Heaven Scent

by Sasha Wagstaff

  Staff were milling about discreetly, wearing white and maroon uniforms with the same swirly monograms on their lapels as the towel upstairs. Cat watched them, open mouthed. She’d assumed that the staff she’d seen last night had been hired for the party but apparently not. What looked like maids, gardeners and footmen were cleaning up debris from the party and ensuring that the château was put back to its immaculate best. One maid rescued what looked suspiciously like a pair of knickers from behind a pool lounger, discreetly stuffing them into her pocket without missing a beat, as if such things were an everyday occurrence.

  Bemused at just how rich the Ducasse family were, Cat was about to head towards the graveyard Guy had mentioned when she realised she wasn’t alone. Turning apprehensively, she found Guy’s daughter, the girl she’d seen sobbing, staring at her with slanting, feline eyes. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans that made her legs look endless, and a pink Lacoste sweatshirt. She appeared taller than she had the night before and she was clutching a small photo album. Her expression was haughty and Cat bristled, realising it wasn’t just Leoni who resented her presence.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Seraphina asked in perfect English, her tone as chilly as her gaze.

  ‘Just . . . looking around,’ Cat responded lamely, not wanting to admit she had been about to visit Olivier’s grave.

  ‘Wondering how much it’s all worth?’ Seraphina returned.

  Taken aback, Cat shook her head. So she was right about the Ducasse family being wary of her and her motives.

  ‘I saw you admiring the Monet last night,’ Seraphina commented, watching Cat carefully.

  ‘The Monet? God, yes . . . it’s absolutely stunning.’ Cat couldn’t help laughing. ‘It’s not every day you get to see a real one, is it? At least, it might be for you but it most certainly isn’t for me – or for most people.’ Seeing Seraphina’s unchanged expression, Cat decided on a more open approach. ‘My dad loved Monet, especially the water-lily series. Seeing the Monet reminded me of him . . . he’d have keeled over if he’d seen that last night. So if I seemed a bit dumbstruck, the honest truth is that I was.’

  Not sure if the story about her Monet-loving father was true or not, Seraphina gestured to a sun lounger and took a seat on one nearby. Cat sat down, wondering why the girl wanted to talk to her. The comment about the Monet made her sigh and, glancing up at the château, she felt perturbed. What did they think she wanted – to be given part of the house, or something? It was too silly for words.

  ‘You don’t look much like a widow,’ Seraphina said in an unfriendly tone.

  ‘Really?’ Cat wasn’t sure what a widow should look like. She glanced down at her outfit. ‘Is it the dress? It’s too short, isn’t it?’

  Seraphina shrugged and didn’t comment. ‘The family have been discussing you non-stop since Olivier died,’ she informed Cat, almost as if she was assessing her reaction. ‘We didn’t know if you were ever going to make an appearance.’

  Cat quickly explained the missing solicitor’s letter. ‘I didn’t know if I should come,’ she admitted, ‘especially since so many months had passed since Olivier died.’ She looked away. ‘But then I decided I had nothing to lose. I didn’t even know any of you existed until I received the letter.’

  Seraphina raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘Really? How odd.’

  ‘I know.’ Cat had an idea Seraphina was being sarcastic and that made her feel uneasy. She paused, not sure how to word her question but she had to know why Olivier had pretended his family didn’t exist. ‘Was Olivier estranged from his family?’ she asked. ‘Had there been some sort of big argument?’

  ‘No!’ Seraphina looked astonished. ‘I mean, he and Grandmother never saw eye to eye, but there was no big argument, to my knowledge. Why would you think that?’

  Cat bit her lip. Surely it was inappropriate to reveal that Olivier had pretended he was penniless and that he didn’t even have a family to speak of. ‘He . . . gave me the impression his life was . . . not as lavish as all this.’ Cat gestured to the pool and the extensive grounds of the château.

  ‘C’est bien de lui!’ Seraphina exclaimed. ‘How like Olivier . . . you know, to lie to you like that,’ she translated for Cat’s benefit, unaware that Cat had understood her. ‘Olivier was un farceur . . . a prankster,’ she explained. ‘He would often pretend he was poor because it amused him.’

