My Story

by Jo Malone

  Derek was fast realising that doing things the conventional way wasn’t my style, and Gary laughed when he relented and removed the evaluator from the equation; of all people, my husband wasn’t surprised that I had gotten my way. And so, within months of travelling to Paris as a debutant, I returned to the city to go behind the curtain and sit down with a perfumer in a lab of a thousand scents, sitting with him at a table scattered with vials, going through an exhaustively microscopic but rewarding process.

  Within this collaboration, then and now, I felt as though I truly came alive. Nothing feels as magical as that zone when it’s me and the perfumer side by side. On this first occasion, the French gentleman, who spoke good English, was gracious enough to give me the room to paint my olfactory vision, trusting the randomness of my intuition. In turn, I respected his mastery, as he set about constructing a fragrance that was an exact translation of the idea swimming in my head. For me, the preciseness of that translation is everything. I have to sniff the blend and know that he has delivered an interpretation faithful to the scent I have in mind, not ‘close’ or ‘there or thereabouts’ but spot-on.

  These interpretations hinge on the tiniest, finely measured fractions as the perfumer creates different variants of the same fragrance; a teeny bit more juice in variant ‘A’, a smidgen less in variant ‘B’, a different molecule in ‘C’, and so on and so forth through variants D, E, and F. When seen up close, this craft is something to behold. Sometimes, there may be 250 submissions before we get there; sometimes, only ten, and I’ll haggle with myself, back and forth, inside out, until I know we’ve nailed it.

  Up until this point, I’m not sure I had fully appreciated the capabilities of my own nose, but the more I used it, the more agile it became. Of course, my heightened sense of smell had been there since childhood – ever since the age of ten when I first alerted Mum to when her oils were ready on the stove – but I had never considered that it would help transform my life. I had no philosophy, only intuition – that’s all I had, and that’s all I’ll ever have. It may be a cliché but I have built a career by literally following my nose, trusting this most primal instinct the same way a bloodhound tracks a scent to match the ‘odour image’ in its brain.

  I see smells in colours and memories, and I hear tunes when conjuring a scent. Some have said that my sense of smell borders on synaesthesia, a condition where ‘the production of one sense impression relates to another sense being stimulated’, as though the senses have got their wires crossed. I like to think it’s some kind of neurological compensation for my dyslexia, giving me an edge in adulthood because I never caught a break at school. In my mind, I’m like a conductor pulling in different instruments and musicians to create a symphony. I’ll hear a woody note – dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun; or the more high-pitched operatic note of white rosé – laaaaahh! Or maybe a dash of jazz (orange blossom) – din-da, din-da, din-da; or a faint brush across the cymbals (lemon leaves). After hearing the notes, my brain then switches to seeing the composition, discovering where the void exists – the hole that cuts right through the centre of a fragrance. ‘Okay, what is needed? What can I pour in there that will bring this alive? A wood? More citrus? Floral?’ I’ll see red, as if I’m dripping red notes down a white canvas. I’ll see greens splashed against a wall. I’ll imagine splashes of all sorts of colours to see what smells those mental images conjure.

  Conveying this somewhat abstract process probably makes it sound more structured than it actually is, but I hope it goes some way to illustrating, in a simplified nutshell, how the different strands of my creativity pull together. I’ve never really had to explain this sacred process in detail before. I find it hard enough explaining it to myself. I think the best description I’ve ever read about my work and the fragrances I create came from New York Times scent critic Chandler Burr in his 2008 book The Perfect Scent. Like a perfumer translating what’s in my head, this is what he wrote:

  ‘Her genius is the fingerprint she leaves on each scent, a marvellous quality that is not weightlessness – it’s something much more startling: Weight that floats, hovers in the air. Solidity shot through with light . . . like the revolutionary new-technology translucent concrete that architects have just begun using, a recipe of glass gravel mixed with optic fibres. When poured, this concrete forms slabs of luminescence, and the outlines of people inside the walls of buildings using it are visible to those outside at night, against the glow of the light inside . . .’

