Heaven Scent

by Sasha Wagstaff

  Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes blearily and glanced around at the tiny room that had become his home since the renovation had started. Living there was so much easier in some ways, as he could supervise the works, but it wasn’t exactly luxurious. It was cosy, he’d give it that, but it was also cramped, chilly and badly in need of a lick of paint. That job was going to have to wait, however, because he had no time to waste picking out fetching shades of paint for a room no one else would see for a while.

  Downstairs, he heard the builders arrive, their raucous banter and noisy equipment interrupting his rare moment of early morning solitude. Glancing at a dusty calendar on the kitchen counter, Ashton was vaguely aware that his parents had promised to visit but he couldn’t remember the exact date. He hoped it wasn’t today; he was expecting several deliveries and he needed his mind to be sharp and focused on the job if he had any chance of meeting his deadline. Tugging a crumpled black T-shirt over his head and standing up in the jeans he’d slept in, Ashton rubbed his stubbly chin and wondered when he’d last shaved. Or when he’d last had a haircut, he thought, raking his fingers through his dusty blond fringe. Renovating the building had taken over his life, not because it was a difficult job but because the time constraint was so tight. Ashton was used to working under pressure but this had been the worst project he’d ever undertaken and one that he’d become overly involved in, more so than he had any other job. He had practically taken on the role of project manager, not just architect. The builders were working like Trojans but deliveries had been late, furnishings had arrived damaged and to the wrong specifications and his carefully thought-out technical drawings had been reworked so many times, the paper was beginning to resemble a discarded fish and chip wrapper.

  Irritably, Ashton realised he was out of coffee and he headed downstairs, the noise hitting him as soon as he entered the store area. He greeted the builders with a cheeriness he didn’t feel. At least the complicated renovation was taking his mind off dwelling on thoughts of Leoni, he reflected ruefully. He assumed Guy had told her about the store and he acknowledged to himself that he had been secretly hoping it would at the very least cause her to text him or call. The fact that she hadn’t proved that either she didn’t have time for him any more or that her relationship with Jerard was as serious as he’d feared.

  Ashton felt sick. Obviously Leoni had no idea what he had sacrificed to acquire the building for her and he would never tell her – it had been his decision and he was an adult; he had made his choice, and that was the end of it. How he would explain things later on was something he hadn’t quite figured out but he was sure he would think of something. Not that it made things any easier to bear on a daily basis, Ashton thought, rubbing his chest. He missed her, in every way possible. His head ached, his stomach churned and his heart hurt so painfully, it felt as if he was bleeding on the inside. Or perhaps he just had terrible heartburn from all the coffee, Ashton thought with a flash of humour, hating the thought that he was turning into some whinging idiot.

  ‘Who’s for coffee?’ he asked his team of builders in English. He didn’t bother to speak French to them, which he knew they found hilarious. They got by: that was all that mattered.

  ‘Café leger,’ Bernard, the head builder called, not looking up from the counter he was cutting with minute precision. He was extremely competent and he ruled his team of workers with a rod of iron; idle chit-chat was not his style. He seemed to remember something suddenly and he flicked his jigsaw off and lifted his goggles. He reverted to pigeon English, knowing it would be quicker in the long run. ‘Monsieur Lyfield, Madame Peroux, did she speak you? There was a girl here for you on Tuesday . . . no, sorry, Wednesday.’

  Halfway out of the door, Ashton ducked back in. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There was a girl here,’ Bernard insisted. ‘She was looking for you.’

  Ashton’s heart skipped a beat. Could it have been Leoni? ‘Did she say who she was?’

  Bernard shook his head blankly. He rather wished he hadn’t mentioned it; now he would be interrogated and his memory was shocking, especially when it came to this sort of thing.

  ‘What did she look like?’ Ashton tried another tack. He gestured vaguely to his face. ‘Hair colour? Eyes? Height?’

  Bernard gave a broad shrug, his expression vague. ‘Er . . . tall. Green thing . . . a dress, maybe.’ Details were clearly not his forte; his brow was furrowed with the effort of it all.

  Ashton sighed, feeling despondent. Hearing ‘tall’ had made him feel hopeful but a green dress didn’t sound like Leoni at all. If Bernard had said a black dress, that might have convinced him.

