I steal a quick glance at the clock and revel in seeing that it’s just gone three PM, plenty of time to enact this new part of my plan.

To the labourers, I say, “Si je voulais acheter quelques meubles extérieurs pensez-vous que François pourrait les livrer aujourd’hui?” If I wanted to buy some outdoor furniture, do you think François could deliver it today?

“Oui.”

“Absolument.”

One of the men dives his hand into his chest pocket and pulls out a business card, followed by second card. “Placez votre commande par téléphone, dites-leur votre numéro de référence pour ce travail et ils vont veiller à ajouter vos nouveaux achats à la camionnette que François va prendre.” Place your order over the phone, tell them your reference number for this job and they’ll make sure to add your new order to the van that François is picking up.

So efficient!

“Et ici,” he shows me the second card, “ceci est un bon de réduction.” This is a discount voucher.

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.