  ‘Did he? Did he really?’ Cat immediately felt better; so she had been right to believe Olivier wasn’t a phoney. She still couldn’t understand why he would have played such a prank on her, especially after they were married, but she guessed perhaps she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought she did. That’s what happened when you fell head over heels and married someone you barely knew, she thought wryly. Impulsiveness was all very well but it had its down sides.

  Something occurred to Seraphina. ‘Did Olivier use the name Laroque or did he tell you he was a Ducasse?’

  ‘He used the name Laroque,’ Cat replied, wondering why Seraphina had asked this. Before she had a chance to question her, Seraphina caught her off guard.

  ‘Did you love him?’ she asked bluntly. Her feline eyes demanded the truth.

  The question hit Cat like a body blow. She had loved Olivier, very much, but clearly the family doubted her feelings. Cat understood why they had misgivings about her – they’d never met her before now, for a start – but still, the fact that Seraphina was even asking her that question filled her with sadness.

  ‘I fell head over heels in love with him,’ she confessed frankly. ‘He was handsome but he was so kind and funny too.’ Cat paused. ‘The holiday . . . it was so romantic and even though I knew it was crazy, when Olivier proposed, I had to say yes. I mean, I wanted to do it, I would never have married him if I hadn’t had deep feelings. It just felt right to live for the moment.’ She turned to Seraphina. ‘You must believe me. Who would do something as serious as getting married if they weren’t in love?’

  Seraphina let out a short laugh. ‘You’d be surprised, especially where my family are involved.’ She studied Cat, trying to work out if she was genuine. She seemed it – her aquamarine-blue eyes seemed honest and everything about her behaviour and manner appeared sincere. Seraphina put down the photo album and pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands. She wanted to trust Cat, she really wanted to believe Olivier’s widow wasn’t a gold digger, but having grown up around adults who mistrusted people’s motives where money was concerned, Seraphina felt the need to be cautious.

  ‘Leoni seems very upset about Olivier’s death,’ Cat commented, wondering why Seraphina was scrutinising her as though she were a fascinating artefact in a museum. ‘Understandably so,’ she added, in case she sounded unsympathetic.

  Seraphina sat back and said nothing, her expression impassive.

  Cat couldn’t help wondering why Seraphina appeared so sanguine; aside from the tears she had witnessed last night, she couldn’t see any evidence of grief over Olivier.

  ‘We . . . we lost our mother two years ago,’ Seraphina said suddenly in a soft voice, as if she’d guessed what Cat was thinking. ‘And Olivier’s parents, our aunt and uncle, died too but that was a very long time ago.’ She picked at the sleeve of her pink sweatshirt distractedly, her eyes downcast. ‘We are used to loss, I suppose.’

  ‘Does anyone ever get used to it?’ Cat said, staring past her.

  Seraphina looked up. It sounded as though Cat knew what she was feeling but that was impossible because no one understood. ‘We . . . we’re not supposed to show emotion,’ she said in halting tones, not sure why she was confiding in Cat. ‘Not in public. Grandmother frowns on it.’

  So that was why Seraphina had needed a private place to weep. Clearly, betraying emotion was unacceptable in this family. ‘That’s a shame,’ Cat responded as tactfully as possible. ‘Sometimes having a good cry or just opening up to someone can make all the difference.’

  ‘No one knows what it feels like,’ Seraphina bl
urted out, tears clouding her vision. ‘When you lose someone, I mean.’

  Full of compassion, Cat nodded. Having lost her own parents at Seraphina’s age, she knew how difficult it was to accept such an unfair situation. ‘It’s like the rug’s been pulled out from under you, isn’t it?’ she commented, thinking aloud. ‘No, worse than that. It’s as though there’s this big hole in your heart that can never be filled again. People think they understand what it’s like to lose a parent but they don’t. You feel so abandoned . . . so alone.’

