The French Perfumer

by Amanda Hampson

  While the hallways and presumably the bedrooms we passed were rather sumptuous, this all ended abruptly on the third floor which is surprisingly dilapidated. I imagine this was once servants’ quarters but she assured me I had the upper floor and the bathroom all to myself. It took some effort to disguise my disappointment when Miss Brooke opened the door to my room which is terribly shabby and spartan. Just an iron bedstead with white sheets. Not a rug or even a little vase to soften the effect. The only saving grace was a good-sized window with an old desk beneath it and the welcome sight of my trunk, which left London two weeks ago. The driver, whom Miss Brooke had introduced as Monsieur Lapointe, arrived with my suitcase which he placed at the end of the bed, leaving without a word. I was aware that this was not a form of subservience. There was plenty of time in the car to pick up the unmistakable smell of pure hostility. I have a high level of accuracy with this odour, which has an unpleasant ring to it, a bit like metal polish.

  ‘You speak a little French – oui?’ I struggled to think of a single word but Miss Brooke just shrugged and glanced around the drab little room with affection as though imagining all the good times I would experience here. A meal was offered, but my appetite had vanished and Miss Brooke bid me goodnight. Despite the lacklustre accommodation, as I sit here at the little desk, fresh from my bath and diligently recording the day, there is a vast sense of relief at having arrived in one piece. I feel almost intrepid.

  My eyes opened this morning to a different world. Not the thick grey dawn, the rumble of cars and trains and the dank smell of disappointment that permeates London these days – the heaviness of all that has come before in my beloved city.

  My room was full of light and the early morning air chill but with a promise of warmth and sun. I dressed quickly and managed to find the kitchen again, a spacious and inviting room with a flagstone floor and long table laid with a single place. There was a pastry accompanied by two little pots, one of jam, the other of butter, and a glass of orange juice. A coloured woman in her mid-twenties, her long hair tied up in a blue scarf, walked in carrying a tray of crockery. She gave a brusque nod to indicate this place was set for me. Putting the tray down on the bench, she poured a cup of thick black coffee from a pot on the stove and placed it in front of me, her face blank, eyes avoiding mine. It was unnerving. Coffee is becoming fashionable in London now but not something I have ever wanted to try. I took a few sips to be polite but truly cannot see the attraction in its black bitterness. I longed for a nice cup of tea but didn’t dare ask.

  Miss Brooke bustled in, dressed fetchingly in loose white trousers, a daffodil-yellow shirt and cream cardigan. She sent a warm smile in my direction. ‘Good morning!’ She then spoke in rapid French to the woman, who listened in silence as she methodically scrubbed each dish and stacked it on a wooden rack.

  Miss Brooke turned her attentions to me. ‘I hope you slept well, Iris. Ask Menna if you need anything.’ I wanted to ask about my role but she was already halfway out the door, leaving Menna and myself in the depths of an uncomfortable silence only relieved by the clink of the dishes.

  After breakfast I returned to my room and stood gazing out the window. My window looks out toward a rocky escarpment at the rear of the property. Directly below is a kitchen garden with rows of vegetables and a potting shed. I had that odd displacement you get when you don’t belong somewhere and felt a longing for home and for my own tiny garden and the familiarity of everything around me. I had the sense of my little house in Linnet Lane waiting patiently for the sound of my key in the door. Not wanting to indulge my silly sentimentality, I went in search of Miss Brooke.

  As I walked through the main vestibule with its checkerboard tiles, the sound of voices drew me toward an adjacent room. ‘Who’s that dazed little creature wandering about?’ The man’s voice was refined; drawn out with a sort of terminal lethargy. ‘Looks ripe for the plucking.’

  ‘She’s the typist I had sent down from London for Hammond. Stay away from her,’ Miss Brooke replied irritably.

  ‘What does he want with a typist?’ he asked.

  Through the half-open door I glimpsed Miss Brooke sweeping about the room, industriously straightening magazines, fluffing cushions. ‘What do you think, Jonathan?’

