Forty percent off
?
I beam at them both.“Thank you!”
He nods. “Un petit quelque chose pour un client apprécié.”
A small something for an appreciated customer
.
Feeling giddy, I squeeze past them into Logan’s living room, where Mercy and I sit side-by-side on the sofa browsing through the choices on the company’s website, before I call to order my selection. Within the hour François returns with an even larger van, packed to bursting point with a myriad of flowers, one medium sized tree, and the table and chairs.
The workmen jump to life once more, filling in the remaining spaces in the planter boxes, before requesting that I give them the OK to plant them. While one of them sets about doing just that, the other two spend over twenty minutes manoeuvring the tree into and out of the elevator, trying to inflict as little damage to it as possible. Between the elevator and the terrace, they leave a long streak of debris, mud, and small broken branches.
Don
’
t panic
, I tell myself, taking in the dirty floor. Deciding to momentarily deny the dirts existence, I follow the men out to watch the tree go into place in the far corner of the terrace. It completes the space perfectly, and after a little primping and preening it doesn’t look half as rough and haggard as it did a few minutes ago.
With just the table and chairs left to go, I walk across the terrace intent on finding the little table plaque that I bought the other night and sticking it onto the corner of the table. Logan will love that little personal touch, I’m sure.
I stop in the doorway and find the trail of dirt already cleared away and Mercy pushing a large broom back into a cupboard on the far side of the dining table, a cupboard that I didn’t even know was there.
“I’ve been thinking, Gemima,” she tells me as she walks into the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge. “You should call Logan and have him cancel your dinner reservation. What with you doing such a beautiful job out there,” she nods to the terrace, “you really ought to eat here tonight, no?” Before I’ve a moment to consider, she opens the fridge, and continues, “I’ve plenty of ingredients here to make you something wonderful.”
I beam at her; eating here tonight
would
be brilliant. “Are you sure you don’t mind cooking?”
“I’m happy to help,” she nods, “Besides, dear, it’s my job,” she smiles.
I thank her, and then go and find my phone and retrieve the small, circular plaque. Sitting outside, I perch myself on the edge of one of the planter boxes, dialling Logan’s number.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing,” I say as soon as he answers.
Chuckling, he asks, “Oh, baby…does it have something to do with those messages you sent me earlier?”
“No,” I giggle. “I’ve been getting a different kind of dirty,” I tease him, looking down at my dirt-covered outfit, and realising
way
too late that I should have changed into something more suitable.
“I’m going to need more information,” he says, his voice sexy and demanding.
“All will be revealed tonight,” I tell him, giving nothing away. Then changing the subject, I ask, “How’s your day?”
He groans, and not the type of groan that I enjoy hearing. “It’s been trying,” he tells me. “Those few messages with you have been the only reprieve I’ve had all day. The hotel in Marseille is causing problems,” he elaborates, “I’m going to have to go down there for a day.”
“When?” I ask hastily.
I hear the sound of pages turning, and I assume he’s checking his diary. “Next week,” he says mournfully. “This needs to be sorted out before the next phase of construction begins. I’ll take my family with me,” he adds, “they can go sightseeing for the day.”
That reminds me… “About dinner tonight, is it possible for you to cancel our reservation?”
“Uh, sure, I guess. Why? Are you nervous about meeting them again?”
“No, no, it’s not that. Mercy’s here and she’s offered to cook for us.”
“Mercy’s there? So you
are
at the apartment?”
I smile at his words. It does not escape my attention that he calls it
the
apartment, not
his
apartment. “Yes, she’s been helping all afternoon. So, dinner here instead?” I confirm.
“Absolutely,” he agrees. “I’ll cancel our reservation now, and let Buddy know.”
Huh
? “Buddy?”
“Oh, yeah, he was going to join us. Does he fit into whatever mysterious scene you’re creating?”
I laugh, loving how confused he is, yet impressed with his patience. “Of course, I’ll let Mercy know.”
“Thanks, baby.” Then in further explanation, he tells me, “Buddy and my parents are really close. He’s an orphan, and they kind of adopted him twelve years ago when they first met. Now they have each other on speed dial.”
