The Secret Ways of Perfume (10 page)

“So let's take the first step toward making your dream come true,
chérie
,” she said, standing up and taking Elena by the hand.

•   •   •

It might not
have been the Ritz, but no restaurant matched the heights of the one Jacques had booked. In every sense: the Jules Verne sat near the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Arriving at the foot of the tower, Elena looked around, keen to take in every detail. She wanted to see everything, to smell everything. She inhaled gently, in small breaths, searching through the perfumes for details that had once been a source of pain and discomfort for her. It was a strange sensation, because she knew Paris, she'd been here as a little girl with her mother—only now it seemed different.

“Good grief, Elena. I promise I'll bring you to look at the view another time, but right now we need to get a move on.”

“But how can you ignore all this?” she protested.

Monique didn't answer; she just took Elena's hand and dragged her along behind. She wouldn't let go, for fear that Elena might even decide to take the stairs. All those steps! Out of the question. She had no intention of meeting Jacques all hot and sweaty.

It had taken Monique hours to calm herself down. She had dressed with care because she had every intention of stunning Jacques tonight. She wasn't going to give him the slightest advantage. Maybe she did have a broken heart, but that was her problem and no one else's—and he certainly didn't need to know.

When she saw Jacques, she pointed him out to Elena. “There he is, sitting at the table in the corner.” Elena spotted a smartly dressed man staring out at the view.

“He's very attractive.”

“Some people say the same about snakes.”

“Listen,” Elena said, trying not to grin, “it doesn't look as if he booked for three. Maybe it's best if I go.”

“Don't you dare move,” Monique threatened. “This all started in Florence with that perfume you chose for him. So, he got what he wanted, and now you're going to get the job you deserve. It's business, Elena; nothing more, nothing less.”

Elena wasn't sure that was the best line of argument, but she was curious to see how the situation played out—though she had an inkling that before the evening was over, Jacques would be regretting a few things. She noticed Monique had her fists clenched and was trembling with rage.

“Are you still in love with him?” The question came out of Elena's mouth before she had a chance to think about it. She wasn't being nosy; she just wanted to understand. She herself no longer felt anything for Matteo, and she was quite amazed by that.

Monique didn't take her eyes off Jacques. “Yes, but I don't want to be. It's like a curse. I wish I wasn't in love with him. I wish he'd disappear out of my life. And then, when I don't see him, I wish he was there to hold me. And you thought you were the only crazy woman in the world? Welcome to the club,
chérie
. Let me do the talking, OK?”

No, it wasn't OK. “Absolutely not. If I'm staying, I need to speak for
myself.” She didn't say anything else; the determined look in her eyes convinced Monique to give her the space she needed. Elena was under pressure. She was pale, and the bags under her eyes told of sleepless nights. She was trying to find herself, and she was being forced to do it in stages.

Monique sighed and nodded. “All right, but I'll be right here with you, OK?”

“Fine, but it's me he's dealing with.” That was important to Elena; it was imperative that she should be the one to talk to Jacques Montier. She'd been watching from the sidelines for too long, letting other people make her decisions. Maybe it was realizing how foolish that sort of attitude had been, or maybe it was the loneliness she'd been feeling for the past few weeks that had given her the strength to react; in any case, she'd decided to change, and that meant negotiating her own future by herself.

At that moment, Jacques spotted them, stood up and came over.

“Good evening, Monique. I imagine your friend must be Elena Rossini.”

“Yes. I ‘came prepared,' like you said,” Monique said tautly. “You did mean you were going to offer her a job when you left me that message, didn't you?”

Elena stifled her laughter with a cough. Monique was as direct as a bullet from a gun. To say she was furious with this man would be an understatement.

In a fraction of a second longer than it should have taken, Jacques's severe expression stretched into a smile.

“Naturally. Pleased to meet you, mademoiselle. The perfume Monique brought back from Florence is very interesting. My compliments on your selection. We've decided to market it here.” He took her hand and held it in his for a moment.

“Great,” Elena replied, slightly taken aback. She hadn't expected
such gallantry. This Jacques really knew what he was doing when it came to women.