  If only Chandler’s words had been available in 1991 – they could have acted as the written brief that I never had.

  Once I made my first fragrance, the doors were flung open to a whole new universe, and I wanted to sprint, not walk, into making the next one, and the next, fearful that my ideas would somehow run out, like a tap running dry. I felt the preciousness of a newly discovered resource and didn’t at first trust it to be limitless, so I kept pushing myself, trying to hurry along a process that requires patience.

  But that was part of the beauty of what we were doing – we didn’t know the rules or the norms, so we made up our own. There was a lot we wouldn’t know and came to learn, but the biggest gap in our knowledge was the expectation that every fragrance needed to be married with a strong marketable image.

  Throughout the 1970s and 80s, the trend was all about ‘power fragrances’. A bit like the shoulder pad, these scents made a bold, fashionable statement, as depicted in multimillion-dollar ad campaigns that used sultry models and dramatised TV commercials to tap into the psychology of escapism, sex, passion, and mystery. Consumers bought into the promise of a certain alluring lifestyle. Image leads, scent follows.

  I walked in the opposite direction, probably because my focus was more about the artistry than any marketed persona. My lifelong association with beauty and cosmetics had been steeped in natural ingredients ever since I walked into Madame Lubatti’s lab and so, for me, the ingredients had to be the hero. I didn’t want to promise anything other than a beautifully constructed fragrance, and I wanted my notes to be front and centre, reflecting a truth of human interaction: we smell a fragrance, our attention is drawn, and then we see the wearer. Scent leads, image follows.

  Buying a perfume or cologne can’t suddenly make you sexier or more powerful or more successful. You can only enjoy its notes and feel good. And call it by its name. Lime Basil & Mandarin is Lime Basil & Mandarin, a composition that doesn’t need to hide behind psychological fluff and slick marketing campaigns. With me, what you see is what you get. It’s the same with my fragrances – they stand on their own and speak for themselves.

  Lime Basil & Mandarin certainly did that, surpassing all expectations – outselling anything else. I think Derek felt vindicated in taking a chance on me after that, and I would be eternally grateful for the education and opportunity he provided. Over the next ten years, I would go on to create fifteen more fragrances, complete with matching lotions and bath oils, and each would build their own fan base.

  Back at the flat, I started offering four scents during a treatment, and each client couldn’t wait to find out the ‘fragrances of the day’, which, in turn, led to more local buzz and more sales. Our flat started to resemble, and smell like, a lab. Product seemed to fill every available shelf, table and corner. And, honestly, had things stayed that way, I would have been content, even on the nights when I flaked into bed and didn’t think I had the energy for another dawn start, or when I felt overwhelmed and didn’t think I could make another face cream, whisk up another lotion, or devise a new scent. I could have happily remained there, doing treatments in the back room, forever.

  But Gary couldn’t say the same.

  Inevitably, when a flat doubles up as a skincare clinic and becomes overrun by a booming business, there will be domestic challenges. One day, I filled the bath with seashells that I was trying to scent with lavender – scented seashells from the seashore sounded like a good idea. The problem was that I got so immersed in making more face creams
that I forgot to forewarn Gary when he arrived home from work.

  ‘JO!’ I heard him say from the hallway.

  I popped my head out of the kitchen and there he was, not looking best pleased. ‘I can’t take a bath!’ he said.

  The words ‘Sorry, Gaz!’ were often heard in our flat, almost as often as the sight of him throwing his hands into the air in part-surrender, part-despair. The poor guy barely had enough room in the kitchen to make a cup of tea, due to all my stuff cluttering the stove, sink and counter. Or he’d come home early to find he was unable to use the toilet because I was still with a client – and the en-suite was our only loo. He’d have to go down the street to the nearby bistro, telling Joseph the owner that ‘Jo is doing one of her faces again!’

  One Saturday night, pre-Christmas 1993, it all became too much.

