The Secret Ways of Perfume (22 page)

Cail agreed with her entirely. After a few minutes Monique nodded, too, but reminded her: “You realize that at the most you'll have four, maybe five hundred fragrances rather than three or four thousand.”

“I've thought of that,” Elena replied.

“Right, if that's your choice, OK. I agree.” Monique grinned. “Your grandmother would be jumping for joy. It's been so long since I heard that word. ‘Mystery': the alchemic part of a plant, its vitality.”

They talked for a long time, making notes, agreeing on some things, arguing about others. But by the time Monique decided to head home, they'd laid the foundations of the company. Jasmine would receive a rent for their use of the property, even though she didn't know it yet. Cail would handle the fittings, maintenance, advertising and any admin. Elena would make the perfumes and manage
the shop. Ideally, it would open in time for Christmas, but as it was already the beginning of December, they'd have to wait for their commercial licenses before deciding on an opening date.

•   •   •

“Are you sure
you don't want to stay for dinner?” Elena asked at the door.

“No, I told you,” Monique said. “I've got to be somewhere else.” She smiled—she was thrilled at the outcome of their meeting. “I absolutely love this idea,
chérie
. Just think: a shop of our own, a dream come true!”

As Monique left, Elena realized she was feeling just as excited as her friend. She went back inside, shivering. Cail was upstairs. The smell of tomato sauce drifted toward her, reminding her that she hadn't had anything to eat since that morning.

She took the stairs gingerly. There was a lot she wanted to say, and a lot more she wanted to do. Their relationship was one long series of postponements. It was as though the baby were an obstacle between them. Suddenly she stopped. The memory of her stepfather turned her stomach. Even if Cail . . . but she couldn't finish the sentence. Because she knew there wasn't the slightest chance that he would act the same way. Cail had been happy about the baby from the start. No, Cail wasn't Maurice. He was . . . but she couldn't find a comparison. There was nothing in her past that came close to their relationship. She only knew that she felt wonderful when she was with him. She didn't even have to say anything and he knew what was on her mind. When he was away, all she did was think about him. Being around him was the only time she felt truly alive.

“
Merde
,” she cursed under her breath. She would have loved to have a chat about
l'amour
with dear old Monsieur Lagose. Unfortunately, she'd probably never see him again.

“I'm draining the pasta in two minutes,” Cail said, hearing her
come into the kitchen. Elena looked at him, leaning over the stove, a strand of spaghetti between his lips, and felt a pang inside her heart. It was like pain, but it felt good: it gave her a warm glow, but at the same time it scared her to death.

“I'll lay the table,” she said, forcing her hands to move.

He nodded, distracted. He put the pasta into a bowl, added a couple of ladles of sauce and a generous handful of Parmesan. He had gone to buy it specially from a shop selling Italian products; he told Elena he'd been doing this for a while. He was crazy about tomato sauce. He'd been taught to make it by an American woman who used extra virgin olive oil, a little bit of onion, a clove of garlic, and ripe tomatoes, blanched and crushed with a fork, all cooked together in a silver pan. At first Elena couldn't believe it, then Cail showed her the photographs on his phone. “Those pans must have cost a fortune,” she'd remarked, her eyes widening at the thought.

She sliced the bread and finished laying the table, deep in thought.

“Do you really think you've found the castle that belonged to Beatrice's lover?”

Cail filled her plate with spaghetti. “Eat first, then I'll tell you all about it.”

Elena was too hungry to argue. And the spaghetti smelled wonderful.

“So, how did you find it?” she asked not long after she'd started eating.

Cail shrugged. “There are a few clues in the diary about locations, if you look carefully. Things that only mean something to you if you've already seen them. But remember, this is just a theory.”

Elena shook her head. “True, but finding the formula for the Perfect Perfume doesn't matter anymore. I expect Madame Binoche will buy the Notre-Dame perfume from Narcissus.” She should telephone her, she thought. But she didn't know what to tell her about the unpleasant
situation with Montier. She'd just have to tell her the truth: that from now on, another perfumier would be handling the project.

“That doesn't mean anything, though, don't you think? If we solve the mystery, you could still use Beatrice's formula as the basis for a particular line,” Cail replied.

The more Elena thought about it, the less she believed in it. “We have to concentrate on the business now. But you said something before, about recognizing the place, the château?”

“I said there's a good chance,” he pointed out. “It's not far from my parents' place. So, will you come with me?”

Elena thought about it. “A weekend . . . yes, I think I can spare that.”

“That's my girl.” Cail smiled.

C
INNAMON:
seduction. A full-bodied, sensual and intensely feminine perfume.

The fragrance is exotic and spicy.

Passionate and warm like the sun in the faraway lands where it is grown.

M
ontier kept his word. The money eased Elena's worries about the future and she gradually gained in confidence. She was a little sad not to be working on the perfume for Geneviève Binoche, and she still thought about it occasionally, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. The business was almost up and running and she was rushed off her feet in the last days before opening.

“Is here OK?” Cail looked at her, waiting for a decision. Elena chewed her lip, thinking.

