B004D4Y20I EBOK (18 page)

Poppy had wandered through departments like this hundreds of times, shopping for make-up, but now, for the first time, she really took note of the perfumes on display. She’d never thought much about it before, which was odd considering how pivotal it had been to her whole existence. For her twelfth birthday, her father had brought home a very special present. Held in a blue box and tied with a silk ribbon, it was an antique Trevellyan bottle and inside it was a clear liquid tinted with the palest green.

‘Happy birthday, Poppy,’ her father had said with a smile. ‘I’ve had it designed and made especially for you.’

She sprayed the scent on her wrist, thrilled to feel so grown up, and inhaled the sweet smell of jasmine. Her own perfume! Made just for her! She loved it, and it made her feel special because none of the others had a perfume made only for them. Every Christmas
and
birthday after that, she’d received another phial of scent to put in her special bottle, while Tara and Jemima always got one of the established Trevellyan scents. Her father had named the perfume
Sweetheart
because, he said, they couldn’t call it
Poppy
when it smelt of jasmine. She had worn
Sweetheart
all the way through her teens and then suddenly stopped when it felt too babyish. She moved away from Trevellyan fragrances altogether, and on to hippyish herbal scents – patchouli, fruit oils, exotic musks – and then to organic, earthy compounds. But now the smell of it made her feel so nostalgic that she could hardly bear to spray it on to her wrist, even though the old bottle still sat on her dressing table. She’d never found anything she loved as much, although she’d tried some other famous brands. Now she hardly wore scent at all.

She continued around the shop floor. Every well-known name had at least three or four perfumes, and was promoting its newest addition. On the Chanel counter, there was
N
^O
5, N
^O
19, Coco, Coco Mademoiselle, Allure
and
Chance
, just for starters. Over at Lancôme she saw
Trésor, Poême, Ô de Lancôme
and
Hypnôse
. More and more it dawned on her just how many expensive and exquisite fragrances were on offer. Beyond the little booths were rows and rows of shelves, full of yet more perfumes: Guerlain scents, perfumes from designers like Stella McCartney, Thierry Mugler, Prada, Gucci, Armani, Calvin Klein, Hermès, Tom Ford, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry … the list went on and on. As well as designer scents, there were the
famous
names: actors, singers and celebrities who had launched their signature scent, or even several. Just scanning the shelves quickly, she saw fragrances by Britney Spears, Kylie Minogue, Sarah Jessica Parker, Paris Hilton, Jennifer Lopez, Christina Aguilera and Kate Moss.

Now that she thought about it, she realised that, of course, she’d always been aware of all the perfumes on offer to her and yet it felt as though her eyes were really open for the first time. The number of fragrances for sale was startling: the sheer range of styles was almost overwhelming.

‘Hello, can I offer you a tester of our latest perfume for women?’ A smooth voice broke into her thoughts. Poppy looked round. An immaculately made-up woman in a black suit was smiling and proffering an elaborately moulded scent bottle, a red-nailed finger poised on the atomiser.

Seeing Poppy hesitate, the sales woman rushed on. ‘It’s a gorgeous new scent from Erin de Cristo. It’s called
White Melody
and it’s a fabulous blend of citrus and white flowers, perfect for a summer’s evening or to wear to the beach …’ Without waiting for Poppy to reply, she pressed down on the top, sending a rich spray all over Poppy’s arm.

Poppy bent down and sniffed. A tangy zing of grapefruit hit the back of her nostrils and she flinched a little at the power of it.

‘That’s the top note,’ said the woman hastily. ‘It will settle down in a few minutes and you’ll get the really sexy flavours coming through.’

‘Thanks,’ Poppy said and smiled.
The beginning of my education
, she thought.
This is where I start to sort out what’s what
.

As she walked round, she tried to push away the feeling of apprehension that made her want to run away from this strange new world. She was beginning to realise how daunting a task she’d taken on. She took a deep breath.

There’s so much!
she thought, as she noticed yet another a display of fragrances, these from the small perfumers – Miller Harris, Jo Malone, Floris – and artisan perfumes from French, Spanish and Italian companies, in beautiful bottles and stylish boxes.
Who on earth is buying it all?
she wondered.

