Heaven Scent

by Sasha Wagstaff

  ‘So what do you think?’ Guy asked, passing Delphine a photograph of the property in Paris as they relaxed over a glass of wine. ‘Leoni thinks it will be perfect for a Paris shop and I agree. I told Ashton to go ahead and buy it.’ He didn’t add that he had sanctioned an unlimited budget because he knew his mother would be outraged. She would also demand to know why and Guy wasn’t about to discuss Marianne with his mother. She wouldn’t understand.

  ‘Pah!’ Delphine tossed the photo back without even looking at it and held her glass out for a top-up. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of a store in Paris, Guy?’

  Looking uncomfortable, he avoided her gaze. He filled her glass with more of her favourite wine, a nutty, straw-coloured blanc de blanc from Cassis. He couldn’t deny he had been opposed to the idea. But now that Marianne was back on the scene, he couldn’t help feeling compelled to get involved. Guy rationalised the situation in his mind by telling himself Leoni had a point about him being stuck in the Dark Ages when it came to business.

  ‘Don’t you think we should move with the times?’ he said lamely, knowing his mother had no intention of doing any such thing.

  Delphine snorted. ‘Absolutely not! Why have you started taking risks at a time when we really need to be stable and secure?’ She hit the floor with her cane for emphasis. ‘Have you thought what might happen to our cash flow if. . .’

  Guy barely listened as his mother outlined every potential flaw in the plan. Having worked with Marianne all those years ago, he wasn’t inclined to take risks. He had seen the effect it could have on a business and on the people working within it and he valued loyalty too much to challenge it. The competitive edge he had been known for back in Paris had been buried in favour of family loyalty and fairness.

  Thank God he had met Elizabeth, Guy thought, feeling a stab in his heart. Elizabeth had restored his faith in women and she had shown him that it was possible to be successful without screwing people over. Marianne might be one of France’s most accomplished businesswomen but she had no scruples whatsoever. Guy gripped the stem of his wine glass. He had charted her rise in the newspapers over the years and he had hardened his heart as they became rivals. But he had forgotten the way she had made him feel – reckless and with a strong need to compete.

  Delphine stared at Guy, aware he had tuned out. ‘What is the point of it?’ she griped, raising her voice. ‘We are a Provençal business and we have always operated locally without needing to display our wares in vulgar stores.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Guy protested. ‘Without our fragrances being stocked in all the major stores in London, Paris and the rest, we wouldn’t be making any profit at all!’

  Delphine gave him a sour glance. ‘Don’t be obtuse. Frankly, I think Leoni is being allowed far too much freedom in the business. A shop in Paris and a new line in home fragrance!’ She sipped her wine. ‘Leoni would do far better finding herself a husband and settling down with a couple of children.’

  Guy sighed.

  Delphine scrutinised him. He seemed different. Making bold decisions wasn’t his thing. He was reading a text he had just received and suddenly looked as if he was about to explode.

  ‘It’s the twins,’ Guy growled. ‘They’re in trouble again.’ Christ, since Elizabeth’s death, his two youngest children seemed incapable of behaving.

  Delphine rolled her eyes. ‘What now?’

  Guy stared past her. He couldn’t deal with her constant disapproval right now. His mind returned to the property in Paris, and to Marianne. Feeling deeply disloyal to long-departed Elizabeth, Guy wondered if Marianne still wore clothes that made her gorgeous body look as though she had been poured into them . . .

  Chapter Ten

  ‘So this is the Fragonard factory,’ Cat said, gazing up at the building. Painted a rich terracotta with the palest blue shutters, it looked more like a very grand house than a perfume factory. Located in the heart of the old town in Grasse, the historic factory was one of the oldest around and it was still a family-run enterprise.

  Xavier finished his cigarette. ‘It took the name of Fragonard in nineteen twenty-six as a tribute to the great painter Jean-Honoré Fragonard.’

  Cat raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ve heard of him. Gorgeous paintings.’ She noticed Xavier’s surprise. ‘My father absolutely loved art,’ she explained, ‘mostly paintings by the Impressionists, but Fragonard was supposed to have had quite an influence on them. Renoir in particular.’

