He opened one of the phials, dabbed the perfume on to her wrist. She sniffed. Sniffed again. And again. And felt sick. And hot. And cold. And panicky.
‘Well? What do you think?’ Goodwin was smiling a bright, empty smile.
‘I think,’ said Bianca, and it was difficult to get any words out at all, ‘I think it’s horrible. Really horrible. More like a hooker’s lavatory than Billie Holiday in a nightclub. It’s unbelievably ghastly!’
She sent him packing, unable to face his excuses, his rationales, his surprised disbelief, his insistence that she should give it time.
‘I don’t want to give it time! I want to wipe it off the face of the universe. Please leave. I am shocked that your firm could release something so tacky and – and horrible. I’ve never felt so let down.’
She was sitting with her head in her hands, trying to calm herself, trying to think what on earth she should do about this vast black hole created in her personal universe when Lara came in.
‘You OK?’
‘No. No, I’m not,’ said Bianca and she could hear her own voice, struggling to sound calm. ‘That perfume was just – just disgusting, Lara. Top notes of Woolworths finest, and an underlying hint of cat piss. Oh God, what am I going to do?’
‘Can I smell it?’
Bianca thrust out her wrist.
‘Oh God, Bianca, I’m so, so sorry.’
‘Lara, unfortunately the pair of us feeling sorry – which of course I do – doesn’t help. We are where we are. With no perfume to present tomorrow. Now, I think I’d like to be alone if you don’t mind. I need to think.’
‘Mrs Clements, I’d like to see Mrs Bailey. Do you know where she is?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea,’ said Lara, struggling to smile at Athina. ‘She’s gone out. She’s very busy with the conference, you know and—’
‘Well, where is Mrs Pendleton?’
‘Jemima is down at the conference hotel, Lady Farrell. Look, unless it’s really urgent, I think tomorrow would be better. Bianca may not even come back tonight and—’
‘Not come back? But it’s only five. I can assure you, in the old days, when I was in charge of this company, I was always here until at least seven.’
Lara went into Bertie’s office; he was looking rather wild-eyed, frantically rifling through some papers on his desk.
‘Lost something?’
‘Only my notes. And would you believe my sanity?’
‘Oh Bertie, mine too.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I can’t tell you – oh, what the fuck! Sorry, Bertie. We have a real problem. The perfume is complete shit and it leaves a vast hole in Bianca’s presentation tomorrow. I’ve never seen her so upset. She’s gone out now, God knows where. She’s as close to panic as I’ve ever seen her. And I couldn’t come up with a perfumier who met our needs so she took Maurice Foulds’ suggestion and I feel horribly responsible.’
‘Well, you mustn’t feel that,’ said Bertie. ‘She met them, made her own judgment. You cannot blame yourself. You really can’t. Why are you smiling?’
‘I was just thinking that this is a bit of a role reversal,’ said Lara. ‘Usually it’s me telling you not to blame yourself. I feel better already!’
‘How nice if it’s done some good,’ said Bertie. ‘Now if you can only help me find my notes . . . ’
‘Aren’t they on your computer?’
He looked at her and smiled, the quick, brilliant smile that she didn’t often see.
‘Of course! I’m going crazy. Thank you, Lara.’
‘That’s all right.’ She looked at him, wondering how he could be quite so other-worldly, yet so extremely good at his job. He had even managed to find a replacement model for the next day, since the one they had booked had gone down with flu. The model agencies had had no one of similar calibre but a phone call to Lucy had produced a beautiful friend, Fenella, who had done the make-up course with her.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like a quick drink after work?’ she said now.
‘I’d love one, Lara, but I really can’t.’ His voice was genuinely regretful. ‘I’ve got so much to do before tomorrow. And I mustn’t be late home; Priscilla wants to discuss the wretched house before I go off to the conference.’
‘I thought she was coming?’
‘Only for the supper. She’s leaving early the following morning.’
Lara, who had heard of Priscilla’s attendance with something approaching horror, albeit of a rather fascinated variety, felt suddenly more cheerful.
‘That’s a shame,’ she said carefully.
