The Secret Ways of Perfume (17 page)

“There's nothing to apologize for,
ma chère
. Sensitivity is one of the most interesting things about a kind soul. Feeling better now?”

Elena nodded. “I'll be right back with your perfume.”

“Go ahead, I'll be here.” Jean-Baptiste waited until Elena was far enough away, then he went over to Philippe.

“Can I help you, monsieur?” the manager asked him, trying to regain some ground.

Jean-Baptiste flared his nostrils, squeezing the handle of his walking stick as if he'd like to throttle the man.

“No, Mademoiselle Rossini is seeing to everything I need. She's a lovely, sensitive woman. I wouldn't like to see her in that state again.”

Philippe hid behind an indignant look. “She's just a sales assistant, that's all. You shouldn't give her so much importance.”

“Don't make the mistake of thinking for one second that you may tell me what I can and cannot do. You have neither the intelligence nor the authority.” Jean-Baptiste's tone was calm, but there was a clear threat in those words. “You think you're worth more than this woman because you have a better job, but you're wrong. Only a person with no class would put someone else down.”

Lagose then turned his back, leaving the store manager of Narcissus feeling very small. As soon as he spotted Elena, Jean-Baptiste walked over to her, wearing a big smile.

“Did I tell you about the perfume?” he began, conscious of the young woman's still-fragile state. He'd decided he was going to distract her. Sometimes it was the only thing to do. “It was a real success, my dear. And it's all due to you. The perfume you recommended for my . . . girlfriend, it did the trick.” He sighed, and a spark appeared in his eyes, mischievous yet manly.

Elena tried to concentrate on what Monsieur Lagose was saying, but it wasn't easy. There had to be a reason why Philippe was so angry with her. She should demand an explanation; he sure as hell wasn't going to offer one. As soon as Jean-Baptiste had made his purchase, she'd go and find Philippe to ask what had got into him.

She'd never been so confrontational before; she'd always avoided conflict, always stepped back. But in that moment, she was burning with rage. It was one thing having to put up with someone, however unpleasant they might be, but it was something else entirely to let oneself be so vilely insulted.

“You're still upset, my dear,” Jean-Baptiste said. “Why don't you go home? You can do that, you know. Actually, look, I've got the car outside and it's no problem for me to drive you home.”

Elena looked at him. Why not? She'd been insulted: right now, she had no desire to stay. “Thank you, monsieur. I'll take you up on that offer.”

She called Claudine, who arrived after a couple of minutes. The woman could immediately see that Elena was upset.

“Try not to take too much notice. Philippe is acting strangely at the moment, but I'm sure there must be a misunderstanding at the bottom of all this. I'll look into it, if you like.”

“I don't care if he's having a nervous breakdown, Claudine. I want an apology. If he wants to fire me, it'd be better if he just came out with it, without sinking so low!” Elena exclaimed. “It's not the fact that he as good as called me a prostitute, it's that he wanted to insult me, and
he thought he could get away with it. I don't understand it—I thought things were going well.”

“They're going very well, Elena. You just need to be less dramatic. You can't make a tragedy out of every little thing. You Italians are so theatrical! Now, I'll speak to him, and tomorrow everything will be back to normal, you'll see. Go home, you're very pale. You've not been looking well the last few days,” Claudine said, walking her to the door.

Maybe it's because I'm pregnant? Elena thought, putting on her jacket and pulling up the collar. That appeased some of her anger, filling her with sadness instead. She really needed this job. Babies don't come cheap, and even though Monique had cast herself as godmother and offered all her support, especially financially, Elena wanted to be independent. She already had problems with Cail, who was still doing her shopping and refusing to take any money for it.

Even though it was not yet November, the cold weather had already arrived. Outside, it was snowing heavily—ledges and rooftops had started to disappear under a layer of pure white. Breath condensed immediately, rising in gentle puffs of steam. Rather disconcerted by this unexpected event, people in the street were hurrying to reach their destinations. As Elena got into the car, Claudine went to look for Philippe. What in God's name was he playing at? She had plans for Elena Rossini: that girl had a real talent and Claudine had no intention of letting her go.

“Have you seen Monsieur Renaud?” she asked one of the sales assistants.

The girl nodded. “I think he's in the office, madame.”

