Fuck!

Cue Marvin Gaye to start playing in my mind. “I heard it…through the grapevine,” I nod sheepishly.

“Qui ça?” Mr. Pierson asks Amélie. The what?

“Broutement américain,” she says to him. American chatter. “Elle parle comme cela parfois,” she then explains on my behalf. She speaks like that sometimes. “I don’t believe you,” she tells me, “but as I doubt you’ll give me another answer, you might as well get to work.”

“Absolument. Au revoir, M. Pierson,” I say, and then I leave, practically skipping back to my desk.

I have an amazingly productive morning, somehow spurred on by the thought of there being a limited number of days left that I’ll be doing this job. Sure, Amélie said that I shouldn’t get my hopes up about a new position, but it’s way too late for that! I’m giddy as I phone clients, make orders, and finalise sketches for my existing jobs. I’m on such a roll that come lunchtime I consider just staying here to continue working, but as I move my chair from one end of my large desk to the other, I roll over something on the floor which inspires quite different plans. It’s the project file for Leary Constructions that I threw over my shoulder in frustration yesterday; it’s been waiting for me to pick it up ever since.

An abrupt new plan in mind for my lunch hour, I grab my handbag and head for the door. Hurrying out of Pierson House, I look up Logan’s office as I walk, already knowing the vague direction of it, but needing to confirm its exact location. I should message him to see if he’s even there, I tell myself. It’s highly probable that he’s out at one of the many sites that he’s running, but I ignore my own advice, and march to Leary Constructions’ main office in Place de Papier quickly, looking forward to surprising him. After the horror of yesterday, something sweet and spontaneous feels just right.

His company has four offices scattered around Paris, but the one in Place de Papier is the largest and where Logan spends most of his time. The eye-catching, geometrically-shaped building is situated in a square that looks similar to the one where cafe Genévrier is. However this square is surrounded by offices, rather than eateries, and is more placid and infinitely quieter. Throughout the large open space several prominent trees have been planted, whose buds are only now starting to reappear as Paris moves into springtime. Underneath each of the trees are wooden benches, most likely intended for lunchers.

I gaze, slightly awed, as I walk towards Logan’s building. It’s modern and stylish, but also has a classic elegance to it, a combination of design elements that I know from experience are not always easy to get right, but he has. A mix of appreciation and pride courses through me as I realise that Logan, my Logan, has created this masterpiece, this empire from scratch.

I’m five metres from the entrance when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, and automatically smile when I see the caller ID.

“Hey, baby,” I say to Logan.

“Hi, where are you?” he asks eagerly.

“I’m outside,” I grin into my phone. Oh, this is going to be fun!

He’s silent for a moment. “I can’t see you anywhere.”

Oh? I look around the big, empty square, unable to see him either. “Uh…”

Then it dawns on Logan, and he enquires, “Outside where?”

“Leary Constructions’ main office,” I tell him quickly.

“Damn,” he laughs down the line, before telling me, “I’m outside of Pierson House.”

I face palm myself. We must’ve taken alternative routes. “Oh, dear,” I sigh. I should’ve checked with him, I tell myself what I already know.

“I wanted to surprise you. Apparently you had the same idea,” he correctly guesses, his voice laced with mirth.

It’s with similar humour that I say to him, “You know, they say that the key to a long-lasting marriage is communication. We really might want to work on that,” I laugh.

“Stay where you are,” he says, and I can hear that he’s smiling. “I’ll be with you soon.”

* * *

I take a seat on one of the benches and wait. I barely have enough time to start idly flicking through my phone, when movement ahead of me catches my attention. A woman is walking from Logan’s office in my direction. She stares at her feet as she approaches, affording me the time to quickly scan our surrounds to see if she could be headed towards somebody or something else, but there is no one and nothing in the vicinity. Suddenly, I realise that she must recognise me from Saturday night. What’s her name, I think desperately.

Eventually she looks up and seeing me watching her, she waves a hand in greeting. “Bonjour, mademoiselle quarante-neuf,” she calls out, smiling at me, and referencing Logan’s hotel in Tokyo. Hello, Miss. Forty-nine.

Ah-ha! There’s only one person who could know about that! This woman must be Cheryl, Logan’s personal assistant. She looks to be around Amélie’s age, late forties, and has curly strawberry-blonde hair which bounces buoyantly as she walks, and a kind, freckly face. She’s likeable, based on first impressions.

“Hello, Cheryl,” I smile back, standing up to greet her, doing the customary two kisses thing.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gemima,” she tells me sincerely, with a very heavy French accent.

“Likewise.”

“Congratulations on your engagement,” she says, beaming as we take a seat on the bench, side-by-side. “Your shock announcement took most of the company by surprise. No one, not even I, knew that Logan was seeing anyone,” she shares.

That’s because it’s been so fast, I think. Without telling her how fast, I say, “It’s been a wonderful whirlwind.”

“You’ve put a lot of rumours to bed,” she reveals.

“What rumours?” I ask with a grin. It’s gossip-time.

“That Logan’s asexual,” she says, so matter-of-factly that I erupt into laughter.

It takes every ounce of my strength to stop my inappropriate mouth from saying something that it shouldn’t. The image of Logan’s lathered up erection from this morning comes to the forefront of my mind. Don’t say a word, I order myself.

Fortunately, I don’t have to. Cheryl speaks again, “Clearly, he’s not. I’m thrilled for both of you.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. I’m thrilled for us too. Then moving the conversation out of dangerous territory, I ask, “Did you have a good night on Saturday?” Now that I see her up close, I recognise her more, and can vaguely remember catching glimpses of her throughout the course of the evening, though her hair was up then, making her look quite different.

“Oh, c’était merveilleux!” she exclaims in her native tongue. Oh, it was marvellous! “Everybody in the company works so hard — especially Logan — so to have a night to relax and drink my weight in alcohol,” you and me both, I think, “was a brilliant treat.”

I nod in agreement.

“And the speeches were wonderful,” she continues. “I especially loved the bit where I was singled out,” she grins. “The company wouldn’t function without me and my girls,” she tells me with a cheeky wink.

Uh…her girls? Is Logan running a brothel within the company, I think sarcastically.

Seeing the perplexed look on my face, Cheryl admits, “I should probably figure out how to say that without making it sound like I’m the madam of a whorehouse.” She explains herself further, “My girls are the other PA’s…Michel’s, Guillaume’s, Grace’s…they all report back to me.”

“Oh, I see,” I grin, finally understanding.

“We make the big shots look good,” she jests.

“And then they get all of the credit?” I ask, playing along.

“Exactly,” she laughs, enjoying our repartee.