  She took a good look around the grounds. ‘What a lovely place. This would be good for an ad campaign – for a young, wild fragrance, anyway.’ Cat turned to Xavier. ‘You have such beautiful views at La Fleurie, you could always shoot something there, couldn’t you? It’s ravishing.’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ Xavier admitted, realising she was probably right about La Fleurie. ‘Our ad campaigns have never really been that brilliant, we’ve always just featured the bottle of perfume and some sort of tag line. I never got involved with that side of things, to be honest.’

  Cat nodded. ‘Such a waste, really. You’ve got some great products and they could really benefit from good promotion. Still, it’s none of my business.’ She looked away. She didn’t want Xavier to think she was interested in Olivier’s money or his share in the business.

  Xavier gestured to the building. ‘Shall we go in? The museum inside covers three thousand years of perfume-making.’

  Cat nodded and Xavier followed her in. Her knowledge of art intrigued him. She’d obviously spent her childhood surrounded by paintings. He wanted to ask her more about her upbringing but he felt sure she wouldn’t tell him. She was obviously wary of him but then, he thought, the feeling was mutual.

  They walked around the first floor of the perfume factory in silence. Cat gazed at the collection of antique scent bottles in awe. They ranged from Egyptian to the nineteenth century and came in every shape and size – slender, graceful vessels, silver flacons, ones made from shells, tortoiseshell and even sharkskin.

  ‘Lucrezia Borgia used tiny skull-shaped pomanders which she filled with pungent musk,’ Xavier informed Cat. ‘Some pomanders, engraved with silver and worn round the neck, came apart like orange segments. They were used to ward off evil, by all accounts.’ He couldn’t resist telling her more. ‘Perfume bottles have historically been objects of great beauty. They were supposed to signify the allure of the perfume contained within. Art Nouveau Lalique bottles emerged in the nineteenth century but you can’t get them any more. François Coty asked Lalique to design a selection of bottles for him, you know.’

  Cat was fascinated. ‘They’re like ornaments. They’re so lovely, it’s hard to believe they have a practical purpose.’

  Xavier agreed, casually giving her a potted history of glassmaking by the Romans and perfume decanters inspired by Renaissance art. He pointed out elaborate, moulded stoppers shaped like flowers and birds before moving on to the collection of perfume equipment and apparatus.

  ‘Wow, if only I’d seen all of this when I did that perfume campaign a few years back,’ Cat said. ‘I would have had so many ideas for perfume bottles and God knows what else if I’d seen all this first.’

  Xavier frowned. ‘Such as?’

  Cat allowed herself to indulge. ‘If I was designing a perfume bottle, for example, I’d probably come up with something heart-shaped . . . no, maybe not.’ She grabbed a brochure and started sketching on the back of it. ‘Something like this . . . more teardrop-shaped. If it was made in the right way, it would be really lovely to hold in your hand. See?’ She held the sketch up.

  Xavier was impressed with both her drawing skills and her creativity but he said nothing.

  Cat added some detail to the bottle and sketched out the stopper. ‘Shimmery glass, something that would really catch the light. A modern bottle but with a vintage feel, something that would look incredible on a dressing table.’

  Xavier’s eyes met hers briefly. ‘I see. And would you change the Ducasse colour sc
heme?’ Discreetly, he pocketed the sketch. He had no idea what his grandmother would think of Cat’s ideas but he was doing as he had promised.

  Surprised he had even asked her such a question, Cat contemplated the lilac and white packaging the Ducasse perfumes were famous for. ‘I like the lilac but it feels a little old fashioned, if you really want to know. I’d have to think about it but I reckon you could update it without completely changing the brand. Are you thinking of rebranding?’

  ‘Not really.’ Xavier was offhand.

  ‘Because I was going to say that it’s sometimes better to introduce what’s called a sub-brand rather than a whole new one, something that is still synonymous with the original but targets a younger market.’ Xavier was staring at her intently and Cat fell silent. His eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘Shall we move on?’ he said.

