She (27 page)

I grin, feeling wholly grateful that he’s not on loudspeaker! “Yes, thank you. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m getting bombarded by text messages from Logan, none of which make a lick of sense, but…
shit
, they’re funny! Listen to this last one:
Derf warp and marker they fent to walks why come gorge commit home curb
.”

We both laugh, Buddy more so than I because I feel stifled by my company. I purposefully don’t look at Amelie; if I don’t look at her, she can’t tell me off.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Buddy laughs.

“I’ve no idea,” I grin. “I’ve been getting similar ones all morning,” I tell him, taking out my phone and checking my most recent message which is as hilariously illegible as the one Buddy just read out.

Amelie snatches my phone and slams it on the desk. Now I
have
to look at her. She stares back angrily, indicating that I should move the conversation along.
He’s talking
, I mouth to her, as though there’s nothing I can do to stop him.

“Someone should be there filming him. Are you going to see him later?” he asks.

“I am, but I have to finish work first, and speaking of, that’s why I’ve called you.”

“Oh, uh, as you may have gathered yesterday, interior design isn’t my strong suit. You’d be better talking to Logan about it.”

“I’m calling on behalf of my boss,” I announce, quieting him. “She’s quite keen to have a few things sorted through
today
.”

He’s silent for a moment. “She didn’t want to talk to me herself?” he eventually asks.

I say the first thing that comes into my head. “Affirmative.” Seriously, Gem,
that’s
the first word you think of?

“Tell her she’s a stuck up bitch,” he requests of me.

I can’t help but smile. I simply don’t have the gall to say anything of the sort to Amelie Clemence!

“Negative,” I tell him firmly.

“Stop with all your American chatter!” Amelie shouts, irritated.

“It’s army chatter not American chatter,” I snap back.

“She’s there now?” Buddy asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Is she
right
there?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m not on loudspeaker?”

“No,” I tell him. Obviously, I think, otherwise she’d have something to say about the
bitch
comment.

It’s an awkward half an hour I spend as mediator between Amelie and Buddy, but minute by painstaking minute we sieve through all of the points that Amelie wanted confirming. Even when Amelie is satisfied and closes the file on the project the three of us have been discussing, she stays seated, perhaps to make sure that I end the call promptly and professionally.

“Thank you for your time, Buddy,” I say cordially, Amelie’s eyes on me.

“Don’t mention it. I hope I’ve been of some help.”

“Yes, you absolutely have. Mrs. Clemence is…” I struggle for a word, as she rolls her eyes, “appeased,” I settle for.

He laughs out loud, and I can just imagine him throwing his head back, the way he laughed yesterday. “That’s praise indeed!” he says. “Hey, say hi to Loges for me. Wish him well, and tell him I’ll visit tomorrow around lunchtime. I want to know what the hell these messages mean!”

I smile. “I’ll let him know. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Thanks, Gemima. You, too. Oh, and tell Amelie something for me, won’t you?”

I look at her warily. “What?” I ask tentatively.

“Tell her I’ll see her a week on Saturday at Logan’s birthday party. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s going.”

“I’ll pass that along,” I say.

“She’s still there, isn’t she? Hovering like a hawk?” he guesses correctly.

“Affirmative.”

He laughs again, we say goodbye, and then I hang up.

“What did he say?” Amelie asks immediately.

“Uh, he says that he’ll see you soon.”

Her eyes widen, but in a cool and casual kind of way. “
When
?” she asks disbelievingly.

I’m tempted to tell her that he’s coming to Pierson House now, just to see her reaction, but I behave. “At Logan’s birthday party, a week on Saturday.”

Her face falls before she can catch it. Then, abruptly, she stands up and sticks her nose in the air. “I care not,” she says stiffly, marching out of the room without a backwards glance.