‘Yes, well she’s extremely busy. Now look, you don’t know where Bianca is, do you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Lara firmly.
‘Only my mother wanted to talk to her.’
‘Really? No, sorry, can’t help. Night, Bertie, see you tomorrow.’
And he listened, smiling, to the clacking of her high heels going down the corridor, a sound he had grown rather addicted to.
Bianca was actually, at that very moment, weeping silently in a ladies’ lavatory in the John Lewis department store in Oxford Street. Without having a very clear idea why, she had gone to its beauty department, newly designed, with its beautifully styled individual boutiques for each brand, sampling perfume – oh, so many beautiful perfumes – and listening to the consultants’ polished presentations, desperately searching for a solution to her problem, and finding, of course, none.
She was shocked at herself, as much for the panicked state she was in as her situation. She never panicked. She remained steely calm, thought round a problem until she had found a solution and then put the necessary wheels in motion. She had never known anything like this hot, despairing state with her thoughts consuming one another, blundering backwards and forwards, shocked and, yes, frightened, by this blatant piece of stupidity.
She should have known not to trust Ralph Goodwin, should have insisted on more and more frequent sampling. But she had been in a hurry, desperate to make the perfume project her own, to win some accolades for that, at least, driven into dithering insecurity by Athina and her power games. And now she was left with nothing: no perfume to present tomorrow, no power games of her own to win, an incomplete brand, a damp squib of a relaunch. For however lovely the products in The Collection, however beautiful the packaging, however brilliant the publicity, they needed The Perfume to complete it. And now it simply didn’t exist: and the blame for all that could only be laid at her door. She had blown it. One hundred per cent blown it. It was like putting on a ballet without dancers . . .
Athina was waiting for the lift when she heard Jemima’s voice. And heard the word ‘Bianca’. She walked very quietly back down the corridor, stood outside Jemima’s half-open door.
‘Hi, Bianca. Is that better? Can you hear me now? Good. I’m back in the office. You all right? What? What? The perfume? Oh no, Bianca, that is terrible. I’m so, so sorry. What a nightmare. Is there anything at all I can do? No, I don’t suppose so. Bit of a gap in the proceedings, I can see that . . . And it all looked so promising. Well, look, we have the bottles, and the boxes, can’t you just talk about the smell, describe it, say – no, OK. I can see that. What? The phials? They’re in one of the cupboards, down in the lab. You must be so angry. They’re perfumiers for God’s sake, you’d think they’d come up with something half decent at least. Yes, of course I’ll bring them. No, don’t come back now, no point, everyone’s gone. Yes, she’s gone definitely. I just checked her office. Christine said she’d gone to the hairdresser. Mmm. OK, Bianca. We’ll just have to find another perfumier. Fine. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow. Around ten, ten thirty. Yes. Try not to worry too much.’
Jemima clicked her mobile off, shaking her head in sympathy, then she went out into the empty corridor and down the stairs to the lab. It was locked. Odd. Hattie had obviously got security conscious. That was awkward. But she was coming in first thing, she’d get the phials then. God alone knew
what Bianca thought she was going to put into them. She texted Hattie who didn’t reply, and went back to her office.
In her car, Athina patted the large padded envelope of tiny phials that lay in her lap, and smiled out of the window.
Chapter 36
It was beautiful. So, so beautiful. She had forgotten the magic of it, the richness, the sexiness.
She looked at the bottle as it lay there, folded carefully into a cream lace bedjacket in her blue satin nightdress case. It was ten years since she had even unwrapped it.
Of course it was dangerous, what she had done: opening Pandora’s box literally. It might have all been lost. And of course darling Daniel wasn’t there to ask. She had asked his son though, had rung him that evening, and he had said, yes, it should be fine, just very quickly, a tiny bit, put it on your wrist and then put the stopper back.
Sealed and in a cool dark place, that had been Daniel’s instructions for storage, all those years ago. Well, her bedroom was cool because she loathed warm bedrooms. And she had kept the other, equally carefully wrapped, in Caro’s christening robe, in the drawer at the bottom of her wardrobe.