  Seraphina stared at Cat. No one had ever described it like that to her before but the words summed up her feelings perfectly. Realising she had found a kindred spirit in Cat, Seraphina felt the urge to open up to her more. She was starved of female companionship because all her friends were at college and career-obsessed Leoni and her austere grandmother were hardly ideal confidantes.

  ‘I don’t actually know what I’m doing here,’ Cat said, sitting up and hugging her knees. ‘I mean, I was invited and the letter mentioned something about business but, I don’t know, I thought perhaps the Ducasse family wanted to meet me.’ She laughed. ‘Get to know me, or something.’ Remembering Leoni’s horrified expression, Cat’s eyes became sober. ‘I think I’ve made a huge mistake.’

  Seraphina felt a flash of guilt. If Olivier’s young widow was as genuine as she appeared, she must be feeling bewildered and hurt by the hostile reception she had received. Seraphina tried to make amends.

  ‘You must meet the rest of the family,’ she said in a warmer tone. ‘My brother Max – he’s my twin but he’s dark and, just to warn you, he can be very moody. Boys.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘My older brother Xavier is gorgeous and the best person to be around, but he’s a bit preoccupied with his new girlfriend, Therese. She’s a redhead and bit of a slut, between you and me. But I’m biased. I always think Xavier deserves better because he’s had such a hard . . .’ Seraphina stopped, as if she felt she had said too much. She stood up. ‘Anyway, he’s lovely. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon. How long do you think you’ll be here?’

  Cat shrugged. ‘I expect I’ll fly back at the weekend after this meeting. I haven’t a clue what it’s about but I hope it gets sorted quickly. I have a life back in England.’ She grimaced. ‘Not a great one, admittedly, but still.’

  Seraphina picked up the photo album and thrust it into Cat’s hands. ‘Here are some photos of Olivier. I thought you might like to see them.’ Seraphina didn’t want to admit she had an ulterior motive for showing Cat the photos: she wanted to gauge her reaction and check if any tears that appeared were crocodile ones or real ones.

  Touched, Cat took the album and opened it. She gasped as Olivier’s grinning face stared back up at her. The hazelnut eyes met hers and Cat traced a finger round his tanned jaw. ‘Do you know, I’d almost forgotten what he looked like,’ she murmured, her voice unsteady. ‘I only had a few photos on my phone and I kept looking at them but somehow I couldn’t quite see Olivier . . . not like this.’ Overcome, she turned the pages of the album, barely able to keep back the tears when she found a photo of Olivier as a small boy, his shoulders already broad and his grin cheeky and appealing.

  Seraphina had all the evidence she needed; Cat’s reaction was totally genuine, she was sure of it. ‘Keep them,’ she offered generously. ‘We have plenty of photographs. No one will mind. Look, I’m off for a ride so I’ll see you later, all right?’

  ‘Thank you . . . this means . . . thanks.’

  Cat sat back clutching the album. She flicked through the pages again, feeling sad and alone. Then she jumped up and headed to Olivier’s grave, not even looking over her shoulder to check if anyone was watching her. She found his pristine black gravestone and fell to her knees in front of it.

  ‘Olivier,’ Cat whispered, her heart clenching. ‘God, I miss you so much.’ She put her head in her hands, utterly distraught but glad finally to be able to say goodbye, something the French officials had denied her. ‘I’m so sorry . . . you said one of the things you admired about me was my zest for life.’ She sniffed, almost breaking into a smile. ‘Not much of that going on at the moment. I’ve done nothing but cry and make a fool of myself since you’ve gone . . . you’d be telling me off for snivelling all over the place if you could see me.’

  Staring at the photographs again, Cat remembered exactly why she had fallen in love with Olivier. And reaching out to touch the words engraved into his headstone, she opened up and told him everything, all the things she’d wanted to say since he’d died. At the end, Cat let out a huge sigh and pulled herself together. She had cried enough. It was time now to do whatever his family needed her to do so she could go home and get on with her life. Clutching the photo album, Cat left the graveyard and headed back to her room.

