Despite my initial nerves about this afternoon, it hasn’t escaped my notice that implementing this terrace has been more thrilling, invigorating, and creatively inspiring than any interior project that I’ve ever undertaken. I really need to start questioning whether or not I’m in the right field of design, I think. Sure, I’ve had interior design projects turn out exactly how I sketched, planned, and imagined them too, but this is different, this is more. If I could feel this ecstatic about every job I did, then I’d turn into a workaholic. Again, I wonder if it’s because this is for Logan, or because there’s just something special, something exciting that I get from landscape design that I lack from interiors.

An answer eludes me as I see the three workmen out, watching them leave with my thanks and a promise to write up a very good review on their company’s website. After they leave, Mercy returns to the kitchen, busying herself with dinner, and I go to stand in the doorway, looking out at what’s been accomplished and basking in my glory. Our glory, I tell myself. There’s no way that I could have done all of this in one afternoon without experienced help.

“Thank you for being the photographer,” I say to Mercy.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she smiles kindly. “I put your camera on top of your bags.”

I look around for them, feeling certain that I left them just outside of the elevator.

“Oh, and I put your bags in the dressing room,” Mercy tells me, ending my confusion.

I retrieve my camera and file through the images, thrilled with the numerous shots that Mercy has captured. Standing in the doorway once more, I take a few more of the completed project, before finding the light switches on the planter boxes and then peering up at the lights that line the outer-wall of Logan’s apartment.

“Lights,” I command. Nothing happens. “Lights,” I try again, louder. Still nothing. These must be the only ones that aren’t voice activated, and sure enough I find their switch hiding behind the ample curtains that Amélie installed two years ago. I snap several more photos with the lights on, before deciding that I have enough to create a well-rounded report.

Rather than making a start on my report, I while away the next hour helping Mercy finish dinner, before starting on an easy but delicious cake for dessert. We chat back and forth, mostly about her life, and her insights into Logan’s life. I learn that her passion and extensive knowledge for food stems from her parents, who are of North African decent, and I discover that in the nine years that she’s been working for Logan, I’m the first girlfriend of his that she’s ever met.

“I’ve heard him mention names occasionally, but he never brought them home,” she confirms everything that he’s already told me about his past — he had a hectic work schedule and an uneventful social life. “I think he was in a bit of a daze before you,” she continues. “Life gets like that sometimes, I suppose. Years pass and you just continue to coast along.”

“Now you’re describing my life before Logan,” I tell her.

She smiles at me; a warm, kind smile. “You’ve really awoken something in one another, haven’t you?” she muses. “When I picked him up from the hospital after his surgery, the last of his painkillers were still wearing off and he was very talkative. He’s usually quiet, reserved, respectful, but last week he didn’t stop to take a breath, he just talked and talked and talked. He told me all about you,” she says. “Gemima: the girl from the party. It was so beautiful to see this new side to him. But I assumed with him being so particular about who he lets into his space that I would have to wait months to meet you, if at all. Low and behold, you walked into his home with a key of your own that very evening.” She looks a little emotional, like she might start welling up. “I’m very happy for you both, my dear,” she pats my arm and clears her throat. “This is finished,” she turns the stove off. “Just give it a stir when you reheat it later,” she instructs me.

“Alright,” I nod.

“I must be going.”

“You don’t want to stay and join us?” I offer quickly.

“You’re very sweet to ask, but I’ll decline this time. This night is for you to meet his family,” she reminds me, causing butterflies to take flight in my tummy. “I’ll see you on Saturday, at the party?” she enquires.

“Oh, yes.”

She gathers her jacket and purse and as we wait for the elevator to rise to collect her, Mercy says, “Just a few key things to remember, Gemima: Rupert and Mary-Gene prefer red wine over white. Mary-Gene’s favourite colour is blue, and Rupert’s favourite singer is Springsteen,” she rattles off. “And they follow the Charleston Outlaws very ardently.”

The Outlaws? I wreck my brain trying to remember who they are. A football team? Or is it rugby?

The elevator arrives, and I hug Mercy, thanking her for everything that she’s done today.

“It’s been a real pleasure spending the afternoon with you,” I tell her earnestly. Even if I was shocked by her arrival. She echoes my sentiments and leaves.

Alone, I finish the cake and pop it into the oven, setting an alarm on my phone to remind me to take it out rather than using Logan’s fancy tablet on the wall. Then in a flurry of activity, I lay the table, first raiding Logan’s kitchen cupboards, sourcing his best crockery, cutlery, and wine glasses, before turning all the lights on the terrace off so that Logan won’t see them when he walks in. I want to save his surprise for the perfect moment.

With ample time to kill before they arrive, I settle at Logan’s desk with my camera, a blank piece of paper and a pen and make a start on my report for Amélie. I manage to get halfway through before boredom consumes me and I give up for the night. I laze back in Logan’s huge office chair, feeling sleepy. It’s been a long, exhilarating day, and the most exciting part of it has yet to happen. Requiring an energy boost (and deciding against a power nap) I just about manage to figure out Logan’s complicated looking coffee machine. The small amount of liquid that it produces is dark, potent and bitter, but it supplies the instant pick-me-up that I need.

I then hit the shower, washing away the dirt of the day, I touch-up my makeup, style my hair into a low, contemporary side ponytail, and then I stand naked in Logan’s dressing room, deciding what to wear. I have more options than I could ever reason having, and though most of the dresses I’ve brought with me are newer and less worn, I choose age over beauty, selecting my favourite, most comfortable dress — a sky-blue number that I’ve had for years, that I just can’t bring myself to get rid of despite its many newer counterparts. I wear this dress not when I want to impress, but when I want to feel good about myself. It’s my secret weapon, my confidence-booster, perfect for tonight.

After giving myself a once-over in the mirror, I sashay to Logan’s music system and scan his collection of CDs until I find the one that I want. Then swaying to the familiar sound of Bruce Springsteen, I scurry back into the kitchen to turn off the alarm on my phone and take my perfectly risen cake out of the oven. I turn my phone on silent, not wanting any rude interruptions this evening, and in doing so I see that Logan messaged me while I was getting dressed.

*The cargo has landed. I’m dropping them off at the hotel across the road first. They’ll get checked-in and then join us. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Love you.*

I check the time on the text; he sent it fifteen minutes ago. I scan my surrounds, ticking off my mental checklist as I do so: everything is done, everything is ready. I take a second to acknowledge that this might actually be the single most organised moment of my entire life, and yet despite everything going so wonderfully well, I can’t help the bundle of nerves that are mounting within me. They’ll be here so soon! I can practically feel my American Mouth rising, just waiting to say something incredible indecent or embarrassing. That notion induces a panic that I struggle to keep under control.