“A bit more to the right. There, that's it.” But then she changed her mind. “No . . . no, that's not right. Let's try it over there.” Ben shot Cail an exasperated look, as both men went back to lifting the heavy bench to the opposite side of the room.

“Couldn't you do her an artist's impression on the computer?” Ben whispered, stifling a curse.

“Shut up and keep moving,” Cail panted.

“We've had this in practically every possible position,” his friend hissed.

“We still need to carry the armchairs and the coffee table inside and put them in place. Save your breath, you'll need it,” Cail replied with effort.

Elena joined them. “I can't hear you if you whisper,” she said, eyeing them suspiciously.

“That's the idea,” Ben replied with a smirk.

“You volunteered for this,” Elena snapped. “You said arranging the furniture would be ‘a piece of cake.' I remember it quite clearly. Would you like me to quote the exact words you used?”

Cail rolled his eyes. Then he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and steered him outside.

“She's pregnant, Ben. You don't stand a chance against her. She'll tear you to shreds and you'll be the one apologizing.”

Silence. “Is that how she treats you?” Ben asked.

Cail fixed him with a beady eye. “No. I'm a different story.”

“I don't understand why she's getting angry with me anyway—it's not like I'm the one who got her into this situation. It should be you she's sharpening her claws on.”

Cail was about to explain to his friend that the baby wasn't his. But the words stuck in his throat.

“Apparently she still likes me,” he mumbled, picking up the heavy armchair.

“When are you getting married?”

Cail stifled a grunt. He gave the chair a tug and lugged it inside. Ben, who had no intention of dropping the issue, followed him inside with a wide grin on his face.

“Don't you think you've skipped a few stages?” he kept on. “First you get married,
then
you start with the kids. Didn't your mother tell you? No wonder Elena's so grumpy . . .”

“That's not grumpy. You haven't seen her get grumpy,” Cail said, panting. “And if you've quite finished, there's another shelf to sort out.”

“Another one!” Ben exclaimed. “What the hell are you supposed to put on all these shelves?”

“Soaps, essences, water, everything you need to make perfume.” Cail pointed at the door. “The distiller's going upstairs, in Elena's laboratory. And be careful, it's very fragile.”

Ben decided he'd keep his mouth shut from then on. Every time he opened it to start complaining, Cail found something else for him to pick up, dust or move.

“I can hear a mobile,” Elena said out of the blue. Not far from her, next to the perfume shelf, was Cail's leather jacket.

“It's mine,” he told her.

Since Elena was closest, she found the phone and handed it to him. “McLean,” he said, without checking who was calling, as he smudged some dust from the end of Elena's nose with his thumb.

“What?” he repeated, sounding concerned. “What happened? Calm down, Mom, and start from the beginning.” He reached for Elena's hand, grasping it tightly.

“Where is he now?” He listened for a few seconds, then ran his fingers through his hair. “I'll get on the first flight.” He closed his phone and grabbed the jacket Elena was holding. “My dad had a car accident. I have to leave straightaway.”

Ben stared at him in silence. “Can I do anything?” he asked.

Cail nodded. “Finish helping Elena, please.”

She walked him to the door. “I'm really sorry, Cail.”

“I'll call you later. Ben will bring the rest of the furniture inside. Phone Monique. Tell her I don't know when I'll be back and say that you need some help,” he replied hurriedly.

“I can manage quite well by myself,” she said, following him into the hallway.

Cail whipped around. “For God's sake, just for once could you do as I ask!” He didn't wait for a response, but left her there as he bounded up to his apartment, taking the stairs two at a time. Elena stood in the doorway. It was the first time Cail had spoken to her like that. She understood that he was upset, but she was hurt by the look he'd given her, by the harsh way he'd acted.

They'd almost finished arranging the furniture when Cail strode past her door. Elena saw him heading for the front entrance. He didn't even wave. She turned around, forcing herself to focus on the bottles she was unpacking.

“Elena, can you come here for a moment?”

She looked up and saw Cail in front of her. He was tense, the angry scar looking as if it was about to burst out from his anxious face.

“I thought you'd already left.”

“I came back. Is it OK if we talk for a minute? Come on, let's go outside.”

In the hallway they stared at each other in silence.

“Haven't you thought this might not be about you?” he asked. “Maybe I'm the one who needs to know you're safe. Maybe I can't leave knowing you're going to be on your own.”

Elena crossed her arms. “I'm not an invalid.”

“You're pregnant, Elena. I know you're not an invalid, but you are pregnant, you could faint. Remember? You nearly fell down the stairs once.”

“But I didn't,” she protested. “You can't worry your head about something that didn't even happen. You can't live like that,” she told him crossly.

He stared at her for a moment, then half-closed his eyes. “OK, fine. Have it your way. I won't go.” He grabbed the backpack he'd put down by the door and went back up the stairs to his apartment. Elena watched
him go and bit back a couple of choice words. The man was as stubborn as a mule.

“Fine! I'll phone Monique,” she shouted after him.