*

It’s six o’clock before I finally leave the office. I walk home in record time, and don’t even go inside, instead getting straight into my car and setting out for the hospital. I feel a nervous tension in my belly. I’m nervous to see Logan. Or am I excited? Perhaps a bit of both. I connect my phone to the radio and call Amber for company on my long drive. She gushes about the flowers again, and then presses me for explicit details of Logan’s and my Saturday night. Her cheerful mood makes me very forthcoming. It’s clear from her voice and her vibe that she’s had a good day, surely caused by something more than just receiving Logan’s flowers, but when I question her about it, she simply says:
life is good
.

I smile to myself. That it is!

*

The hospital is isolated in the middle of nowhere. There’s definitely fresh air out here! Inside it’s easy to navigate, and the staff are friendly, pointing me in the right direction, though they deliver the disappointing news that there’s only twenty minutes left of visiting time. I feel lucky to have even that, given that it didn’t once occur to me to check when visiting time is over.

At the door of Logan’s room I am met by a nurse; a kind-faced, forty-something, red haired woman.

“Est-ce que c’est la chambre de Logan Leary?” I ask.
Is this the room of Logan Leary
?

“Oui. Vous devez être Gemima,” she smiles.
Yes. You must be Gemima.
“Les autres infirmières et j’ai entendu beaucoup sur vous!”
The other nurses and I have heard lots about you
!

I smile.
My sweet
,
sweet Logan
! “How is he?” I ask in English.

“Très bien. L’opération s’est parfaitement déroulé,” she tells me, warmly.
Fine. The operation went perfectly
.

“Bon,” I smile again. “Puis-je voir lui?”
May I see him
?

“Oui. Naturellement.”
Yes
.
Of course
. She steps aside, giving me access to the room.

I step forward tentatively, not sure what to expect. Will he have tubes coming out of him? A breathing mask, perhaps? I quickly see that he has neither. He’s lying, halfway between flat and sitting, on a narrow bed, under a myriad of blankets. There’s nothing unusual about his appearance at all. His face is not pale nor does it looked pained; he just looks like he’s sleeping. Sleeping he is; his chest rising and falling slowly and evenly. He looks very peaceful, and beautiful. Even here, even now, he looks beautiful.

I move a chair away from the wall and bring it to the edge of his bed. Before I take a seat I lean over and kiss him gently on the lips. His face springs to life immediately. His lips curve upwards into a smile and his dimples become prominent in his cheeks.

His eyes stay closed, as he says hoarsely, “She’s here,” before he quotes what I’m sure are song lyrics to me.

Amused, I smile back at him, and though he can’t see me, I know he can feel me. I place one hand on his cheek, caressing his face, and I kiss the other cheek, before whispering in his ear, “Hello, Logan.” Then I sit down next to his bed, taking his hand and holding it in both of my own.

“I’ve had a good day,” he suddenly blurts out, making me grin again. “It’s been long, but I’ve been sleeping.”

“And you’ve been messaging Buddy and I,” I tell him.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”

I giggle. “Yes, you have.”

“Nope,” he shakes his head some more, and then abruptly opens his eyes very wide. It takes him a few moments to focus. He says what I’m thinking, “They pumped me with some
strange
painkillers…” His face relaxes and he looks at me like he usually does, with an adoration that makes my heart beat fast. “You really are beautiful,” he says to me.

“So are you, baby.”

“Do you like my nightgown?” he asks, pulling down his many blankets and showing me the pale blue gown. It’s classic hospital attire; not particularly fetching. “It’s backless, so I thought you might like it because you can see my bottom…and I
know
you like my bottom. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling the nurses,” he grins cheekily.

Oh
,
dear
! I burst into laughter. Buddy was right, I
should
film him!

Putting that instinct aside, I say, “Your nightgown is very nice. How are you feeling, baby? Are you in pain anywhere?”

He shakes his head. “No pain. I feel fine. Drowsy and sleepy, but fine. The surgeon came to see me earlier and said that everything went to plan,” he shares with me.

Good news, I smile. “Wonderful. So you’ll be discharged tomorrow morning as planned?”