Claudine thanked her, then gestured toward a woman who was just coming in. “See to her,” she ordered peremptorily, before disappearing into the back.

She didn't knock like she usually did, even though it was just as much her office as his. She was too worked up. She wanted to know
what Philippe could possibly have against Elena. No way was she going to stand by and let the advantages she stood to gain from that woman slip through her fingers.

She found Philippe engrossed in his records, a kind of sales database he insisted on keeping by hand, even though they had a whole sophisticated computer program he could use.

“What on earth has got into you?” she demanded, standing right behind him.

Philippe looked up. “I don't know what you're referring to,” he replied, “and I don't much care for your tone.”

“I'll tell you in two words: Elena Rossini.”

Philippe tensed. “Ah, you're talking about
her
. Well, I've decided to fire her. She doesn't bill anything, we're carrying her—plus, she's arrogant and rude.”

Claudine stared at him. “Rubbish.”

Philippe's eyes narrowed. “Why are you defending her? What's in it for you?”

“I don't know what you're alluding to. But I'm warning you: leave her alone.”

Indignant, Philippe placed his glasses on the end of his nose. “We have a clear duty to maintain the high-quality standards of this shop,” he protested.

“Monique Duval—she was the one who recommended Elena, right? Is monsieur aware of your . . . let's call it ‘admiration' of his lover?”

Philippe turned white. “Nonsense,” he said, brushing her comments aside and going back to scribbling on the papers on the desk. “Besides, Montier's engaged to be married now. You've heard that, too.”

Claudine smiled. “Yes, but you know that means nothing.” She paused and pointed at the paper. “Try turning the pen around. That end doesn't write.”

Claudine left the office with her thoughts whirling. If Philippe
really wanted Elena out of Narcissus, that idiot would find a way to fire her. Especially now that Monique was out of the picture. Of course, she couldn't tell him that Elena had made some major sales for which she herself had taken the credit. She had to find a way to protect her investment: the girl had to carry on working at Narcissus. Of course, the situation was only temporary. As soon as Elena passed her probation period she'd be able to make sales by herself, including putting them through the till. But until then, Claudine had every intention of making the most of the situation. She smiled to herself. Soon, she would put the girl to the test. She wanted to see whether her talents extended to perfume creation. Montier would pay very well for a new fragrance . . .

H
AY:
calmness. Ancient, ancestral, akin to fire, sea and earth.

The fragrance is etched deep in the ancient spirit we all possess.

Evokes tranquility.

E
lena looked at herself in the mirror, then turned to check her profile, one hand on her flat stomach. She was three months' pregnant, but you couldn't tell yet.

For a moment, as she was on her way home with Monsieur Lagose, she'd wondered whether Philippe had noticed something and taken offense because she hadn't told them she was pregnant yet. Could she have inadvertently got herself into trouble at work? How was she to know—maybe French maternity laws call for immediate notification? But the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Not to mention the fact that Philippe had still treated her disgracefully—even more so if he had guessed her condition.

No, she decided, it couldn't be the pregnancy that had sparked Philippe's resentment. Besides, no one knew about it except Cail and Monique. She hadn't even told Matteo yet.

That thought put her in a bad mood. She sighed, took her phone
out of her pocket and went to sit down. It was time to tell him. She didn't want to, and she wouldn't have, if Cail hadn't told her in no uncertain terms that this wasn't something that only affected her. They'd actually argued about it. She disagreed and wasn't afraid to say so. But he could be very stubborn. Just like that dog of his, who hadn't learned to stay away and followed Elena around, watching her with his big, brown eyes. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep her distance. That dog had the same protective instinct as his master. She shook her head.

Cail wouldn't let her go on the motorbike anymore. Actually, now that she thought about it, she hadn't even seen Hermione parked in the garage for a while.

She counted to ten, then gathered up her courage and dialed Matteo's number. One, two, three rings. No answer, Elena thought, relieved. She was about to end the call, when she heard the man's voice.

“Hello?”

She waited a couple of seconds, hoping he would hang up, then decided she would respond. “Hello, Matteo. How are you?”

“Ah, Elena . . . I'm fine, thank you. How are you? We haven't spoken in a while—I've been meaning to call you.”

“I'm sure you have,” Elena said.

He cleared his throat. “I know you're still angry with me, but try to understand. It wasn't something Alessia or I planned. It just . . . happened. It was love at first sight for her—you can understand that.”

