The Little Perfume Shop Off the Champs-Élysées

by Rebecca Raisin

  But how to find out for sure? ‘I’ve heard the food here is excellent.’

  ‘Of course, it’s the Ritz. But I’m not here to eat, I’m getting my weekly remedial massage.’

  ‘A massage…in the Chanel Spa?’ Holy mother of god.

  ‘Oui. I have an old tennis injury, the massages help.’

  Do not panic, I told myself, panicking. I’d skipped out on the bill! Would they discuss the girl with the green face who went running from the Ritz? What would Sebastien think of me? As some kind of thief who runs out on her bills? I wanted to cup my green face and wail.

  ‘Well, enjoy!’ I trilled. I had to get away. I had to put as much distance between myself and this place as humanly possible. Again, he had that same bemused look on his face as I rushed away. Aware I was scaring people, I ran to find a bathroom and make myself presentable again. Eventually I found one that had a monstrous queue which gave me plenty of time to berate myself and fill my sister in by text.

  Her reply came back within minutes and once I scrolled past the crying laughing emojis, it read: OMG, Del! Send me a pic before you wash it off! I am rolling laughing. It sounds like you’re having a great time! xxx

  A great time? Did she not read my text? In my haste to leave I’d managed to walk close to the Seine, so next on the list was the famous bookshop, Once Upon a Time.

  Chapter Nine

  With a freshly scrubbed face, I surveyed the façade of the famous bookshop. I’d be mortified later, right now I was back into hunt mode, though god knew what Sebastien would think of me. A weathered Once Upon a Time sign creaked backwards and forwards in the breeze, like it was beckoning me to enter. The wooden step, bowed with age and the surefooted tread of thousands, sighed as more footsteps graced it. The briny scent of the Seine filled the air, and the cherry blossom trees with their fragrant pink flowers stood proud like ladies in waiting.

  Inside, it was like something from a fairy tale, like stepping into another world. The scent was evocative, timeless, the perfume of second-hand books, dusty mustiness but also a thousand nuances from the people who’d once leafed through their pages leaving fragrant fingerprints, perfuming the parchment, leaving an indelible trail, a memory of those who once found comfort between the covers.

  The dim bookshop was a wonderland and I wanted to explore every nook and cranny of the dark wooden shelves which climbed up to the ceiling and were filled with double stacked books, a few edging out as if they were about to land in my outstretched arms. That perfume, I couldn’t get past it, old and new, and the smell of words and worlds was heady. Instead of sniffing everything like I so desperately wanted to do, I hunted for the key, promising myself I’d come back later and peruse the perfumery books. This was the kind of place that fired up my imagination for perfumery…

  I followed an exposed well-trodden pathway, books were stacked haphazardly along each side and found myself in a room with a baby grand piano. I tentatively touched the ivory, a haunting C note filling the space.

  ‘It’s gorgeous, non?’ a woman with cropped blonde hair said, as she leaned against the door jamb.

  ‘Beautiful, the whole shop is. It must be amazing working here.’ I didn’t dare start talking about the way it smelled or she’d think I was mad. Even the piano had absorbed fragrant memories in its ivory and ebony, right down to the brass foot pedals, but it was more than that, it held the wishes and dreams of all who’d sat before it and poured their desires into the keys and were rewarded by the music that drifted into the aether. Like perfume, those notes evoked varying emotions unique to us all.

  The bookshop cast its magic over me, making me dream about strangers’ lives whether fictional or not. It was the loveliest little place.

  ‘Oui, it’s my dream job, even with the tourists,’ she laughed, her china blue eyes lighting up. She was so chic and French, as though she’d got the style brief like the rest of them, immaculate hair and make-up, all effortlessly elegant. It was only after a minute or two I realized she was pregnant under the layers of her clothing.

  ‘I’m Del,’ I said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Del. I’m Oceane. And you’re the third contestant in here today.’

  My face fell. ‘How did you know I was a contestant?’

  ‘You’ve all drifted towards this room. It’s where we keep our perfumery books and, without knowing it, you somehow all made your way to it.’