“First thing. Then home to rest,” he says, yawning and closing his eyes once more.

“You should be resting now. I shouldn’t have woken you,” I say, though I’m glad I did. Just to talk to him for a few minutes is precious time.

“You didn’t wake me. I saw you come into the room,” he fibs.

“Your eyes were closed,” I remind him.

“Nope,” he insists, “I knew you were here. You’re like a wall of sunshine walking towards me.”

I giggle again. Yep, those are some
seriously
strange painkillers! Without another word, Logan falls asleep and for the next ten minutes I watch him, my breathing keeping pace with his. My nerves and tension that were provoking me on my drive here are all gone; silenced by Logan and his evident wellbeing. The sight of him calms me; it brings me joy and a sense of serenity the likes of which no one else has ever done. Yet another reason why I love him.

When visiting hours are over, I stand and kiss him a little gentler than last time, and then I leave him to sleep. I have to get home; I have an assignment to complete!

*

It’s too early for bed when I arrive home. Instead I change my bedding (thinking it could do with some freshening up after Saturday night!) and then I put on some music and sit at the dining table with my sketch of Logan’s roof terrance. I have a lot of fun drawing out designs and pondering ideas about what I could create there. My passion for landscape design bursts forth from me, carrying me away to some farfetched but doable notions. Hours later, my finalised sketch complete, I go to bed with a big smile on my face, and then I lie, looking up at my reflection in the mirrors above.

Hmm, how to do this? Eyes open, eyes closed? Do I watch myself, do I not? Given that my brief from Logan was to think of him, I close my eyes and start to imagine him here.

What a powerful thing the imagination is! Just as I can see him draped over me, his face buried into the curve of my neck, his lips kissing my skin gently; and just as I can see his perfect hands running up and down my thighs, I can
feel
these things too! A fire lights within me; the flames soaring, turning me on. Ardently I wish Logan was here himself.
He is here
, a voice in my head tells me,
so long as I keep my eyes closed
,
he
is
here
!

I imagine that Logan takes one of his hands and draws circles on my inner thigh, slowly getting closer and closer to my apex. His hand teases me, I can feel it. I want to squirm and writhe against it, but I lay still. Then he touches me
there
. I’m wet and ready, and he doesn’t waste any time but rather slips two long fingers deep into me making me moan in both surprise and pleasure. On the outside his thumb circles my clitoris, stimulating me there too. It feels glorious!

“Oh, baby, you feel so good,” I imagine him whispering into my ear.

I smile to myself and open my eyes. In the mirror above I see myself, legs spread, knees bent, back arched and mouth open. Under the covers at my groin area something is moving; I tell myself it’s Logan’s hand, but really it’s mine. I close my eyes again and continue fingering myself. My imagination takes over once again, and Logan picks up his pace, sinking his fingers into me quicker and quicker, causing a building sensation and my breathing to become rapid.

Ah
,
yes
! He’s right…this
does
feel so good! I’m warm and wet and welcoming. On the outside he pushes his thumb against me harder, and I can no longer hold still. I writhe in pleasure, moaning loudly. I sit up, leaning back on my free hand, my occupied one penetrating deeper into me, over and over again. The feeling is exquisite! I vaguely question why I didn’t do this more often before I met Logan.

Oh
! Yes…
yes
…
YES
, I think with each thrust of my hand.

Logan’s words flow through my mind,
I want you to touch yourself
…
and think of me
, and they push me over the edge. I come. I call out loudly in pure carnal satisfaction, my body shaking in release.

Breathing heavily I retreat my fingers from within myself, and flop back onto my pillow. I’m asleep in an instant.

10. Happy

On Tuesday morning I call Logan on my car ride to work.

He answers immediately, saying, “Hello, beautiful.”

I smile. “Good morning. How are you feeling today?”

“Better, less groggy. I’ve been wide awake since six AM,” he tells me.

“Do you remember that I came to see you last night?” I wonder.

