Heaven Scent (50 page)

But Cat . . . Cat was something else entirely. She was Olivier’s widow, but so much more than that now – almost part of the family, Xavier thought, stunned. With a flash of insight, Xavier knew without doubt where his heart lay. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get back to La Fleurie so he could make his feelings known. It had taken this journey to clear his head but now he knew exactly where he wanted to be and, more importantly, who with.

Knowing he had tracked down the perfect final ingredient for his fragrance, he made the perfume seller’s day by informing him of his identity and the quantity of the order he required. Fully aware of the need for tough negotiation, Xavier bartered expertly, having watched his mother doing exactly the same thing over the years. Securing a deal he knew his father would approve of – and his mother, if she were still alive – Xavier emerged from the souk feeling calm and triumphant. He could fax the details back to the factory tonight and be on the first plane home. He also had something else for the fragrance that always eluded him – the name. He’d been battling with himself for ages but as the realisation about who he was meant to be with slotted into place in his head, so did the name for the fragrance.

Tiredly heading back into La Sultana, the five-star hotel his family always used, Xavier was surprised when he was stopped on the stairs by Rene, the owner. He was a small man with a rotund stomach and eyebrows like the scarab beetles found in the Moroccan desert.

‘Monsieur Ducasse,’ Rene said, shaking his hand warmly. ‘We haven’t seen you here for a long time. Is your cousin with you?’

Xavier raised his eyebrows. ‘Olivier? You obviously haven’t heard.’ He quickly updated the owner who looked shaken at the news of Olivier’s death.

‘I am so sorry,’ Rene said, shaking his head sadly. ‘He was here often but when he didn’t visit for a while, I did wonder what had happened to him.’

‘I didn’t know he visited Marrakech regularly,’ Xavier confessed, realising he hadn’t known Olivier as well as he’d thought. But then, had any of them?

‘Oh yes. He stayed here a few times with his beautiful girlfriend.’ Rene nodded sagely. ‘The one he was serious about.’

Xavier was momentarily jolted. Who did Rene mean? Cat? Surely not. They’d only just met each other in the south of France – hadn’t they? Xavier began to feel rather queasy. Something wasn’t right here. Suddenly he remembered Matthieu, his climbing companion, talking about Olivier a few months ago. Hadn’t he mentioned something about a woman Olivier was serious about – one he regularly took to Morocco?

Rene frowned. ‘Maybe I am mistaken. Monsieur Olivier brought many women here. And he talked about many others. But there was one in particular. He never told me her name but he was smitten, oh yes! Said he was going to marry her one day.’

Xavier thought it was odd, even for Olivier, to bring a serious girlfriend to Morocco before marrying a perfect stranger in St Tropez, but with Matthieu and Rene saying the same thing, he realised it couldn’t be a coincidence.

Rene raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he ever marry her? He talked about her a lot, this one he was serious about.’ His mouth twisted as he tried to remember. ‘Last summer, it must have been. Yes, that was the most recent time he told me about her.’

Xavier felt relieved. Perhaps Olivier had popped to Morocco during the time he’d been in St Tropez. He was most likely talking about Cat. ‘Yes, he married her,’ he said, wincing slightly as he did so. He hated discussing Cat’s marriage to Olivier, however short lived and false it had been.

Rene asked him a few more questions and Xavier wasn’t sure if he had got his wires crossed. Rene was rambling on about Paris and about Olivier’s intentions to get married there but he must be confused. Xavier quickly corrected him.

Rene looked embarrassed. ‘St Tropez, you say? Ah, my mistake, Monsieur Ducasse. Young Olivier was such a playboy, was he not? So many women . . . I must have misunderstood. St Tropez, how funny, that’s not what he told me about the wedding he had planned. Oh, well.’ Ducking his head respectfully, Rene left.

About to take a hot shower before catching a flight back to La Fleurie, a thought occurred to Xavier. It wasn’t a pleasant one but as soon as it had taken hold, he couldn’t let go of it. He did some investigating online but it didn’t really get him anywhere and he realised he might need to go back to Provence before heading off to Paris. Suddenly, things made sense and even though the final picture the hastily assembled jigsaw presented was awful, it all fitted together perfectly.