As he escorted them back to the table where a waiter had hurriedly set a third place, Elena started to understand why Monique was so caught up in their relationship. Jacques Montier radiated an impressive energy and self-confidence. A woman could feel protected by someone like that. Or oppressed.

She instinctively pulled back, trying not to touch him, even when he very politely pulled out the chair to help her take her seat. Then she noticed it: the smell of his anger. It was bitter and well-hidden under the delicate aroma of oakwood, the base of the scent he was wearing. And there was something else—suspicion, maybe a hint of curiosity. It smelled like resin, sharp and balsamic. Elena wondered whether Monique could smell it, too, that strong, almost irritating odor. She followed his gaze and saw that it was fixed on her friend. The two of them still had a lot to talk about, she thought.

“The perfume you chose is exactly what I was looking for, Mademoiselle Rossini,” Jacques continued, after he'd signaled for the menus to be brought over. “Do you have specific training, or was it just happy intuition?” He had his eyes fixed on her now and was studying her coldly.

Elena forced herself to match his penetrating gaze. She had no intention of letting herself be intimidated. Her heart was pounding and the tension between Jacques and Monique seemed to crackle in the air.

She cleared her throat and began to explain. “Intuition, no. That's not it.”

But before she could explain any further, Jacques started talking again. “The mixture is well-calibrated: a pleasant balance with no distracting flashes, yet the composition has some sparkling notes.” This time his tone was hard, his words chosen with care. “You need
quite a specific understanding to choose a mélange like that. Let's cut to the chase, mademoiselle
.
What skills do you have?”

The question hung between them for a moment. That wasn't what Jacques really wanted to know. In her head, Elena translated what he was actually asking: “Why on earth should I hire you in my company?” He hadn't said it openly; he wouldn't do that. But his tone of voice and the haughty look on his face spoke volumes. His style, she saw, was to alternate between politeness and a series of quite unkind remarks. And Elena suspected she wasn't the adversary Jacques really wanted to beat.

Behind him, the Paris night seemed to explode with colors, and Elena watched them while she decided what to say. She was sorely tempted to stand up, tell him where to go, and leave. But she couldn't do that. Giving up simply wasn't an option. Monie had been as good as her word and was sitting there in silence, intently studying the china on the embroidered tablecloth.

She didn't need her help, Elena thought. She didn't need anyone's help. She turned her attention back to Jacques and nailed him with a glare.

“I know every extraction technique, from the oldest to the most modern. I can make perfumes, creams and soaps, for people or for environments. And I didn't just learn all this from books, but working with it. Separating, purifying, re-combining, fixing. Those skills aren't common in modern perfumery, but I can carry out every single step because it's what I've been doing since I was old enough to hold an alembic. That also means I have a perfect understanding of distillation and enfleurage techniques.”

A glint in Jacques's eye betrayed his interest. So this woman was saying she'd mastered the ancient art. Nothing special about that, really. They were things anyone with an understanding of perfumery
could have listed. But if what she was saying was true, her skills could turn out to be useful.

“Right. What can you tell me about
Peau d'Espagne
?”

Elena licked her lips and replied, “A complex perfume, dating back to the sixteenth century. Neroli, rose, sandalwood, lavender, verbena, bergamot, cloves and cinnamon. Sometimes they used to add civet or musk. A fascinating mixture of smells, no basic brief, no specific personality, so many expensive fragrances all combined together.”

Maybe it was the pride he sensed in these words that made up Jacques's mind, or maybe it was Monique's stiletto heel pressing into his ankle that elicited the burst of laughter that suddenly broke the tension between them.

“Bravo! Just the answer I was looking for.” He was lying, and he was doing it for Monique. He'd made her sit next to him. The long tablecloth gave him a certain freedom to move. She sat motionless beside him while he touched her leg and ran his hand along the hem of her dress. And a bit farther. Then Monique picked up a full glass, a warning look in her eye. So he stopped—there would be another opportunity to get her back.