“Yes,” he chuckles.

“Do you remember sending those messages to Buddy and I?”

“No, I still don’t remember those. I’ll look through my phone on the drive home, and I’ll attempt to have them deciphered by the time I see you later.”

“Very good,” I grin. “Oh, uh, I had to call Buddy yesterday for work stuff, and he told me to tell you that he wishes you well and that he’ll drop by and see you today around lunchtime. He also wants those text messages explained,” I say playfully.

“OK,” he says, and I can hear that he’s smiling. “Did Amelie make you call him?” he then asks.

“Yes,” I tell him, suddenly thinking:
there’s more to this story than I know
.

“Right… So, did you have a good day yesterday?”

“Yes, though Amelie kept me busy from dawn ‘til dusk, and I suspect today will be the same, maybe even the whole week.”

“We should do something relaxing this weekend,” he muses.

I grin again, “Like we did
last
weekend?”

Logan chuckles. It’s a sexy,
sexy
sound. “More relaxing than that,” he says, before adding, “But equally as pleasing.”

*

As predicted, today is a whirlwind of sketches, designs, phone calls, scheduling, and meetings. I don’t know why the sudden surge of work has come our way; it’s not something I ever experienced at my old job. I suspect it might have something to do with the beginning of spring, of fresh starts and things like that.

I handle myself well, despite never having dealt with this type of workload before. I even enjoy most of what I’m doing. It’s creative, colourful, and it makes the hours fly past! I also enjoy working so closely with Amelie, and can’t help but notice that I’m the only one of the workforce that’s been asked to do so. I feel a little like her apprentice, like she’s priming me. I am very fortunate to receive this one-on-one schooling.

At lunchtime I finally call Claude. He’s vibrant and chatty, which ordinarily I wouldn’t mind, but as my lunch break has been cut short, again, I try my best to get to my point quickly without sounding rude. He’s very accommodating; immediately emailing me a selection of photographs for me to sample and choose from. I look through them quickly, while he’s still on the phone, and I am decisive in my choice, placing an order there and then.

“I’ll need it by next Thursday,” I tell him.

“Not a problem, Gemima,” he says, in his heavily accented voice. “I will send it to your work.”

“Thank you, Claude.”

“What size do you want it?” he asks.

“Something on the smaller side,” I say hastily. I’m still not one hundred percent committed to this gift idea, as I can’t quite stop judging myself for being vain by getting a photograph of
me
. But, I tell myself, I know Logan will like it. After all, he was there when it was taken, and it sort of marks our first date.
Get over yourself
,
Gem
. It’s not vain, it’s thoughtful.
“I think the smallest you’d want to go is twelve by eighteen inches. It’s a stunning photo, even if I say so myself, and it really ought to be big,” Claude gives me his professional opinion.

“OK, then…uh, maybe one size up from that?” I say.

“Very good. I will have it to you by the end of the week.”

“Perfect. Thank you,” I smile into the phone.

“Au revoir, Gemima,” he says.

“Bye,” I hang up.

With only a few minutes left of my designated lunchtime, I wolf down the sandwich that I made myself this morning, then I swiftly organise the files that I’ll need this afternoon and I set off to find Amelie.

We spend a hectic afternoon glued to the hip, but eventually, sometime after five, the quota for the day is filled.

“Thank you for your help these past two days, Gemima,” she unexpectedly says to me while we’re in her office.

“Not a problem. It’s my job,” I can’t help but add.

She smiles a little. It’s a rare sight. “Even so. You’ve been most helpful,” she praises me. She then adds, “It’s comforting to know that should a day ever come when I’m no longer in charge of Clemence House, that I’ll be leaving it in such capable hands.”

I stare at her, dumbstruck. I’m floored by her words! They are the greatest compliment I could
ever
wish to receive from Amelie! “Thank you!” I say earnestly.

She nods, and looks down at her desk, her way of telling me that I’m dismissed, but,
ah
, there’s something I need to ask her first.