She began to try samples of perfumes that caught her attention. Some were sophisticated and classic; others wantonly sexy; some androgynous, aimed at boys and girls alike. There were old-fashioned florals; modern, light fruity fragrances; and brash, hard hits of scent that screamed of money and sex and parties. There was something for everyone. She smelt and smelt until she was almost high on a rich and sultry mixture of civet, musk, vanilla, fruits and flowers.

Finally she came across the perfume she’d known all her life. Tucked away on a corner shelving unit was the Trevellyan display, offering just a fraction of the range. There was the famous
Trevellyan’s Tea Rose
, and a couple of the other floral fragrances in their sturdy cardboard boxes. The design had never changed as far as Poppy knew: navy blue boxes with the flowing Trevellyan script in gold and the name of the scent.
Each
box was illustrated with a quaint watercolour of whichever flower it was based on.

Poppy went over. She picked up the
Tea Rose
tester and examined it. It was plain and basic: a clear glass bottle and a gold-coloured atomiser top. It seemed very Puritan and uninspired after all the coloured glass, exotic shapes and modern stoppers she’d been examining. She took a small paper strip and sprayed the perfume lightly on to it, then waved it under her nose. The smell hit her like a punch: her head was full of pictures and places. It was so familiar, it was like being whisked back through time to her home and her girlhood. It was an intense floral scent, pungent with rose to the exclusion of almost everything else. As the initial blast died away she began to pick up something else but had no idea what it could be.

This isn’t right
, Poppy thought, frowning.
This isn’t how our perfume should smell. It’s too … I don’t know. Wrong, somehow
.

What did it say to her? What did it convey? It made her think of old bedrooms, untouched for years. It made her think of air fresheners in the lavatories of old-fashioned hotels. It made her think of bowls of dusty pot pourri in tea rooms in sleepy English villages.

No. That’s not right at all. I may not be an expert, but even I can tell that we aren’t going to be selling a million bottles of this any time soon
.

Poppy picked up her post from the table in the hall of her building. There was the usual sheaf of stuff, along with serious-looking letters franked with the
name
Goldblatt Mindenhall. Various legal letters had been arriving for her all week, with details about the transfer of Loxton to her name and the length of time that probate would take, and all the other hundreds of things she was supposed to be concerned with. The executors of the will, Uncle Clive and another distant cousin her mother had picked on for some unknown reason, were no doubt sorting it out. She would wait until someone actually told her that Loxton was now hers and then she could go about asking someone else to sell it for her.

‘Money!’ she said out loud. ‘It’s all so serious and boring. That’s what I hate about it.’

‘Me too,’ said a cheerful voice behind her.

She turned and saw a man letting himself into the building behind her.

‘But they say it makes the world go round,’ he continued with a smile, ‘and unfortunately, we all need it. Hi. I’m George Fellowes. You live here, don’t you? I’ve seen you about.’

He held out his hand and Poppy took it. He shook hers firmly, his eyes bright and friendly.

‘Oh, yes …’ Poppy looked at him, blankly, trying to remember his face but unable to place him.

‘Don’t worry, you probably won’t have clocked me. I’m only a temporary resident here anyway. You might know of my aunt, she lives on the second floor. She’s away in New York and I’m borrowing her flat.’

‘Oh, yes, Miss Fellowes. I’ve seen her a few times. I’m Poppy. Are you staying long?’

‘A month or so.’

They stood looking at each other and smiling awkwardly, then both began to speak at once.

‘Well, very nice to meet you,’ said George.

Simultaneously, Poppy said, ‘Do let me know if you need anything – oh.’

They both stopped, then laughed.

‘I said, do let me know if you need anything. I’m on the top floor.’

‘Thanks.’ He gave her another broad grin, his brown eyes crinkling up. ‘I will.’

‘Bye.’ She set off up the stairs, trying to appear interested in her post, conscious of George looking up after her as she went.

17

JEMIMA REFUSED TO
join Harry for breakfast downstairs. Instead she lay in bed, reading magazines from the stack Emma had thoughtfully left on a table. Finally she heard a clattering in the hallway and cheery voices as everybody made their way outside, then a roar of engines as they drove away. The riders would have already gone to the stables, the others would follow in cars and on foot.