Smiling to myself, I say, “I’m looking forward to learning a lot more about you and your family over the next few days.”
And it all starts tonight
, I think excitedly. “I’ll set the table for eight.”
“For five,” he corrects me. “Only my parents are joining us tonight. Taylor, Karen and Abigail are flying in later; they don’t arrive until after midnight. So, you’ll meet my family in stages,” he laughs. “Besides, this way Buddy can see my parents without Taylor being there, which is for the best.”
“Are they really that bad?” I asked, shocked.
“Yes, they are,” Logan laughs again. “Speaking of
bad
, I called Jerry, but he didn’t pick up, so I left a voicemail that’s impossible to misunderstand.”
I grin into my phone. “Thank you, Logan.”
“Baby, I’ve got to go. I’ve got some work to finish up here, and then I’ll go to the airport.”
I squeal in excitement. “And then you get your birthday present,” I say happily.
“I can’t wait. I have absolutely no idea what you’ve been up to.”
“Something good,” I promise him. “And suitable for your parents to see, too,” I add, making him chuckle.
“I never do know when it comes to you,” he says alluringly.
Noise inside Logan’s apartment alerts me to the fact that the workmen are back, carrying between them the long, rectangular table.
How the hell did they get that in the elevator
, I think, before wondering if they took it up the stairs. I shudder at the thought of carrying
that
up thirty-seven flights of stairs, and abruptly I decide not to inquire how it got here.
“Là, s’il vous plaît,” I direct.
There
,
please
. Then to Logan, I say, “The finishing touches are going in now. I’ll see you later, baby.”
“Compelling, as always, Miss. Samuels,” he says, making me grin. “I’ll be with you in two hours. Three tops,” he tells me.
The countdown is on
, I think. We say goodbye, hang up, and then I hurry to help the workers haul the six chairs through Logan’s apartment. They’re much heavier than they look, and it takes both Mercy and I to move just one of them, but once we get it outside I revel in seeing how perfectly their wooden detailing matches the colour of the planter boxes. It’s a small detail, one that most other people would never even notice, but it makes the world of difference to me; it makes an afternoon and a project that has been practically perfect become
beyond
perfect. And now it’s done, it’s finished, and
everything
looks so fucking cool! Adding the icing on the cake, I stick the little plaque on the corner of the table, just like the table at cafe Genévrier. Now it’s truly a piece of art.
Despite my initial nerves about this afternoon, it hasn’t escaped my notice that implementing this terrace has been more thrilling, invigorating, and creatively inspiring than
any
interior project that I’ve ever undertaken. I really need to start questioning whether or not I’m in the right field of design, I think. Sure, I’ve had interior design projects turn out exactly how I sketched, planned, and imagined them too, but this is different, this is
more
. If I could feel
this
ecstatic about every job I did, then I’d turn into a workaholic. Again, I wonder if it’s because this is for Logan, or because there’s just something special, something exciting that I get from landscape design that I lack from interiors.
An answer eludes me as I see the three workmen out, watching them leave with my thanks and a promise to write up a
very
good review on their company’s website. After they leave, Mercy returns to the kitchen, busying herself with dinner, and I go to stand in the doorway, looking out at what’s been accomplished and basking in my glory.
Our glory
, I tell myself. There’s no way that I could have done all of this in one afternoon without experienced help.
“Thank you for being the photographer,” I say to Mercy.
“You’re welcome, dear,” she smiles kindly. “I put your camera on top of your bags.”
I look around for them, feeling certain that I left them just outside of the elevator.
“Oh, and I put your bags in the dressing room,” Mercy tells me, ending my confusion.
I retrieve my camera and file through the images, thrilled with the numerous shots that Mercy has captured. Standing in the doorway once more, I take a few more of the completed project, before finding the light switches on the planter boxes and then peering up at the lights that line the outer-wall of Logan’s apartment.
“Lights,” I command. Nothing happens. “
Lights
,” I try again, louder. Still nothing. These must be the only ones that aren’t voice activated, and sure enough I find their switch hiding behind the ample curtains that Amélie installed two years ago. I snap several more photos with the lights on, before deciding that I have enough to create a well-rounded report.
