The Secret Ways of Perfume (16 page)

“Do you want to let someone know?”

Cail struggled to get the question out. There was another man in Elena's life. Or there had been. And however well things were going between them, a baby changes everything. It forces you to alter your perspective. It is nature's way of settling things. He'd be sorry to let her go, even if she didn't mean anything to him yet; he would just stand aside. In reality, all he had to do was get on with his own life; nothing could be simpler.

Yet the thought troubled him. Because, whether he liked it or not, what he had just told himself was a complete lie. He waited for her to answer, studying every nuance of her expression.

“No, I don't need to tell anyone. Anyway, I don't want to. I don't want to talk about it.”

Relief, then anger again at the burst of happiness he'd felt. It was a
thoughtless reaction; even if there was no man, no boyfriend, there was still the baby.

“Whatever you want.”

There was no point in trying to resolve it now.

“What do you say we fill out these forms and get out of here?”

Elena nodded. She was so very tired. Utterly drained. She was happy, but she was also terrified. Her head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool. The only thing giving her any stability was Cail; she was still clinging to him. She forced herself to let go and sighed.

He stood up to leave. “Come on, let's go.”

They walked to reception hand in hand, their minds heavy with thoughts but their hearts a little lighter.

•   •   •

Philippe Renaud went
over the sales list again. Since she joined Narcissus the Rossini girl hadn't made any big sales; with the exception of a couple of perfumes, she'd only sold the cheap stuff. What's more, he'd had reason to admonish her on a couple of occasions. She had appeared distracted and at times looked as if she was on the verge of passing out. And when he asked her what was wrong she had the cheek to suggest that the ambient perfume ought to be subtler. To him, Philippe Renaud, who had personally measured out the fragrance that was the very symbol of Narcissus! He was almost snarling with rage. Then there was her sickening niceness: but those false manners didn't fool him. They were fake, like everything else about her. He'd noticed how keen she was to waste time with the customers, and wondered if she was engaging in more than a friendly chat. She knew the job well enough, so why wasn't she making any sales? The woman was definitely hiding something. And he was going to take it upon himself to find out what.

He'd give her another few days, Philippe decided, and then he'd tell monsieur she was up to something. It was his job, after all. Not
that he was expected to supervise the sales assistants—that was Claudine's responsibility. But he did like to keep everything under control, make sure he had an overview of the whole business.

He took off his glasses and placed them on the table, careful not to touch the lenses. The little office he occupied wasn't fitting for someone in his position, and he had to share it with Claudine. High walls, painted a ridiculous mint green, and absurd white furniture; he hated it. Like he hated incompetent freeloaders. He hadn't liked that foreign girl from the start: too much pride behind that sweet façade. She was a liar, and he knew it. He could tell straightaway that she was hiding something: when he showed her the laboratory she seemed on edge. Not that she could get at the perfume formulas, of course. Their surveillance system would have stopped her even getting close. No, that didn't bother him. It was the fact that the woman wasn't who she said she was.

He'd discussed it with Claudine a couple of times. But she took no notice, playing everything down. At the end of the day, Philippe thought, his colleague was just like every other woman: weak and emotional. She'd even suggested he should give Elena more time, even though she really was very slow—which Claudine had noticed herself. However, despite the fact that Elena often seemed distracted, Claudine said, she did know how to deal with customers. What Philippe couldn't understand was what Elena Rossini could possibly have said or done to gain the sympathy and support of Claudine, who had never shown the slightest solidarity toward any of the other sales assistants the company had seen come and go. Indeed, before they left, the girls would often complain about Claudine's unorthodox style and inappropriate conduct.

The fact remained that Rossini wasn't any old sales assistant. He sighed and stroked his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. To be honest, what was bothering him most was the fact that hiring
Elena had put paid to his own infatuation with Monique. As he thought about it, his irritation turned to a burning resentment.

Since that woman came into the shop, they'd neither seen nor heard from Monique Duval, despite her promises to the contrary. It was driving him crazy. How dare she make fun of him?