  ‘Never mind, Bernard. It’s probably just something work related. I’m sure whoever it was will call again.’

  He made to leave again, halting as Bernard shook his head. ‘Non, Monsieur Lyfield, not work. It was personal, she said.’

  Ashton’s heart was in his mouth again. For the first time, he really wished he spoke better French.

  ‘Glasses!’ Bernard provided triumphantly. ‘She wore glasses. And the hair, it was black. Non, brown. Like this.’ He put his hands to his chin to show he meant a bob.

  Ashton gripped the door. It was Leoni, it had to be! She had come to Paris, to the shop. She had asked to see him, which meant she still wanted to be friends, at least. Pleased with himself, Bernard nodded. He pulled his goggles back on, unaware he was doing a sterling impression of Danger Mouse’s Penfold.

  Something occurred to Ashton. ‘Hang on, Bernard. Did you say Madame Peroux was here as well?’

  Bernard nodded impatiently, keen to get back to work. ‘They talk . . . then the girl in the green dress, she runs away.’ He mimicked the movement with his fingers. ‘Coffee?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Ashton nodded, backing out of the store. He felt something cold trickle down his back. Marianne had been here, talking to Leoni? Knowing Marianne as he did, Ashton knew that might be very bad indeed. And the fact that Bernard had said Leoni had ‘run away’ after her chat with Marianne suggested that something had been said to upset her.

  Had Marianne told Leoni about the sacrifice he’d made? Surely not, it wasn’t her news to tell, and could she really be that proud of what she’d asked him to do? Ashton couldn’t believe it. Not even Marianne could be that arrogant and insensitive, could she?

  Had she – God forbid – embellished what had happened between them in the toilets? Ashton shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about. Nothing had happened but Marianne was so mischievous, would she think it amusing to tell Leoni something more had gone on? Ashton groaned, wishing he’d never got tangled up with Marianne in the first place. She had given him nothing but headaches ever since he first clapped eyes on her. Longing more than anything to dash back to La Fleurie to find out what had upset Leoni, Ashton knew he couldn’t leave the building project, even for a day.

  Taking out his phone, he almost sent Leoni a text but shorthand colloquialisms seemed wholly inadequate in the current situation so he left a voicemail instead. He said he was very sorry to have missed her and that he hoped she would be in touch soon. He also left a heated message for Marianne, tersely asking her to call him back. Stalking up and down the road as he made the call, he crashed straight into his parents who were carrying their suitcases.

  ‘Darling, is everything all right?’

  Joyce Lyfield knew in an instant that her son wasn’t himself. He had three-day-old stubble on his chin, his hair was in disarray and his clothes were unwashed. But, actually, it was nothing to do with that; it was the look of utter anguish in his eyes that told his mother he was suffering badly.

  ‘We went to the apartment,’ Arthur said, clasping his son’s free hand and shaking it heartily. ‘They wouldn’t let us in so we came here.’

  Ashton apologised to them. What a mess! Feeling about twelve again, as his mother gathered him up in a hug and her perfumed cheeks connected with his, he clung to her for a second.

  ‘Leoni?’ she said
gently, accurately guessing the reason behind his torment.

  He nodded, only slightly taken aback that his mother seemed to know exactly what was going on in his head. She had developed the knack in his teens and always seemed able to get to the heart of the matter without any faff or nonsense.

  ‘Sort things out with her, son,’ Arthur urged, joining in. ‘Life’s too short and all that.’

  Ashton shrugged helplessly, his blue eyes clouded with distress. He gestured to the building. ‘I have to sort this out . . . there’s no time. And Leoni, we’re barely speaking these days. She has a new, rich boyfriend,’ he said dismally. ‘French, of course,’ he added.

  Joyce gripped his arm and gave him a confident smile. ‘It’s not over yet, Ash. Don’t give up before you’ve really put your heart on the line.’

  Arthur nodded encouragingly. ‘Your mother’s right.’

  ‘Are you saying I haven’t done that already?’ In spite of himself, Ashton pulled a face of mock dismay. ‘Seriously, you have no idea! I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.’