  We were on our sofa bed, eating pizza at 2 a.m., talking about the unremitting pace of our life and speculating about how much longer it could continue. I was saying something when Gary put a slice of pizza in his mouth . . . and gagged. ‘Oh my God, this tastes like nutmeg and ginger!’ He dropped the slice on to his plate. ‘Everything tastes of bath oil. We can’t keep living like this. We just can’t.’

  I could see he wasn’t happy but I didn’t know what options we had. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘You need a shop.’

  ‘I don’t want a shop. Somewhere bigger maybe, but a shop? That’s not me. This is me – a clinic, working from home.’

  In previous months, well-meaning individuals had attempted to steer us in business, perhaps thinking that we needed assistance, but none of the advice or direction – which had included the suggestion of moving into retail – had resonated, and it still didn’t, even when my own husband recommended it. But he had clearly been thinking about it for some time.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m prepared to give up my job and dedicate my time to you and the business. But you need a shop. We’ve outgrown here.’

  I didn’t see it. All I heard were alarm bells as anxiety led me into thinking that the stability we had built would be squandered; that our winning hand and good fortune would turn against us if we changed a single thing. I saw Dad struggling along with magic shows and market stalls. I saw Mum borrowing my birthday money for extra funds. I saw me as a child having to eke out what food remained in the cupboards. I saw the teacher telling everyone that I’d make nothing of my life.

  I saw myself and didn’t want my head above the parapet.

  Fear – the enemy of any entrepreneur.

  We had food on the table and bills that could be paid, including our rent and mortgage payments. ‘You realise we could lose it all?!’ I said, quickly becoming flustered. Owning a business isn’t rocket science; it’s about courage, creativity and faith. And I don’t mind admitting that I temporarily mislaid two of those prerequisites for a moment.

  Gary, ever the gentle and patient one, took my hand. ‘We find a shop, give it a year and see if we can survive; like we did when we found this place.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘I go back to construction and you go back to faces.’

  When it comes to fragrance and creativity, I have the nerve and vision. When it comes to strategy and the business side of things, the nerve and vision is all Gary. I wasn’t entirely convinced but I trusted his judgement. And so, over a pizza with a topping of bath oil, we agreed to turn a kitchen countertop operation into a retail business.

  One of my facial clients was renowned PR expert Deborah Bennett who, in her time, had managed major publicity campaigns. I used to see her most weeks and, when I had time, we’d snatch a coffee, too – she would become not only a dear friend but one of the unsung heroes of our business.

  A cross between Audrey Hepburn and Dorien from the BBC series Birds of a Feather, Deborah is glamorous, well-put-together, tremendous fun, and a great friend. I can hear her now as she used to arrive in our flat for a treatment. ‘Darling! Darling!’ Gary and I both adored her.

  When we first met, we were keen to meet her boyfriend Henry because it was clear from the way she spoke about him that he was the love of her life. For ages, we were dying to meet him, and then she brought him to one appointment. That’s when we discovered Henry was a dog who stood barely a foot off the ground.

  ‘Flippin’ heck!’ said Gary. ‘Henry’s a schnauzer!’

  Deborah was a wise sounding board for us both, so, while I was doing her face, I talked to her about opening a shop, still voicing some lingering reservations, probably because I wanted her to talk me out of it. But she didn’t; she thought it a marvellous idea. In fact, she was so onboard that she offered to help get my name out there.

  Gary and I had never previously promoted ourselves but I now understood the need for visibility in the marketplace. Word of mouth only went so far. So, Deborah said she’d start making some calls.

  Admittedly, not everyone was keen on progress. I had built a somewhat exclusive club of ladies – I had around 750 clients at this point – and one or two frowned at the prospect of me opening a shop. I think human nature likes being in on secrets, and some women liked wearing a fragrance that wasn’t commonly available.

  ‘Why would you jeopardise all this?’ one lady asked, and she almost made me believe my fears again, until she added, ‘If you set up a shop, who’s going to do our faces?! And will the prices of the fragrances go up?’