  I looked back into the main area, and realized she was right. I could have chosen a few other paths, including one leading up a rickety staircase.

  ‘Perfumers,’ she said, grinning. ‘You can’t hide anything from them.’

  I smiled. ‘So I take it the key isn’t here?’

  ‘Non. Je suis désolé. It’s not here. I rang Sebastien to find out after the second contestant came in. I must admit, my interest is piqued. But, secretive man he is, he wouldn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone knows the Lecléres. Parisians are proud Sebastien is continuing his papa’s legacy. He’s a closed book for the most part, though. I wondered if he’d escape Paris and we’d never see him again…but here he is, back and opening up the doors of Leclére no less.’

  When Nan died, perfumery was so hollow without her and seemed pointless. I lost the joy in creating it for a time. And for Sebastien, whose father was arguably the greatest perfumer the world had ever seen, it must’ve been the same. Not to mention the added pressure of having a world-famous name and the demands that went along with that.

  Sebastien was a mystery all right. But how could he escape, when he had the Leclére empire to run out of the little store off the Champs-Élysées? He had to be here, to run the place. Already I’d noticed his phone rang incessantly, like the most annoying buzz that seemed never-ending.

  ‘It’s only been a year since he lost his father,’ I mused, thinking back to my nan and how raw it still had felt at twelve months. Still, being busy definitely helped and perhaps Sebastien would heal himself this way too. Step from the shadows of his famous father, and cement his own place in the world of perfume… ‘Perhaps he just wants space?’

  ‘He has always craved a quiet life. When Vincent died, well, for Parisians it was like losing one of the greats like Piaf, Coco, Voltaire, but the world keeps turning, people marry, babies are made, and…’ She let out a laugh and patted her the swell of her belly. ‘Perhaps I’m just baby mad, but the days march on and I only hope Sebastien settles soon into life sans Papa. He’s a wonderful guy… So many admirers and yet, he doesn’t socialize much.’

  I didn’t care, truly I didn’t. But out of courtesy I said, ‘He doesn’t have a girlfriend?’

  She guffawed. ‘Non, non, non, non. Not since Giselle, a steely-hearted lawyer who was so unsuitable. Can you imagine them as a couple? The frosty contractual attorney, and the perfumer? It was never going to last.’

  I raised a brow. ‘What happened?’

  With a tut, Oceane said, ‘Sebastien took her to live in a little Provençal village and before long Giselle was back and he was not. Perhaps they were opposites, she the analytical type and he more a dreamer. Since they split up, he’s been resolutely single. A waste, non?’

  ‘Maybe she broke his heart?’

  Oceane tilted her head, contemplating. ‘You can never really tell with men.’

  I nodded as if in agreement, but men were a curious unfathomable lot to me. And since Whispering Lakes hadn’t been exactly swarming with bachelors, I hadn’t dated as much as a city girl probably would have. Well, that was the excuse I used anyway. I guess I’d never met anyone that made my pulse race enough to compromise my future. Because that’s what happened, wasn’t it? You always had to give up something in return for that love. Case in point: Jen. She’d let our dreams roll on by the minute a guy confessed his love for her.

  ‘So does Sebastien live here now, or not?’

  She shrugged. ‘He comes and goes. I think he’d prefer to hide away forever but his
maman can be quite formidable when she needs to be. The business would not work without him, and I guess that is all there is to it.’

  ‘It must be hard if his heart is elsewhere.’ It struck me he craved small town life and I was seeking the opposite.

  ‘And you…?’ She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Single?’

  ‘Did you give all the contestants the same inquisition?’ I said, playfully.

  ‘I didn’t get the same vibe from them, so non.’

  ‘And what vibe is that?’

  ‘Loneliness.’

  Was it so obvious? ‘I’m missing my twin sister, we were…are…very close.’ I stumbled on the words. ‘And this is my first time away from her.’

  ‘And is she wearing the same long face?’

  From her funny, lovey-dovey texts about James, I’d hazard a guess. ‘No, probably not. She’s in love, you see, so everything is sweet and the world is a wonderful place.’