Elena scowled at the phone. “I see you still have a very high opinion of yourself.”

He was like Maurice, Elena suddenly thought. The idea struck her as a truth so evident, so disconcerting, that it almost took her breath away. How could she not have realized it before?

Matteo sighed. “I know it's hard, and I know you invested a lot in
our relationship, but that's just how it goes. I'm not coming back to you.”

What—did he really think that she was going to suggest something as ridiculous as getting back together? After what he'd done? Anger started to bubble up inside her.

“No, I didn't call to ask you to start over, believe me. Actually, I can assure you that that hasn't even crossed my mind.”

Silence, and then his voice changed. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Don't worry.”

She wanted to laugh. Matteo had summed himself up with that one word: his tone was actually surprised. Really?
Yes, really.
As if there could be any doubt, after his treachery! What kind of man was he? And even worse: what kind of woman had she been to live with someone like that?

Her mind ran through Monique's and Jasmine's many veiled comments. But her grandmother had been more direct than anyone.

“Elena, the man's an idiot. We've already got one in the family—and believe me, my girl, we don't need another!” Elena felt a sudden rush of love toward Lucia. She wasn't angry with Matteo anymore—just slightly contemptuous, perhaps. The rest had vanished, canceled out by something infinitely stronger, something she felt for another man, something she still hadn't been able to analyze but that was there, in a corner of her heart, waiting.

“Oh, good. You don't know how pleased I am to hear you say that. Especially now. You see, I'm going to be a dad. Alessia's having a baby. You've got no idea how happy I am, Elena.”

Oh God, what now?

“Ah. Well, that's great news.”

Matteo gave a deep sigh. “I know it must be a tough blow for you. We tried, and you could never get pregnant. But hey, you know, some
women are just made to be mothers, and others . . .” He paused. “Well, I mean, you're good at . . . other things.”

Elena didn't know whether to take offense or burst out laughing. The arrogance of the man! So she was good at other things, was she? Like what? He'd never bothered to find out about her interests; he'd just dismissed everything with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Listen, Matteo, it's actually a very similar thing I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, after a moment's silence.

“You mean . . . you're not trying to tell me you're pregnant as well?”

“I'm not trying to tell you anything,” she said, exasperated, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead. She was getting a terrible headache.

“Thank God, because I wouldn't buy that.”

“Why not?” she asked, perplexed.

“Look, I'm sorry, but you disappear and then you turn up again right after we announce I'm going to be a dad. Isn't that a bit strange? Anyway, we've already had the banns read. We're having a church wedding.” Then suddenly he mellowed. “You need to move on, Elena. Try going out with someone, make new friends . . . just—live. Life's too short.”

Life is short? What the hell had happened to this man? For a second she was tempted to tell him about Cail, really make it hit home that she wasn't harboring any romantic ideas about him and he was completely off-track. But she decided not to: first of all, she really didn't care what Matteo thought, and secondly she would never have used what she had with Cail, whatever that might be, just to make a point. She didn't feel the need. It was then that she realized Matteo meant nothing to her anymore.

She stood up, drew back the curtains and opened the window. Maybe Cail was at home. It had stopped snowing a while ago, and a quick look at the night sky was exactly what she needed.

“But let's say for a minute that I am pregnant, too . . .”

A long silence, then laughter. “Oh, that's a good one!” he replied. “I get that you're still in love with me, but don't think you can take advantage of the fact that we were together to lay claim to . . . hello? Hello? Are you still there?”

But Elena had ended the call. There was only so much she could take.

She turned off the phone, letting it fall onto the bed. She knew Matteo—he would never call back, but she didn't want to risk it. As far as she was concerned, the matter was closed. And later, when she was in the right frame of mind, she would delete his number from her address book, too. Not now. Now she didn't have time. Her heart was racing and she felt sick.

“I'm not coming back to you,” she mocked. Maurice, Matteo. She let out a low, throaty laugh. The wrong men, men who needed to dominate others and abuse their power. Egotists. And while there was nothing she could do about Maurice, she was the one who had gone looking for Matteo, the one who had wanted him.

