She (6 page)

Gemima.
I spend the rest of my working day in a foul mood. So many profanities circulate my head continually that as I reply to the remaining emails I triple check them to make sure I haven’t accidentally inserted my own internal monologue into what I’ve written. Amelie would be less than impressed if I sent something like…
Dear Mrs. Monte, I’d be delighted to order those blue, silk curtains for you. They are an excellent choice. Fucking liar
!
Please let me know which length you have decided to go for. Cheating bastard
!…to one of her valued clients. I am grateful to see her leave the office at three thirty. Half an hour later and I have had enough, too. As I cannot function anymore, my mind still reeling from Jerry’s crass and wholly unreasonable request, I decide to clock off early.
At reception Layla strikes up an unwanted conversation.
“Got a hot date for tonight, Gemma?” she asks, and I know she’s thinking about Logan.
Ah Logan, just the thought of him is a sweet relief from an afternoon ambushed by Jerry. I see his smiling face in my mind’s eye and I can’t keep from smiling myself. Layla thinks I’m smiling because of her question.
“My name is Gemima, not Gemma,” I tell her. “And, no, no hot date tonight. You?”
“Yes, I do,” she squeals excitedly. “He’s an actor, it’s a blind-date, I’m really excited,” she says very quickly.
“That’s nice,” I’m less than enthusiastic. But to avoid being totally unsocial, I add, “Have fun. And stay safe.”
She nods appreciatively, and I leave.
*
I make a brief pitstop at home. Hurriedly I have a shower, pull on the shortest, tightest little black dress I own, drown myself in perfume, and apply my favourite dark red lipstick amid a face of makeup, keen to get out the door and to my destination as soon as possible. I grab the large bottle of vodka that I bought for this occasion and then dash back to my car. As I reconnect my phone, my radio tells me that I have two new text messages. One is from Amber, wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day and extending her best wishes for my gathering tonight. Obviously she hasn’t read my email yet. The other text is from Logan. The radio reads it out once, and as soon as it’s finished I hit replay, a huge smile spread across my face.
*Gemima, I should have cancelled my meetings. I should have spent lunch with you. Can you forgive me? Logan.*
I listen to it three times, before quickly typing a response.
*Logan, I’ve enjoyed your sentiments, so much so that all is forgiven. I will miss you while you’re gone (in a totally normal, casual kind of way). Think of me. Gemima.*
Then I start my car and begin driving, only getting as far as the garage exit before his reply sounds through the radio.
*I’ve thought of you for two years, I can manage another few days.*
I laugh at the robotic voice that my radio speaks in, so void of emotion, so un-Logan-like. Another message pings.
*Enjoy your special evening. I will miss you, too. Bonne nuit. Logan.*
“Good night, Logan,” I say out loud, sighing and wishing that I was driving to him, rather than my mother’s salon. But plans are plans, I tell myself.
Every Valentine’s Day my mom hosts a Lonely Hearts Party at her salon, for single clients, staff, friends, and daughters. It’s been a staple of the salon’s calendar since she opened it five years ago, and despite the fact that I was with Jerry for most of those years, I’ve never missed a party. Jerry was never into V-Day, so instead I elected to spend my night with the Lonely Hearts, always feeling sorry for them, and never realising that I belonged there as much as they did. Over the years it’s become a fun night of boozing and verbal man-bashing, each partygoer taking a turn to tell a woeful story of love lost or scorned from the past year. This year I finally have a decent story to tell! Jerry’s email today has thrown fuel onto my fire.
Barbara-Anne’s is a large, boutique salon, accommodating twenty grooming stools, and fifteen staff. The floor space is huge, and was an absolute dream to design and decorate. The main colour throughout, as per my mom’s request, is purple: varying lavender walls, deep purple leather chairs, bright purple splash backs at the sinks, and a purple neon sign in the window, saying,
Barbara-Anne’s
in a fancy scrawl. After finally finding a parking spot, down the road and around the corner, I arrive to find almost everyone is already there…and the drinking has well and truly begun. This is evident not only from the bottles that litter the reception desk, but because of the exuberant, over-the-top welcome I receive.
“
Gemima
!” Bianco cries, bouncing out of his chair to hug me.