  ‘Ah, new love, the best drug in the world, aside from a new book, of course.’

  ‘I guess,’ I said. We chatted about our favourite novels – having similar tastes, we both loved quirky romance novels and exotic settings – before I noted the time.

  ‘I better let you get back to it,’ I said as the doorbell chimed and a group of tourists wandered in, their faces lighting up as if they’d discovered Narnia.

  ‘Visit me again, sometime.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, kissing both cheeks in the French custom. ‘I will.’

  I gave Oceane a wave as I left the lovely little bookshop on the left bank and went in search of the key elsewhere, ruminating about what I’d heard about Sebastien. He was certainly a paradox. But really what did I know? He hadn’t exactly been truthful with me.

  Map aloft, I continued the search.

  My feet ached as I found the Salvador Dalí sundial, still no key. Before I pressed on I took a quick photo of the dial and the shadows that played on the rendered wall, knowing Jen would get a kick out of it. She loved Dalí ’s surrealist artwork, and I’d thought it might be the spot because like Vincent, Dalí was an eccentric, highly imaginative man who made his mark on the world on his own terms. I found some sprigs of wild thyme and shoved them into my bag for inspiration later.

  Next, I went upstairs at Sainte-Chapelle a breathtaking thirteenth-century chapel with the most amazing stained glass windows that funneled in kaleidoscopic light. It was so heavenly you’d believe in God if you didn’t already. Without drawing undue attention to myself, I coughed and dropped to the floor, looking determinedly for an envelope with the key inside and feeling ridiculous as people stepped around me, frowning. Not under any of the benches, not behind the security guard, who asked me what the heck I was doing. ‘Lost an earring,’ I mumbled and off I went.

  Because I was close, and a huge fan of Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas, I jogged to 27 rue de Fleurus, where the couple lived until 1946, but was disappointed to find no envelope, not even a garden from which I could pilfer a few flowers to remind me of the day.

  Still, I stopped for a moment, and tried to envisage the many visitors to the Saturday night salons that Stein and Alice hosted, from Picasso, James Joyce, poet Ezra Pound and F. Scott Fitzgerald. They’d all stood here once, too, and I wondered how I could capture that in a perfume, master painters, and literary greats, creative types made famous and sometimes infamous by their crafts…

  There was no time to waste, so I snapped a photo of the plaque and the apartment itself and headed to Luxembourg gardens. In a shady corner a bee keeper waved me over, and I told him about my mission. He smiled, displaying tobacco stained teeth and gave me some honeycomb, expounding on the many health benefits, all the while the smoking stub of a roll-your-own cigarette stuck to his bottom lip, another example of Paris and its contradictions. We chatted about the hives and the history while I marvelled at such magnificence in a park that everyone could enjoy.

  A few hours later I still had no key but had a backpack full of this and that to awaken my olfactory receptors when I needed inspiration making perfume. Along the way I darted through various Parisian attractions, including Cinéma Pagode, an Asian temple that had been shipped over from Japan in the late 1800s and later became a cinema. It was so remarkable for its old-world charm with oriental East meets West style.

  With increasingly slower steps, I made my way to Hôtel de Ville where the famous Kiss photograph by Robert Doisneau had been shot. Possibly one of the most well-known locations in Paris, I had an inkling the key would be in a place of significance like this. It was hard to picture the iconic couple captured in the black and white photograph with the world around me in technicolor but still I felt a little rush of excitement at the thought. Paris was steeped in history and it was intoxicating walking in the footsteps of so many before who’d left their mark. I searched high and low, drawing suspicious glances from people when I dropped to my knees to inspect a place of interest, but coming up short. I didn’t bother to lie, I just laughed and shrugged and hoped they’d forget my face if I bumped into them again.