He turned around and came back down.

“Promise?”

“OK, OK, I promise,” she said unwillingly. “Now hurry up or you'll miss the plane.”

Cail leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.

He'd reached the door when she called out, “What about John?”

“Ben will look after him. Now go back inside and wrap up warm.”

Elena lost what little patience she had left. “Don't order me about like that, Cail. I don't like it.”

He tensed up immediately. “Just do what I say. We'll talk about it when I get back.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Elena watched him go with her heart in her mouth and a distinct urge to break something.

Once the mood subsided, she was just left with a sharp sense of loss and guilt.

•   •   •

Cail was away
for a week. Their phone calls were brief, and once Elena knew that his father was out of danger, she delegated the job of answering to Monique. She was dying to hear his voice, to see him—and that made her angry. She forced herself to work, to focus on what she needed to do, but quickly discovered that the head was one thing, and the heart quite another.

When Cail got back, the shop was almost ready to open. The retail license had arrived swiftly, thanks to Colette's expertise and contacts, and Monique had done the rest using Le Notre's suppliers. They still had to get what they needed for the laboratory, but that wasn't a priority.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.” Elena was nervous, and her hands were shaking. She kept her eyes fixed on the bottles she was arranging.

“You've done a great job,” he said, looking around.

“Yep,” she replied.

Cail came over and held out a rose. “Peace?”

“I don't like orders.”

“Neither do I.”

“That's funny, because you make a pretty convincing general, believe me.”

Cail just kept on waving the beautiful flower under her nose. It had warm gold petals that turned carmine pink at the edges. “It's called Peace,” he said. Elena, fascinated by the mild and fruity perfume emitted by its silky petals, reached out and accepted the rose.

“But its other name is Joy,” he went on.

“How so?”

Cail stroked her face with his thumb. Elena was pale and the circles under her eyes were deep.

“Because every country gives it their own name. In Italy it's Joy, in America it was Peace, in Germany Gloria Dei. For Meilland, its creator, it was just Madame Meilland, and it changed the fate of his family. Although they were almost ruined by the Second World War, with this rose they were able to recover and make their fortune.” He stopped and looked at her tenderly. “So . . . Peace?”

She nodded slowly, and he pulled her to his chest, pressing his lips against her temple.

Someone had hit Cail's father's car from behind. He'd escaped with a broken arm and a few cracked ribs, but that was all Cail would say about the trip. He didn't want to talk about it, and Elena decided not to push him. Her questions could wait. Besides, preparations for the opening were taking up all her time and energy.

For the next few days, they worked from morning until late in the evening. Elena occasionally noticed Cail looking at her intently. His gloomy, almost furtive glances unnerved her.

“We'll have to postpone the trip to Beatrice's castle,” he told her one night. They were sitting at the bottom of the stairs, exhausted. Cail had just finished installing the fire extinguishers in the laboratory. For the time being Elena was restricted to using ready-made essences, but as soon as the authorization came through she would be able to start extracting them herself.

She nodded, thoughtful. She was quiet for a while, then rested a hand on his, asking, “What kind of woman do you think Beatrice was? I mean, you've been reading her diary for a while . . . Have you managed to get a sense?”

Cail stared at a patch of ceiling and said, “She was a dreamer. She had her moment of glory, but it wasn't enough for her. Nothing was ever enough for her. She was one of those people who are never satisfied, who have to try everything, who always push themselves that little bit further.” His voice was flat, distant. This conversation was too intense, too personal.

“It sounds as if you're talking about someone you knew.”

Cail shrugged. “What about you? What do you think of her?”

“That she followed her heart. And I don't think that's a bad thing.”

“No, but she paid the price.”

“Everything has a price, Cail. It's up to you to decide whether you're prepared to pay it and take the risk, or whether it's better to stand back and watch someone braver.”

“We're talking about Beatrice, right?”

“Right.” She took back her hand. A heavy silence fell over them.

“I'm sorry we have to postpone the trip.” After a long pause, Elena started talking again. More than anything she did it to fill the gulf that had suddenly opened between them. She would have liked to go
deeper into what Cail was saying, but he was lost in his own thoughts, wearing a somber expression.

“Beatrice, her life, her ill-fated romance—it's a fascinating mystery,” she went on. “You know, I was thinking about the perfume she created. Everyone in my family has always talked about it as though it were the greatest perfume in the world, a genuine elixir, able to change a person's mood. The Philosopher's Stone of perfumes. I wonder what the basic ingredients were?”

Cail yawned. “I don't think they would be much different from the ones you use now. But maybe there weren't as many then. Lots of substances have been discovered recently, right?”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean there were fewer ingredients, because in Beatrice's time other essences were available that you don't find today, like civet, musks, roots and some kinds of sandalwood, not to mention ambergris.”

He gave this some thought. “What do you say we pick up our research again in the spring? The shop will be up and running by then.”

“Yes, I think we'll have to wait until then.” It was upsetting, because Cail seemed to have turned back into the man she had met when she first arrived in Paris. Distant, uncommunicative.