Authors: Lulu Taylor
‘I have begun to build something,’ said the French woman cautiously. ‘I have a sketch I am happy with. But I will need to continue tomorrow. I will bring at least three
essais
for you to try.’
‘How exciting. I can’t wait. Is there really nothing I can smell now?’
‘No,’ replied Claudine bluntly.
‘What about those little bottles?’ pressed Jemima.
Claudine glanced at them and relented. ‘Very well.
You
may smell one. They are essences and absolutes: refined, essential smells, the building blocks of fragrance. Some are natural, some synthetic. Natural essences are obtained by using heat and natural absolutes are the result of cold extraction, using solvents. Synthetics, of course, are developed in laboratories.’
‘We want only natural ones in our scents,’ said Jemima quickly.
‘Why?’ asked Claudine icily.
Jemima was taken aback by her reaction. ‘Well … Natural is good, isn’t it?’
‘Suddenly you are an expert on perfume?’ demanded Claudine irritably.
‘No –’ She had forgotten for a moment how sensitive Claudine could be about her area of skill but she had learned not to take any of the crossness to heart. She found Claudine’s highly strung nature rather funny, though she tried not to show Claudine that as it would only make her even more prickly. The best way round it, she had discovered, was to remain sunny and charming, and Claudine’s irritation would melt away.
‘Then please allow me to be the judge. As it happens, synthetic molecules can be the most divine of fragrances. The very first were created here in France over a hundred and twenty years ago and some of the greatest perfumes in the world have been built with them. In fact, I believe that when synthetics were discovered, the creation of perfume truly began. Some synthetics are superior to the natural version, and often
far
cheaper not to mention more friendly to the environment.’ She stared at Jemima. ‘Or would you prefer all the precious sandalwood forests of India to be destroyed so you might wear your favourite scent, huh? Or the sperm whales murdered, so you can have natural ambergris?’
‘Of course not –’
‘Synthetic molecules can be cheaper, more stable, more persistent, less prone to warp or degrade in different formats. But if
you, Madame
, believe they are inferior, then perhaps I ought to throw away my synthetics! Despite the care, love and skill that has gone into refining them, they are not good enough for you!’ Claudine’s voice was rising and she put her hands on her hips.
Jemima burst out laughing. ‘Honestly, Claudine, you’re so touchy! You must ignore me, I know nothing. If you say synthetics are good, then they absolutely must be.’
Claudine huffed a little but she was obviously mollified. Her irritation vanished as quickly as it had come. Jemima picked up a small phial. ‘Now, can I smell this?’ She took off the lid and sniffed. Her face changed as she registered the intense purity of the smell. ‘Oh my God, it’s incredible. It’s the smell of violets. So strong, so … distilled!’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ Claudine looked pleased at her reaction.
‘But should you be putting violets in? We’re trying to make a rose scent, aren’t we?’
Claudine began to look cross again, then she
laughed.
‘You will still try and tell me my art? It is something I’m experimenting with, to do with achieving the scent of tea, if you must know.’
‘Oh! How clever …’
‘Now, I think we should get out of here. I’ve had a long day. Are we going to dine tonight?’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’
‘Good. I’d be honoured if you would come back to my apartment and I will cook for you.’
‘Thanks.’ Jemima smiled at her. ‘That sounds lovely.’
They took the train into Paris and then the Metro to the Marais district. Claudine’s flat was in a stunning eighteenth-century building that had once been the town house of a French aristocrat.
‘No one too rich or powerful,’ said Claudine as they went up in the little lift. ‘They built on a more fabulous scale than this.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I like it.’ She led Jemima into the apartment. It was simple, restrained and stylish, decorated in earthy colours of stone, grey, warm brown and honey. The only bright colours came from the large works of abstract art on the walls.
‘What a beautiful flat,’ said Jemima sincerely.
‘Thank you. Now please make yourself comfortable. I will fetch you an aperitif for you to enjoy while I prepare dinner.’
Five minutes later, Jemima was stretched out on the sofa, a Campari and soda on the table next to her, leafing through French
Vogue. Funny how quickly my
French
is coming back
, she mused.
Although today was quite a baptism of fire
.