  ‘Oh, his hocus-pocus? You’re still plugging away at that old chestnut, are you?’

  Satisfied with her endeavours, Miss Brooke made a beeline toward the door which called for a snap decision on my part. I tapped gently and popped my head around the door.

  ‘Miss Turner! Do come in and meet Mr Fishell-Smith,’ said Miss Brooke.

  The man, middle-aged, thin and lanky, sat half reclined on the settee. He smoked languidly as he gazed out into the bright day through the open French doors, barely bothering to turn his head to see who had entered the room. I walked over and extended my hand self-consciously. He half rose to his feet and pressed his lips to the back of my hand.

  ‘Enchanté – please, call me Jonathan. Fishell-Smith is such a dreadful mouthful.’ He had a ruined smile and breath that would be dangerous near an open flame.

  ‘Of course. I’m Iris . . . Miss Brooke’s secretary.’

  ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here, my dear. Call her Vivian. She’d prefer that, so much more modern.’ He collapsed loose-limbed back on the settee as though exhausted by the experience of being vertical.

  ‘Of course, you must,’ said Vivian stiffly. ‘Jonathan is one of my most regular guests.’

  ‘Spend more time here than I do at home, in fact,’ he said, taking a long draw of his cigarette. He gave me a wan smile. ‘Too many tiresome decisions to make at home. Here, darling Vivian makes them all for me.’ He gazed longingly at Vivian. ‘People often assume we were once lovers but, sadly, that was not the case – although there’s still time to rectify that situation.’

  ‘We’re old friends,’ said Vivian, shooting him a look. ‘Family friends.’ Changing tack, she opened her arms to embrace the room. ‘This is my drawing room – isn’t it splendid? Don’t you adore it?’

  I looked around, taking in the ostentatious antique furniture, crystal chandeliers, gloomy landscape paintings in ornate gilt frames, all set off by a heavily patterned wallpaper. The only aspect of real interest to me was an entire wall of books – floor-to-ceiling shelves with a moveable ladder on a rail. I was peripherally conscious of Jonathan’s gaze upon me. He leaned forward abruptly. ‘Viv, look at her, will you? Fresh as a peach.’

  ‘Jonathan, that’s enough – don’t embarrass her,’ said Vivian, scooping his ash off the Persian rug. But he had no plans to stop.

  ‘Utterly enchanting! Would you like to come to England with me, my dear? I promise you’ll never want for anything.’

  I felt my cheeks glow. ‘I’m afraid I am rather busy in the foreseeable future.’

  He gave a splutter of laughter which turned into an uncontrollable coughing fit. Unamused, Vivian took my arm and led me out through the French doors. ‘Needless to say, he has a wife, several former ones and countless children,’ she said. ‘Come and admire our view.’ She led me across the tiled patio that runs the length of the house where large wicker chairs are arranged in clusters under the shade of a thick, twisted bougainvillea now sprouting scarlet blossoms, and then across the lawn to the terrace beyond.

  That moment of walking out onto the terrace will remain with me forever. Having arrived at night, it wasn’t evident just how elevated we are, perched high on the hill. Terraced gardens at the front of the villa drop sharply down to a valley and to green rolling hills that stretch all the way to a blue thread of the Mediterranean. The sky stretched forever into the distance, layer upon layer of blue. My body soaked up the milky warmth of the sun; it was as though I were emerging from years of hibernation. The air was dense with a salty sweetness. I discerned lavender, orange blossom, jasmine, roses – strawberries! I could even smell the rich earth from which they sprouted. Intoxicating scents.

  Pleased by my obvious admiration
, Vivian (it’s so awkward having to use her Christian name, so I find myself avoiding any address) was inspired to take me on a rapid tour of the garden, through the rose bowery and past the swimming pool. She stopped at the orchard, the fruit trees now shedding their blossom for bright green leaves. She pointed out the guest cottage beyond and then, as if abruptly changing her mind, turned my attention back to the villa itself.