Tight lipped after his shower, Xavier snapped his battered Louis Vuitton suitcase shut and stepped out onto the balcony of his room. He stared out across the colourful vista of Marrakech, the busy streets lit up by torches and candles and the sky slowly turning from rose-pink to a seductively dusky terracotta. He caught a waft of orange blossom in the air and felt his senses collide. He battled against what his gut was telling him could be the truth, a truth he really didn’t want to face.

Xavier gripped the edge of the balcony with white knuckles. If the jigsaw he’d put together in his mind was the right one, the truth was going to come out. And it would change everything.

Waking up in the flat above the newly acquired store in Paris on a partially deflated air bed, Ashton felt as though he had a blinding hangover. He knew he hadn’t, as he’d touched nothing but black coffee in twenty-four hours. He’d been working like a demon to get everything done in time for the proposed launch of Xavier’s new fragrance and he was absolutely shattered. Xavier was still in Morocco and Guy was in the process of drawing up a budget for Leoni’s home fragrance line, but there was so much to do. The building had been stripped down to a shell so a new floor and ceiling could be added, amongst other things, but frankly, Ashton was glad of the distraction.

Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes blearily and glanced around at the tiny room that had become his home since the renovation had started. Living there was so much easier in some ways, as he could supervise the works, but it wasn’t exactly luxurious. It was cosy, he’d give it that, but it was also cramped, chilly and badly in need of a lick of paint. That job was going to have to wait, however, because he had no time to waste picking out fetching shades of paint for a room no one else would see for a while.

Downstairs, he heard the builders arrive, their raucous banter and noisy equipment interrupting his rare moment of early morning solitude. Glancing at a dusty calendar on the kitchen counter, Ashton was vaguely aware that his parents had promised to visit but he couldn’t remember the exact date. He hoped it wasn’t today; he was expecting several deliveries and he needed his mind to be sharp and focused on the job if he had any chance of meeting his deadline. Tugging a crumpled black T-shirt over his head and standing up in the jeans he’d slept in, Ashton rubbed his stubbly chin and wondered when he’d last shaved. Or when he’d last had a haircut, he thought, raking his fingers through his dusty blond fringe. Renovating the building had taken over his life, not because it was a difficult job but because the time constraint was so tight. Ashton was used to working under pressure but this had been the worst project he’d ever undertaken and one that he’d become overly involved in, more so than he had any other job. He had practically taken on the role of project manager, not just architect. The builders were working like Trojans but deliveries had been late, furnishings had arrived damaged and to the wrong specifications and his carefully thought-out technical drawings had been reworked so many times, the paper was beginning to resemble a discarded fish and chip wrapper.

Irritably, Ashton realised he was out of coffee and he headed downstairs, the noise hitting him as soon as he entered the store area. He greeted the builders with a cheeriness he didn’t feel. At least the complicated renovation was taking his mind off dwelling on thoughts of Leoni, he reflected ruefully. He assumed Guy had told her about the store and he acknowledged to himself that he had been secretly hoping it would at the very least cause her to text him or call. The fact that she hadn’t proved that either she didn’t have time for him any more or that her relationship with Jerard was as serious as he’d feared.

Ashton felt sick. Obviously Leoni had no idea what he had sacrificed to acquire the building for her and he would never tell her – it had been his decision and he was an adult; he had made his choice, and that was the end of it. How he would explain things later on was something he hadn’t quite figured out but he was sure he would think of something. Not that it made things any easier to bear on a daily basis, Ashton thought, rubbing his chest. He missed her, in every way possible. His head ached, his stomach churned and his heart hurt so painfully, it felt as if he was bleeding on the inside. Or perhaps he just had terrible heartburn from all the coffee, Ashton thought with a flash of humour, hating the thought that he was turning into some whinging idiot.

‘Who’s for coffee?’ he asked his team of builders in English. He didn’t bother to speak French to them, which he knew they found hilarious. They got by: that was all that mattered.

‘Café leger
,’ Bernard, the head builder called, not looking up from the counter he was cutting with minute precision. He was extremely competent and he ruled his team of workers with a rod of iron; idle chit-chat was not his style. He seemed to remember something suddenly and he flicked his jigsaw off and lifted his goggles. He reverted to pigeon English, knowing it would be quicker in the long run. ‘Monsieur Lyfield, Madame Peroux, did she speak you? There was a girl here for you on Tuesday . . . no, sorry, Wednesday.’

