Authors: Lulu Taylor
They went through the gates, and then past the security check. Jemima wore a simple travel outfit of Miss Sixty jeans, a vintage Jean-Paul Gaultier T-shirt and a black Jil Sander jacket, along with Stella McCartney boots. She carried a large printed velvet bag into which she’d tossed everything she thought she’d need for two days away, leaving room for a couple of new purchases.
Twenty minutes later they were in their leisure select seats – the Eurostar equivalent of first class – stretching out and settling down. A few minutes after that, the train was gliding smoothly out of the station and through London, on its way to the coast.
The atmosphere was a little awkward at first but they did their best to relax with each other. Jemima made small talk, asking Claudine how she had enjoyed her stay in London. The French woman said it had been fine, that she had always admired the city but that she couldn’t wait to get back to Paris.
‘Do you live in Paris?’ Jemima asked.
Claudine nodded. ‘I have a small flat there in
Le Marais
. I adore the Marais. It is the most civilised part of Paris. The laboratory is in the suburbs, so I make the reverse journey of most Parisians – I live in the heart of the city and take a train to the
les banlieues
for work.’
‘Is it your own laboratory?’
‘It is one I share with some other perfumers. Friends of mine have set up a company, a very exclusive artisan
perfumery.
They wanted me to join them, but …’ She made a face. ‘I like to work alone. For many years, I was part of a large company, a designer of fragrances for the famous names. It was OK. They paid me very well. I won some big commissions for them. They call us “ghosts”, the noses who build the juices that are sold under other people’s names. The great Italian designer who pretends he creates his fragrances?
Puh!
The real talent lies in the shadows, with the artists who blend a thousand molecules, or just twenty, to realise the designer’s vision. That was me. Then I decided I would find some independence. I am not too good in the corporate world and we perfumers are curious creatures – we are highly strung, creative, competitive, paranoid … not much fun, in other words. Although I prefer to work alone, I need the equipment that any perfumer must have: costly materials, a computer, lab technicians to mix my formulae … I cannot afford that on my own. So I went into partnership with my friends, part funding and sharing the facilities we all need.’
‘A very good idea,’ Jemima commented.
‘Now I receive briefs from all over the place. I submit my
essais
, that is, my idea for realising the brief in scent, and occasionally I win a commission. Often I do not. But,
eh
,’ she shrugged, ‘that is the crazy world of perfume. Luckily a hit will fund all my misses.’
‘That’s why you could come and work for us.’
‘
Oui
. I am my own mistress. I do what I please. I am interested in what you are doing. I wish to see the art of perfumery survive.’ Claudine smiled tightly.
The train steward came by, handing out menus.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Jemima.
‘No. For me, just black coffee.’
‘Tea for me. I know. Very English. I can’t help it. If it’s the afternoon, I have to drink tea and that’s that. Oh, I almost forgot, I have something for you.’ Jemima reached into her Mulberry bag. ‘I hope it’s not crushed. I only wrapped it in tissue … here it is.’ She pulled the
Gloire de Dijon
rose stem out of her bag and put in on the table in front of Claudine.
The French woman looked surprised. She opened the tissue paper and revealed the rose, still radiant, its pale pink beauty undiminished despite a few bruises on the outer petals and a slight limpness. The fragrance rose up between them, stronger for the slight crushing, sweet, rosy and faintly tea-like.
‘Oh. Well, thank you.’ She looked up at Jemima, frowning slightly. ‘What a kind gift.’
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I thought you’d like it. It’s inspiring, I think.’ She beamed at Claudine, who smiled back, more relaxed now. ‘Now what are you doing for dinner tonight? I’m staying at the Hôtel de Vendôme and I thought you could join me there.’
Claudine’s face fell. ‘I’m busy tonight, I’m afraid. I’m dining with a friend. It was arranged this afternoon.’
‘Not to worry. I can look after myself tonight. Why don’t I come and visit you in your lab tomorrow afternoon and then we can go from there back into town and have dinner then? You can tell me how things are progressing.’
‘Yes, yes. I could do that.’
‘Good. We can sort out the details later. Now where’s that tea and coffee? I could do with a drink.’