  I’d covered more of Paris than people did in a week! With leaden legs, I passed the Centre Georges Pompidou library and museum, whose architecture was high tech post-modern but to me it looked like it was still under construction with its exposed piping and strange framework. It seemed so incongruous against the beauty of Paris. But then I remembered reading that the Eiffel Tower when first erected was thought by Parisians to be the ugliest of eyesores and had almost been pulled down twenty years after it was built for the World’s Fair. Perhaps in a couple of decades I’d come to like the strange architecture of the Pompidou.

  Feet screaming, I found a small bistro and plonked myself down, desperate for a dose of caffeine or six in the hopes it would reinvigorate me. So much hinged on this very first challenge. The day had been interminable. And yet I still had no clear plan. A few fuzzy ideas about the scent I wanted to capture, but nothing definite.

  I’d only just ordered a café noir when Kathryn raced in, her eyes wide.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Del,’ she said, breathlessly, holding a hand up to the waiter at the same time. ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘I haven’t, but I have a feeling I know what you’re going to say.’

  Breathing heavily, she said, ‘Anastacia found the envelope with the key.’

  Anastacia! Was I on track at the Ritz? I silently berated myself for being flustered by her and then later, Sebastien. What if I’d let the perfect opportunity pass me by all for the sake of escaping with my green face? It jarred a bit too, that she’d set me up in Chanel Spa and then found the key.

  ‘Where?’

  Kathryn flicked her mane of red hair back, and sighed. ‘Point Zero.’

  ‘Point Zero? What’s that?’

  She moved the checked cane chair to face me, and before I blinked a waiter appeared, telling her gruffly to move her chair back to face the street. Kathryn complied with an exaggerated rolling of her eyes, and ordered a café au lait in perfect French.

  Why were we to face the street? I found it odd that all the chairs faced the road and not your companion, another French quirk to add to the list. I didn’t dare ask the man why, after his huffy puffy performance, as though we’d upset the order of things by being so clueless. It was quite comical without knowing why.

  ‘Elbows in, mademoiselle,’ he muttered as he walked off. Other patrons gave us the side eye, and it was all I could do not to laugh. It managed to distract me from the matter at hand for a moment or two.

  ‘Legs bent at the knee,’ Kathryn admonished with a laugh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Terrace etiquette in Paris. There are unwritten rules for seating. If you have an outward facing terrace position then you must keep your elbows in and legs bent at the knee. Also you’ve sat at a table with cutlery yet you’re only having a coffee, and that’s a big no no too.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ What other rul
es had I broken without being aware? ‘Why do they face the street though?’

  ‘Why not? Isn’t it nicer to watch the world go by?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It’s a French thing.’ She sighed and lit up a cigarette, taking a deep drag. Before blowing out smoke rings. So she hadn’t given up all her vices when she left Paris all those years ago? Every second person smoked here. There was seemingly no concern for those eating, people inhaled slowly, and then blew their smoke all over the place. It didn’t really concern me, it was all part of the perfume of Paris.

  While I waited impatiently for an answer, Kathryn’s fragrance shivered in the afternoon breeze. She wore a bold, herbaceous scent; it suited her.

  She stubbed her cigarette out, and puckered her lips. ‘I shouldn’t smoke. Don’t let me smoke. It tastes disgusting, I really can’t understand why I crave them so much. It’s the pressure that’s doing it.’

  ‘Try making a blend of black pepper, cedar and patchouli, and put it on your pulse points. That will stop the nicotine cravings,’ I said. I’d helped a number of people to quit smoking, a simple fix if you balanced the blend well with the right notes.

  She titled her head. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. So, the key. Point Zero?’

  ‘Oh, yes, so Point Zero is the exact centre of Paris, where all distances are measured from. Out the front of the Notre-Dame a small octagonal brass plate is embedded in the pavement. You probably stepped over it if you dashed past.’

  I slapped a hand to my forehead. I’d been so close! Just around the corner – this proved it was time to switch on and start playing the game better. I had a deeper understanding of what lengths the others would go to win, so I had to up my strategy, or risk losing out like this again. Dammit to hell and back, I had been so close.

  ‘It’s not what I expected them to choose,’ I said, sipping my coffee and willing my legs not to ache, so I could press on once I’d finished my drink.