by Jane Riley
She rested her head on my shoulder. I stroked her hair. I had managed to divert Caroline from the bedroom to the living room, in an effort to separate Marie and her. I couldn’t deny that in the throes of passion my worries dissipated, but now I had to try really hard to focus on compartmentalising them.
‘That was nice,’ she whispered, twiddling one of my few chest hairs.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘So now that you’ve seen me again, do you want to keep seeing me?’ she asked with a cheeky smile that I sensed belied a certain earnestness. Here she was, pressing me again about my intentions. Why couldn’t we go on as we had been, having a bit of fun without the pressure of future commitment or the dissection of what it all meant? When I left it a second too long to respond, she added, ‘I’m not trying to scare you, Oliver. I know what I want but I’m still unclear about you.’
‘Of course I want to see you again,’ I said.
‘And again and again and again?’ she asked.
I laughed and kissed the top of her head but left her last sentence dangling in the air as if pegged on a washing line waiting to be taken down, and changed the subject.
‘Have you eaten?’ I said. ‘Would you like to stay for some home-made frittata and reality television?’ I couldn’t not ask her. She was already in my flat and I owed her one, as it was.
A flash of vexation passed across her face – presumably because I hadn’t fully engaged with her question – but she let it pass. ‘Of course I would,’ she said, with a squeeze of my arm and a peck on my pec – or what would be my pec if I went to the gym.
I squeezed and kissed her back and wondered what she’d smell like if she were a candle. Hairspray, coconut oil, lemon verbena. Cat.
With Caroline buying me time to think, I managed to shovel her cluckiness in a cupboard and focus on appreciating her company. We were sharing an evening at home, cooking dinner together, me whipping eggs and her chopping herbs, watching television snuggled on the sofa, an arm gently resting across her shoulders and her hand occasionally slapping my thigh in merry response to the TV programme. How lovely, the joys of partnership. Yet how sickening the guilty feeling of having cheated.
The Samples
A few days later, the candles samples were ready. This was very good news. Edie was proving reliable, efficient and, as it turned out, punctual. She was already at the café in which we had decided to meet – so as to avoid an unnecessary encounter with Mum – when I arrived eight minutes early. She apologised for being early and I apologised for making her wait, which made us both chuckle, as the clock was still to land on our agreed time. The meeting was off to a good start.
‘They’re all here,’ she said, grinning and pointing to a large bag by her feet. ‘Shall we order first?’
‘In normal circumstances I would have said yes but, as this is no ordinary circumstance and I can’t wait to smell them, let’s save lunch for after,’ I said.
She smiled and, for the first time, I appreciated the straightness of her teeth. In fact, everything about her smile was really rather appealing. Her lipstick was one of the best reds I’d seen in a long time and I wondered whether we should add it to our collection of body-viewing lipsticks and if I could ask Edie for its name. What a thought, me talking lipstick brands with Edie!
She reached into the bag and placed each candle gently on the table. ‘Which one shall we start with? I’ve made two for pretend people – a gardener and a barbecue-lover – and three for Jean.’
‘You choose.’
‘OK. Close your eyes.’
I closed my eyes. There was a clink of a lid lifting, then a diffusion of sweetness: scents of jasmine, gardenia, freesia. Nearly Marie, but not quite. A garden she may have grown and flowers she may have tended. A botanical wonderland.
‘The gardener?’ I suggested. She nodded. ‘I like it.’
‘Next one,’ she said.
A smoky, spiced tang twitched my nostril hairs and teased my taste buds. It took me to the butcher’s not far from the parlour. Their wild-boar sausages with chipotle chilli. My mouth salivated. I thought about buying some on my way home from work.
‘This better not be Jean.’ I laughed.
‘Poor her, if it is,’ she said. We laughed some more and I sniffed again.
‘I tell you what, it’s making me hungry.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Well, yes, but isn’t it meant to be a memory of a person, not a sausage?’
