The Secret Ways of Perfume (6 page)

M
YRRH:
security. More earthy and “concrete” than incense.

The fragrance is strong, balanced and unambiguous.

Represents the link between spirit and reality.

T
he line of trees started on one side of the street and ran almost as far as the eye could see until it suddenly stopped, and began again on the other side. The trees in Place Louis-Lépine followed the lines of the buildings and, a little farther along, inside the flower market, lavender, myrtle and rosemary bushes sprouted untidily from their stands as if in protest at being confined.

With his hands deep in his pockets, Caillen McLean headed straight for the stand where he would find roses. It was a wet day, and his thick hair dripped rain onto his gaunt face. His piercing blue eyes were cold and lined with tiny wrinkles. Those eyes were daunting enough to give anyone pause when seeing him for the first time, but they were nothing in comparison to the deep and uneven scar running across his cheek.

Ignoring the banks of caramel-scented lilies, freshly opened tulips and freesias, he turned to look at an odd combination of dried
flowers—and grimaced. Right in the middle was a bouquet of electric-blue roses.

“
Bonjour
, Cail, how are you? What can I do for you?” A middle-aged man dried both hands on a soil-covered apron. A steely glint in his eyes suggested that the hearty-looking florist might not be as calm as he seemed. Disregarding his friendly greeting, Cail pointed at the blue roses. “Is anyone really going to buy those . . .
things
?”

The other man scratched his head. “I've got some green and gold ones. Do you want to see them?”

“You're joking, right, Lambert?”

The seller shrugged. “They're not that bad, actually.”

A frosty glare was Cail's only response before shifting his gaze, as though he couldn't even stand to look at the flowers.

“Is Liliane in her usual spot?” His voice was deep, with a slight Scottish accent, and there was a hint of impatience in his tone.

“Yes, opposite side of the market,” Lambert told him, “next to Louise's stall. The one with the hibiscuses.” Cail nodded a thank-you, and after casting one final withering glance at the flowers, he stalked off. As Lambert watched the tall figure disappear into the middle of the market, he grumbled to himself, “Roses follow fashion, just like the rest of the world. If the punters want blue roses, I get blue roses. They want green? Then green it is.” He stared at the flowers with their crumpled petals and that metallic touch that gave him the shivers. “I don't blame him for hating them, though,” he muttered under his breath. A moment later he was flashing a dazzling smile at a woman who came looking for him with a vase of mottled purple petunias in her hand.

Cail had almost reached the back of the flower market when he spotted the rose-sellers. He carefully examined the tired-looking blooms emerging from their spiny stems. From a distance they were
no different from the fat buds of peonies. Even the colors, a whole spectrum of pink, from the brightest to the most powdery, seemed to mark them out as such. But a more careful observer wouldn't miss the delicate and slightly decadent grace of the chalice-shaped flowers, with their open petals resting languidly against one another. They were Claire Austin roses. An unmistakable, though delicate, scent of myrrh seemed to mix in with the meadowsweet, gaining strength and adding character to their docile appearance.

Cail looked at them, lifting them up in the palm of his hand and leaning forward to bury his face in the flowers. He didn't even need to smell them: their clear, characteristic perfume was all around. But there was something profoundly sensuous about the silken touch of those creamy-pink petals on the skin, and Cail intended to make the most of it. He ignored the looks he got from passersby, as he did with anything else that didn't remotely interest him.

“Hi, Cail.” A young woman approached him. Slowly, gracefully, he straightened up.

“Have you got my parcel?” he asked, skipping the small talk. Liliane looked at him for a moment, then shook her head with a look of resignation.

“Yes, I'm fine, thanks. You're looking very well yourself,” she said curtly, before going behind the counter and coming back with a brown box. She was wearing a blue sleeveless dress with a square neckline that had provoked disapproving looks and compliments in equal measure from her customers. Despite the chill in the air, she didn't regret her decision: she had known Cail would be coming to collect the parcel and she would have worn a bikini if it got him to notice her.

Cail, however, didn't seem to be paying any attention to her appearance. He just picked up the parcel and handed her a hundred
euros in exchange. On seeing her confused expression, he pointed at the box. “Keep the change. I'll need some more stuff for next week.”

The young woman nodded. “Anything else I can do for you?” she asked. And she wasn't talking about flowers.

Cail was quiet for a moment, and then nodded goodbye. “No. See you next Saturday.” Liliane could only purse her lips in frustration.

•   •   •

Alain Le Notre.
The very name was terrifying. Monique straightened the skirt of her dress. Perched on an uncomfortable antique armchair, she cast a quick glance around the room. Her eyes settled on a desk that might once have belonged to a French monarch and had since found its way to the
maison'
s Head of Human Resources. Marquetry, ornaments, mother-of-pearl and rosewood. Why did men have to flaunt their power like this?

She stood up and went over to the window. Paris was dozing under a gray drizzle. Only a few brave tourists had dragged themselves out, conspicuous in colorful plastic raincoats designed to protect their state-of-the-art cameras. Monique stared at the fat raindrops clinging to the glass, a knot of anxiety in her stomach. What if Le Notre retracted his offer? What then?

Silently, Monique chided herself. She had to stop thinking about the consequences of something that hadn't even happened yet. She was just like her mother! She wondered whether Elena would accept Jasmine's invitation to visit Grasse. Not that Monique agreed with the suggestion—personally, she didn't think Elena should be wallowing in the past. Having fun, being around people, that's what she needed. But, above all, her friend needed to accept her true nature. Once Elena realized what a unique talent she had, she'd become one of the most sought-after noses in the world. Easily. Except that Elena hated being the center of attention.