She had made that perfume, created it with Daniel, who looked like a poet, and talked like one too, about the emotion in a perfume and the sanctity. Such nonsense. But he said it so beautifully, gazing into her eyes as he did so. She was half in love with him, of course, their sessions together a physical as well as a romantic delight, as he stroked the latest versions, the precious oils, on to her skin, on her wrist, the back of her neck, just above the valley of her breasts. He said he agreed with Chanel that perfume should be worn wherever you wanted to be kissed. And then kissed those places to prove it.
Cornelius loathed him, said that whatever Daniel created, however beautiful, he would never agree to market it.
‘It’s a dangerous place, the perfume industry, has lost people vast fortunes. Ours is not vast, and we can’t afford to lose it.’
‘But it will be,’ she said, for these were the early years, when they could do no wrong, ‘and then we will develop it, my perfume, and we will call it Athina, and it will be the one product I can claim as entirely my own.’
For it had been her idea to produce a perfume, seeing it as the passport to a higher quality image, a more prestige range. It was the late sixties and they had been a great success for almost fifteen years. Cornelius had humoured her, telling her to see what she could come up with, promising he would give it his serious consideration if it was wonderful enough. And it was, it had been wonderful, and she had never quite been able to forgive him for not going ahead and launching it on the world.
She had met Daniel at a Christmas trade fair, at a small stall where he had set up his perfumier’s organ, with his name on a card at the top of it: Daniel Chagard, perfumier. The organ was set with rows of tiny bottles, and he was dipping spills into them and then wafting the spills around in the air, calling people over to come and sniff them.
She went over and sat down.
He was, she thought, one of the most good-looking men she had ever seen, tall and very slim, with burning dark eyes, wild, wavy dark blond hair and a very full, sexy mouth. He was French, but his English was perfect, albeit a little florid.
‘I’d like to try your wares,’ she said.
‘Good, good, yes. Let me find something you would like. I would put you as a citrus girl. Try this . . .’
She tried. ‘It’s all right – but too sharp.’
‘Ah. So – some woody notes, maybe even a little bergamot – that better?’
‘A bit.’
‘You’re hard to please. Are you in the business?’
‘I’d hardly be here if I wasn’t,’ said Athina briskly. ‘Yes, of course, I’m Athina Farrell.’
‘Ah, well you are legendary. I am honoured by your interest. And your husband? Is he here?’
‘No,’ said Athina.
‘I see. So – you are interested in launching a fragrance, Mrs Farrell?’
‘I am very interested,’ said Athina.
‘Very good. Then tell me more about your vision for it.’
‘My vision! Isn’t that a strange word for a fragrance?’
‘Of course not. Fragrances have colour, shape, style. Not for nothing do we talk about wearing them. Now – is that more to your liking?’
Athina sniffed the spill. ‘A little more,’ she said.
She stayed at his stall until Florence, who had accompanied her, appeared.
‘Ah, the perfumier’s organ. Such wonderful romantic things.’ She held out her hand to Daniel. ‘I’m Florence Hamilton, I work with Mrs Farrell. I run The Shop in the Berkeley Arcade.’
Daniel bowed over her hand. ‘I have heard of that shop,’ he said. ‘A perfect place to sell perfume.’
‘Indeed,’ said Florence. ‘We often say that, don’t we, Athina?’
‘I really don’t recall saying it very often,’ said Athina, ‘but yes, it would certainly be a good outlet. Florence, Mr Chagard and I are discussing formulations – perhaps you could come back in half an hour or so.’
‘Of course. Lovely to have met you Monsieur Chagard.’
‘Lovely indeed, Miss Hamilton.’
Florence turned away.
‘Now,’ said Athina, ‘you were saying, I think, that jasmine can be very sensuous. May I try that?’
He invited her to his studio in Hampstead. He was modestly successful, had formulated perfumes for several of the smaller houses, certainly knew what he was doing.