She had met senior managers of three of Paris’s most prestigious stores. It had been hard work interesting them in the Trevellyan brand.
‘There are new launches every day,
Madame
,’ explained one, a man in a grey suit and brown-rimmed glasses. ‘The public are becoming difficult to interest in new perfumes. There is too much on the market.’
‘This is a luxury scent, not just another celebrity-endorsed run-of-the-mill fragrance.’
They had shrugged. They were French and not about to take lessons in luxury from an English woman. Luxury was French by its nature – the world knew that.
‘What is the story of your perfume?’ asked someone at one of her meetings.
‘It’s the new version of what was an old classic. A reworking into something entirely new for the contemporary woman.’
‘What will it smell like?’
‘Like a tea rose but very sophisticated, fresh and modern.’
‘No, I mean, which successful perfume?’
‘Oh … I don’t know.’
‘Mmm. Well, send us a sample when you have it, and details of your campaign. Your current scents perform decently for us – nothing extraordinary though.’ The managers seemed bored by her. She was determined to grab their attention and get their support.
At her last meeting, disheartened by another lukewarm reception, she said impulsively, ‘You will be very impressed,
messieurs
, by our campaign. We intend to launch simultaneously all over the world. We have someone very famous lined up to be the face of
Tea Rose
.‘
There was a flicker of interest. ‘You have?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘That’, declared Jemima, ‘is a secret until the very last minute. But you will be extremely excited when you discover who it is.’
‘An actress?’ They looked eager. ‘A Hollywood star?’
‘I can’t say any more.’ Jemima tried to look mysterious and yet fully in control.
‘Stay in touch,
Madame
,’ said the manager as he showed her out. ‘We will be interested to find out more in due course.’
It was the most positive meeting she’d had all day.
Now Jemima leafed through the magazine, mentally crossing out all the actresses who had already been signed up to front other brands. Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Lopez, Keira Knightley, Nicole Kidman, Kirsten Dunst, Chloë Sevigny, Charlize Theron, Kate Winslet, Uma Thurman … anyone with any style was taken, or so it seemed.
She was struck by a fashion spread in the middle of the magazine. It was that same model, the one her attention had been caught by before. What was her name? Her looks were unmistakeable; the curvy lusciousness, the dark hair and the startling green
cat’s
eyes. Neave. That was it. The stunning new Irish star – no doubt her name, Niamh, had been changed to a spelling more friendly to the American market on the recommendation of her management. She was truly gorgeous. It was no wonder that everyone seemed so captivated by her.
Jemima picked up the magazine and rushed through to the kitchen. ‘Look at this woman, Claudine. Isn’t she fabulous? So stunning! Look at those legs, those hips. You don’t see many models like this, do you?’
Claudine left the saucepan she was stirring and looked at the page Jemima was proffering. ‘No, no,’ she murmured. ‘She is certainly lovely.’
‘I wonder if she would consider being our face – the face of
Tea Rose
. She’s a new star – I’ve read that she’s everywhere in the States and that studios are begging her to take screen tests. People are fascinated by her.’
‘It is a good idea,’ agreed Claudine.
‘Yes, yes …’ Jemima went back to the sitting room, lost in thought.
Claudine served up a truly delicious dinner.
‘I can’t believe you cooked this yourself!’ exclaimed Jemima. ‘It’s just too good. Like something in a restaurant.’
They ate onion soup, thick and dark, with croutons and cheese, and then
coq au vin
.
‘So French,’ Jemima said, delighted.
‘Simple food. I love to cook.’
‘Exactly what I needed. Thank you.’
‘You are most welcome.’
During dinner, Claudine seemed to relax and open up a little, talking about her childhood in Grasse where she would go out on a summer morning and pick jasmine flowers for the fragrance houses. The scent of those early morning flowers began her lifelong obsession with perfume. ‘From the earliest recorded time, man made perfumes, we’ve always been fascinated by them. The Ancient Egyptians, of course, made balms and unguents from herbs and spices. By Roman times, there were popular brands, even perfume shops. A Roman perfumer named Megalus created a perfume called Megalium, made with balsam, rush, reed, behen nut oil, resin and cassia.’ Claudine shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was tolerable. I prefer the sound of Susinum, built with honey, lilies, cinnamon, saffron and myrrh.’ She frowned. ‘Perhaps one day I shall try to recreate it. It would be interesting. To smell it would truly be to travel in time, don’t you think?’