The train sped on its way towards France. Jemima and Claudine chatted a little more, then Jemima pulled out the latest
Vogue
but before long she was sleepy and soon dozed off. By the time she woke, the train was racing through the French countryside and it was growing dark outside.
‘We’ll be there soon,’ Claudine said, in her mysterious way. ‘Another half an hour.’
‘It’s so amazingly fast, isn’t it?’ Jemima yawned. ‘Mmm. I tell you what, I’m not used to working so hard! The last few weeks have been quite a shock to my system. Now, you must give me your numbers and the address of the lab.’ She pulled out her phone and carefully stored all the numbers Claudine dictated to her.
Claudine leaned forward and stared at her intently. ‘I am truly sorry I cannot dine with you tonight. I hope you do not take it personally.’
‘Of course not.’ Jemima laughed. ‘You were bound to have something else to do. I was silly to think you might be free. I’ll call up some chums. I shan’t be lonely, don’t worry about that. Even if I’m alone, I’m sure some slimy types will try and keep me company. It is France, after all. Men are so dreadful.’
‘
Oui
.’
‘Are you married, Claudine?’
‘
Non, non
. I am not married. I do not have a boyfriend.’
‘Good,’ declared Jemima. She thought of Harry and his panting over Letty Stewart. ‘Take my advice, and don’t.’
Claudine stared at her.
‘Actually, I think I’ll see if Marie-France is in. I knew her at school in Gstaad …’ Jemima started scrolling through her address book and making calls, as Paris drew closer.
32
AT THE GARE
du Nord, Claudine and Jemima parted ways. Claudine descended into the Metro while Jemima went to the taxi rank, hailed a cab and directed the driver to the place Vendôme, a classically beautiful Parisian square dominated by the towering column of bronze that stood in the centre, on the top of which a statue of Napoleon, dressed like a Roman emperor, stood staring balefully out over the capital. The buildings that lined the square looked like miniature palaces with high arched windows, Corinthian columns in camel-coloured stone, and the steep-pitched square grey roofs that so distinguished Paris’s architecture. Here, style and money – lots of it – met in graceful harmony. The Hôtel Ritz at number 15 had for its neighbours Guerlain Perfumes, Bulgari, Armani, Cartier, Schiaparelli, Van Cleef & Arpels and Chanel, among many others. The rue Saint Honoré, with its fabulous shops and boutiques, ran along its southern side, and beyond that lay the famous Tuileries Gardens.
Jemima walked into the lobby of the Hôtel de Vendôme. Smaller and more intimate than the Ritz, it was still opulent and luxurious. The foyer was a grand mixture of coloured marbles, leather, dark wood and a vast crystal chandelier, but all on a tastefully manageable scale. Jemima was greeted courteously in perfect English and led upstairs to her suite. There she was able to look out on the Parisian skyline, admiring the opulance of the wealthiest square in Paris.
This is a treat
, she decided, taking in the stylish little sitting room with its green velvet chaise longue, the bedroom and sumptuous marble bathroom.
Tara might not like the fact I’ve got a suite, but honestly … it
is
business!
She spent a happy hour enjoying a hot shower and making herself up for the evening. Tonight, in a gesture of solidarity, she too was wearing Chanel, a pale peach sequin-covered tulle knee-length dress, the sleeves cut in two waves, so that they appeared to come from one piece of material draped mysteriously and yet elegantly round her shoulders. She pinned a large, diamond star-shaped brooch on one hip and slipped on high silver strappy sandals. When she’d finished dressing, she put the last touches to her face, and spun round in front of the mirror.
I feel glamorous. I feel like a movie star. Damn Letty Stewart. I’m going to have fun
.
She put her phone, credit card and lipstick into a sequinned bag, picked up a cashmere wrap and headed downstairs.
* * *
The perfectly trained staff knew who she was, and their respectful gaze told her that they recognised her dress as high fashion, the kind very few women could afford, and treated her accordingly.
‘This way,
milady
,’ murmured a uniformed man, leading her to the bar and to a table. ‘You are waiting for somebody?’
