The Secret Ways of Perfume (21 page)

“There's been a misunderstanding, mademoiselle. You were not hired by this company to make perfumes, remember? We talked about this. I have expert staff to handle that. Your job is sales. You should apply your efforts there and leave the composition to someone qualified. As you can see, you're obviously not suited to such a delicate task. Perfumery is not an improvised art form.”

Elena was stunned. She'd simply stood and listened to what Claudine had said because she had no comeback. She'd trusted this woman, and she'd been deceived. Suddenly, it all made sense: Claudine wanted the perfume formula for herself. That's why she was so keen to let her make it, keeping their bosses in the dark. And Elena had fallen for it. She hadn't checked whether Philippe or Montier knew about her project. She'd never even thought to do so because she'd been so wrapped up in creating the perfume of Notre-Dame. In the end, it was her own fault.

But she wasn't going to stay and work there: she knew she couldn't stand another moment in that place.

“You know what, Montier, you're quite right. There has been a very serious misunderstanding,” she said, taking off her white coat. “I'll get my things and leave you to make, sell and wear your own perfumes.” She finished her speech as she reached the door. Then she stopped and turned around.

“Give me back my notebook.”

A sneer spread across the man's face. “You mean this?” he said, holding up the pad.

“Precisely.” Elena gritted her teeth; she was at the end of her tether. She focused on Jacques, because if she'd looked at Philippe or Claudine, she would have started screaming.

“This doesn't belong to you. Everything that is formulated, tested or simply experimented with inside Narcissus is mine. Didn't you read your contract?”

“What are you talking about?”

Jacques smiled. “Come to think of it, that clause probably escaped you. After all, it applies to perfumiers and you, mademoiselle, as I have already told you, were a sales assistant.”

It wasn't the first time Elena had encountered such pettiness but this intention to hurt, to willfully humiliate someone, was completely new to her. Jacques's malice was cold, slimy. It turned her stomach, but there was no way she was going to break down in front of those people. She had to be tough. She could think of only one thing: finding the exit, getting out of that place and forgetting all about them. She poured every ounce of her contempt into the look she gave Montier. Then she left: she didn't even want to breathe the same air as them.

“Keep my notes,” she muttered.

They wouldn't do him any good. They were just observations, the odd paragraph. Elena had made a note of the mélanges but she'd changed them at the last minute. She was about to write down the new quantities when Claudine came in. Of course, Elena knew that a good perfumier would be able to work it all out—but they'd have to use gas chromatography. That test was the only way they had of finding out for sure which essences she'd used in the composition, and in what quantities. It was scant consolation, but enough to give Elena the strength to push the open button. Once she was out in the corridor,
she walked to the cloakroom at the end, put on her coat, took her bag out of her locker and slipped out of the back door.

The air was like a wall of ice against her skin. She stood for a few seconds, trying to adjust to it. She felt ill. A pain had started in her chest and ran all the way up to her throat. She wasn't crying, that wasn't it. Maybe that would have been better. Instead, this anger, this knot was caught inside her, like a warning. She'd been tricked and cheated because of her foolish trust in other people. She'd just lost her job, her future, her dreams, at the hands of someone she'd all too lightly assumed to be a loyal colleague. This was the second time she'd put her trust in the wrong person.

She slid her hands into her pockets for warmth and started walking. People rushed around her but she paid no attention. She couldn't hear anything; she was wrapped in a numbness that protected her like a cocoon. She just needed to walk: soon she'd be in the Marais, and home. She'd have to move out, she realized. But she didn't want to think about that. Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her.

“Elena, what's wrong? Why didn't you wait for me? I told you I'd come and pick you up.”

She kept on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. He wouldn't stop calling her, but she didn't want to answer. What could she possibly say to him? “I didn't wait for you because I couldn't bear to stay in that place a minute longer”?

Cail followed her for a few meters. When she still wouldn't speak, he took her arm and led her into a café.

“A cup of tea will do you wonders,” he said, helping her take off her coat. He ordered tea for them both and asked for a slice of Sacher torte.

“Can you sit down on your own, or do you need a hand?” Cail kept his tone light, but he was worried sick. Elena was frighteningly pale and shaking. But her eyes sparked with fury.

“I walked out,” she said, out of nowhere, still standing up.

