The Secret Ways of Perfume (14 page)

“That's right, yes, I'm a perfumier. For what it's worth,” she replied, and turned to go up the stairs.

“That's up to you.”

Elena looked at him over her shoulder. “How do you mean?”

“What it's worth, I mean.”

She laughed wistfully. “You're right. In the end, it's all up to me.”

Cail couldn't take his eyes off Elena's slender figure as she made her way upstairs; he liked the long blond hair swinging across her shoulders, and her frank, direct look; but what struck him straightaway was her smile. When she smiled, she was beautiful.

Suddenly, Elena staggered. She'd reached the landing, one hand on the wall. Cail rushed up to her, taking the stairs two at a time. “What's wrong?” he asked brusquely, grabbing her by the shoulders.

Elena took slow, gentle breaths, and the dizziness started to pass. “Nothing—I'm just a bit light-headed. I'm probably coming down with the flu or something,” she said. But her vision was still blurry, she couldn't breathe properly and she was starting to get really worried. She'd been feeling unwell for a few weeks now—and on a regular basis, too.

“Can you manage?” Cail asked, still holding her up. He spotted the kitchen and led her there. “You're pale, sit down. Where do you keep things?” He started to look through the cupboards. “A cup of tea will do wonders for you,” he added.

“Really?” she asked, still a little fuzzy, leaning back in her chair.

Cail saw the kettle, filled it with water and put it straight onto the stove. He found the tea bags and put one in each cup.

“At least, that's what my mother says. So it must be true.” He stood still and looked at her. Then he went over and put the palm of his hand on her forehead. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

He kept looking at her, as though he was analyzing her answer. Then he nodded. “It's probably just low blood pressure. The tea will do you good.” He left her and went back to the stove, lowering the flame.

“Were you waiting for me before?” she asked, partly because she didn't like thinking about mothers, and partly because she was curious to know.

“Yes,” Cail said. “I wanted to tell you I put a new lock on the terrace.”

Elena stared at him, and the cold teeth of disappointment bit away any happiness she'd felt watching this man busying himself in her kitchen.

“But there's no doorbell, so I thought I'd give you my mobile number and ask you for yours. Next time you fancy looking at the stars, call me first. I . . .” He paused. “I'm not used to having guests.” His voice was so quiet that Elena had to strain to hear him. “Anyway, you still need to tell me why you're afraid of dogs,” he added.

As he spoke, he took a card out of his jeans pocket and placed it on the table. “There you go,” he said, and went to pour boiling water into the cups.

Elena didn't know what to say. He'd waited for her to give her his mobile number. No, better than that: to exchange numbers. All of a sudden she felt lighthearted, like a naive teenager.

“So, what happened to you? When did you get bitten?”

Cail's question brought her back to reality.

“I was little.”

He sat down in front of her, looking into her eyes. “OK, we know you were a child. Then what?”

Elena started to smooth the fabric of the tablecloth with her fingers. She found it hard to dredge up the memory and didn't do it willingly. It was one of those things that she preferred to forget had ever happened. Then she sighed, and the shadow of a smile emerged.

“I was nine and I was very inquisitive. Our dog Milly—a German shepherd—had just had puppies. I didn't know dogs were fiercely protective of their babies.” She paused.

Maurice had told her not to go near them, but Elena disobeyed him. She waited until he was back in the laboratory and sneaked over to the basket. Milly and she were friends—surely she would let Elena hold one of her puppies? They were so cute, so chubby and soft; Elena couldn't wait to stroke them. But when she picked one up, the mother snarled at her. Shocked, Elena instinctively held the puppy to her chest. It was then that Milly threw herself on top of her, biting her arm and then her leg.

She couldn't remember much of what happened next. There was a lot of screaming. Maurice was furious. Even her mother had shouted, blaming Maurice for something; then he had walked away without calling the animal off.

The ambulance siren, the pungent smell of disinfectant, and the fear of that long night spent in the hospital, alone, were etched on her young mind. They weren't serious injuries—the dog hadn't sunk her teeth in—but Elena hadn't forgotten.

Cail put a cup of tea in front of her. Her eyes were still darker than usual; a muscle twitched on one side of her jaw. “Here, sip this slowly. It's very hot.”

He sensed that Elena was angry, but he had no idea why. She blew
on the sweet tea, breathing in its perfume, savoring the sensation of the steam caressing her face.

“That man,” Cail said, after a few seconds. “Who was he?”