All he had to do was hire her friend. And who knows, perhaps that would actually be a good move. This Rossini woman seemed as if she had an in-depth knowledge of perfumery. Besides, he'd put her in sales to begin with. She was nice enough, nothing special, but she'd look pretty good in the right dress. Yes, he decided. He'd hire her, but not as a perfumier. He wasn't stupid enough to put that much trust in a stranger, whatever credentials she might have. The decision cheered him up. He was starting to enjoy this game he was playing with Monique. He was going to win, he was sure. No matter what she might think, in the end he was the one calling the shots.

They finished their dinner in a more relaxed atmosphere. Jacques really turned on the charm. Yet the conversation never broached
anything serious, just touched on a little of this and a little of that, like a light breeze, sometimes warm, but unreliable.

•   •   •

Later, several hours
after her taxi ride home, Elena was still tossing and turning in bed. She didn't like the way they had left things. Of course, now she had a job at Narcissus . . . but she was also convinced that she hadn't got it on her own merit. And that made her angry, because even though a job at Narcissus was exactly what she wanted, this wasn't the way she'd imagined getting it.

She plumped up the pillow, tried lying on her stomach, but the worry wouldn't leave her alone. Monique had stuck to their deal to let Elena handle the situation herself, but that didn't change anything. That job was still a gift. If Montier hadn't had his eye on Monique, and if she hadn't been Monique's friend, she doubted he would have given her a chance. What's more, at the end of dinner he'd made it very clear which job he had in mind for her. He wasn't interested in her experience as a perfumier. At least, not for the moment. First he was going to give her a trial as a simple sales assistant. It brought a lump to Elena's throat to have to accept such humiliation. For a moment she'd even thought about saying no. But then she caught Monique's eye: she knew how much trouble she'd taken to arrange this meeting. So she swallowed her pride and accepted. She didn't want to disappoint Monique. Besides, the important thing was to become part of Narcissus, wasn't it? There would be time to make this man rue his air of superiority. She just needed to be patient for a little bit longer.

She fidgeted, then she sat up. For God's sake, she'd spent her entire life being patient. Patience was her middle name. And she was absolutely sick of it.

The uncomfortable feeling in the middle of her chest turned to rage. How dare he? Who did this guy think he was? Her family had been producing perfume for centuries, and she was willing to bet she
knew more than all the Narcissus employees put together, including Jacques himself.

Her grandmother would just have given him a look; she wouldn't have needed to say a word. She could almost see Lucia putting the arrogant bastard in his place. That made her feel better; but she still couldn't sleep. For a minute she thought about putting on the essence lamp; a few drops of lavender in the water might help her relax and drop off. But she knew she was too wound up.

She got out of bed and put on some clothes, deciding to go for a walk. The night was mild—warm enough for her to go out without a jacket. Once she was in the courtyard, however, she stopped, suddenly frozen by fear. Not because of the dark—she wasn't afraid of that—but of what she might find in the night-time city on the other side of the gate. All she wanted to do was relax, sit down somewhere and look at the stars. She knew it wasn't sensible to go out alone at this time of night, so perhaps she could go up to the roof and find somewhere secluded enough to get some peace and quiet.

She turned back. Once she was inside the entrance to the building, she headed for the stairs. At first, she couldn't work out how many floors there were above her apartment. She'd climbed just three flights when, pushing a door, she found herself out in the open. In front of her, under a starlit sky, there stood some sort of pergola. An intense perfume hung in the air.

Roses. Someone was growing roses up here.

How was that possible? For a moment, she thought she must be mistaken. Come on, they were in the Marais in October, more than thirty feet aboveground. Who could possibly have a garden on the rooftop? But despite what logic told her, her nose wasn't wrong. They were roses all right: tea roses, Damascus roses, Gallic roses, and mint, basil . . . other aromatic herbs. A whole garden. She could smell those perfumes, clear and distinct, as they were carried away and brought
back together, drifting on the nighttime breeze. Curious, she tiptoed forward, partly because of the dark and partly because she felt as if she was intruding. That harmony of fragrances was calling to her. Wet, rich earth. Fruit. To taste and to touch. So many flowers, but predominantly roses. Whoever looked after this garden had created an extraordinary mélange, something with top, middle and base notes. A full, strong, intoxicating perfume. A man, she would have said. A practical, decisive man, someone who did things carefully and above all with precision. And then she remembered him.