The Memory of Scent (12 page)

* * *

I am again sitting on the edge of my bed waiting. It has been several days now since I unpacked and so far I have not received the warmest of welcomes from the other girls. Catherine had done little to make me feel wanted, and only that it isn’t her place to do so, I feel sure that given half a chance, she would have me tossed out on to the street. I spend my days pruning and preening. The knock on the door is purposeful and sure enough, Madame Del bustles in, followed by Hélène who is carrying a dress, a floaty delicacy cushioned against her puckered plump arms. It is white chiffon with a black lace insertion and embroidered cuffs and collar. Madame reaches above the tall wardrobe and takes hold of one of the hatboxes. She pulls out a bonnet in white muslin decorated with silk bows. Then from a drawer Madame lifts out a strange rough-looking cushion made from straw and places it alongside the dress on the bed.

‘Your first guest this evening, Babette, will be Dr Philippe. He was a very important man in the court of Napoleon the third. Hélène will prepare your clothes, then help you dress.’

‘What, Madame, is this?’

‘This particular gentleman is partial to large bustles, and it’s important to accommodate our guests’ taste. Sometimes he wants his girls in walking dresses and other times in evening dress. He has requested our newest girl for this evening. Now, for your undergarments, you are to wear your camisole attached to the knee-length drawers and that white petticoat. But you are to wear split drawers.’

Madame Del primly nods.

‘Go to the kitchen and get yourself a very light supper. We don’t want you chaffing against your corset. Hélène has a bit of sewing to do.’

I try to nibble a little food but find it physically impossible to do so. I allow myself to be dressed, raising my arms at Hélène’s direction, lifting my legs when I feel a tap at my ankles. I am yanked back like a naughty puppy on a leash as Hélène’s meaty arms tug at my corset stays. I flatten the ruffles around my collar and take small steps around the room while glancing over my shoulders. The steel half-hoops in the skirt lining give my dress a life of its own. Examining myself in a long mirror I am disappointed to see that my complexion is still that of someone who has not seen the light of day for a long time.

‘Hélène, don’t you think I look a little like the hind legs of a horse in this?’

‘You look as you look. It’s not for you to judge.’

Madame enters the room again and, after smoothing out the ribbons on the bonnet and adjusting my posture slightly, she indicates that I should follow her. This bustle feels very large and I have to swing my way forward which must make me look like an undulating camel trying to cross the Sahara. Whatever do men find appealing about this? I try not to look at the floor. Madame Del wafts into a large room, one I had never been in before. Her gestures are more theatrical now and she has an extravagant greeting for the man in the top hat who is standing very tall and straight by the fireplace. He takes her hand and kisses it.

‘Dr Philippe, this is our lovely Lily.’

I don’t know when the decision to change my name was made, but approaching this man as Lily seems a lot easier than as Babette.

‘Dr Philippe, delighted to meet you.’ I try to outdo Madame in the extravagance of my gestures, but can immediately tell by the faint crease on her brow that my enthusiasm may need a little reining in. I take a seat at the other side of the
fireplace while Madame Del nods and leaves the room. As he looks to place his hat on a table, I shoot a studying glance at the caller, being careful not to ogle. He is thin with an untidy grey beard and heavy eyebrows. He looks like the bony type that would sit in his library and summon his grandchildren one by one to test them on their knowledge of geography. His eyes are slate coloured and his cheeks slightly flushed. He crosses his long legs and, with his elbows perched on the well-stuffed arm rests, he forms a pyramid shape with his fingertips and taps his lips. Who is meant to speak first?

This room is very different from the parlour that I was first brought in to. There is an overcrowding of ornamentation. A large round table sweeps up through the throats of two white carved swans and they in turn are entangled in gilt-edged lilies and bulrushes. A white and gold bookcase is carved on either side with two boys in curls and arms crossed over their chests, ensnared by gold leaves. The room is warmed by the fire and half lit from the dimmed lamps. The chair that the good doctor is relaxing in is stuffed and plump, while the one that I am perched on would be better placed in a church. My fingers toy with diminutive flying buttresses on the wooden armrests. I feel that if I lay my head back, my hair would get caught up in the profusion of turrets that are carved at every angle. I must appear to him as if I am wearing a mitre as the back of my chair looms into an elaborate pinnacle jutting towards the ceiling high above my hat. Everything is sharp and angular and unless I remain perfectly still, I fear I may do myself an injury. I notice that there is a silver tea and coffee service laid out all punched with the designs of what looks to be Chinese men, I expect in the process of bartering their wares. I rise.