  She apparently runs the place as a small exclusive hotel. There are eight bedrooms, five of which are renovated as guest rooms. It seems her guests come mainly from Britain, South Africa and the Far East. ‘They come here to escape their dreary marriages or ghastly careers. It can be tiresome but I couldn’t possibly afford to keep this place going without them.’ Not once in the hour we spent together did she mention my role here. It was as though she has mistaken me for one of her guests.

  We finally arrived back on the patio and before she could escape I asked if she could clarify my position and when I would commence work. ‘Oh, I thought Mr Hubert explained the situation at the interview,’ she said vaguely, now distracted by the appearance of the Citroen coming slowly down the driveway. Monsieur Lapointe had three passengers with several large trunks strapped to the roof. A taxi with even more trunks followed behind. Hurrying off to greet the new guests, Vivian suggested we meet in her office after lunch. So now I sit here pondering the possible meaning of ‘Hammond and his hocus-pocus’.

  At lunchtime I made my way to the kitchen to find that Menna had disappeared but been replaced by a fierce little woman who was obviously the cook. She pointedly ignored me and there was no sign of lunch so I was at a bit of a loss until Vivian materialised and spoke to her. There was a terse exchange between them that seemed to end in a victory for the cook. This was confirmed when Vivian turned to me with a smile. ‘You’ll be dining with the guests while you’re with us, Iris.’

  ‘Oh really? I’d be far more comfortable here in the kitchen.’

  She took my arm and led me down the hall. ‘Madame Bouchard feels it beneath her to cook for staff, so it’s better that you eat with us. Don’t worry, we won’t bite.’

  The guests’ luncheon is served at a long table in a beautiful conservatory, tastefully decorated with potted palms and Grecian statues, on the south side of the house. We were the last to arrive. The gentlemen rose gallantly from their seats upon our arrival and Jonathan made a point of welcoming me effusively and making introductions. He seems to have mastered the knack of maintaining a state of benign equanimity a couple of tipples short of pickled.

  I was introduced to the new arrivals, Mr Douglas Farley and his much younger wife, who introduced herself as Lady Jessica. Mr Farley himself radiates affluence and arrogance but clearly dotes on the ‘little woman’ as an adored child. His flinty expression softened every time he looked her way which was usually to ascertain that she was not troubled by a lack of salt and pepper or similar culinary crisis. She is all Shirley Temple dimples and curls, displaying her tiny white teeth every time she laughs, which is often and invariably without cause.

  The other more interesting new arrival is Mrs Somerville from New York. She is rather forbidding and seems given to introducing provocative topics in the hope of opening up a debate for which she has already formed her arguments and rebuttals – a woman in search of a worthy opponent, so it seems.

  Mr Farley had brought the latest issue of The Times with him from London and there was discussion around the table about the growing hostilities between Egypt and Britain over the Suez Canal. He made the pompous pronouncement that Prime Minister Eden was a decent chap in whose diplomacy he had complete faith, which caused Mrs Somerville to issue forth a derisive snort. ‘Eden!’ she said. ‘This is the guy who wanted to bargain with Hitler and Mussolini – right? You can’t talk peace to dictators; if he’d had the guts right back at the start —’

  Vivian stepped in. ‘Mrs Somerville, more salad?’

  Mr Farley responded icily. ‘My dear woman, the war is over. And I for one have no desire to explore that particular subject any further.’

  ‘Or that of Eden’s digestive system, come to that,’ added Jonathan affably.

  ‘Well, you know Nasser is the Hitler of the Middle East,’ Mrs Somerville said. ‘If that fool of a prime minister of yours had any sense he’d believe Egypt’s threats to obliterate Israel. Will Britain stand by and watch?’

  ‘Are you Jewish yourself, Madam?’ asked Mr Farley.