Elena creased her forehead. “Maurice?”

Cail nodded. “Milly's owner.”

Elena put the cup to her lips and took a sip.

“When I was eight, he married my mother. Now they both live in Grasse. He owns a laboratory that produces essential oils—roses, mostly, but tuberose and jasmine, too.” Her voice had become monotone: she almost seemed to be talking about someone else, someone who didn't have the slightest connection to her own life.

Cail could tell there was more to this confession. He controlled the rage that had caught him by surprise as he listened to Elena's story. What kind of man would leave a little girl at the mercy of a dog who only wanted to protect her puppies? In such a situation even the most tame creature could become dangerous. It was a miracle Elena had come out of it with just a few stitches. Anger was coursing through him now—and it was ridiculous. He barely knew her: she meant nothing to him. But Cail had long since stopped analyzing the rationality of his own reactions. A long time ago he'd learned to accept them, and then to keep them under control. So he decided to do something for the woman sitting in front of him, trying not to brood over such a painful memory. He wanted to help her. He owed it to her, because even though she didn't know it, she'd be the one to help him through his recurring nightmare about the crash.

“It's Saturday tomorrow, and I need to go out. Seeing as you've just arrived in Paris, I could give you a tour of the city center, if you'd like that.”

With her hands wrapped around the still-warm teacup, Elena shook herself out of her memories.

“That would be wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Although technically
speaking, it's not really my first time in Paris.” She smiled and shrugged. “Mind you, the previous times I was probably too little to appreciate it, because everything seems so new to me now.” The truth was, she had only vague memories of the city, and the prospect of rediscovering it with Cail filled her with joy. She thought he would make a very special guide. She stood up and smiled at him. “Yes, yes. I can't wait.”

Perhaps it was Elena's enthusiasm, or perhaps it was the smile that lit up her face, making her truly beautiful, but something made Cail's heart beat faster. He was thrown by the strength of his own reaction. For a moment, just a moment, he regretted having made the offer.

“All right, I'll pick you up in the afternoon.”

He didn't hang around but simply said goodbye then, leaving his cup of tea on the table, untouched.

•   •   •

For a long
time, Elena stayed sitting at the table, wondering about herself and about this man, until she realized she was actually very tired. She picked at a plate of grilled vegetables, had a shower and decided to take a look through Beatrice's diary. But however hard she tried to concentrate on her ancestor's neat handwriting, the words escaped her. When her mobile rang, she already knew who it would be.

“Hi, Monique.”

“Hello,
chérie
, I couldn't wait to hear from you. So, tell me, any news?”

Elena bit her lip, thinking. She was tempted to tell her friend what was happening, that she kept feeling dizzy and unwell. But maybe it would be better to just ask her for her doctor's number. “Actually, yes,” she said with a sigh.

Monique picked up on that sigh, trying to interpret it. Then she decided she didn't have the patience to decipher her friend that evening.

“If you can't deal with the situation at work, we'll find you something else. I mean, you were right, Narcissus isn't the only perfumery in the city.” There, she'd said it. She was sure it
was
the right place for Elena, but Jacques could be a real idiot. She didn't want Elena being bullied by her former lover.

“It's not about Narcissus, which is actually much better than I anticipated.”

“So what is it?” Monique asked, sounding worried.

Elena opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. Monique already had too much on her plate: her relationship with that impossible man, her new job . . . why give her something else to worry about? Elena decided she would handle this one by herself. If the dizziness came back, she'd go to the doctor. Besides, it couldn't be anything serious; it was bound to pass. Cail was probably right about the low blood pressure. Right now, in fact, she felt completely fine.

“I'm going out tomorrow,” she said instead. “I've got a date, can you believe it?”

Over in her apartment, Monique sat up straight in bed. “Yes, I can believe it,” she said. “Look, it was you who had so little confidence in yourself that you felt you had to make do with that chef guy.” Secretly, she was trying to hide her astonishment. So, things
were
going much better than she'd hoped. Soon Matteo would be a distant memory.

“Tact really isn't one of your strong points, is it?” Elena said. But she was too happy to take offense at her friend's bluntness, so she let it go.

“I say what I think—what's wrong with that? Anyway, stop changing the subject and tell me who's the lucky man?”

Elena made herself comfortable between the cushions and looked at the ceiling.

“Did you know there was a man who lives on the top floor of the building here?”

