The Little Perfume Shop Off The Champs-Élysées. Rebecca Raisin
now.
‘But French men are hot, like throw-caution-to-the-wind hot, right?’ Jen’s latest project was pushing me to find a soulmate. But only because she’d fallen in love, mind you. Suddenly she was all, oh look at that guy, he’s got marriage material written all over him, or knock me down that guy looks like he’d make adorable babies, why don’t you ask for his number? Like I was some kind of desperado, champing at the bit to get married when I clearly was not.
The dreamy romantic in her was new, and I wished she’d get over it already. Sure, I wanted the fairytale too, love, marriage, babies, but first I needed my career to take off. Love would have to wait. Besides, I was so overwhelmingly bad at dating. My previous relationships had all fizzled out because when I got lost making perfume all else faded to black, and that wasn’t conducive to a healthy relationship. Turning up to a dinner date a day late one too many times had put paid to any chance of love; besides, no one had made my heart sing. Depressing, really, since my thirties were creeping up.
Whoever I met had to be as important to me as perfumery, and when you come from a town as small as I did, it wasn’t hard to find yourself single. The dating pool was more of a puddle really.
Perfumery was the key to a decent future. Security. As much as I loved my folks, I didn’t want to end up like them, unemployed drifters with no ambition, relying on us to care for them.
‘Well?’ she said again. ‘You’ve met someone, haven’t you?’
‘What? No. I’ve been here for all of five minutes!’ I said exasperated. ‘Look, I’m sure there’s plenty of princes among the frogs, but who cares? That’s the last thing I’ll be worrying about.’ With the proverbial rug pulled from under me, I had to plow ahead and chase a different future or else I’d end up back home, a failure, my five-year plan now just words on parchment. Things seemed more precarious than ever before. Sure, I’d still go to New York, but it wouldn’t be until I had the funds, and so many obstacles stood in my way.
‘It would seriously be a waste to go all the way to Paris and not kiss a Parisian …’ she said dreamily, caught up in the romance of Paris, and not thinking sensibly.
‘And lose the competition and come home and beg for my job back? The job where I sell perfume, not make it? Nope. Not going to happen! New York is calling …’ The past was the past, and there was nothing I could do to change it, but still, that feeling of abandonment lingered just under the surface and bubbled up and out.
We lapsed into silence, which was becoming a new habit. This strange shift in our lives provoked these sorts of awkward moments and I was at a loss how to fix them or what to say. Normally we’d be chatting at a hundred miles an hour, never running out of steam.
Eventually with a half sigh she murmured, ‘Nan would be so proud of you, Del, living in the perfume capital of the world, chasing those dreams.’
Our dreams had become only my dreams. How could she give it all up for a guy?
I put a hand to my heart, feeling the same ache as I always did when I thought of my nan. ‘As crazy as it sounds,’ I said, ‘sometimes I think Nan orchestrated this adventure.’
I’d loved perfume since I was a child when my nan had discovered that I had the ‘nose’ for it – a highly tuned ability for olfactory compositions. Since then Nan and I had been conspirators and I still missed her so much it hurt. She’d been more than my nan, she’d been my best friend, conspirator and stand-in mom when my own was braying at the sky, or off on one of her adventures, her responsibilities scattered like the fuzz of a dandelion flower on the wind.
Jen spoke softly. ‘If anyone could pull strings from the afterlife it would be Nan, but this was all you, Del. This is your chance to learn from the masters, and I hope you’ll forget all about me and everyone in Whispering Lakes, and focus on perfumery.’
She spoke as though she was giving me permission to let her go. We’d always shared everything, and I didn’t see why things should change, even if she was head over heels in love. But the days of mirroring each other, and finishing each other’s sentences were clearly over.
They were all on my mind though; my beatnik parents, Pop with his melancholy eyes. And Jen who’d broken my heart the way only sisters can do.
‘As if I’d forget about you, Jen. Jeez.’
I didn’t quite know where I fit in the world without my twin. In the past, any decisions were made with both of us in mind. A sort of seasickness crept up on me. I felt untethered and adrift without her, knowing I had to go forward on my own and wondering if life would be the same, if I’d ever truly be happy again, alone.
‘Del, live in the moment, soak up as much as you can. This will be the making of you. Make some new friends. Be brave, fearless, and flirt!’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ I said, wishing the worry would float on past.
With laughter in her voice she said, ‘You’re saluting, aren’t you?’
I dropped my hand. ‘Maybe.’
‘What are the other contestants like?’
I told her all about Clementine, the OTT Parisian, and about Kathryn, the soft-spoken Londoner. ‘Sebastien will be there tonight, so I’ll finally get to meet the enigma himself. We’re all having dinner with the Leclére team. A sort of welcoming party, I guess. And I can finally see who I’m up against.’
She picked up my nervousness in the nuances of my voice. ‘They might have had proper perfumery training, Del,’ she began in a pep talk tone. ‘But they didn’t learn from Nan! Textbooks and chemistry teachers can’t compare to Nan’s lessons at the perfumery organ. No one can compete with that. No one.’
I’d spent years with Nan at our perfumery organ, a semi-circle desk with tiered shelves that held all the aroma oils in neat rows and in order from top notes, heart notes, down to base notes. Our knees used to bump as we mixed essences as assiduously as if we were making love potions for strangers. Which in spirit we had been. Bespoke perfumes created for customers who wanted a fragrance unique to them.
Nan had taught me every aspect of the art of perfumery. She’d been a daydreaming avant-garde type, way ahead of her time. Days were spent creating perfume and getting lost in the world of scent, only coming up for air when Grandpop asked politely if he was to have toast for dinner again. He always said it with a rueful half-grin, knowing her other great love was perfume itself, and how could he be jealous of that? He’d shuffle off and soon the smell of buttery toast would waft back to us.
Nan was taken from me a few years ago, and nothing had been quite the same since. One day she was there, and then she wasn’t. Our time together suddenly felt as ephemeral as a spritz of perfume.
‘Thanks, Jen. I’ll remember that.’
At the memory of Nan, I gave my handbag a reassuring tap, feeling the outline of her trusty perfumery notebook: a fat and swollen tome filled with formulas, complex perfume equations, and her scribbles and drawings. It was my bible; I cherished it.
‘You’ve got this. Text us when you can, so I can tell Grandpop how it’s going. Mom and Dad say hi.’
‘Give them a hug from me will you? Tell Pop I’ll write him.’ We said our goodbyes and I hung up, feeling a twinge of guilt that I was grateful to end the call, just as Clementine returned, her lipstick smudged. ‘I need a nap!’ she announced and flung herself on the bed. I hadn’t met anyone quite as dynamic as Clementine before. She took up all the space with her big personality.
After unpacking, and eventually convincing a drowsy Clementine that half the wardrobe was in fact mine, I went downstairs and headed back to Leclére Parfumerie hoping to visit before it closed. No such luck. Instead I peeked through the window and ogled the