  He started to talk about the perfume-making process. His voice became animated as he described the early technique of distillation, which used steam to capture essential oils, and absorption. ‘This involves animal fat naturally absorbing odours,’ he added. Without going into too much detail, he touched on the cost-effective use of carbon dioxide extraction then moved on to the origin of materials used in perfume making.

  ‘As I mentioned on the way here, most ingredients originating from an animal have now been replaced by synthetic materials, to protect the animals. Ambergris, musk, that sort of thing.’ Xavier noticed distractedly how bright Cat’s aquamarine eyes became when she was stimulated. ‘Anyway, synthetic products are totally acceptable now in the process of scent creation. Lilac, lily of the valley – these are not natural aromas. Veltol is a newly discovered molecule which smells just like caramel. The point is, when synthetics are blended with natural flowers and plants, the results can be magnificent. Rose, jasmine, tuberose, orange blossom, lavender, mimosa, aromatic herbs such as rosemary, thyme, mint and basil.’

  ‘What about citrusy aromas?’ Cat couldn’t help asking.

  Xavier shrugged. ‘Of course. Lemon, orange, mandarin, even grapefruit are popular ingredients. So are spices and seeds like nutmeg and pepper, as well as leaves and roots, woods and resins. Personally, I love sandalwood and cinnamon, especially for aftershave.’

  ‘Like yours?’ Cat blurted out before she could stop herself. She felt her cheeks go pink. Christ, the last thing she wanted him to think was that she’d noticed his aftershave. ‘It’s . . . quite strong,’ she added lamely, adding a slight criticism so he didn’t think she was being flirtatious in any way. ‘You know, pungent.’

  Xavier almost smiled. ‘Pungent? Oh dear, I’ll have to address that. I mix my own aftershave, we don’t sell it commercially.’ She had a fairly good nose, he noted in surprise. She had recognised two of the ingredients in his aftershave, which was unusual for someone not used to picking out single aromas from a blend. But Xavier was certain his aftershave wasn’t remotely strong or pungent so he felt irked that she had criticised it.

  ‘So, the creation of a scent, is it a science or is it creativity?’ Cat asked as they headed outside into the pale sunshine.

  ‘It’s both. Imagination and memories also play a part.’

  ‘Memories?’

  ‘You mentioned it yourself at the family meeting,’ Xavier reminded her as they took a seat together awkwardly. ‘Suntan lotion or coconut aromas transport us back to that beautiful beach and memories of the fun we had . . . the sex . . .’ His eyes slid to meet hers but slid away just as quickly. ‘So, in my opinion, fragrance creation is about both the science of mixing aromas and the imagination needed to re-create those memories and stir the senses.’

  Cat wondered if he was laughing at her. ‘You must have been quite an asset to your family,’ she commented coolly. ‘They must be devastated that you’re no longer part of the process.’

  His jaw tight, Xavier gazed at her. ‘I suppose they must be. Shall we head into the old town?’

  He was politeness itself, pointing out various pretty shops and stalls; if she had annoyed him, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Oh, look at that lovely lavender,’ she said, admiring a faded bunch on a stall. Tied with a Provençal-style blue and white ribbon, it was really sweet. She took out her purse to buy it. She was surprised when Xavier got there first. He handed some euros over and presented it to her with a careless wave of his hand.

  ‘Please . . . take it.’

  Cat accepted the lavender with slightly bad grace. She sniffed it, thinking the aroma would always remind her of the south of France. And probably of Olivier, she thought, putting it into her bag with a pang. She nodded when Xavier suggested coffee and they took seats outside in the pretty square.

  ‘So what’s the best perfume ever created?’ Cat asked, reverting to safe territory to keep the peace. ‘Seriously, what’s the most gorgeous scent in the world?’

  Xavier grinned. ‘Well, there’s a question!’ He considered. ‘There are so many, it’s impossible to choose. Chanel No. 5, of course. Shalimar has its place too. Did you know it was supposed to have been created when Jaques Guerlain accidentally tipped vanilla essence into Jicky?’