“Now that I think about it, I do. Isn't he some kind of researcher?” Monique racked her brain, trying to piece together everything she could remember about the neighbor. “Scottish guy, yes. He grows roses . . . yes—yes, that's it. I think he breeds them,” she said, as her mind turned over all the details and scraps of conversations she'd had with her neighbors when she lived in the Marais. “I've seen his roses in magazines a couple of times. He's won prizes, you know.”

“No way.” Elena's eyes widened. “That's why he's got so many plants on the terrace. To be honest, it's not as if I've seen them,” she continued, “but the scent is unmistakable. You can smell it on him, too.”

“Shame he's a bit odd. Now I remember his face . . . he must have been very attractive once.”

Once?
Elena bridled. “Come on, have you looked at him properly? He's not just handsome, he's so much more. There's something about him that draws you in. And the perfume he wears? I've got no idea who created it, but it's extraordinary.”

Monique seriously doubted that Cail McLean put on perfume before he left the house, but she didn't say anything. Elena sounded as if she was infatuated, and there was nothing better than a new romance for getting over a lost love. She smiled happily. From what she could remember, Cail was quite forbidding. He walked quickly, with long, confident strides. He looked out for himself and didn't seem to care about anyone else. A bit too strange for her liking; but if Elena had smelled perfume, maybe he had changed. You never know.

“Is he taking you somewhere nice?”

“It's a surprise. To quote: ‘city center.' That's it, he didn't elaborate. He doesn't seem like one to mince his words. Let's just say he's very concise. Did you know he's got a telescope? He knows the names of the stars.”

“No way. Don't tell me you looked at them together?”

“We may have done—I'm saying nothing.”

Elena was laughing now. Monique hadn't heard her sound that happy for a long time. She might have her doubts, but she knew Cail had lived in the Marais for years and that people respected him. Besides, he couldn't be that bad, if he'd set his sights on her friend. So Monique skipped the usual advice and just asked Elena to stay in touch with a text now and then.

“Of course, don't worry. I'll send you a message when we get back tomorrow. OK?” Elena ended the conversation and put her mobile down on the bed. A rose-breeder—it was such a fascinating job. That explained the smell of earth and roses.

Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow, she would ask him to tell her about himself and his work. She'd soon satisfy her curiosity.

•   •   •

Later that night,
before he fell asleep, Cail analyzed every moment he'd spent with Elena but couldn't find any specific explanation for the interest he was developing in this woman. He liked her—it was as simple as that. And that was something he really couldn't understand.

I
RIS:
trust. Precious and essential, like water, air, earth and fire.

The fragrance is bright and intense.

Relieves tension and renews faith in the soul.

I
t was the third time Monique had been over the formula. She dipped the
mouillette
into the graduated cylinder and sniffed, then waited for the top notes—almond and grapefruit, both volatile—to disappear. She inhaled again, looking for what made up the heart of the perfume: white musk and tonka bean. She waited again, because there was something missing from this compound that should bring to mind the skin of a strong, determined man, the kind women dream about: sandalwood and vetiver.

Nothing—she could smell nothing apart from the sharp tang of vetiver. It wasn't good enough. She wanted a scent that symbolized the purest essence of masculinity—an intense fragrance that promised what no words could ever explain. What she really wanted, in fact, was the smell of Jacques.

“Why can't you just leave me alone!” she burst out, slamming the palm of her hand down on the table.

The graduated cylinder holding the mixture swayed. Monique put out her hand to grab it, but it slipped through her fingers, tipping out its contents. A straw-colored halo spread across the worktop, spilling onto droppers, paper funnels and all the equipment Monique had set out in front of her, including her notebook.

Speechless, she stared at the disaster, and then she swore. She almost ripped her lab coat in her hurry to take it off. She needed air, and space. She opened the door and walked down the corridor. Outside the laboratory that Le Notre had assigned to her, she met the cleaner. “Get rid of that mess—all of it.
Now
,” she ordered brusquely.

She reached the stairs and ran down to the terrace. Despite the bright sun, her breath turned to cold mist almost straightaway. But that wasn't what was clouding Monique's eyes. It was tears of frustration.

She wiped her face and then took a deep breath of icy air. “I'll start again from the beginning,” she vowed. “It doesn't matter if it takes me all day, I
will
make this perfume.”