“This might not be the best time to request something from you, considering what you just said, but…”

“What is it?” she now observes me shrewdly.

“It’s Logan’s birthday next week,” I blurt out, and then I remember that she already knows that: she’s invited to his party. “He has a roof terrace,” I tell her. “It’s a complete blank canvas and I’ve drawn a landscaping design for it for his birthday present. I was hoping to instate the design one day next week, but I’ll need a couple of hours off of work…”

“Landscape design?” Amelie asks.

“Yes,” I nod.

“You like that kind of thing?”

“I love it,” I say honestly, not knowing if that will sway her decision positively or negatively. “It’s like interior design, except, you know…outside,” I state the obvious. In my mind I roll my eyes at myself.
Well done
,
Gem
!

“Bring me your design,” Amelie requests.

I find it a little strange, but regardless I retrieve the design from my desk and show it to my boss. She rolls it out on her desk, and studies it, her expression impassive. I have no idea what she’s thinking. She asks a few questions, like,
what’s this
? Or,
what’s going there
? Or,
why is this space unoccupied
?

“Uh, that’s a door…” I tell her.

“I see. When did you draw this?” she wants to know.

“Last night. At home,” I add, making sure she knows I did it on my own time. “I had plenty of other ideas,” I tell her, in case she thinks these ideas are shit.
No
,
don’t doubt yourself
, I tell myself: it’s a brilliant, creative sketch! “This drawing is a combination of my
best
ideas and I know the design will suit Logan, and so that’s why I’ve drawn what I’ve drawn,” I announce, confidently and clearly.

Amelie takes off her glasses and stares up at me, slightly awed. She either loves it or thinks I’m insane. “This is
marvellous
, Gemima!” she says, her face breaking out into a smile.

I can’t help but sigh in relief. I smile back.
Good
!

“You drew this in one evening?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“And you think you can create it physically in just a few hours?”

“Sure,” I nod, “if I’ve got all the bits and pieces, it’s just a case of bringing them all together. Just like I do with the rooms I design,” I tell her.

“Yes, I suppose it’s not too dissimilar,” she says, thoughtfully. “Hmm,” she peers down at her diary for next week. “You may have Wednesday afternoon off,” she tells me, noting in her diary:
Gemima absent
.

“The whole afternoon?” I ask.

“Oui, but I want something in return,” she tells me clearly.

“OK.”

“I want to see before and after photos of the space,” she requests, and I nod. “And I want a detailed account of the whole instalment.”

This is protocol for when we install designs into rooms. In this instance it seems a little unusual, but certainly doable. “OK,” say again. “Done.”

“Very good. Wish Mr. Leary a good recovery from me,” she says, rolling up my drawing.

“I will. Thank you,” I say, taking the sketch from her, and leaving her office feeling very uplifted indeed!

*

The elevator pings, the doors open and I peer out cautiously. Even though I have keys and am ‘allowed’ to let myself into Logan’s apartment, I still feel a little sneaky as I step out into the living room. Logan is nowhere in sight, but movement to my right makes me turn immediately and stare into the kitchen, where Mercy (at least, I assume she’s Mercy) is walking towards me, a large, wide, toothy smile taking up most of her round face. Immediately I relax.

Mercy is short, barely reaching five feet, with beautiful dark olive skin and jet black hair. Her long, thick and naturally curled eyelashes are enviable. She’s dressed in a retro sixties outfit, which was mostly likely the fashion of her youth.

“Bonjour, Gemima!” she says, pulling me into a warm hug. “It is
so
lovely to meet you!”

“Yes,” I smile, “you, too!”

“Let me look at you,” she says, holding me at arms length and scanning me up and down as I laugh. “Beautiful! Just like he told me,” she says of Logan. She smiles again, enquiring, “Have you had a good day, dear?”

“A very good day, thank you. How have things been here?”