“Hello, B,” I say, amused and pleased by his welcome. We hug tightly; he smells divine, as always! Bianco is undoubtedly the coolest and most stylish stylist in the salon. He and his partner, Pedro, have been working here for the past three years. The only other man, Martin, is straight, contemporary and keeps to himself; preferring not to join in the frivolity of Lonely Hearts Club night.
When Bianco and I break apart, I see all the others making their way to the front of the salon. At the head of the pack is Lucie, my closest French friend. She’s petite, with the body of a gymnast, and is the one who took me to air-yoga. She bounds forward to hug me firmly with her surprisingly strong arms.
“How’ve you been?” I ask, smiling at her. In an environment where gossip and drama can sometimes reign supreme, Lucie is the voice of calm and reason, and everyone loves her for it, myself included.
“Tres bien,” she says.
We don’t have a moment longer to talk before my mother’s arm encase me. “Sweetheart!” she says, warmly. A little
too
warmly. She’s emotional…ah, no, she’s just drunk, I realise.
“Hi, mom,” I kiss her cheek. I offer her the bottle I’ve brought with me. “You’ve all started without me,” I note.
“They’ve been going since lunchtime,” Lucie whispers to me.
Oh…
wow
!
I take them all in, smiling and waving hello at each of them. I always feel so welcome here, not in a she’s-the-bosses-daughter kind of way, but in an honest and compassionate way. They’re a family, and I feel fortunate to be an honourary member.
However, tonight I’m treated a little more cautiously, though before I can begin to wonder why, my mom says, “They’ve been waiting all day to hear about Jerry.”
Ah,
that’s
why! Jerry? “I’ve got
lots
to tell you,” I smile wryly. And I do; with copious amounts of liquor to help my story along, I finally take my turn being the centre of attention at the Lonely Hearts Party.
*
I walk quickly down the road, around the corner, back to my car. Clambering inside and already dreading the results, I blow into the little alcohol monitoring device, which measures how many units of alcohol are in my system and if I’m over the limit it prevents my car from starting.
It beeps that unwanted beep. I’m over the limit. A lot over.
Fuck
! I vaguely wonder if sitting here for five minutes will bring me under the limit, though I doubt it. Besides, I think, I don’t want to risk falling asleep in my car while I’m waiting. Nothing makes me feel more unsafe than sleeping somewhere where people can stare at me! I consider walking home, but it’s dark, it’s late, it’s far away,
and
I’m wearing my best come-hither dress, which though acceptable while with friends becomes less so when I’m walking the streets by myself. I don’t want to be mistaken for a nightwalker! I get out of my car and lock it. While dumping the keys in my bag I retrieve my phone, fixed on calling a cab. I walk a short way further down the road to stand outside a large gymnasium which is still open, its lights glaring in the dark, and people teeming in and out. I think it’s safe to sit on the entrance steps and wait for my cab. While I wait I browse through my text messages, rereading the ones from Logan, a feeling of longing coursing through me. I smile a little as I think about what I will do when I get home…his lips, his hands, my body…
My phone beeps as I receive a message. I smile broader when I see who it’s from.
Logan writes:
*You. Look. AMAZING!*
I stare at his words, confused. Then my head darts upwards and I see him, standing not even ten feet away, watching me with smouldering eyes. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, he’s too busy looking…besotted. My heart jumps instantly. He’s
here
! We’re together! And he thinks I look amazing! No, Logan,
you
look amazing! His hair is wet, sitting messily and oh, so sexily on his head. His eyes gaze at me intensely, his cheeks a little flushed. He’s just been swimming, I surmise. He wears a fitted T- shirt and sweat pants. I like the informal look, he looks homely and utterly gorgeous.
I stand up, blinking rapidly, as though this may somehow sober me up. “Hello,” I say quietly.
“Wow,” is all Logan can say in response. I grin at him. He makes me feel both bashful and radiant at the same time. He steps towards me, his hand automatically reaching out for mine. “Gemima, you look amazing,” he says, never taking his eyes off of mine.
Slowly and utalising every ounce of confidence I have, I take his outreached hand and then lean forward and kiss him quickly and gently on the lips. “Yes, you said that in your message,” I say to him. Desire courses through me again as I gaze into his memorised eyes. Clemence was right, I
have
enchanted him.
Me
! Enchanted Logan! I repeat his sentiments in my head: Wow! This, right here, this feeling is amazing! It’s both empowering and vulnerable. Both nerve-wracking and exciting. I’m definitely falling in love with this man, and it’s clear from the way he’s looking at me that he’s falling for me, too. I love the way knowing that makes me feel! The confidence that it ensues makes me feel like I could do anything.