‘Shall I pour you some tea or would you prefer some coffee, Monsieur?’

He uncrosses his legs and pats his thighs. ‘I want you to come and sit here on my lap.’

I feel as if I could snap off this ridiculously decorated handle and I crash the pot back down on to the tray, turning to him in fury. I am sure I would scarcely be able to tell the difference between sitting on his lap and sitting on that angular church chair.

‘You, Monsieur, are a very crude man. If I was on the street, you would at least have to engage me in some initial small talk. The elegance of these surroundings highlights you to be as much out of place as a pig in a parlour.’

As I stomp towards the door, I manage, to my surprise, to get some fluidity into my cumbersome garments.

‘I believe Monsieur or Doctor, you have the wrong address and perhaps you should try the Place de Pigalle. You would find that more to your liking, or more accurately, to your style. And I don’t care if you knew Napoleon.’

Brushing passed Madame Del in the hallway and carrying the weight of dress as I make my way back upstairs, to my extreme annoyance, I can hear the man’s laughter rolling out from the front room. I manage to step out of these clothes much quicker that I was layered into them. Madame Del knocks and enters, telling me to sit down. I throw my bonnet on to the bed with an alarmingly instinctive display of petulance and sit with my arms crossed. I know that I am going to be told I do not have ‘what it takes’ and will be marched out the front door. Madame Del remains standing with her hands clasped in front of her

‘You see, this is the problem with taking in girls who have not been vouched for. Babette, this is a business, my business. I look at you now, and my feeling is that you need not begin this life in earnest at all. I think you should pack up your
belongings and go find another job. I’m sure there are plenty things you would like to do? Be a seamstress, or a shop girl. You could take your chances like the hundreds of other girls who come to this town looking to make a better life. You could model again.’

My shoulders sink a little.

‘Or you could choose to make your trades wisely. We all give up something to gain something. What I can offer you here is cultured company that will treat you well. You can be the mistress of a wealthy, educated man and as many other men as you wish or you could be the companion of an impoverished person of worthy virtue. You could throw your lot in with someone who love romantically yet have that strangled to death through the sheer grind of making ends meet. Or you could live a life of refinement and ease. I can’t make that choice for you, Babette. Of course, it’s always possible that you could walk out this gate and meet the perfect person in the best of circumstances and live happily from here on in. I don’t want to deny you that if you believe that to be possible. You have your beauty, Babette, which places you in a better than average position.’ Madame Del steps over to me and smoothes my carefully frizzed fringe. ‘Look at you. All grown up but still like a delicate flower.’

She softly exits the room, leaving me alone sitting on my bed. I take a few seconds to compose myself then begin gathering up my belongings. I pull my Japanese-print bag out from under my bed and begin to place my things into it. Snapping it closed I take one long look at it. All my worldly belongings amount to one small bulge. Looking around at the plump cushions, the upholstered chairs, the wardrobe of dresses, the stack of hat boxes, even the small plate of
madelines
that have been left out for me to eat when I
fancied, I revise my decision. As an already fallen woman, my options are severely limited, so better to lead a life of vice in refined surroundings than to take my chances on my own, in a city where I haven’t had the best of fortune so far. Then there is my sister’s proposition, but even the thought of that is making my chest constrict. I leave my room and call for Madame Del from the top of the staircase. She appears almost instantly at the foot of the stairs.

‘Madame, I’ve decided to stay.’

Madame Del smiles and nods.

‘Very good. Now, in future do not stand half dressed at the top of my staircase. You want to make the caller feel he has to try just a little.’

* * *

Brushing my hair in my room and thinking of nothing in particular Hélène is suddenly at my side, placing a compact dark-red velvet box in front of me. She leaves without giving an explanation. I caress it before snapping it open. Tucked among the folds of silk is a sparkling diamond bracelet. There is also an embossed card.