•   •   •

Claudine had been
watching Elena Rossini all morning. She liked the way this young woman did things. She was competent, polite but firm—and she wouldn't be fobbed off by customers, suggesting alternatives instead. Yes, she was a valuable addition. And Claudine had every intention of making the most of her. After all, a practical woman like herself knew that life as a manager had its advantages. She'd offered her support to Elena Rossini because she could tell she was going to be very useful.

Just then, a sophisticated-looking woman stopped right in front of Claudine's counter. “I want a light perfume,” she said. “Something suitable for a very young girl.”

She hadn't waited to find out whether Claudine was free: she
expected to be served immediately. The woman was smartly dressed and looked around condescendingly, her fingers poised on the arm of a pair of half-moon Gucci spectacles.

Claudine knew this kind of customer all too well. After seven years of serving Narcissus's clients, she'd developed a kind of sixth sense. She'd bet this one was going to be both difficult and stingy. One of those women who are rolling in money, and who want everything to be instant and unique, while expecting it to come cheap—less than they tip their waitresses.

“I'll call the sales assistant,” Claudine replied with her usual serene expression.

She didn't give the customer a chance to respond, savoring every second of the astonished look the woman gave her, as she blithely walked away. As soon as she caught Elena's eye, she beckoned her over and discreetly pointed out the woman. “Madame needs a young, delicate perfume. Try to find something for her.” With that she turned and marched off, leaving Elena to it. If and when the customer pulled out her wallet, only then would Claudine need to make a reappearance, just in time to register the sale in her own name and take all the credit.

•   •   •

Elena had a
special afternoon ahead of her. All morning, thoughts of her date with Cail popped into her mind at the most inappropriate moments. She couldn't wait to go for a walk with him, and felt happy and slightly nervous.

She was very pleased with the way things were going at Narcissus. Even though at first it had sounded less than promising, she'd settled in pretty well. Every day, she understood the dynamics of sales a little better, and that morning she'd had some really enjoyable moments.

A super-chic woman, who looked like an aristocrat, had bought a
perfume for her daughter. She wanted to give her a special present, she said. Things were tense between them. Just like that, her little girl had vanished and been replaced by a gloomy, depressed stranger who was always picking fights. Eloise Chabot wanted something that would make her daughter realize how much she meant to her.

Her own mother, Susanna, had given her a perfume once. Elena had almost forgotten. The memory cropped up out of nowhere, taking her by surprise. It was a birthday present. She'd never opened the perfume; it must still be in Florence, somewhere in the enormous chest in which her grandmother had kept everything.

Elena recommended a simple composition for the woman: almond, honey, peony, chocolate and tonka bean; and as a base note, the warmth and velvety softness of amber. It had a flavor of childhood but also a hint of malice and seduction.

“It's not a girl's perfume, but it's not an adult's either. It doesn't have the certainty of someone who's arrived. There's still a way to go.”

Eloise thanked her with a big smile. When they said goodbye, the woman almost gave her a hug.

It was never like this before, Elena thought as she hurried home. She'd never felt the deep sense of satisfaction that came from knowing that her work was important, that she'd done something significant for someone.

Her mind went back to the perfume her mother had made for her. When she first received it, she felt ridiculously happy for a moment, almost crazy. It was always like that when she got something from Susanna. She held the parcel in her hands . . . then her happiness gradually faded. It felt as if she was holding a broken glass container, full of cracks, and all the contents were seeping out. She made herself put the present away without opening it. She didn't need that kind of gift from her mother. A perfume, for heaven's sake. She could have all the
perfume she wanted. Her grandmother was always creating new ones. And besides, if she really wanted a perfume, she'd make one herself.

What she actually wanted from her mother was quite different, the young Elena thought, as what remained of her momentary happiness turned to anger and bitterness. What she wanted was a hug, hours of conversation, attention, laughter, even tellings-off, the kind that end with tears and promises. She wanted to tell her about the time Massimo Ferri from 3B had asked her out and how disappointing it was when he kissed her. And the way he smelled . . . so wrong.

Oh God! Where had she unearthed that memory from? The blast of a car horn brought her back to reality. A smile crept onto her face. How silly! Massimo Ferri . . . She'd had such a crush on that boy whose name she could remember, but not his face—a crush that disappeared just as quickly as it came.

As ever, she banished anything to do with her mother, and all the pain that went with it, to a suitably deep, dark part of her soul. But she was still curious about the perfume: what Susanna had ended up choosing for her, whether it was vanilla or gardenia, neroli or lavender.

