Amber grins at him. “Yeah,” she agrees, teasing, “you’ll soon seep into the aftermath of the honeymoon phase.”

“No romance,” Seamus says.

“No sex,” Amber adds.

“Oh, really? It’s all downhill from here?” I ask sarcastically.

They nod, smiling.

“And yet, you’re pregnant, so there must be some sex,” I point out. “And based on your earlier over-sharing about how your baby was conceived, you’re still into some interesting positions,” I laugh. So, it can’t be that bad.

“Ooh,” Amber shrieks, “you know what you should do tomorrow night?” Knowing her the way I do, I’m reluctant to even ask. “It’ll definitely spice things up.”

“We don’t need spice,” I laugh even more.

She ignores me and presses on, “You should take your panties off and stash them in Logan’s tuxedo pocket and then watch him mingle knowing that at any moment he could find them.”

Seamus bursts into laughter.

“It’ll be sexy,” she nods, insistently, and it’s clear to me that she’s completely serious. That, to Amber, actually sounds like a good idea.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, as I walk back down the garden path.

She grins at me, knowing what I really mean is: over my dead body!

* * *

Just as I suspected I would, I spend the entire morning in a happy stupor, making work borderline impossible. My progress through my allotted schedule is slow, at best, and as I type on my keyboard I keep staring at my ring finger, marvelling that soon — Sunday, according to Logan — I will have a ring on it, a symbol of the choice that we both made last night. I feel like I might be floating at the mere thought of it.

At lunchtime I go for a long, grounding walk, and after a couple of blocks I feel like I might just be getting a grip on myself until Logan calls me, and my happy daze is reinstated. We talk for twenty minutes, about nothing in particular, before I have to get back to work. If this morning has taught me anything, it’s that I have to find a way to operate more effectively amongst my hyper excitement. But that seems like an insurmountable feat, so as I approach Pierson House at the end of my lunch hour, I instead soothe myself by telling myself that I’ve only got a few hours until the weekend, and two deliciously Logan-filled days. Somewhere over the weekend I can figure out how to manage my thoughts better.

With this in mind, I’m able to maintain a slightly more focussed attention point, and I revel in how fast the time flies. Usually on a Friday afternoon, it slows to an unreasonably slow pace, but today is one of those rare gems. Even time, it seems, wants Logan and I to be together.

At five-thirty I leave in an excellent mood, stopping at reception to wish Layla a pleasant weekend.

“I hear you’re having dinner with Patrick’s brother,” I say.

“Oui, son frère et sa belle soeur, la femme qui parle beaucoup,” she says, making me laugh. Yes, his brother and sister-in-law, the woman who talks a lot.

That’s Amber, I think affectionately. “Passez une bonne soirée,” I wave. Have a nice evening.

“Vous aussi,” she smiles. You too. “Bonsoir, au revoir, Gemima.”

As soon as I step outside I pull out my phone and call my mom’s salon, intending to remind her of our imminent arrival. She’s tends to show her scatterbrain nature off on a regular basis, and I don’t want tonight to be one of those times. Lucie answers and manages to both assure me — by telling me that my mom is expecting us — and alarm me — by confessing that several members of staff are staying late, just to get a glimpse of my new beau.

The speed of the Metro means that I arrive ahead of both Logan and his mother, allowing me to assess the situation. Most of the staff are on their way out, it’s only Lucie, Bianco, and Pedro who are staying behind to spy. I burst out laughing when I see their prying technique: they are all seated as if they’re clientele rather than staff, with a selection of magazines scattered in front of them for show-only. Clever, I think, feeling amused.

“Bonsoir, tout le monde,” I say to the room at large. Good evening, everybody. I make my way over to the three troublemakers, and perch myself on Lucie’s lap, enquiring into how they’ve all been since I last saw them.

Just when I’ve heard each of their updates and they quiz me about my life, my mother comes hurrying out of the back storeroom, making a beeline for me.

“Je pense que ma vie devra demeurer un mystère,” I tease Lucie, Bianco, and Pedro, standing up to greet my mom. I think my life will have to remain a mystery.

She and I haven’t seen each other since the Lonely Hearts Party. I cannot believe how much has changed since then. I never in my wildest dreams thought that night that I would be so in love, let alone engaged such a short time later! It’s surreal, in the most magical way, and yet Amber’s comment about my mom hitting the roof infiltrates my mind as we hug each other, and I know that it’s the truth. Jerry cheating on me cemented her disdain for all men, and so despite desperately wanting to share my joy with her, to do so without explaining everything that’s proceeded Logan’s and my engagement would result in her and I fighting, I’m sure of it. Without knowing Logan, she’ll protest, she’ll disapprove, she’ll just assume him to be as hateful as she finds all other men.

I realise abruptly that I owe it to her to tell her everything, and I should do so soon…as in, right now, I think — a mother and daughter chat, just the two of us. I’ve no idea how long I’ll have her to myself, so making the most of it, I take her hand and say quietly, “Let’s talk.”

She leads the way over to a trio of empty seats, which she has set up for us at the back of the salon, away from everyone else. This either means that she’s disapproving of her staffs invasive plan to spy, or that she wants Logan and his mother alone to better interrogate them. I can’t work out which.

“Have you settled back into the daily grind?” I ask her.

“No,” she tells, “I’m still in denial. I keep hoping I’m going to wake up back in Brazil,” she sighs.

I slump back into one of the purple leather chairs and she stands in front of me, her hands on her hips, her eyes slightly narrowed.

“What?” I ask her what she’s thinking.

“You look different,” she says.

“Do I?” I throw a quick glance at myself in the mirror; no noticeable changes as far as I can see — same brown-haired, blue-eyed woman.

“Yes, but I can’t put my finger on it,” she sits in the chair next to me. I study her as well and note that she’s changed too, though mostly in cosmetic ways, rather than emotional ones. Her skin is tanned and warm and vibrant once more. She looks reenergised, healthy, and despite her grumblings I’m certain that she’s happy to be back at work. This salon is one of her pride and joys. I’m her other one.

“You’ve cut your hair,” I realise, taking in her short, sharp bob cut. It used to sit long and bouncy, very similar to mine, which resulted in me occasionally looking like her mini-me. We’re the same height, same colour hair and eyes. Our similarities have often left me wondering what attributes, if anything, I inherited from my father.

“Stop swinging on the fucking chair!” she screams down the length of the salon at Pedro.

And just like that I’m comically reminded that I no doubt inherited my father’s cool temperament. Sort of.

Doing a full one-eighty, she brings her attention back to me, and says sweetly, “How have you been, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been…busy,” I say, honestly.

“With work?” she assumes.

“No, mostly with Logan,” I smile.

“Ah, Logan…the man who is already in my daughter’s pants,” she unfortunately recalls our phone conversation.