  Upstairs, leaning heavily on her cane because her arthritic hip was causing her pain, Delphine watched with pursed lips. A convincing, heartfelt performance; Cat Hayes made a pretty little widow. Delphine snorted. The sooner she and Guy confronted her, the better, she thought, picking up the phone.

  ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Gregoire!’ Ashton called to his neighbour who was struggling with some parcels outside his apartment. Ashton entered his own apartment with the same sense of pleasure he always felt when he came back to Paris after a trip away.

  Just a few steps away from the famous Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the Parisian apartment was Ashton’s pride and joy. He had heard about it from his former boss three years ago and had only managed to secure it by selling everything he owned of any value, including his house in England, and a vintage car that had been his pride and joy. He had also been forced to accept a generous payment from his parents which basically meant he had nothing left to fall back on; he had effectively already spent any inheritance that would have been due to him.

  The purchase had left him severely out of pocket (he was still struggling to claw back his day-to-day expenses) and without a single luxury item to his name, but Ashton didn’t care because this was the kind of apartment he had read about and hankered after for years. Boasting period features, elegant fittings and a traditional balcon with a stunning vista of the Place de L’Etoile, the apartment was, quite simply, an architect’s dream.

  Ashton collected up his post and listened to his answerphone messages. There was a message from Jeanette, a gorgeous Parisian girl he had been out with a few times.

  ‘Appele-moi,’ her message said breathily. Call me. ‘Tu me manques, Ashton . . .’

  Hearing that Jeanette missed him and wanted him to call her, Ashton scratched his head and wondered what to do. She was a lovely girl but something was missing between them, though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Maybe it was because he spent much of his life in Provence with the Ducasse family . . .

  Recognising the writing on an envelope as that of his friend Herve, Ashton forgot about Jeanette and tore it open. Herve was an architect he had studied with who often let him know about sensational buildings that were coming up for sale. He had impeccable taste as well as knowing exactly the kind of buildings that sent Ashton’s heart rate soaring with enthusiasm. Feasting his eyes on the grainy photograph of an astonishingly beautiful building with a sign saying ‘A Vendre’ next to it, Ashton felt the familiar buzz that shot through him when he looked at something he would kill to work on. It wasn’t just that the building appeared to be a perfect example of late eighteenth-century, Rococo-style architecture, it looked as though it might be just the right property for Leoni’s Paris shop.

  Ashton grabbed his keys. If this place was for sale, he wanted it. He checked the directions and headed to the building on foot. This was why he’d become an architect, he thought to himself, as he darted between chattering tourists and busy shoppers browsing along the majestic streets of the Champs-Élysées. It was this buzz, the thrill of discovering something old and beautiful that could look spectacular when it was developed.

  Coming from humble beginnings in Oxfordshire where he discovered a talent for fre
ehand drawing and a love of old buildings, Ashton had decided early on that he wanted to be an architect. He had paid his way through five years of study, plus two stints in professional studios in London and Paris, and had now made a name for himself – a good one. He was very much in demand with high-end clients and the majority of his commissions were split between Paris and the south of France.

  Ashton made his way to the Right Bank in the ninth arrondissement, not far from Galeries Lafayette, the glittering department store. He turned into a pretty street off the main boulevard and was soon standing in front of the property. It was on the small side but it was perfect for a perfume shop. It had a wide window at the front and an ornate but welcoming door to the right. It would look beautiful lit up from the inside, maybe with some small chandeliers, Ashton decided. The shop came with a room at the back as well as a flat above it, a tiny space little bigger than a one-bedroomed studio but ideal for a storeroom or small office. Leoni was going to love it, Ashton thought. She would want it instantly, he was sure of it. It was crying out to be filled with discreet lighting and elegant packages with lilac ribbons for people to take away in stiff, white, monogrammed bags.

  Ashton noticed an attractive woman standing near the property, making notes in an expensive-looking leather journal. She looked to be in her forties and she had a glamorous coil of russet hair at the nape of her neck. She wore a black trench coat, belted at the waist, and sheer black stockings. Feeling his eyes on her, she threw him a seductive smile, her eyes full of mischief.