‘Yes. My friend Pia de Longueville is meeting me here.’ Marie-France had been delighted to hear from her old friend Jemima, but to her eternal despair, she was at her château in the Loire and unable to meet her that night. Pia, another of her Gstaad friends, had answered the call instead. After a misspent youth frittered away partying far too hard, she was now the fashion director of a glossy magazine and the epitome of an elegant Parisian career woman. A late drink at the Hôtel de Vendôme was just her style.
‘Will you have a drink while you are waiting?’
‘Yes please. Champagne.’
The waiter bowed and a moment later was back with a glass of champagne which he placed carefully in front of her.
‘Thank you.’ Jemima took a sip. She was aware of the admiring glances she was getting from the men sitting in the bar, and enjoyed the feeling of being watched and lusted after. She knew she looked good and she also knew she looked expensive and therefore important, not to be trifled with. These men might desire her but they also had to respect the fact that she wore the signs of money: not just the jewels, the clothes and the
shoes,
but also the inimitable confidence that comes with the knowledge of a place in the world.
After a few minutes, her phone lit up. She had a message. It was from Pia.
Darling, I will be late! I’m so sorry, work crisis. Please wait, I will be there
.
Jemima stared at the phone crossly. She was hungry and wanted to eat. She had nothing to occupy her time with, no book, no magazine … how annoying of Pia! Should she return to her room and wait there? After all, there was no telling how long a work crisis would last. Or just give up on her and go out alone? But that was rather depressing.
‘Oh, damn it all. It was all going so well,’ muttered Jemima irritably. ‘I suppose it’s too late to find someone else.’
‘Lady Calthorpe, hello,’ said a charming voice.
Jemima looked up with surprise at the face of Richard Ferrera.
‘Excuse me,’ he said with a smile that showed his perfectly straight white teeth. ‘I couldn’t help but notice you as you came into the bar. Do you remember? We met at Emma Bonnington’s house a while ago …’
‘Of course I do,’ Jemima said, recovering her composure. ‘How lovely to see you. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve just been at a business meeting, in one of the conference rooms. I was about to order a drink to cap the day off. I’m a big fan of the bar here. They make a wonderful Martini.’
‘You’re not staying in the hotel, then?’
Richard shook his head. ‘I’m at the Ritz.’
‘So we’re neighbours, then. How nice,’ Jemima said lightly. ‘Would you like to join me?’
‘I’d love to.’ He sat down next to her, beckoned over a waiter and ordered his drink. It came almost immediately. ‘Well, what a delightful chance, to meet you here.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘To serendipity.’
She lifted her champagne glass to him. They both sipped their drinks.
‘I hope you’re not drinking alone,’ he said.
‘Not now. But I was about to be abandoned, I’m afraid, at least temporarily. My friend Pia has had to stay late at work. We were going to go out. Now I suppose I shall order room service and watch television until she turns up.’ She made a disappointed pout.
‘Now that would be criminal. You look totally divine, far too wonderful to go back to your room alone. Please, allow me to take you to dinner at the Ritz. I have a table booked.’
‘Surely you’re meeting someone else …’
‘No one that can’t easily be cancelled,’ he said smoothly. ‘Business can wait. I’ve had enough of it for one day anyway.’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘I am.’
‘Then, thank you. I will.’
How lucky
, she thought as she walked across the place Vendôme on Richard Ferrera’s arm.
Just when it all looked bleak – here’s a knight in shining armour. But I
must
be careful
, she reminded herself.
This man might have ulterior motives. I must make sure I don’t give anything away
.
Ferrera had made a quick quiet call on his mobile in the foyer of the Hôtel de Vendôme while Jemima sent Pia a text telling her not to worry about their date – they would rearrange. Then he offered her his arm with a smile of practised charm. Jemima could understand in an instant how he had come so far in the world. His style and confidence were steely strong.
It’s amazing that he grew up in the New York slums – he doesn’t betray for one second that this isn’t what he was born to
, she thought. She admired it and respected it. Somehow it meant more than her own gilded background.
I’ve never had to work for anything
, she thought almost guiltily.
I’ve always had everything I wanted, and never feared not fitting in
. It was difficult to imagine what breaking into the world of privilege was like for those who came from outside it. She had the distinct impression that the achievement had bred ruthlessness inside Richard Ferrera.