Cail wanted to storm off immediately to Narcissus and demand an explanation from Elena's boss. But for now, it was more important for her to sit down, drink her tea and start breathing normally.

“OK. You'll find a better job. Obviously that one wasn't really right for you.”

“He stole my notes. He said he owns everything that's produced there.”

Cail gestured toward the seat. “Why don't you start again from the beginning?” he said gently, forcing himself to stay relaxed. Elena blew her nose. When the waiter came over with their order, she finally decided to sit down.

“Drink it while it's hot.” Cail gave her a generous portion of cake, put sugar in her tea and added lemon. When she picked up a piece of cake he breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a while before Elena started talking. He filled the difficult wait by telling her how his day had been, lingering over John's exploits and what he was going to make for dinner later.

“Do you remember my mentioning a Madame Binoche?” Elena said finally.

Cail nodded. “Sure, the woman from Notre-Dame.”

“I was working on her perfume today . . .” Elena recounted the whole horrible episode. When she'd finished, she swallowed down another sip of tea and blinked back the tears stinging her eyes, which she refused to shed.

“Jacques took the book where I kept my notes.”

Cail clenched his fist beneath the table.

“I don't know how Monie can be with him. He's awful,” Elena whispered, then she put her hand over her mouth. “I don't feel very well.”

“Do you want to go home?”

Elena shook her head.

Cail reached for her hand and held it tightly in his. It was soft and cold.

“I wanted to tell him that he was a despicable human being,” Elena went on.

Cail thought about having a word with this Montier himself. Only he'd say something quite different.

“Are you still hungry? No. Do you fancy a walk then? We could go down to the river?”

Why not? It wasn't as if she had to go to work the next day. Elena put on her coat and followed Cail outside. The night was like a sheet of icy black glass.

B
LACK PEPPER:
perseverance. Warm and stimulating, the “King of Spices.”

The fragrance awakens the senses, promotes inner strength.

Teaches us that when it seems there is nowhere to go, we've just lost our way.

“M
ight I ask why you're not using your keys? And don't even think about pretending you forgot them.” Leaving Cail and Monique standing in the doorway of the apartment, Elena hauled herself back upstairs to the living area. The two exchanged a look, then followed her. Upstairs, Cail put the kettle on the stove and opened a box full of colorful
macarons
. He'd been all the way to the Champs-Élysées to buy them from Ladurée. He put them on the table and a subtle perfume of meringue and fruity cream emerged from the box, drifting through the kitchen.

“Elena, we have a proposal for you,” Monique said.

“Is that so?” Elena mumbled, taking her favorite seat in front of the window. She threw a blanket around herself and started fiddling with the tassels. She was in a foul mood. She hadn't left the house for a week, and her skin was so pale it looked almost transparent.

Cail stole glances at Elena out of the corner of his eye as he made
the tea. He hoped Monique's plan was going to work, otherwise he'd have to come up with something else.

“Cail and I have put our heads together,” Monique went on. “We think the time has come to open a perfumery. Or rather, for you to open one—we'll give you financial backing.”

There, she'd said it. Monique took the cup that Cail handed to her and focused on the amber-colored liquid. She really needed something warm. The air in the apartment was frosty. Didn't Elena have the heating on?

She waited a few minutes, then asked: “So, what do you say?”

“I'm tired. I'm going to bed,” Elena replied. She stood up, her head bowed. She'd almost made it to the bedroom when Cail blocked her way.

“If you don't like the idea, if you don't feel like it, you at least have to tell us why.”

Elena had had enough. For days she'd been trying to work out what to do, but there was nothing she could do, nothing she could say. However she looked at it, her plans were in ruins, along with the ifs and buts of what remained of her self-esteem. Claudine might have been the one who had double-crossed her, taken advantage of her, but Elena herself had let her do it. She hadn't even bothered to check with Montier to see whether he knew about the perfume Madame Binoche had ordered; she hadn't even spoken to him about her new role in the laboratory. She'd just taken her colleague's word for it. For everything.