‘I thought I should show my versatility. It’s the sort of candle I’d make for my nephew if he let me. Josh likes to think he’s a barbecue-sausage connoisseur. Except the idea of the candles “creeps him out” – his words – so I’ve let him off the hook. He’s only eleven.’
‘He might take to the idea when he’s older.’
‘True, and it is tricky making a candle of someone who can smell themselves. For Jean, I made three, as I wanted to get her right. I mean, when you smell yourself, it needs to be spot on.’
‘But does anyone really know what they smell like, except when it’s bad?’ I thought about festering breath, fusty feet, the pong of sweaty skin and unwashed clothes.
Edie laughed. ‘I guess not, but we all hope we smell nice, don’t we? We all have “good” smells, the natural, unperfumed scents we carry around with us every day. The ones we’re unaware of that make an impression,’ she said. ‘You know, there’s a woman who’s made her career as an olfactory scientist, a guru of smell. Sissel Tolaas studies smells and recreates them. She has seven thousand smells bottled in a lab in Berlin. She’s been making cityscapes, capturing the scents of cities.’
‘Sounds a bit bonkers.’
‘Do you think people will think we’re bonkers doing this?’ she said. ‘I mean, you didn’t like the idea to begin with.’
‘Yes, but you sold me with Marie. You’re not having doubts, are you?’ Edie pulling out would be the final nail in the coffin.
‘No, but it means we really have to get the samples right and, even more so, Jean. If Jean likes it, she’ll be the drawcard.’
The thought of customers sniffing Jean at her desk gave me a turn. Heaven forbid. I couldn’t have Clock & Son turning into a freak show. Worse, a jaded, old-fashioned freak show, as we’d still not agreed on the refurbishments.
Edie touched my hand. There it was again, the frisson, the caring touch of a quietly confident woman. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, as if she were also telepathic. ‘But don’t worry, Jean doesn’t have to be on sniffer parade. I just thought that if she liked it, she could vouch for its authenticity. Remember, I’m doing this for the same reason you’re doing your job. To help people during the tough times. To turn pain into something positive. To offer precious moments with loved ones in a way no one has done before. I may dispense drugs for a living, but there are plenty of other ways to treat malaise.’
Edie’s words were touching and insightful, her skin soft and luminous like a full moon.
I nodded. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘So are you ready for Jean?’
She wafted each candle twice under my nose, paused and did it again. My nose twitched, my head went fuzzy. ‘Can you do it again?’
‘I used base notes of vanilla and cocoa with top notes of honey and amaretto. A little bit of sweetness, but not too much. I didn’t want it to be overpowering. It’s important to get the balance right.’
I moved my nose over the three candles again and took a moment to think. ‘Number three,’ I said. ‘I think number three is Jean at her best.’ Jean’s morning pastry treat. Her home-made almond slice. The buttery smell of her jumpers after a weekend of baking.
‘Great,’ Edie said. ‘Let’s hope Jean thinks so, too.’ She held up two crossed fingers.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you come by after work and we’ll find out?’
Jean was refilling the tea bag tin and I was counting Post-it notes for something
to do when Edie arrived. The first thing she did was compliment Jean on her brooch – a wooden cat with a painted face – and then adjusted it for her, as it was sitting on an angle. Edie may well have liked it, but what brilliant timing and tact. If you’d asked me, I wouldn’t have thought Edie was a brooch-wearing woman, more of a necklace-wearer. Like the cake-slice pendant necklace she had on that sat just below her neck, where the clavicles met her sternum. She pulled out a business card of her sister’s vintage clothing shop and told Jean how she always stocked a selection of jewellery and brooches. ‘You should visit,’ Edie said. ‘Tell her you know me. You never know, she might give you a discount.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Jean replied, taking the card.
‘Well, now, I’ve got your candle here,’ Edie added, patting her bag.
‘Goodness me,’ Jean said. ‘I know you were going to make a candle of me but now I’m not so sure about it. I don’t see how the idea will catch on. Isn’t it detracting from our core business? I have all these unanswered questions.’