“It’s been very easy. Logan has been sleeping off the remainder of the drugs. He felt some pain this afternoon, but that’s dissipated now. He’ll be right as rain in a few days’ time, I should think. He sent me out shopping in the afternoon…it was brilliant fun!” she beams.

Ever the fan of shopping, I ask, “What did you buy?”

“Alas, I am sworn to secrecy,” she tells me.

I grin. “Oh, OK.” I’ll just have to ask Logan, I think.

“I’ve just finished dinner. It’s on the stove, ready for reheating,” she instructs.

Internally I celebrate not having to cook for myself. “Thank you very much. Your meal last Friday was delicious,” I say, bending the truth, not having the heart to tell her that we burnt it to a crisp because we were too busy having sex! The meal we then took out of the freezer, however,
was
delicious.

“Oh, thank you, dear. It is, quite literally, decades of practice,” she explains. “Though, I wouldn’t have it any other way, I love to cook!”

“My best friend is a cook, as well,” I tell her, and because of the many times that I’ve eaten Amber’s food, I can attest that food cooked with passion and love tastes better than when it’s cooked without those things. “Though she lacks the decades of practice,” I add.

“Of course she does…look at you, you’re barely legal!” she exclaims, and I laugh again. “Logan didn’t tell me you’re so young.”

I smile. “I’m not; I’m twenty-seven,” I say. Is that young? Perhaps to her it is.

“I see. Well, you must be very mature, because Logan is smitten with you! He’s been looking forward to us meeting,” she tells me.

“Yes, it’s wonderful to finally meet you.” I say
finally
like I’ve been waiting for months. It’s only been, what, fourteen days? Still, this is a big moment! Mercy is likely the most influential woman in Logan’s life; more prominent in his day-to-day world than even his mother!
Impress her
, I pressure myself, but as soon as I try to think cool thoughts, I falter and can’t think of a thing to say.

“I daresay we’ll be meeting plenty of times in the future, too. You seem quite serious given how brief you’ve been courting,” she says.

Aww!
Courting
! “We are,” I tell her honestly. “These have been the best two weeks of my life! Hands down!” I admit, and I can’t keep the smile from my face. “He’s…you know…perfect,” I say, blushing and shrugging simultaneously.

She takes my hand and squeezes it, reminiscent of my grandma. “Oh, I
love
a love story!” she gushes. “And I
know
he adores you. I’ve never seen him so happy, and I’ve known him going on nine years!”

Her words delight me; I like hearing that I make him happy, not because it boosts my ego, but because making
him
happy makes
me
happy. “I plan on making him happy for a long, long time to come,” I confess.

“That’s exciting to hear,” she smiles at me. “Now, dear, I must love you and leave you. Logan is napping…” she tells me, and I throw a look in the direction of the bedroom, “…dinner’s on the stove,” she repeats, “and now I have to get home to continue my
own
love story.”

“Ooh, do you have a new man in your life as well?” I wonder.

“Sometimes he seems like new, even though we’ve been married near-on forty years,” she beams.

Forty?
What
? “How old are you?” I blurt out, taken by surprise.

“Fifty-seven last month,” she says.

Wow, she doesn’t look a day over forty-seven.

When I tell her as much, she looks bashful and mutters, “You’re too sweet.”

“Have a wonderful evening, Mercy. It’s been lovely to talk to you,” I tell her.

“You too, dear. I’ll see you soon. Bye,” she smiles and waves, getting into the elevator and disappearing behind the closing doors.

I turn and march towards Logan’s bedroom, beyond excited to see him. It feels like it’s been days! However, he’s not sleeping in his bed, so I retrace my steps into the living room, wondering if he was on one of the sofas and I, being unobservant, had walked right past him. But, no, he’s not there either.

I find him sprawled out on the leather couch in the man’s den. His stomach is visibly swollen from the air from the operation, concealed under a light grey teeshirt that matches his dark grey sweatpants. He looks, like last night, adorable! I should make a point of watching him sleep more often, I think.