An afternoon passed while he talked passionately of the different notes and blends: how the top note of a fragrance, the one that developed first, was usually citrus, the middle one, floral, which would develop after half an hour, and the base note could last up to eight hours. He talked of the heart note, of fragrances that possessed warmth and character; he taught her about musk and spice and vanilla and how they worked together. She left as darkness fell, half in love with him, with a brief for what she called a passionate perfume; he said she must come back in a few weeks and see what he had done.
The passionate perfume was sublime; she allowed him to test it on her skin and then took it home to Cornelius and begged him to market it. He agreed it was lovely, but refused to commit himself. He visited Daniel in the studio, and then invited him to the Farrell laboratory. He was not quite as enamoured of the perfume as Athina. Passion, she had christened it, but he agreed it was promising. He asked for more and more samples and Athina could see that he was making things as difficult as he could for Daniel so that he would weary of the project. But he didn’t, of course, because Athina visited him again and again, flirting, playing games, coaxing the ultimate fragrance out of him. And then, there it was. Waiting for her, one dark afternoon in November.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘here it is, your Passion. Try it on. And then wait, as I have told you. Here, my beautiful Athina, here, where it belongs.’
And he stroked it on to the nape of her neck, then bent and kissed her there, did the same with her breasts.
‘It is engaged in foreplay, our perfume,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘but soon it will be making love and then, then we will have the – the orgasme. What is that in English?’
‘It’s orgasm,’ said Athina primly.
He was a very different lover from Cornelius, swift, almost impatient, but skilful too; bringing her to orgasm that first afternoon with a confidence that surprised and delighted her. He was only her second lover; she had been a virgin when she met Cornelius.
She had actually always considered sex rather overrated, it was pleasant enough if she was in the mood, and of course one had to accommodate one’s husband and his desires, for there was danger of him straying if one did not, and occasionally, as Cornelius sent her soaring into the heights of pleasure, she thought how fortunate she was. But as the years went by, with the inevitable easing of her desire – and how grateful she was that Cornelius was increasingly less demanding in bed – she had simply thought not
to know it again, the intensity, the sudden, sweeping invasion of longing, the flying physical joy, which Daniel created for and in her.
She was never in love with Daniel, but she was in love with the idea of him, and of having an affair. She enjoyed the relationship, the flattery, the tenderness, the fun; in a life that was dedicated to long, grinding hours of work, there was a delight to be found in the pursuit simply of pleasure, and particularly of the most carnal kind.
Cornelius seemed to suspect nothing, which surprised her, for he was the most worldly of men; he was undoubtedly jealous of Daniel, but that was of his professional persona, the image he so clearly worked on, of his romanticism, his looks, the nonsense he talked. But he seemed quite unaware that Daniel was seducing her. Well, his self-confidence had always tended towards complacency, and of course he knew, as she did, how much depended on their relationship, the ongoing success of the House of Farrell. Which mattered to her more than anything else.
Men, sex, passion with a small ‘p’: how could that compare with the dizzy heights of success, of triumph, of fame?
He pretended still to be working on the perfume, simply so that she could take new samples back to Cornelius, asking his advice, but they both knew that Daniel had found it, the holy grail, their Passion, and whenever she was going to meet him, which was necessarily seldom, she would wear it.
And then, one afternoon, Daniel complained of stomach ache. ‘You eat too much foie gras,’ Athina said, ‘it is very bad for you.’
He always prepared a picnic for her: the nearest to French bread he could find, cheese, fruit, and foie gras.
‘You should eat plain chicken, drink clear soup, tisanes rather than coffee.’
‘It sounds very dull.’
‘It’s less dull than stomach ache!’
But the stomach ache did not go away; driven to seek medical aid, he found himself undergoing blood tests, x-rays, barium meals, began to need ever stronger painkillers.
Athina found herself caring for him more and more, traipsing up to Hampstead with flasks of soup – and the marijuana that was the only thing that eased his pain. Surprisingly, for she was the least caring of women, she half enjoyed it, feeling for the first time she had a mission in life; motherhood had not worked that miracle for her and she could be honest now with Cornelius, telling him that Daniel was sick and they were the only true friends he had in London: who could be jealous, could imagine a relationship with a desperately ill man?
A Perfect Heritage Page 40