What made it worse, what hurt the most, was knowing that deep down she'd been fooling herself. She should have questioned Claudine's strange behavior—but no, she'd ignored it, dismissing it out of hand. Because she
wanted
to make that perfume. She couldn't forgive herself: she'd put her trust in the wrong people and she felt a fool. And the mistake would cost her dearly, because how could she get another
job with a baby on the way? And this put her in another quandary: money. She didn't have much left, nowhere near enough to see her through the rest of the pregnancy. She would have to leave Paris. Go back to Florence, where she had a house. It was the only option she had left, but it meant giving up her plans. And Cail. Because she wasn't going to take her friends' money. She had nothing to offer them in return, nothing she could put down as her stake. This wasn't a company; it was a gift.

She lifted her head and retorted, “I don't have to explain anything to you,” but before she could finish the sentence, she burst into tears. “I'm not a charity case. I can find another job. I can . . .”

Cail let her carry on for a moment before folding his arms across his chest and saying, “Have you quite finished?”

Monique decided to give them a few minutes alone. She went downstairs, hoping Cail could make her friend see sense, or at least drag her from the depths of self-pity she'd been wallowing in.

Once Cail was reasonably sure Elena wouldn't have another meltdown, he took her hand and pulled her into the bathroom.

“Take a shower, calm yourself down and come back downstairs. We've got a serious business proposal to make—it's not charity and it's not a gift. And there's another thing: I wanted to ask you to come to Provence with me. I need to go there for a couple of days. A change of scene would do you and the baby good.”

“I'm not coming with you.”

“Why not? I'll take you to meet my mother. She's a lovely woman, you'll like her, you'll see.”

“I said no.”

“Not even if I told you I think I've found where Beatrice wrote her diary?”

Despite herself, Elena's eyes widened. “That's not true,” she whispered.

Cail shrugged. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Silently, she shook her head, then gave a long sigh. “I'm going to take a shower. Can you leave, please?”

He closed the bathroom door and went downstairs, a hint of a smile on his face.

“She'll be down in a bit,” he told Monique.

The woman lifted her head from the magazine she was flicking through and said, “Thank you for being there for her.”

Cail frowned. “You don't need to thank me. I'm not just doing it to be neighborly, if that's what you're thinking.”

“I know exactly why you're doing it, and I didn't mean that.” Monique was tired and she'd just had a nasty argument with Jacques. The last in a long line. The last ever, she hoped. As long as she could resist him.

“That guy . . . that Montier, he's not a nice man,” Cail stated, and he shot her a warning glance.

“Jacques told me everything,” Monique replied. “He said you went looking for him at his office.”

It was true. Cail had gone to Narcissus to have a word with him. The next day, Elena had her notepad back, along with a written apology and an invitation to return to work.

“He told me he fired Claudine,” Monique continued.

“He stole Elena's perfume.”

“Technically he only tried to,” she said. “And anyway, as soon as the perfume is finished Jacques will put it on the market, and then he'll pay Elena what he pays all the perfumiers who work for him. And believe me, it's a handsome figure. He was very sorry about what happened.” She looked over at the staircase. “He's not a bad person underneath,” she concluded.

“It'll be best for him if he stays away from Elena,” Cail replied coldly. “He seems like the kind of man who brings nothing but trouble.”

Elena came down just in time to hear the last few words. And she felt ashamed. She'd been horrible to Cail, and instead of leaving and slamming the door behind him, he was still there, waiting for her. He'd even brought her the best
macarons
in Paris.

“I . . . I wanted to say I'm sorry. I haven't been in the best of moods lately,” she said quietly.

She was pale, but she'd had a shower and changed her clothes. She looked very young in a black, ribbed dress with her hair loose over shoulders. Cail looked at her, as Monique went over and wrapped her arms around her.

“One of these days it'll be your turn to look after me,” Monique said, patting Elena's slightly rounded stomach, just visible under the tight dress. “Don't think for a minute that you're going to get off lightly.”

“Can you wait a few years, though? Let me get myself together first?” Elena smiled, hugging her just as tightly.

“No worries. How does a decade sound?”

Elena laughed and shook her head. “Too long.”

“Let's sit down. We need to talk.” Cail took a bundle of papers out of his pocket and handed them to Elena. They were creased, but the handwriting was neat and everything was set out in an orderly fashion. He hadn't used a computer; he'd written it all out by hand.

“Remember Ben, my friend who lives around here?”

Elena nodded.