I took Jean’s hand. ‘It’s OK, Jean. Edie and I have discussed everything and we have a plan in place. Why don’t you smell your candle first, then we can tell you about it?’
‘I’m not sure whether I should be excited or repulsed.’
‘We’re aiming for excited,’ Edie said. ‘I know it may be hard to feel emotional and have memories prompted when you’re smelling yourself, but feel free to give it a go.’ She laughed.
‘Well, that’s an interesting concept, isn’t it?’ Jean agreed. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Edie took out the five candles she had made and lined them up, evenly spaced in a row on the reception desk. ‘Three are you and two are pretend people, for sample purposes. You need to open your mind to the idea and close your eyes in order to smell.’ Edie mimicked the ideal candle-smelling action, over-exaggerating the lifting of the lid, the breathing in, and sniffing enthusiastically. Then she picked up a candle and lifted its lid. ‘Your turn. This is Oliver’s favourite.’
Jean looked at me, then at Edie. ‘Here we go.’ She leaned over the jar and smelt, albeit less exuberantly than Edie. A scent trail of honeyed vanilla and cocoa beans snaked through the air like invisible mist and plucked at Jean’s nose. She closed her eyes and inhaled again, thinking intently about the delicate pong of herself. ‘Well,’ she said, straightening up and twirling her glasses.
‘What do you think?’
‘Can I smell the others?’
One by one, the three of Jean and then the rest, Jean smelled and sniffed and nosed out the subtle variances in scent. It was like watching a drug sniffer dog moving between luggage on an airport carousel.
‘I must say, they’re all quite nice,’ she said. ‘But I think Oliver may be right. This one could well be me. May I take myself home?’
The thought of Jean taking herself home bottled as a scented candle was a bit nutty. Sweet Jean with an amaretto honey fragrance! But, hopefully, it was nutty in a good way. I phoned Andy that night, excited to be giving him a job.
‘It’s not a big one, but I’d love it if you could do it for us,’ I said.
‘I’m not photographing a dead person,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing like that.’
‘Or a coffin. Sorry, they creep me out, whether there’s someone in them or not.’
‘Andy, don’t panic. It’s candles.’
‘Candles?’
So I told him all about them and how I had suggested to Edie that we get some professional photographs done. I waited for his response. It was as if I could hear his brain ticking over, which was disconcerting, as Andy was usually a quick thinker – even his mind had fast-twitch muscle fibres.
‘Geez, I don’t know what to say,’ he said. ‘Candles of the dead – don’t they sound appealing?’
For someone with Andy’s creativity, you’d think he would have a better imagination. ‘Trust me, Andy. I wasn’t sure at first either but when Edie made one of Marie . . .’
‘Ah, Marie . . .’ I could tell he was nodding, which offended, if I’m being honest. It was as if I wasn’t still allowed to have feelings for her.
‘Yes, Marie,’ I said defiantly. ‘It’s her. She really is in the candle.’
‘Do you know how that sounds?’
‘I know, it’s amazing! Look, don’t you always like to say, “You won’t know until you try”? Well, I want to try this, Andy, I really do. They might not be my ticket to early retirement but they will set us apart from everyone else. If we do it right, there is no reason why we can’t turn a little profit and, more importantly, attract customers to Clock & Son and deflect them from the competition.’
‘OK, then.’ Andy let out a big sigh. I thought he would have been appreciative of getting some photography work, even if it was only going to be a half-day job.