When she reached the crossroads with rue des Rosiers she glanced over at the print-seller. He was huddled up in his big old jacket and had put on a red wooly hat that left his eyes uncovered and made him look younger. She stopped for a moment to watch him, stamping his feet, which had frozen stiff in the cold. When she got home she'd put boots on, she decided. She wanted to be warm on the walk and to see everything Cail had to show her.

In the meantime, the old man had turned on the record player. There it was: “La Vie en Rose.”

She smiled and headed home.

•   •   •

When Cail arrived,
she'd been ready for a while. She was wearing a midnight-blue skirt, a white shirt and a wide-necked sweater. She'd bought it just after she arrived in Paris, in one of those little vintage shops that had cropped up all over the city. It was soft, thick and powder pink; she would never have dreamed of wearing that color when she lived in Florence, and now she loved it. Besides, according to the assistant, it looked divine on her.

“Di-vine,” she repeated to herself as she walked down the stairs, trying to recall the exact inflection the woman had used.

“Hi,” she said, opening the door.

Cail stared at her without saying anything. Elena felt him look her up and down. She held her breath; her heart was racing.

“You should wear a jacket,” was all he said.

“Oh.” Elena scowled. Short, sharp and to the point. God, it wasn't as if she was expecting a kiss or anything.
Liar
, she scolded herself, fighting the sting of disappointment.

“Right, here it is,” she said, turning around. On the wall was one of those old-fashioned coatracks, and on it hung a long wool jacket.

Cail took it out of her hand, felt the material and shook his head. “That won't do. You need something thicker.”

“I'll be right back.” A few minutes later she came down wearing a leather jacket and a scarf around her neck.

Cail looked at her and nodded his approval. But he didn't return her smile; he appeared to be deep in thought. Now what was wrong? He almost seemed angry.

“Look, if you've changed your mind, if you don't feel like going anymore, that's no problem.”

He ignored what she was saying. Instead, he asked: “Are you all right?”

No, of course she wasn't all right. She was confused and couldn't understand what had got into him. She frowned. “Yes. Are you?”

“Seriously, Elena. We're taking the motorbike and it'll be cold.”

Motorbike? She'd never been on one—she'd always been a bit scared of the noise. Then all her doubts disappeared. Cail had a motorbike and he wanted to take her on it!

“I didn't know you had a bike. But won't I need a helmet? I don't have one,” she said with a hint of disappointment in her voice.

Cail raised an eyebrow. “There's a spare helmet,” he said. Then he stretched out his hand and, with the tip of his forefinger, he lifted a lock of hair that was hanging in her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“Do your jacket up.”

He stepped back and cast that moody look over her again, from top to toe. Elena felt her heart flutter.

“Let's go, it's getting late,” he said, putting an end to their strangely charged moment. Two minutes later, Elena was looking at a giant chrome racer, metallic black, with red flames painted on the gas tank. Hermione, Cail told her it was called.

Elena didn't bat an eyelid. Who was she to tell him it was ridiculous to give a motorbike a woman's name? So she bit her lip until the urge to giggle had passed, focusing on the best way to get herself onto the thing.

“Here, I'll show you,” Cail told her.

“It's easy for you, but my legs are nowhere near as long as yours,” she protested, looking apprehensively at the seat of the Harley. Cail shook his head. Once he'd fastened the strap on her helmet, he slid an arm around her waist. A moment later she was on the back of the bike. The engine rumbled, low at first, then louder. When they set off, Elena was clinging so tightly to Cail she was afraid he might object. In the end, she decided nothing would have convinced her to loosen her grip.

•   •   •

City of Light
.

If three little words could describe Paris, it would undoubtedly be those. The city shone and sparkled with life. It was only five in the afternoon, but a veil of cloud had dimmed the sunlight and the whole of Paris had lit up in response to the invitation. And, as Elena thought about it then, it was that glow that had lingered in her mind since childhood—that and the perfume. The city smelled of cars, people, food and tobacco. There was another perfume that came off the Seine, too, hot and stifling. Only now it was different, for there was also the smell of this man she was holding on to so tightly: strong, warm and intriguing, a mixture of herbs and leather, and sweetness.

It was comforting to have his firm back to cling to. She also felt slightly concerned, as if she was about to do something stupid. After all, he was a stranger, a charming man who had decided to show her a wonderful and very romantic city. If only she could hear the strains of “La Vie en Rose,” she thought, the moment would have been even more magical.