‘Why do you love perfume so passionately?’ Jemima asked, sitting back. She was surprised by how much she was enjoying the evening, how relaxed she felt.
Claudine smiled thoughtfully. ‘I love it because it always makes me feel so alive. The miraculous scents of the world … I adore them. Every day I’m reminded of the beauty of creation, the beauty of life. The structure of scent is so complex and so variable, no one really understands how it works. All I know is that it is deeply entwined with our pasts – a smell can bring back a time of one’s life more intimately and immediately than a photograph or a diary – and with the poetry of
existence.
We all have our favourite smells – fresh mown grass, the sweet yeasty scent of a bakery in the early morning or the wind blowing saltiness in from the sea. And we all have our least favourites. For me, I despise the smell of hot asphalt when they are mending the roads – I cannot bear it. And I dislike the geranium, one of the few flowers I rarely use in my juices. But I still admire the millions of molecules that work together as one to create its odour – and despite the complexity and the minuscule balance of its fragrance, each and every flower will carry the same scent. Isn’t that miraculous? That is why I love it.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Shall we go back to the sitting room with our coffee?’
‘Yes. Let’s.’
They entered the small but elegant room. Jemima went to the window and looked out over the roofs and lighted windows of the Marais. Claudine came and stood beside her. Jemima was filled with a sense of rare contentment. It was the peace and quiet, the sense of being far from her troubles and all the worry and stress that had engulfed them in the last month or so. What was happening with Gerald was frightful and bound to throw Tara off course. How could she possibly concentrate with her husband facing a possible trial and perhaps even a prison sentence? Then there were her own problems … she had to think seriously about her financial position. If Trevellyan wasn’t able to pay her soon, she would start to be in trouble. And when she got back home, she would have to face Harry sooner or later, she knew that. She couldn’t go on avoiding him for ever.
But not now … not tonight. I’m taking tonight off. My phone is switched off. No one knows where I am. I’ll face everything when I get back to London tomorrow
.
She was suddenly aware that a hand was resting softly on her arm and that it had begun to rub gently along towards her elbow.
Then the hand moved to her hair and began to play lightly with it, smoothing the ends and stroking it.
‘Claudine?’ she said cautiously, turning slightly towards her.
‘Shhh,’ whispered the other woman. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Well, I –’
‘Jemima, I want to kiss you. May I?’ Claudine leaned in towards her and before Jemima could say anything, she had risen lightly on tiptoe and placed her lips lightly on hers. Surprised, Jemima said nothing. The kiss went on and she felt Claudine’s mouth open and caress her own lips. It was beguiling: so soft and gentle that it was like being kissed by a leaf or a petal.
Then Jemima came to her senses and pulled away, shaking her head. ‘No … no …’
‘Why not?’ Claudine’s eyes were shining. ‘I know you feel the same, from everything you’ve said. You are like me,
non
?’
‘What? You mean, I’m a lesbian?’ Jemima laughed. ‘What on earth made you think that?’
The light died in the other woman’s eyes. ‘From what you’ve done and said …’
‘I’m not sure –’
‘You gave me a rose, a present … you asked if I was married and said I should not, that men were dreadful. You admired the model in the magazine, her hips and legs. You wanted to have dinner with me, just the two of us – you
asked
me.’
Jemima was full of surprise and embarrassment. ‘Oh, Claudine … the rose was just part of our brief. I’m sorry if you thought I was coming on to you. Oh dear, I can see how it might have seemed otherwise. I am sorry. I’m afraid I’m not a lesbian, aside from a little experimentation when I was younger. I only laughed because I’m such a tart that it’s rather funny anyone should think I hate men.’
Claudine dropped her gaze. ‘I am mortified,’ she whispered.
Jemima understood at once that the whole evening had been a seduction routine.
Why the hell didn’t I realise? I’ve been through a few in my time! God, I’m an idiot
. She remembered the night before when she’d wanted to seduce Richard Ferrera, how she had sent him subtle signals that she was available to him. He had let her down, but gently.