Clasping the bracelet onto my wrist, somehow the prison pallor of my skin seems less noticeable. I am sure I should feel
something even mildly bordering on indignation or shame. But this bracelet immediately looks as if it belongs on my wrist and I instantly feel as if I am entitled to be wearing it. Have I so easily crossed into this world of commerce where I can now be valued in the cut of a diamond? Assessing my outstretched hand as my bracelet winks in ice-blue sparkles, my answer appears very quickly and unashamedly to be, ‘Yes!’

* * *

Madame Del chooses the dress I am to wear. It is shimmering pale pink and sleeveless with a lower neckline than anything I have ever worn before. She warns me that the scent I am wearing is far too strong and that I must go for something more delicate, with violet, lavender or rose notes. Babette likes patchouli, but I understand Lily should wear, well, something like lily. There are two bottles on my dressing table, one squat with a fat glass stopper, the other long necked. I circle the long-necked bottle under my nose, then the squat one. The squat one reminds me of helping my mother to bake, then sitting with my elbows on the wooden table waiting with a knife to slice into the sweet springy moistness. It is a smell of burnt sugar and caramel with hints of vanilla. I dismiss it as it reminds me too much of home. The longer bottle is more what Lily should wear. It is a wild-flower meadow after a short cloudburst of spring showers. More a lilt than a chorus; it is only apparent if you were to brush someone close by. It is a whispered secret. This is Lily’s scent.

A carriage pulls up at the garden gate and on the seat is a mixed bouquet with a note telling me I will be met on arrival. True to his word, there stands Philippe, leaning against one of the enormous columns that frame the grand entrance.
Five steps bring me to where he waits with his elbow cocked for me to link on to him. We step into the large entrance hall and with several nods of his head to lustrous men and women on both his right and left, we fall into a swell of black tails and taffeta ruffles as it slowly surges up the gleaming staircase. The wave parts and we are ushered into a private box with its own balcony. There is red velvet everywhere and as I take my seat, I suddenly feel like a jewel in a jewellery box. And so begins a night that is a whirl of sensations, as if I was being sweetly caressed with feathers. I feel sure no better introduction to opera could have been conceived.

‘
Lakmé
,’ Philippe informs me in whispered tones once the prelude about to strike up, ‘is both beautiful and tragic. Léo Delibes created the role for an American singer called Marie van Zandt. You will see her very early on in the first act. To my mind, the first thing to savour is the duet between Lakmé and her servant, Mallika, the “Flower Duet”, but throughout, the orchestration is delicate and teasing. You will love it.’

I watch transfixed as the stage becomes a holy place where the Hindus perform their mysterious rites under the high priest, while the beautiful Lakmé and her servant go down to the river, where Lakmé removes her jewellery and they set off to gather flowers. As their duet soars and swoops to the final chorus, ‘
Sous le dôme épais ou le blanc jasmine. Ah! Descendons, ensembles!’
I feel sure my heart will burst from my chest. How can something so beautiful be so discomforting? And in this instant, I suddenly feel as if I have matured into a proper woman. There is a pleasure-pain continuum that my younger untutored self would have scoffed at, the drama of broken hearts and loves won and lost and a sudden awareness of the blinding spell that some women can cast on men. How easy it would be to be cruel. The riveting crescendo
from this stage has enchanted me into a vulnerable state of whimpering adoration, and I feel powerless.

‘If you are feeling a little teary over some white jasmine, Lily, then I shall have to carry you out of here as the love story unfolds between Lakmé and the British Army officer.’

I lean as far forward as I dare, without actually resting my arms on the velvet balcony in front of me, the way a farmer would in surveillance of his sheep, and it keeps me enthralled as the officer first sees Lakmé, which frightens her into crying out for help. She instead turns away her rescuers, indecision I can well relate to. Are others as moved and intrigued as I, or are they much more jaded and less impressed? Perhaps in this distinguished audience, I may well be the only person who is here for the first time. I try to see if there is any other person with the same degree of uncouthness in the matter of all things operatic but there seems little evidence of it. Our balcony abuts another to the right where three young men have an air of distraction. They are being tended to by a white-gloved man who fusses intermittently about them, topping up Champagne flutes. Why is there no lady to accompany even one of them? The man seated in the middle has glanced over in the direction of our box several times now. I really must learn the skill of the subtle side-glance that I am aware other women effortlessly employ. But I find myself matching his boldness. How dare he stare so impertinently? It is because he is aware of his good looks, I am sure.