Rather than making a start on my report, I while away the next hour helping Mercy finish dinner, before starting on an easy but delicious cake for dessert. We chat back and forth, mostly about her life, and her insights into Logan’s life. I learn that her passion and extensive knowledge for food stems from her parents, who are of North African decent, and I discover that in the nine years that she’s been working for Logan, I’m the first girlfriend of his that she’s ever met.
“I’ve heard him mention names occasionally, but he never brought them home,” she confirms everything that he’s already told me about his past — he had a hectic work schedule and an uneventful social life. “I think he was in a bit of a daze before you,” she continues. “Life gets like that sometimes, I suppose. Years pass and you just continue to coast along.”
“Now you’re describing
my
life before Logan,” I tell her.
She smiles at me; a warm, kind smile. “You’ve really awoken something in one another, haven’t you?” she muses. “When I picked him up from the hospital after his surgery, the last of his painkillers were still wearing off and he was very talkative. He’s usually quiet, reserved, respectful, but last week he didn’t stop to take a breath, he just talked and talked and talked. He told me all about you,” she says. “Gemima: the girl from the party. It was so beautiful to see this new side to him. But I assumed with him being so particular about who he lets into his space that I would have to wait months to meet you, if at all. Low and behold, you walked into his home with a key of your own that very evening.” She looks a little emotional, like she might start welling up. “I’m very happy for you both, my dear,” she pats my arm and clears her throat. “This is finished,” she turns the stove off. “Just give it a stir when you reheat it later,” she instructs me.
“Alright,” I nod.
“I must be going.”
“You don’t want to stay and join us?” I offer quickly.
“You’re very sweet to ask, but I’ll decline this time. This night is for you to meet his family,” she reminds me, causing butterflies to take flight in my tummy. “I’ll see you on Saturday, at the party?” she enquires.
“Oh, yes.”
She gathers her jacket and purse and as we wait for the elevator to rise to collect her, Mercy says, “Just a few key things to remember, Gemima: Rupert and Mary-Gene prefer red wine over white. Mary-Gene’s favourite colour is blue, and Rupert’s favourite singer is Springsteen,” she rattles off. “And they follow the Charleston Outlaws very ardently.”
The Outlaws? I wreck my brain trying to remember who they are. A football team? Or is it rugby?
The elevator arrives, and I hug Mercy, thanking her for everything that she’s done today.
“It’s been a real pleasure spending the afternoon with you,” I tell her earnestly. Even if I
was
shocked by her arrival. She echoes my sentiments and leaves.
Alone, I finish the cake and pop it into the oven, setting an alarm on my phone to remind me to take it out rather than using Logan’s fancy tablet on the wall. Then in a flurry of activity, I lay the table, first raiding Logan’s kitchen cupboards, sourcing his best crockery, cutlery, and wine glasses, before turning all the lights on the terrace off so that Logan won’t see them when he walks in. I want to save his surprise for the perfect moment.
With ample time to kill before they arrive, I settle at Logan’s desk with my camera, a blank piece of paper and a pen and make a start on my report for Amélie. I manage to get halfway through before boredom consumes me and I give up for the night. I laze back in Logan’s huge office chair, feeling sleepy. It’s been a long, exhilarating day, and the most exciting part of it has yet to happen. Requiring an energy boost (and deciding against a power nap) I just about manage to figure out Logan’s complicated looking coffee machine. The small amount of liquid that it produces is dark, potent and bitter, but it supplies the instant pick-me-up that I need.
I then hit the shower, washing away the dirt of the day, I touch-up my makeup, style my hair into a low, contemporary side ponytail, and then I stand naked in Logan’s dressing room, deciding what to wear. I have more options than I could ever reason having, and though most of the dresses I’ve brought with me are newer and less worn, I choose age over beauty, selecting my favourite, most comfortable dress — a sky-blue number that I’ve had for years, that I just can’t bring myself to get rid of despite its many newer counterparts. I wear this dress not when I want to impress, but when I want to feel good about myself. It’s my secret weapon, my confidence-booster, perfect for tonight.