The Misunderstanding
The day of Andy’s party shone crisp and clean like a sun-dried business shirt and I decided to invite Caroline over beforehand for drinks and nibbles, even suggesting that we get ready together, which she took as a euphemism for sex, which I wasn’t opposed to. I felt confident, having already had Caroline over and successfully compartmentalising her and Marie, that I could continue to do so even in my own flat, provided we avoided the bedroom. Even though I was on call and couldn’t have any alcohol, I really wanted to let my hair down and enjoy Caroline’s company. I had all the ingredients to make my favourite sparkling cranberry and lime, and gin and tonic for Caroline. When she arrived I cracked a joke about how we could practise our salsa moves at Andy’s, show everyone what dancing was all about. I mixed the drinks and lit some newly bought vanilla-scented candles. In the living room, I lowered the blinds and spun her around half undressed and made her laugh. I loved it when she was happy and not tripping over moods or being bossy and demanding. Just simply happy. I kept going with the body twirls until we ended up on the sofa, then dismantling the cushions. It would have been easy to stay there for longer but we had a schedule to keep. ‘Perhaps a shower?’ I suggested, to keep the evening moving along. ‘You go first. I’ll get you a towel.’
Then it was my turn. I was so happy I sang in the shower and didn’t mind that Caroline could hear the notes I didn’t reach and my dud tone. I’d just stepped out when I heard a shriek coming from the bedroom and thought for a second that she was adding the staccato to my alto when in fact she was genuinely crying out about something. Wrapping the towel around me, I ran in.
‘Spider?’ I said.
‘No!’ She shrieked again. My worst fear, which on a scale of one to ten had risen to an eleven – higher than my fear of being seen in public in unironed clothes – eventuated. Caroline held Marie’s diary in one hand, opened on a well-thumbed page scuffed from my repeated readings. ‘What’s this?’ she said, jabbing the page with a finger.
Oh, how I wished there had been a spider crawling along the bed. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, when really I was thinking: What are you doing in my bedroom and how did you find the diary? Had I left it out on the bedside table by mistake or had Caroline found it in its new hiding place inside a drawer in the bedside table? Oh, Marie, I’m so sorry.
‘Oliver?’ she said.
‘It’s a friend’s diary,’ I said. ‘Actually, do you mind?’
‘What do you mean, a friend?’ She moved her arm so I couldn’t get it.
‘You know, a friend.’
‘Is she a lover?’
‘What?’ I was so taken aback by her question that I blushed, which had the unfortunate effect of making me look guilty.
‘I thought so.’
‘No, she isn’t. Wasn’t. You see—’ I was about to explain but she interrupted.
‘I’ve read it, Oliver. Don’t lie.’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘Is she the reason you don’t want to commit to me?’
‘No,’ I said, even though it hit a nerve. She flung the journal on the bed covers, scram
bled off the bed and gathered her clothes off the floor. ‘Caroline, please . . .’
I went back around to her side of the bed. I wanted to calm her down, rub her back and make her see sense.
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘But there’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ she said, pulling on her skirt.
‘Who?’
‘Every cheater.’ She wriggled into her top.
‘I’m not—’ But I still couldn’t get a word in.
‘You think you can have your bit on the side while preying on other people’s feelings?’
‘What? No.’
‘I’m not going to put up with it.’ On went the shoes.
‘You don’t have to because it’s not true,’ I said. ‘You see, she was my florist—’
‘Oh, please. I don’t want to hear it.’ She grabbed her bag and pushed past me into the hallway. I followed. A trail of water accompanied us.
‘Please, you must understand. She’s no longer around . . .’ I should have said ‘dead’ but, ever since Marie had died, I’d gone off that word. It’s so brutal and final and not the sort of word you want to use in relation to someone you’ve only recently discovered you had been in love with and they you.
Caroline stopped, then turned to me. ‘You mean . . .?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘So now will you let me explain?’
She rummaged in her handbag for a cigarette and shoved it in her mouth.
‘I thought you’d given up.’
‘Yes, well, you’re making me want one again,’ she said, which didn’t explain why she had a packet in her bag, but I let it ride, as I was more concerned about clearing up the misunderstanding.
‘Let’s go outside, then,’ I suggested as she was about to light up.
She followed me out to the courtyard and leaned against the railing. I thought about sitting but didn’t like the metaphorical implications of her standing over me, so I stood, too.