“His girlfriend, Colette, works for a big accountancy firm. She can handle the shop license and, at least in the early stages, I think it'd make sense if she handled the accounts as well. That way, you can focus on the business.”

“You're talking as if this is a done deal.”

Monique sighed. “Don't make it so difficult,
chérie
. I'm exhausted. We all know that opening a perfumery is what you want. You've got
what it takes, you've got the skills, and you know how to deal with customers.”

Elena stood up and started to pace up and down. But Monique kept up the momentum; she got to her feet and followed her.

“Would you just hear me out?” Monique asked, exasperated.

“I can't contribute to the costs now, so it's not a company,” Elena replied stubbornly.

“If you'd just stop for a minute, if you'd actually listen, you'd know that Montier's going to pay you for the perfume.”

“You didn't tell me that,” Elena said, standing still.

Monique rolled her eyes. “Yes, I did. You just didn't listen to me!”

“Why don't you two sit down?” Cail ushered them toward the sofas. “I can't keep up if you're constantly walking around me.”

The two of them went over to him. Elena sat beside him, Monique on the sofa opposite. They looked at one another for a few seconds, then Elena straightened out the papers Cail had given her.

“How much will he pay for the perfume?” she asked tentatively.

“Enough to settle the bills and keep you going for at least a year,” Monique replied. “Including a full stock of essences.”

That last bit wasn't true, but she'd take care of the stock herself, by speaking to Le Notre's suppliers. Le Notre was very pleased with the perfumes Monique had created and would be happy for her to use his contacts. She hadn't even told Cail; she was keeping this one to herself. Truth was, she felt responsible for what had happened. She should have kicked Jacques out of her life for the way he'd treated Elena. Instead she'd listened to his excuses—and worse still, she'd accepted them.

“Let's say we do go into business,” Elena said, as she looked around the room. “To be honest, there is enough space here.” The room was in pristine condition thanks to all the work Cail had done, and it looked straight out onto the street. “We could have the laboratory
upstairs and anyway, in the beginning I could use ready-made essences. But how would we find customers?”

“Advertising,” Cail replied. “Yours won't be just any old perfumery. You can read people's feelings; you can give them what they want. As soon as word gets around, you'll have more clients than you know what to do with.”

“Exactly,” confirmed Monique.

Elena couldn't deny that talking to people who wanted to have their own perfume made was the thing she liked most: this creative side of perfumery made her feel important. Like an interpreter, she was the point of contact between the perfume and the customer.

“What about furniture?” she whispered.

“That's easy. I'll get it all at the market at Porte de Vanves,” Cail said. “I enjoy restoring it. Plus it'll give the place some character. I'll just need to put in some spotlights to brighten up the room.”

“Yes. That's an excellent idea.” Monique nodded.

Elena thought of the huge glazed porcelain pots crammed into her grandmother's storeroom. They would have been perfect. Maybe even a few books on the display shelves. Slowly, the strange, bitter apathy that had come over her in the last few days dissipated, making way for hope.

“OK, so saving on the fittings will help, but it won't be enough.” She gave it some thought and then looked at them both. “I could use the Rossini formulas to start with. They're very simple, natural perfumes. The essences aren't too expensive, and I could use them at least until I have the chance to create some myself.”

“Or you could use synthetic products,” Monique said.

“Yes, I could do that, it's just . . .” She paused. “If I want it to work, if I want to stand out from everyone else, every perfume has to connect with the consciousness of the individual wearing it. And without
natural essences I won't be able to create a special perfume, just a good one. Plus, I can't compete with the big brands unless I'm truly authentic. Of course, chemical products are much cheaper, and they have infinite potential, but they're completely lacking in mystery.”

“Mystery? What do you mean?” Cail asked, intrigued.

“In alchemy, every natural essence is composed of sap, or juice—that's the physical part—and mystery, the part that contains the essence's potential, virtues and benefits. It's an energy field. Only living organisms can release it. That means that perfumes made with natural essences are different from synthetic ones. They're alive. And I will use every technique I know,” Elena continued. “Every secret I learned from my grandmother, who really believed in this philosophy. Perfume is life; it mixes with the body's energy and strengthens it. I'll bring out the whole repertoire. I'll look through the family journals. I could adjust the perfumes according to the customer's needs, recombine them on spec. That way, everyone gets their own personalized perfume without having to wait.”