“I don’t have to come in to see you? I don’t have to identify him, or be a witness?” I wonder out loud.

“Non, nous avons son entière confession,” she says once more. No. We have his full confession. “Nous vous appellerons si nous avons besoin de plus amples renseignements auprès de vous.” We’ll call you if we need any further information from you.

“OK,” I mutter. “So, what do I do now?” I ask, feeling wholly stupid. What do I do now?

“Je sais que c’est très bouleversant. Veuillez agréer mes condoléances les plus sincères,” she says kindly. I know this is very upsetting. Please accept my deepest condolences. “De mon expérience, j’ai constaté que coller à votre routine est la meilleure façon d’avancer,” she adds, knowledgeably. From my experience, I’ve found that sticking to your usual routine is the best way forward.

It’s Monday morning — usually I’d be getting stuck into this weeks work quota. That shouldn’t be too difficult given that I’m already here.

I give the officer my assurance that I’ll try my best, before thanking her and hanging up.

I sigh deeply. The clock on the phone tells me that it’s half past nine, and yet I feel utterly exhausted. Despite this, I pick up the receiver, tuck it between my ear and shoulder and place my fingers over the buttons, all set to dial Logan’s number before I realise…I don’t know what it is! Further than the first two digits, I haven’t got the faintest idea! Every time I call him I press his name on my touchscreen without ever reading the small numbers underneath of it. How fucking useless is that? I don’t even know my fiancé’s number off by heart!

His number is on the Leary Constructions project file that I have, I note. It’s on my desk, I can call him imminently, and after I’ve done, then I can embark on my new to-do-list: learning Logan’s number. Don’t sweat it, Gem, I tell myself quickly before I get too worked up over it.

Somewhat defeatedly I put the receiver back down with another sigh, both Layla and Amélie watching me carefully.

“Routine,” Amélie repeats the instructions. “Do you think you can work today?” she asks gently. This is probably the calmest, most maternal that I’ve ever seen her.

I nod, but a few seconds later fresh tears start falling from my eyes and I bury my face in my hands. I so can’t work right now. While it’s enough of a shock that a familiar face has died mere metres from my front door, it’s the overwhelming memories that this morning has stirred up, memories of a much more significant event in my personal life, that have me feeling positively useless in a work capacity. The eerie coldness and the creeping fear as felt by my four-year-old self lingers around me still.

For the next half an hour I sit and cry in the meeting room, fighting the persistent nausea I feel, while half explaining to Layla and Amélie why I’m so affected by today’s events. I’m not entirely sure what they know about my father by the time that Layla leaves to make me a cup of tea, and Amélie retreats to the doorway where Rosita meets her as though summoned by some invisible microchip. She hands our boss a sticky note with a number on it and Amélie whips out her mobile phone to call whoever’s number it is. I’m hopeful that it’s Logan’s, but the formality in her tone tells me that it’s probably not.

I really want to hear his voice, I think. I’ll call him after my cup of tea, I decide, though I should probably hold off until lunchtime. He’s not expecting my call before then and he’s probably rushed off his feet down in Marseille. Despite his busyness though, I know he would want me to call him, especially given the way that I’m feeling. Soon, I think again. I just want to sit here a little longer…

I give Layla a small smile when she appears in the doorway with my tea a moment later. I have the distinct impression that she’s in her element this morning. She likes to be needed, likes to feel important and part of the action, and definitely loves being the centre of Amélie’s attention. Observing her frequent glances at Mrs. Clémence and noticing the way that she lights up when she’s praised is actually a nice distraction. I suspect that she could distract me even further if I were to ask for her version of how the double date went, but when Amélie follows her back into the room, I decide against it.

“Thank you, Layla,” I say, accepting the mug and taking a long, hot swig. Was it the British who said that tea could solve any problem? They may have been onto something; it’s exactly the soothing comfort that I need right now, second only maybe to Logan’s secure embrace.

I don’t know if it’s the physical properties of the tea or just my mental perception of what it will do for me, but either way it calms me, so much so that I am able to convince Amélie that I can return to work. I have every intention of doing so, right after a much needed visit to the bathroom to wash my mascara-covered face.

Jeez, I look a mess, I think, surveying my reflection in the mirror. Of all the possible ways for my week to begin, wiping mascara off of my cheeks before noon wasn’t what I expected, I muse sardonically. I keep cleaning my face until I am entirely makeup free, and then I leave my station at the sinks, and settle at last behind desk.

I move the bouquet of flowers to one side, giving me more space to riffle through my project folders until I come to the Leary Constructions one. I open it with haste, finding the contact page easily and I reach my hand out to pick up the phone when it starts ringing against my palm.

“Gemima Samuels, how may I help you?” I answer automatically.

“Gem?” my mom’s panicked voice issues down the line.

“Mom, I’m OK,” I tell her quickly, as she’s evidently in the know about what’s happened, though I can’t work out how. Is it already in the news, I wonder.

Putting an end to my wondering, my mom says, “Your boss left a message for me at the salon. What happened?” she shrieks.

I lounge back in my chair, close my eyes and spend five minutes talking her through my morning, after which we spend the best part of the next hour recounting the day my father died. I tell her about the new memories from that day, and the distinct feeling of something forcing me out of the elevator earlier, and we toy with the affectionate idea that it could be him, looking out for me, even now. I somehow don’t mind the lunacy of the thought; it’s comforting and serves as an explanation for what I felt, albeit a farfetched one.

By the time we hang up it’s just shy of lunchtime, which means that I’ve unintentionally waited until the opportune moment to call Logan. Or so I assume. I finally dial his number, reiterating my mental note to memorise it as soon as humanly possible.

It rings for a long time, before the voice I’ve been craving to hear all morning, says to me, “It’s a bit late to call me now.”

That’s a weird thing to say, I think immediately. I’m quick to recheck the time — it’s not late at all — and I’m about to say something when I realise that the phone is still ringing. What the hell is going on? I stare at the receiver, bemused. Then I look up from my desk and feel like every ounce of my being lights up when I see Logan standing in the doorway of reception.

He’s here? My mouth drops open; he’s not supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be four hundred miles away!

“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly, the sight of him putting me at ease for possibly the first time since he left my bed this morning.

He doesn’t say anything to me, his eyes simply scan my face conveying a strange mixture of emotion as they do so. He looks relieved and angry, I realise. Why? What the hell is going on, I wonder once more.