has Isaac said?"

"It's nothing that you don't already know," Sam said, his words dripping from his lips at a speed never seen before. I don't move away from my current position until he tells me something more substantial. "Look, Char, we all know that Fletch is completely and utterly mad for you. You should see his face just as soon as anyone mentions your name. Hell, he gave Dan what for when my brother dissed one of your cakes-"

"Which cake?" I ask harshly.

"Is that really the point here?" Sam rationalises. When I shake my head, he continues like I haven't just interrupted him. "He only has eyes for you, Char. He knows what's at stake with you and he is not that stupid that he's willing to bet his future on anyone else but you. Now, stop this nonsense and finish your drink. We still need to go back to the gallery and pick out pieces for your new home. Martha's already driving me mad about what she thinks will suit her place. Did you know she wants to put this massive painting of an elephant above her bed? Says the trunk of the elephant is a good guide for assessing a man's junk."

His joke- or factual retelling of Martha's rationale- broke the tension that filled the air. We stay at the pub a little longer before I finally pull on my coat and brave the outdoors. It was rather chilly today and I was feeling every bitter wind that blew over me. The walk to the gallery wasn't long but in recent days, it exhausted me to be on my feet for longer than five minutes, so by the time we entered the gallery, I needed to sit. 

"That is not a recreational chair," an uppity voice spoke in a cut-glass tone. I turned to see Sam's curator glaring at me impatiently, her arms folded across her chest and foot tapping against the marble floor. I can see why Martha doesn't like this woman. "It's an integral part of the art installation."

"Oh, fuck off, Ros," I muttered, not caring about who heard me. One person in the gallery gasped while someone else barked out a laugh that was infectious. No need to ask whose laugh that was. From the side door, I watched as Martha crossed the gallery and made her way to where I was sat, throwing herself down in the chair opposite me. I beam at her. Atta girl. "These things are as uncomfortable as being fucked up the-"

"Ok!" Sam shouted louder than necessary. He threw me a withering look before turning to Ros. "Can you see to those clients over there? Give them that painting they're looking at as a gesture of goodwill while I sort out this hormonal mess."

Ros sauntered off, the heels of her shoes clacking annoyingly. I barely contained an eye roll when I heard her sickly sweet voice greet the clients. After a few minutes of struggling to get out of the chair, I finally pulled myself up onto my feet and waddled behind Sam as he led me into a private viewing area. There were a fair few paintings sitting on easels around the periphery of the room, some that were to my taste, while one or two looked like someone high on LSD painted them. I hoped that those were for Martha's mews house and not for the main house. Nugget would become a hippy just from seeing them every day. 

Thankfully, I was right. Those paintings were for Martha and not for me. Apparently, Sam had instructed Martha to find things in neutral tones or multi tonal without being overly dramatic. Whatever that all meant. I don't know enough about art to understand what he said as he described the brief, not that I gave him a brief in the first place. 

Still, everything Martha has picked out looked good. One painting was slightly too busy for my liking and it was quickly discarded of, a man in his early twenties taking it back into the storage room as soon as Martha called for him. 

"I kinda went with a theme for some of the rooms," Martha told me when I came to a stop near some water coloured paintings of animals. "I remembered that Sam gave you a watercolour giraffe painting to hang in the nursery so maybe having a lion and an elephant would compliment. What do you think?"

I smile at her thoughtfulness. "I love the idea, Martha. Thank you. May I ask which you chose for the living room?"

She pointed at a large painting that depicted a Japanese Cherry Blossom tree in full bloom. Dark branches contrasted with the various hues of the petals giving it an ethereal feel that made me feel dreamy. 

"It's beautiful," I whisper, my fingers gently brushing the canvas, feeling every lump and bump of the acrylic paint under my touch. "I don't want it."

Sam and Martha both stared at me, confused by my words. "But, Charlotte, it'll look stunning on the wall, especially if we have a large mirror above the fireplace," Martha said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "Please reconsider."

"Nope," I tell her defiantly. I spin to face her. "The only art work I want up in that room is photos of our family. You, me, Isaac and the baby. I want to cover the whole wall in family portraits. But if you really are set on me having this painting, we can hang it in the hallway near the front door. It'll be a nice, calming painting before you enter the absolute chaos of the Delaney-Fletcher household. Or you can hang it above your bed instead of the penis measuring elephant."

Martha gasped and turned to Sam, slapping his chest with the back of her hand. "You told her about that? Jesus Christ, Sam. THat's the last time I tell you anything," she promises. Her focus shifts back to me, her cheeks bright red from embarrassment. That's new. "I, uh... um, family portraits sounds cool. I'll, uh, just... I need to leave now."

Martha quickly ran out the door and fled to the storage area, mumbling something to herself about spitting in Sam's coffee. I laughed at the horrified look on my friend's face. 

"Do you think she's spat in my coffee before?" Sam quizzes me. I shrug my shoulders. "You owe me a lifetime supply of coffee now. Right, I have another painting I want to show you. It's one I picked out for Martha's place. Tell me honestly what you think of it, alright?"

I nod. "Sure. Show me."

Sam ushers me out of the room and down a dark hallway towards another room that has an elaborate key pad entry system on the door. He types in a pin number and then scans his thumbprint on the biometric pad, the sound of the mechanisms in the door moving filling the space. Paranoid, Sam looks over his shoulder behind us and makes sure that no one is watching before he pushes me inside and slams the door shut behind us. 

"This was my father's private collection," he explains to me when he seems my bemused face. "Evie and I are the only ones with access to this room. Anyway, this is it. This is the painting. What do you think?"

I look at it, feeling my eyes widening with every second. "Fucking hell!"

Hello, world!

Here's tonight's update. It's a little later than last week, but it's here. Anyone notice that Charlotte is being super grumpy tonight? I can't blame her. I think some of it is her 'real' personality- a throwback to the person she was before the Brogan Break Up. 

Do we like or not like?

Sarah, xx