Gone off hunting
, she thought to herself.
Good. At least I can get some peace
.

She had no interest at all in country sports. Harry and his friends loved them all, and were endlessly hunting, fishing and shooting depending on the season. Jemima couldn’t keep track. It seemed that if you wanted to be accepted by them, you had to be just as keen as they were. At first, she hadn’t minded giving it a go. All she had wanted to do was spend time with Harry and if it meant spending hours in the freezing cold, waiting for the beaters to send over
the
next drive so the guns could take their shots, that was fine. But before long, she’d begun to get bored by it. It wasn’t something she was keen on trying for herself, delicious as she found pheasant, and as a spectator sport, shooting left a lot to be desired.

It was when she’d started to pass on days out standing in an icy river or following the hunt that the gap between Harry and her had first emerged. Spending long days on her own in the castle, she became increasingly bored. On the days Guy was around – charming, sophisticated Guy – it hadn’t taken too long before a mild flirtation began. Jemima needed company. She needed to feel loved and noticed. Harry had left her alone too much. Could she really be blamed for seeking comfort from Guy instead?

She flicked through the glossy magazines idly. A picture caught her eye. ‘Neave – the newest, most exciting face in the world!’ exclaimed the headline, above a picture of a model.

Another one
, thought Jemima dismissively.
They’re always talking about some new face
.

She examined the model with only vague interest but her attention was caught by the girl’s arresting appearance. With paper-pale skin and thick, glossy black hair, she had dramatic looks that would catch anyone’s attention. But what made her stand out were her extraordinary green eyes, which slanted upwards like a cat’s.
Can they be real?
wondered Jemima.
That colour’s too amazing. She must be wearing contacts
. But there was something about their emerald richness
that
proclaimed that they were real. The other thing that stood out was the curviness of the girl’s figure. For a model, she had a surprising amount of flesh, most of it on her hips and breasts. She had a properly feminine figure, even if she was still much skinnier than most women.

My goodness, she’s very sexy
, thought Jemima.
I bet she’s going to make it really big. Good luck to her, it’s an awful world
.

She knew several famous models. One had managed to keep her career going well into her thirties before launching a swimwear range and retiring with great relief from the front line.

‘It’s a bloody nightmare,’ she’d told Jemima over lunch. ‘Permanently hungry, endlessly frightened of losing your looks, terrified of sixteen-year-olds taking your jobs … I’m telling you, they’ve gotta pay you good money just to go through the agony.’

It was a world that had never held any attraction for Jemima. She had the feeling it was a lot more boring than it looked – and it looked pretty boring.

She glanced at the article that went with the picture – it was a short puff piece saying that Neave was an Irish girl who’d been discovered working in a Dublin department store doing a Saturday job. She came from a huge, poor family and had been thrust within a matter of months into a world of glamour and luxury, flying from London to Paris to New York, dolled in the best couture clothing in the world and becoming the hottest face on the catwalks.

I hope it doesn’t ruin her
, thought Jemima as she flicked
on.
She noticed an advertisement for a new perfume: a pop princess posed provocatively against a dreamy background of stars, her hair blowing in a breeze, an enormous heart-shaped purple bottle in her hands.
Celebrity
, ran the strap line.
For the girl with stellar dreams
.

It looks vile
, thought Jemima. But she could see how it would appeal to a teenager who wanted to be as much like her idol as possible. A few pages on and there was another full-spread perfume ad, this time for a trendy fashion label which was launching its signature scent. Picking up the rest of the pile of magazines she feverishly searched through each one. She was stunned at how many perfumes were advertised, and every ad was perfectly pitched at the type of woman who’d be reading that particular magazine. The pictures, always of impossibly beautiful people, were carefully targeted at their market. Chic monochrome shots were aimed at older, sophisticated women. Younger, bold images of unashamed sexuality were clearly intended to tempt younger women.
This is how you’ll find a man
, promised the advert.
A spray of this and he won’t be able to resist you …
Others were fun and quirky, featuring unusual-looking models.
This scent will enhance your enjoyment of life
, the ad declared.
You’ll skip down the streets of Paris in the rain, quirky and stylish and captivating …