Still, he would personally see to it that things were put right. Taking on Elena Rossini had been monsieur's choice . . . but certain decisions could be reversed. He just needed to find a convincing argument.

•   •   •

Elena finished packaging
up the scented water she'd just sold. As usual, Claudine was taking care of the payment and smiling. It was good to see her like that, and Elena was happy with the way things had worked out between them. After their none-too-cordial start, now they were getting along much better. Claudine had started to trust her. Plus they could talk about perfume, compositions, mélanges. Elena thought she was very bright, and she enjoyed talking to her. Apart from Monique—and Cail, of course—there weren't many people who would be amazed by how much the perfume of a rose can vary depending on the species or where it's grown. Or how a perfume can be so complex that it can be interpreted many different ways.

Claudine had asked her to go into the lab to create a new fragrance, saying that she would sort out any problems with Montier. She was keen to see her at work; and Elena was thrilled to bits.

“There you go, Madame Binoche. I hope we'll see you again soon,” she said, turning her attention to her customer, handing her the golden Narcissus bag.

“I'll be back soon, mademoiselle. My sister-in-law Geneviève needs a special perfume, something personalized. She's an artist, you know, a writer. I've told her about you and she's very intrigued.” The woman moved a couple of steps closer and lowered her voice. “Not everyone
can transform one's desires into a perfume. But you, Elena, my dear, you can work magic.”

She liked that definition; it made her smile. If only Madame Binoche knew . . .

“When I was little, my grandmother drove herself mad trying to teach me to listen to perfumes. I used to run away and hide behind a dusty old screen,” she confided.

The woman's eyes widened. “Really? This is your family tradition?”

Elena nodded. “Yes. More or less.”

“Oh . . . how wonderful!” Madame Binoche was enthralled. “I would love to stay and hear more, but I'm going to be late for my meeting. Have I told you about my club, mademoiselle? No? Well, every Tuesday we meet to talk about the latest books we've read, over a nice cup of tea and some pastries. What could be better in life?”

One or two things sprang to mind for Elena, and they all involved Cail. Every time she thought about him, she felt her heart beat faster. Since they had found out she was pregnant, something between them had changed, and not because she wanted it to. Cail had become a friend. To be precise, the best friend she could wish for. But just a friend.

“I've always been fascinated by perfumes,” said Adeline Binoche. “‘Because perfume is the brother of our breath.' I think that's a remarkable thought, don't you?”

Adeline quoted the Yves Saint-Laurent aphorism with such earnest enthusiasm that Elena secretly wanted to laugh—but Adeline was a genuinely nice woman. She had a silver bob that swayed whenever she moved and, as she didn't stand still for a second, it seemed to flutter constantly. Her huge gray eyes made her look quite dreamy. She was one of Elena's favorite customers.

“I'm delighted with this perfume,” she told Elena, “but tell me, speaking of your grandmother, what was her name?”

“Lucia—Lucia Rossini.”

“Ah, what a beautiful name. Very Italian,” Adeline replied. “From Florence, right?”

Elena nodded. “Yes. If you know Santa Maria Novella: there. My family's house is in that part of the city.”

“Who knows how many stories those walls could tell,” Adeline whispered, looking at her. “Mysteries, family secrets maybe.”

Elena laughed. “Are you really interested in all that?”

“Yes, very! Italy is full of wonderful legends. And Florence, well . . . One of the most famous French queens was from Florence.”

“Yes, Catherine de' Medici. She was the one who introduced rose cultivation to Grasse. She loved the smell, and then her relative Marie followed in her footsteps, both as Queen of France and as a lover of art and perfume.”

Adeline drew closer. “I have an old book about that, you know. And a lady-in-waiting's diary. They're very interesting. It was said that Catherine had her perfumier sent from Florence. His name was René, and he didn't just do perfume. It seems he also made poisons . . . There's nothing better than a diary to show you what life was really like in those days.”