  ‘Not at all, but many of my dearest friends —’

  Like a knight preparing to joust, Mr Farley cast his wife a brave smile, tilted his lance and sallied forth. ‘I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, Mrs Somerville, but I assure you that neither the British Prime Minister nor the British people are fools – nor ignorant of complexities of foreign politics. The plight of the Israelites is hardly Britain’s problem —’

  Mrs Somerville opened her mouth to interject but was pipped by Jonathan. ‘Splendid lunch as always, Viv.’ He nodded encouragingly at the rest of us to follow suit and halt the escalation of hostilities.

  Following his lead, Lady Jessica placed her hand on her husband’s arm and asked sweetly, ‘Mrs Somerville, I’ve been admiring your exquisite earrings. Are they amethysts?’

  Ambushed by flattery, Mrs Somerville unclipped one of her earrings and passed it to Lady Jessica who examined it with a practised eye and pronounced it superb. ‘Have you seen Miss Kelly’s engagement ring?’ she asked in that confiding tone some women cultivate.

  Mrs Somerville softened. ‘Well, sure – she wore it in High Society, right?’

  ‘Aren’t you simply dying to see her bridal gown?’ asked Lady Jessica.

  ‘Ab-so-lutely!’ said Mrs Somerville, leaning toward her new friend. ‘I heard six seamstresses are working on it full-time.’

  Mr Farley gave his young wife a look of admiration more commensurate with sorting out the Suez problem than a squabble at the tea table and added snootily, ‘It’s all just a public relations exercise for the Americans.’

  Ignoring him, Mrs Somerville turned to Lady Jessica. ‘Are you and Mr Farley invited?’

  Her ladyship trilled with laughter. ‘Heavens, no, but we plan to be outside St Nicholas Cathedral when she leaves as Princess Grace. Do come with us, won’t you?’

  ‘According to the papers, the driver will take their Highnesses on a tour of Monte Carlo, so everyone can catch a glimpse,’ said Vivian. ‘Although I can’t say I’m terribly interested.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’ said Mrs Somerville, as though taking umbrage at Vivian’s ambivalence toward the occasion which, quite honestly, does seem to have the whole world in a thrall. To give Lady Jessica her due, peace reigned and it was indeed a very nice lunch with tomatoes, peppery lettuce, string beans, ham and chicken. Pudding was a rich buttery pastry with custard and strawberries – quite a feast for the middle of the day.

  Lunch over, it seemed we would finally get down to business. Vivian has a lovely little ‘salon’ where she presides at a splendidly ornate desk centred to the room with two upright antique chairs facing it. It was a little intimidating – you could imagine finding yourself sitting in one of these rather uncomfortable chairs being hauled over the coals. (I hope that is an idle thought, and not a premonition.) She had the lovely smiling maid, Amandine, who had waited on us at lunch, bring us both a nice cup of tea which quite revived me.

  ‘I do apologise for keeping you in the dark for so long,’ Vivian said, sipping her tea. ‘I wanted to get a better sense of your character before I fully entrusted you with this position.’ I was intrigued by the admission that she had purposely kept me in the dark. Did she also mean I could have been rejected at this stage and sent home? Surely not!

  ‘I can see you’re an honest and, I hope, trustworthy person. You don’t talk for the sake of it. This role calls for the utmost discretion. You need to give me your solemn promise that you will not discuss any aspect of your job – even the nature of your job –
with anyone other than myself.’ Although mystified, I assured her of my complete discretion.

  ‘You will be working for my brother, Mr Hammond Brooke, who lives in the guest cottage you saw at the far end of the garden. Your hours will be 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. with an hour for lunch and a further hour for rest. Then work will recommence from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m., at which point you can freshen up and join myself and the guests for dinner at 8 p.m.’

  ‘And the nature of the work?’

  ‘Mr Brooke is almost blind. At the moment he can distinguish light and dark, shapes, etcetera, but he will eventually be in complete darkness. He has some things —’ she paused to select the right phrase — ‘some elements of his work, that need to be recorded and his affairs put in order.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I think it’s preferable to treat you as our guest here because, as you will have observed, my staff speak no English and your French is evidently limited. You’d find yourself very isolated and possibly want to leave. I can’t prevent you leaving but I would be very disappointed if you did so before this project was completed.’