  ‘That’s a great story but those fragrances are so old fashioned,’ Cat said, rather unnerved by Xavier’s sudden grin. He looked totally different when he smiled, handsome and rather charming. She steeled herself.

  ‘Old fashioned?’ Xavier looked outraged. ‘How can you say that? They’re classics, the star players of their time. They’re the fragrances that set the bar for the newer ones out there. Did you know that many are just replicas of a bygone era?’

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t but—’

  ‘Of course there are some wonderful new fragrances – Thierry Mugler’s Angel, Jo Malone’s Lime, Basil and Mandarin . . .’

  Cat’s head snapped up. ‘I wear that!’

  ‘I know.’ Xavier looked sheepish for a second, obviously loath to admit he admired the fragrance she wore, let alone that he had noticed it. ‘It’s a good choice.’ He relaxed slightly. ‘Do you think we sound slightly ridiculous, debating such an issue?’

  Cat’s mouth twitched. ‘I guess so.’ She laughed. ‘My mother always said I was argumentative. Did yours say the same about you?’

  Xavier’s expression became sober. ‘She did. But we had a lot in common too. After a moment’s silence he continued. “Noses” are essentially artistic and nostalgic by nature. They enjoy music or art or literature. They tend to study chemistry as it’s a good basis for the technical side to perfume creation but deep down they lean towards the arts. I did and so did my mother – we both loved paintings.’

  ‘Do certain smells remind you of her?’ Cat sipped her coffee. The tension felt as if it might have been broken between them but she was aware she was on delicate ground discussing Elizabeth. As the twins had mentioned, no one ever seemed to talk about her.

  Xavier toyed with his coffee cup. ‘Ocean smells, pine forests . . . iris really reminds me of her. Orris root is used in make-up and many perfumes, you see. It is reminiscent of violets but when distilled into an essential oil, its fragrance is heavy and woody.’ He stared past Cat, preoccupied. ‘It makes me think of chatting to my mother while she put her make-up on. It’s . . . both evocative and painful for me.’

  ‘You miss her a great deal,’ Cat stated.

  Xavier rubbed his thumb along his coffee cup, his dark eyes downcast. ‘More than I can say. She was a beautiful woman but she was a real mother to me too. She taught me so many things.’ Stopping abruptly, he wondered what the hell he was doing telling Olivier’s widow something so meaningful.

  Not noticing the shutters going down behind Xavier’s eyes, Cat nodded numbly. She knew exactly what he meant. Sometimes she missed her own mother so much, it hurt. It was about always having someone there when you needed them, that unconditional love that only a mother could provide.

  ‘Wouldn’t your mother want you to carry on her legacy?’ Cat asked out of the blue. She knew she was on dangerous territory but she really wante
d to know the answer.

  Xavier’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ he returned angrily, throwing some cash on the table. ‘It wasn’t just my mother’s death that destroyed my love of perfume.’ He stood up. ‘There was something else, someone else who changed everything but I hate talking about it. Shall we go?’

  Smarting at his anger, Cat followed Xavier back to the car, struggling to keep up with his strong strides. ‘I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I just think it would be amazing if you created another perfume. Don’t bite my head off; I’m just saying.’

  Xavier’s phone rang. He took it out and frowned. ‘No, it’s not one of my many girlfriends,’ he informed Cat drily. ‘It’s my grandmother.’ Leaning against his Aston Martin, he took the call.

  Seraphina returned to school through a side entrance and headed to the unisex bathrooms nearby. Catching sight of her reflection in one of the mirrors hanging over a neat row of white sinks, she gasped. Her hair, originally in a sleek ponytail, was loose and dishevelled and her mouth resembled a crushed strawberry because her lipstick had been kissed off so messily. Her cream silk shirt was buttoned up the wrong way and her jeans were so low-slung, her lace thong was showing.

  Seraphina urgently raked her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame it. Rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand and desperately re-buttoning her shirt before anyone saw her, she jumped as Max strolled in. Dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt with a marijuana leaf on the front, his own hair was all over the place.

  He scowled. ‘Been out with the boyfriend again?’

  Seraphina tried to look nonchalant, despite her churning stomach. ‘Maybe.’