Monique was the one who needed to be in the limelight. She was
so good at solving everyone else's problems, it was a shame she was completely hopeless when it came to her own.

Another sigh. She straightened her skirt again. Then she heard the door behind her.

“Monsieur Le Notre,” she said, turning around.

“It's good to see you again, mademoiselle
.
”

Alain's eyes were a cool shade of gray, but at that moment they gleamed, delighted. He must have been around forty, but his slender, athletic body showed that he took serious care of himself and his appearance. He was tall, smart and sophisticated.

“Benzoin, bergamot, vetiver, sandalwood and a mixture of cedarwood,” Monique recited. “And tonka bean.”

She didn't know what had come over her, but she recognized the fragrance the man was wearing. It was one of her own creations. Nothing special—any perfumier could have come up with an essence like that for a man like Le Notre. He smiled, revealing a row of bright white teeth to go with his sporty and naturally tanned appearance. A boat, she'd bet. Le Notre looked like a seafaring man.

“Please, mademoiselle, let's take a seat.” He led her over to a small sofa and sat down beside her. It wasn't the first time Monique had met Alain. She'd already had a chance to appreciate his vibrant personality.

“I like the way you work.” Le Notre smiled, and went on: “Your intuition is quite incredible; you can find original, solid blends at affordable prices—and that practical approach is just what I want for my new line. I want action, certainty, energy—and for it to be accessible to a wide audience. Do you think you can give me what I need?”

“Let me think about it,” Monique said calmly, her heart pounding. This man had taken her limitations, the things that made her ordinary, and turned them into strengths. She was thrilled, and so deeply moved by Alain's words that she almost forgot to breathe. It was as though she'd found someone who could appreciate her for her faults.

The man gave her a pensive stare. The perfume hung in the air, a bond between them.

“I . . . I think we can discuss it,” she said again, this time with more certainty. Then she straightened her shoulders and looked Le Notre in the eye.

“Very well, Mademoiselle Duval. What do you say we move on to the administrative side?”

Monique nodded, trying not to let her enthusiasm show. “I'm listening, Monsieur Le Notre.”

•   •   •

It was almost
ridiculous, waiting in the rain. He was completely drenched, his jeans and T-shirt stuck to his skin, his eyelashes dripping with raindrops. Yet Cail wouldn't have moved from the rosebush even if the sky fell in.

He looked down into the courtyard for a moment. The renovated apartments enclosing the large communal courtyard, the heart of what had once been the grand home of one of the wealthiest aristocratic families in Paris, were still cloaked in darkness.

Cail moved his umbrella to keep the rose stem dry. At the top of the spiny branch, a fat bud was about to open any moment.

He half-closed his eyes. The rain pattered relentlessly, plastering his hair to his face and soaking into his two-day-old beard. He shook himself dry, careful not to knock the rose.

He had no idea what effect getting too wet might have on a bud at that stage of maturation. In general, he'd prefer to conduct an experiment like this in a greenhouse, but this particular plant was the product of a series of events that went against any cross-breeding technique manual, and he didn't want to run the risk of undermining months of effort by moving it. It was a three-year-old rosebush, with its first mature bud.

He leaned over, desperate to protect the flower. Then he put one
knee on the grass; he was so impatient he was shaking. He was excited and he couldn't wait for the dawn to come and light up the sky. It would stop raining soon; he knew it.

“Bloody weather,” he cursed. “For God's sake give it a rest!”

John, his dog, got to his feet and plodded over to join him. Cail smiled and put out his free hand to stroke the creature's tawny coat. “Go back in your kennel,” he ordered. “You'll get soaked.” The dog licked his hand, and did as he was told.

Paris seemed to be waking up. The buzz of cars quickly became a roar, like a swollen stream heading for the valley. Lights were disappearing from houses, too, replaced by a sunrise growing brighter and brighter. Cail knew it wouldn't be long before the courtyard was full of people. He gritted his teeth. It was better for them if they kept their distance.

He didn't mind the quizzical looks from his neighbors, who had caught him talking to his plants on more than one occasion. But the benefit of being a solid six feet four was that none of them was brave enough to poke fun at him. At least, not within earshot. Although he was more inclined to think it was due to the off-putting effect of his scar.

“Good morning, Caillen,” a voice called up. “I won't ask what the hell you're doing standing in the rain keeping that rosebush dry. I'm far too scared of that temper of yours.”

“Piss off, Ben!”

His friend's laugh got a smirk out of Cail. Ben waved goodbye and went about his day.

Cail knew he looked ridiculous holding a ladies' checked umbrella over the rosebush. His mother, Elizabeth, had left the umbrella on one of her visits. She would have appreciated the excuse to come back and collect it, but Cail had decided he'd post it to her at the first possible opportunity. He carried on waiting, eyes fixed on the bud.

A stream of pink eventually cleared away the black clouds, the rain slowly easing off until it was just a light patter. Piles of wet leaves at the sides of the courtyard below gave off a strong, musky plant smell.

Cail breathed in the pungent scent, concentrated by the cold air, and then turned his attention back to the rose. It was the only survivor from a group of seeds that had been very important to him, and had gone decidedly wrong. For a while they were growing normally; then they started to wilt. Cail decided to replant them in the ground, taking them out of the pot they were grown in. It was a risky move for such a young cross-breed; he knew that. But luckily his unconventional response had strengthened the remaining plant, which, thanks to all his attention, had grown quickly. Now Cail couldn't wait to see the results of the cross-breeding. It felt as if the many months he'd dedicated to this plant had been reduced to this one moment, for the rose would bloom with the first rays of sunlight.