  Joyce picked her suitcase up. ‘First things first. Where can we dump our luggage and where’s the kettle?’

  Feeling ridiculously grateful for their presence and completely forgetting his builders were waiting for coffee, Ashton handed his parents hard hats and led the way into the building.

  Back at La Fleurie, Leoni was in the breakfast salon, sifting through some photographs Stefan the photographer had sent over. She was preoccupied. The thought of Ashton and Marianne together, and of Ashton ‘sacrificing’ himself in order to secure the building, was quite simply nauseating. It changed Leoni’s entire perspective of Ashton and unnerved her completely. He had always been such a rock, a very proper, reliable rock that she could always turn to, especially after Olivier died. But now, after Marianne’s revelations, Ashton seemed like a different person and not the sweet, honourable person Leoni had always believed him to be. He was obviously a liar, something she would never have believed possible of him, in spite of all the time he had spent with Olivier, and he now seemed to have a sinister edge which didn’t suit him at all.

  Leoni swallowed. It really bothered her. It had been grim enough to find out that her little brother had been more of a liar and a cheat than she had imagined, but somehow this was worse. She had always known Olivier had bad habits, but where Ashton was concerned, Leoni would never have believed him capable of behaving in such a way. It was so unlike the Ashton she thought she knew.

  Leoni glanced outside. The air was sultry, and dark clouds were gathering, threatening a storm. She prayed for it to break; it was suffocatingly humid and the atmosphere was crackling with tension, mirroring the mood of the family perfectly. Tearing her attention back to a photograph of Angelique reclining on a chaise-longue, Leoni frowned. It left her cold. Angelique’s pouty mouth, covered in gooey lip gloss, looked almost obscene and her body, as desirable as it was, seemed overly sexual. The image jarred. Leoni knew it did not convey what Xavier had in mind for his perfume at all.

  Her phone buzzed into life and she listened to a voicemail from Ashton. He sounded achingly familiar, the Ashton she remembered as her best friend, not the one Marianne had described. Leoni felt stricken but she slowly deleted the message. She couldn’t stop thinking of Ashton as a cheap gigolo, sleeping with Marianne just to secure the purchase of a building. Why had he done it? Surely he hadn’t believed he needed to stoop to such levels? Leoni shook her head. It would be easier to think Ashton had slept with Marianne simply because he’d been attracted to her but if so, surely Marianne would have said as much.

  Telling herself not to bother caring so much about Ashton, especially since he couldn’t see fit to talk to her in person about any of it, Leoni forced herself to look at the photographs of Angelique again. Trying to be objective – Angelique had never been her favourite person – she tried to get a handle on exactly why the photographs didn’t work. Thinking back to Xavier’s short brief of glamorous, young and sexy and the extended one that contained all the other words pertaining to his new scent, Leoni could fit them all to the images but they didn’t ring true someone. Part of the problem with Angelique’s photographs was the lack of intimacy and warmth. They did not fit the Ducasse-Fleurie brand. It was obvious Stefan thought the same because he’d attached a Post-it note with ‘Best of a bad bunch, re-do?’ scribbled across it. Leoni frowned. There were any number of models out there but did they have time to source another?

  Leoni looked up as Delphine entered the room. Her snowy-white hair was caught up in its usual neat chignon and her cream suit was as spotless as ever but Leoni couldn’t help thinking her grandmother seemed somehow older – fragile even. It was an unsettling thought. Delphine was the figurehead of the family and someone they all relied upon for strength and resilience. However bossy and cutting she could be, Delphine was a force to be reckoned with. The idea that she might be less than robust was something Leoni didn’t care to linger on but she fervently hoped Delphine’s health wasn’t suffering with all the drama going on.

  ‘Have you seen Guy?’ Delphine asked, gripping her cane with more dependency than normal. She looked troubled and her shoulders were sloped as though she was carrying an enormous weight on them. ‘He’s usually surgically attached to his office but every time I try and speak to him, he’s nowhere to be found.’

  Leoni shook her head. ‘Max was looking for him earlier too.’ An idea occurred to her as she glanced down at the photographs again. Was it a crazy thought? It would require an awful lot of work in a very short time. Delphine was waiting for an explanation.