It was true. Entire chapters of Beatrice's diary were dedicated to events from the time. Elena's ancestor had a great gift for observation and a sharp sense of irony. The castle where she stayed, for example—whose name she never wrote down and which none of her descendants had ever found—had towers and gargoyles guarding its walls; in the village below there were fields of lavender and tuberose, and the villagers spun silk. Beatrice described whole days spent picking the flowers she used for her perfume. It was absolutely fascinating.
Such a pity that bitterness and regret had come along and tainted her life.

“Now I really do have to go,” Adeline said. “See you soon. And thank you.”

Elena said goodbye with a smile. As she got back to work, her thoughts returned to the diary. Maybe she'd take another look at it this evening. She'd just started to set out a display of a new fragrance that would be launched to the public in a few days' time, when Philippe Renaud called over to her.

“If you've finished, I'd like a word with you.”

Elena left the bottles she was arranging and waved to him. The man took a little while to respond, as though he had to make a real effort. No, being pleasant was not one of his virtues, she decided, ignoring her manager's scowl.

“I just need to finish arranging these,” she told him, gesturing toward a box of silver bottles. “Then I could use a box for a chypre
pour homme.
I've got a customer coming to pick up a bottle in a bit.”

Philippe half-closed his eyes, irritated by her response. “A customer? I didn't realize you had any—at least not ones that come into this shop to buy perfume. I assume you must be referring to another kind of service.”

Elena stared at him. Her face started burning up. For a moment, she was speechless, astounded by the harsh insult. When she realized the full extent of what Philippe had just said, she put both her hands on the gleaming shelf and leaned toward him.

“I don't know what you've got into your head, and I don't want to know, but don't you
dare
speak to me like that ever again!” She hissed every word, her eyes flashing with rage, her throat aching from the effort of holding back what she really wanted to scream in his face.

Philippe blushed. He slipped a finger into the knot of his tie,
loosening it, and looked around. What if someone had seen? He hadn't anticipated that kind of reaction. Elena was so rude! How dare
she
address
him
, Philippe Renaud, in that tone? With relief, he saw that business in the shop was carrying on as normal. Customers were waiting at the counters, sales assistants were proffering various options, and the high-resolution screen on one wall of the shop was playing the quiet background music that accompanied ads for perfumes made by the house.

“Don't take that tone with me,” he retorted.

Elena shot him a withering look. “Actually, I think you might be right. I was too polite.” She moved away from him, her fists still clenched, so tense she was almost at her breaking point. As she went, she walked past a customer she didn't recognize straightaway.

“
Ma chère
, are you all right?”

“Monsieur Lagose! No, I don't feel at all well.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Elena burst out: “What gives a man the right to insult a woman like that, to imply she's a whore?” When she realized what she'd just said, it was too late to take back her words.

She blinked back the tears and the absurd desire to run to Cail and tell him everything. Maybe she was unusually emotional because of the pregnancy, but she found herself in a complete state in the middle of the shop.

“Frustration,
ma chère
,” said Lagose, offering her a handkerchief. “When a man has no real argument,” he continued, looking daggers at Philippe, “he trots out the same old story. It's convenient, it's devious. Don't pay too much attention. Laugh about it, sweetheart. And remember, if someone has gone to such lengths to be unpleasant, it's because you're the one with the power. Now, let's calm down. I need to collect a bottle of perfume and, if you've got time, I'd like a little
chat with you. Perfume I can get anywhere, but not the pleasure of an intelligent conversation with a beautiful woman.”

If looks could kill, Philippe Renaud wouldn't have stood a chance. Jean-Baptiste Lagose shot him another scorching glare before focusing all his attention on Elena. She took a deep breath and gave back the handkerchief she'd balled up in her fist. She hadn't used it; she hadn't needed to. No tears, just indignation and fierce anger. “I'm sorry, I'm quite emotional at the moment,” she told Monsieur Lagose.