  Meanwhile, Gary, who quit his job to become the managing director of our company, had been busy searching for the best retail location and had lined up Sunday appointments at two separate premises in Walton Street, within walking distance of our flat. When we turned up, I disliked both, mainly because their exteriors appeared too polished, in an artificial way.

  ‘Nope. Not for me. Come on, let’s go,’ I said, starting to walk home.

  Gary thought I was being a pain. ‘Slow down a second. It will look better when we’ve renovated and put your name above the door.’

  But I wasn’t having it. As we continued down Walton Street – which the New York Times once described as the place ‘where the elegant meets the ordinary’ – he and I proceeded to have a terrible row. He said I was being difficult, deliberately trying to avoid opening a shop. I said he didn’t understand the risks involved.

  ‘And guess what, Gazza? It’s not your name above the door if this fails, it’s mine! If this all goes wrong, the egg’s on my face, not yours!’

  My married name is Willcox (which is how my family, the taxman and immigration control know me) but I had only ever traded under Jo Malone, so I felt the reputational risk was all mine, which, again, was silly but I wasn’t thinking straight. So I flounced off, leaving Gary standing there.

  Walton Street is tucked away from the busyness of Fulham Road at one end, and Brompton Road at the other. Over the years, it has managed to keep a certain charm with its mix of two-storey townhouses and independent, fashionable shops. In 1994, one young woman had a first-floor shop selling the most amazing handbags – her name was Anya Hindmarch; chef Brian Turner owned a restaurant there; the pharmacy Santa Maria Novella was renowned for its own potions and scents; and Joseph was well established with his legendary fashion store. But my attention was on none of those businesses, because I had stopped walking and was now staring at the premises at No.154.

  Gary caught up with me.

  ‘This is it – this is the one,’ I said.

  He took one look at the bombsite that was a 300-square-foot, gutted shell showcasing nothing but exposed brickwork and steel beams.

  ‘You’ve got to be blinking joking.’

  FIFTEEN

  The more I thought about it, the more I grew accustomed to the idea of running my own shop. The prospect of getting up, going out to work, putting in a shift, and interacting with customers started to give me the same tingle I’d felt when selling Dad’s paintings at the market, and when working for Justin de Blank in Elizabeth Street.

  If I could have told my young
self that she would one day take the keys to premises in London, she would have disbelieved it in the same way she would have disbelieved the press coverage that would start to trickle in, using epithets such as ‘elite beautician’ and ‘fragrance queen’. Those tags amused me, because the cap that fit best was the one nobody but myself used: ‘shopkeeper’. I was going to be a shopkeeper, and was proud to regard myself as such.

  While I focused on my creativity and making product, Gary handled the nuts and bolts of the business, and negotiated a five-year lease with the landlord. We picked up the keys at the start of July 1994 and set an opening date of 19 October, firstly to take advantage of the pre-Christmas trade but also because we now had serious overheads and needed to be earning revenue. This meant we had three months to get everything in place: transform the unit, find suppliers, design a brand, interview candidates to be our two shop assistants, and find a factory to make the creams, lotions and bath oils in bulk. The days of four plastic jugs and home-made products were over; we now had to adhere to stringent compliance regulations that came with opening a shop.

  Gary, for one, was delighted to reclaim the kitchen. He had improved access to the en-suite, too, because, with so much going on, and because I wanted to be on site at the shop from mid-afternoon, I cut back my treatments from six to four a day.

  The first major task was to transform 154 Walton Street from a dusty shell into a beautiful, classic studio. For that, we turned to one of my face clients – an American woman called Sandra Ankarcrona, who ran her own interior design company. It turned out that she had previously worked as a director at Clinique, so she brought industry appreciation as well as artistic flair. We sat down one afternoon and I explained how we needed to repeat the look and feel of the treatment room – pristine, elegant, unfussy, soothing. She worked wonders, creating a design that blew me away: an all-cream interior with black trim, exuding a classiness that was accentuated by varnished wooden floors. But she also managed to capture a luxurious mood, stepping into a space that felt harmonious and sensual all at the same time.