  ‘Er, sorry. Max was charging around like a man possessed looking for Guy this morning, said he had something to talk to him about. I’m hoping he didn’t find him, actually, because he looked as though he was about to explode.’ Leoni frowned. Where did Uncle Guy keep disappearing to? He had been difficult to track down ever since the incident with Seraphina back in the spring. Leoni wondered if he was having a breakdown.

  ‘Teenagers.’ Delphine sniffed, reverting to her snippy self for a moment and not appearing to be overly concerned with Guy’s odd absence. She noticed the pile of glossy photographs and nodded at them.

  ‘What do you have there?’

  Leoni gathered them up and held them to her chest. ‘Just something to do with the ad campaign. I’m thinking of something a bit different. These photos of Angelique don’t seem quite right.’ She lifted her eyes to meet her grandmother’s, almost daring her to disagree. ‘Do you have any objection if I play around with another idea?’

  Delphine sighed. Ever since Angelique had set foot in La Fleurie – no, before that – Delphine had been feeling uncomfortable about her meddling. She regretted her decision to draw Angelique back into the fold, not least because Xavier seemed so incensed. He had disappeared to Morocco and no one had heard from him in days, even though he should have been back by now. Angelique was swanning around as if she owned the place, upsetting the housekeeper and several of the maids with her rude and unreasonable requests. How could she have been so wrong about the girl? Delphine fretted. Far from being a positive influence and the love of Xavier’s life, it was obvious Angelique was unhealthily ambitious. And the fact that Xavier felt antagonistic towards her spoke volumes because Delphine knew that despite his tempestuous temper, he was very sure of his feelings when it came to the people close to him.

  ‘Do whatever you think best, Leoni,’ Delphine uttered finally, sinking into a chair. So much had gone on over the past year or so since Olivier’s death and for the first time in her life, she felt terribly old.

  ‘Thank you,’ Leoni said, feeling a rush of gratitude. Not quite sure why, she dropped a kiss on Delphine’s powdery cheek as she headed to the door. Leoni would have been astonished – and greatly moved – had she seen the tear trickling down her grandmother’s cheek at the tender gesture.

  Embarrassed, Delphine wiped the tear away quickly. Anxiously, she wondered where Guy was. Somethi
ng bad was about to happen, she could sense it. Like a row of wobbling dominoes, Delphine felt as though her family were about to topple and fall.

  Having been spoiling for a confrontation for the past few weeks now, Max finally tracked his father down near the stables, staring out across the valley that had claimed Elizabeth’s life. Max marched up to him, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Guy demanded, his brown eyes darkening with rage.

  Momentarily distracted, Max noticed threatening clouds circling overhead like ghouls sensing a twisted party they wanted to gatecrash. He refocused his gaze on his father. ‘I’m doing something I should have done ages ago,’ he roared, angered by his father’s reaction. It was his fault everything was so screwed up at the moment and Max was sick and tired of pussyfooting around and letting him get away with it.

  His eyes roamed over his father. The impeccable white shirt he wore and the silver-grey hair that was combed carefully into place enraged Max even more. He wanted to see his father look ravaged with guilt, he wanted to see him ruffled and crumpled and losing control, for once. What the hell was wrong with him? Didn’t he have any sense of remorse whatsoever?

  Bristling at the contemptuous scrutiny his son was subjecting him to, Guy glared at Max, his nostrils flaring. How dare he be so aggressive! Who did he think he was, charging up to him like that? Guy, already on the defensive, immediately went on the offensive, knowing he was in for a fight.

  Neither of them noticed Cat emerging from one of the nearby stables wearing white shorts and a torn yellow vest top. She had been looking for an earring she had lost that night with Xavier. She stood rooted to the spot, not sure whether to duck back into the stable or discreetly slip off to the château. Pulling her T-shirt away from her sticky skin, Cat wished the muggy weather would make its mind up and either subject them to a thunderous downpour or allow the sun to work its way through. She couldn’t believe it was June already . . . the weeks at La Fleurie seemed to merge into one another, slipping past blissfully, yet uneventfully with nothing resolved from her perspective.