Halfway out of the door, Ashton ducked back in. ‘Sorry?’

‘There was a girl here,’ Bernard insisted. ‘She was looking for you.’

Ashton’s heart skipped a beat. Could it have been Leoni? ‘Did she say who she was?’

Bernard shook his head blankly. He rather wished he hadn’t mentioned it; now he would be interrogated and his memory was shocking, especially when it came to this sort of thing.

‘What did she look like?’ Ashton tried another tack. He gestured vaguely to his face. ‘Hair colour? Eyes? Height?’

Bernard gave a broad shrug, his expression vague. ‘Er . . . tall. Green thing . . . a dress, maybe.’ Details were clearly not his forte; his brow was furrowed with the effort of it all.

Ashton sighed, feeling despondent. Hearing ‘tall’ had made him feel hopeful but a green dress didn’t sound like Leoni at all. If Bernard had said a black dress, that might have convinced him.

‘Never mind, Bernard. It’s probably just something work related. I’m sure whoever it was will call again.’

He made to leave again, halting as Bernard shook his head.
‘Non
, Monsieur Lyfield, not work. It was personal, she said.’

Ashton’s heart was in his mouth again. For the first time, he really wished he spoke better French.

‘Glasses!’ Bernard provided triumphantly. ‘She wore glasses. And the hair, it was black.
Non
, brown. Like this.’ He put his hands to his chin to show he meant a bob.

Ashton gripped the door. It was Leoni, it had to be! She had come to Paris, to the shop. She had asked to see him, which meant she still wanted to be friends, at least. Pleased with himself, Bernard nodded. He pulled his goggles back on, unaware he was doing a sterling impression of Danger Mouse’s Penfold.

Something occurred to Ashton. ‘Hang on, Bernard. Did you say Madame Peroux was here as well?’

Bernard nodded impatiently, keen to get back to work. ‘They talk . . . then the girl in the green dress, she runs away.’ He mimicked the movement with his fingers. ‘Coffee?’ he said hopefully.

‘Yes, of course.’ Ashton nodded, backing out of the store. He felt something cold trickle down his back. Marianne had been here, talking to Leoni? Knowing Marianne as he did, Ashton knew that might be very bad indeed. And the fact that Bernard had said Leoni had ‘run away’ after her chat with Marianne suggested that something had been said to upset her.

Had Marianne told Leoni about the sacrifice he’d made? Surely not, it wasn’t her news to tell, and could she really be that proud of what she’d asked him to do? Ashton couldn’t believe it. Not even Marianne could be that arrogant and insensitive, could she?

Had she – God forbid – embellished what had happened between them in the toilets? Ashton shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about. Nothing had happened but Marianne was so mischievous, would she think it amusing to tell Leoni something more had gone on? Ashton groaned, wishing he’d never got tangled up with Marianne in the first place. She had given him nothing but headaches ever since he first clapped eyes on her. Longing more than anything to dash back to La Fleurie to find out what had upset Leoni, Ashton knew he couldn’t leave the building project, even for a day.

Taking out his phone, he almost sent Leoni a text but shorthand colloquialisms seemed wholly inadequate in the current situation so he left a voicemail instead. He said he was very sorry to have missed her and that he hoped she would be in touch soon. He also left a heated message for Marianne, tersely asking her to call him back. Stalking up and down the road as he made the call, he crashed straight into his parents who were carrying their suitcases.

‘Darling, is everything all right?’

Joyce Lyfield knew in an instant that her son wasn’t himself. He had three-day-old stubble on his chin, his hair was in disarray and his clothes were unwashed. But, actually, it was nothing to do with that; it was the look of utter anguish in his eyes that told his mother he was suffering badly.

‘We went to the apartment,’ Arthur said, clasping his son’s free hand and shaking it heartily. ‘They wouldn’t let us in so we came here.’

Ashton apologised to them. What a mess! Feeling about twelve again, as his mother gathered him up in a hug and her perfumed cheeks connected with his, he clung to her for a second.