He smiles at me and I sway unsteadily on my sky-high heels. The dimples in his cheeks steal my attention, until he speaks again. “I’ve just been swimming,” he tells me, and I nod. “I needed to work out some tension…”
Tension? Work tension? Sexual tension? I find myself hoping it’s the latter. I find myself hoping that I drive Logan as wild with a passionate, carnal desire as he does me.
“This is the gym that I do slack-lining in,” he explains his reason for being here, and awaits mine.
“I often walk the streets dressed like this on Friday nights.”
He grins a little, but his mirth doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s suddenly clear that he doesn’t like me talking down about myself, and his obvious care makes him even more attractive to me. I sway on my heels again.
“I was at my mom’s salon…it’s just a couple of streets away. Our party just ended.”
“Oh, course of, I remember taking my mom there last year,” he tells me. “I didn’t realise your party was at the salon. I would have stopped by,” he says.
“Ah, but it was for lonely hearts only,” I tell him.
He looks at me impassively. Then, seducing me right here on the sidewalk, whilst tucking a stray piece if hair behind my ear, he says, “Are you a lonely heart, Gemima?” His eyes burn into me as he waits for my answer.
“Not anymore,” I say, very quietly.
He smiles again and it makes my heart race. “Good,” he says.
“But I’ve gone every year for the past five years,” I explain.
His eyes widen. “Your ex couldn’t think of anything better to do on Valentine’s Day?”
I shake my head and Logan looks genuinely baffled.
“I can’t understand his indifference,” he says, giving my hand a little squeeze which I somehow feel all over my body.
Well, Jerry wasn’t indifferent today, I think. “He emailed me today,” I confess.
Abruptly, Logan looks slightly put out, and I note that, although as beautiful as ever, I don’t like seeing him look worried. “To what end?” he asks me.
I shrug, “Says he’s sorry, he wants me back, you know, the usual spiel.” Then I smile at him and thoroughly enjoy divulging, “My response email was so foul that Clemence had it deleted from the internet server and issued me a warning for using the F-word!”
Logan laughs, his worry gone. “Good,” he says again, and I nod. For the next few moments we gaze at one another, briefly lost in our delectable bubble. I’m dressed to the nines, exuding femininity, whilst he’s dressed in sports gear, portraying the masculine. Desire rages in me.
Eventually, Logan asks, “Would you like to try slack-lining, Gemima?”
Disregarding the cab I’ve ordered, and my inappropriate sporting attire, I am quick to say, “Absolutely.”
*
Inside we are in a quiet, private room. The slack-line equipment is already set up, the radio is playing from speakers somewhere in the ceiling, and the lights, which were too bright given my level of intoxication, Logan has dimmed to something more kind on my eyes. I suspect he knows I’m inebriated, but he does not make me self-conscious by drawing attention to it. Another adorable, considerate move, Logan.
I borrow one of his T-shirts to wear over my dress; it makes me feel less posey. Logan watches as I pull it on, breathing it in.
“Smell good?” he asks me.
I nod, and whether it’s because we’re now inside somewhere private, or because of how comfortable he makes me feel, I am unabashed that he caught me. “Very,” I tell him.
He smiles at me. “I will let Mercy know.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, so accusatorially that he laughs.
“My house keeper,” he clarifies.
“I see… Young? Blonde? Long legs? A nice smile?” I tease.
He laughs again, enjoying our banter. “She’s sort of the exact opposite of that. Except for the smile. She’s got a nice, kind smile.”
“Like yours.”
“Do you like my smile?” he asks, walking towards me.
I kick off my heels, so that when he stands before me, I am suddenly much shorter than a moment ago. “It’s the best I’ve seen,” I say honestly. And, of course, he smiles at me. “You see these…” I reach up and touch his cheeks where dimples form when he’s happy, “…these are adorable. These…” I lightly touch his lips, “…well, I’d better not tell you what I’d like to do with these…” His smile widens. “And these…” I touch the edges of his eyes, “…they smile, too.”
“That’s ironic.”
“What is?”
“Well, you seem quite taken by my smile, and the truth is…I only smile when I’m with you.”
I can’t help myself — I giggle. “I’m glad I make you smile,” I tell him.
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