The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened. She wished she'd never called him. Even though, deep down, she knew it was the right thing to do, she couldn't ignore the anger and disgust she felt after talking to him. A strong sense of how wrong this man was made her shiver. The anger intensified, wiping out any trace of what was left of Matteo, her memories of him, what he had once meant to her.

Enough! She was done with men like that. Never again!
Never again
, she told herself fiercely. She'd started over and wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. She alone would make the decisions about her life, and her child's life.

Perhaps things with Cail would move on, or perhaps not. That, she didn't know. But no man was ever going to take over her life again.

Elena changed out of her skirt and into a pair of soft cigarette pants
and a red sweater. Her hair was still damp from her shower. She tied it up in a ponytail and added a touch of makeup. Then she felt like putting on perfume, but not the one she normally used. Tonight she wanted a special one; she wanted her own. She went back into the bedroom and opened the heavy wooden box where she kept her things. There it was, still where she'd put it: the perfume she'd made a few years ago, when she created one each for Jasmine and Monique. She wondered whether it would have lasted this long. It might have. It had always been kept in the dark, in the thick, impermeable cedarwood box, away from heat.

She carefully removed the simple opaque glass bottle from the metal cylinder where it had been stored. Her grandmother didn't believe in the seductions of modern packaging. For her, substance was all that mattered. Elena hadn't cared about the container either: she'd decided to make the perfume because she wanted something special for her friends and for herself. Things had changed so much in such a short time, she thought.

Very gently, she turned the cap. The perfume was intact, as fresh as if it had just been made. At first, she felt a sudden discomfort, but it soon passed. It wasn't the first time a scent had irked her like that; since she started working at Narcissus, she'd walked into the shop a number of times and felt irritated by its perfume. Now she knew why—it was quite normal for pregnant women to be extra sensitive to smells.

Now she could smell the top notes. She closed her eyes and found herself in a field of lilies. Then came sparkling bergamot and neroli. The smell faded, and rose again, like the beating of wings. Jasmine this time, then gardenia and hints of magnolia. The aroma was intense and full of life. Then came musk, and last of all, amber. But just a hint, like a flake of snow that melts as soon as you look at it.

It was as though she could feel Lucia's presence beside her. Her
grandmother had watched her make that perfume and then congratulated her on the result. That wasn't something that happened often. Yet, that perfume no longer smelled like her own.

She was the one who had made it, yes, and she had personally selected, tested and determined each one of those essences, but she was no longer the woman who'd created it. It was too soft, too sweet. It didn't have enough character; that was the problem. There was no verve in that range of gentle, soothing fragrances. This was a perfume that suited the old Elena. Now she needed something new. She wanted a perfume that reflected her needs, her taste. The thought of creating a new one made her happy, and it swept away the last vestiges of her unpleasant conversation with Matteo.

She looked in the mirror again and picked up her keys. As she made her way up the stairs, she thought about the father of her child. No, she decided: Matteo might be the biological father, but the child didn't belong to him anymore. He'd rejected it, and that was the final word on the subject. She would remove every trace of him from her life, and the baby would be hers and hers alone.

It was funny how history was repeating itself. She hadn't known her own father either. Susanna had never told her who he was, and in the end Elena had stopped asking. Maybe he was a perfumier, too. It was possible; her mother had a lot of colleagues. Maurice wasn't the only one Susanna had lived with, but he was the one she'd married. If she really tried, rummaging deep in her earliest memories, Elena could remember at least another two. She'd forgotten their names; they were mere shadows from her past. She had been too little to take it all in, then.

It was possible that her mother had never told her anything because she was ashamed of being foolish enough to get pregnant by a man she didn't love. Much how Elena was feeling right now.

How on earth had she managed to spend so long with someone
who thought only of himself? That phone call was so absurd that she had to laugh. Sometimes you have to laugh or you'll cry. That was one of her grandmother's favorite sayings, and until now Elena hadn't realized just how perceptive Lucia Rossini had been to see that Matteo was a real idiot.

As for herself, she was adamant that the telephone call absolved her of any obligation. She'd done her duty and that was it. The pact she'd made with Cail was to tell Matteo about the pregnancy, not convince him to take any responsibility for it.

She put on her jacket and closed the door to the apartment, slamming it a little bit louder than she needed to. She was about to go up to Cail's when, standing on the first step, she changed her mind and went out into the courtyard, deciding that she needed to be by herself.