Maybe the Digger thing had been a bit childish, but it had seemed important to make a statement that would force Clemmie and her father to confront the practical consequences of his irresponsible behaviour, seeing as he seemed immune to the emotional ones.
As the bus turned left at the big junction at the bottom of Commerical Street, Polly decided she was well beyond the point where Clemmie could catch up with her and got off at the next stop.
She stood outside the Whitechapel Gallery and wondered what the hell she should do now. Cross the road and get a bus back to the car? Then what? Go home and risk running into David – or go home and not run into him? She didn’t know which would be worse.
Then, getting her bearings, she realised she was at the bottom of Brick Lane, so she could walk back to the car along there and through Spitalfields. That made her think of her father again. His academic speciality had been the Age of Enlightenment – the period in the middle of the eighteenth century when Europe burst into intellectual bloom – and when Polly was a child he’d brought her here to show her the magical old streets from that period. He said they made him feel as though Sir Isaac Newton and Adam Smith might come walking around the corner at any moment.
As she turned into the narrow start of Brick Lane, bustling with cool-looking young people, she wondered what he’d think of the area now. The houses that had been virtual slums when she was a kid were now perfectly restored, prime real estate, but the waves of immigrants who’d lived in them – Huguenot silk-weavers, European Jews, Bangladeshis – had all added to its richness.
Feeling pleasantly distracted by all the history, she resolved to stop thinking about David and Clemmie and the whole sorry situation until she got home, and give herself some respite from the anxiety that seemed to have become her default setting at the moment. Being able to partition her thoughts in this way was a useful technique that years of yoga meditation had given her. Acknowledge the unpleasant ones and then just bat them away.
First, though, she stopped to text Lucas. After the horrible scene with Clemmie, she would need the reassurance of her other child’s company when she got home, even though she had no intention of telling him what had gone on. Knowing David had been in London – and in the bloody house! – and deliberately not seen them would hurt Lucas even more than it had her.
R u home for dinner?
Lucas’s reply came back immediately:
Polly grinned down at it. Lucas always cheered her up. And now she knew exactly what to make for dinner. With the prospect of a cosy night in with him she felt much stronger, and free to immerse herself in the fascinating sights – and smells – of Brick Lane.
The remaining Bangladeshi restaurants planted little nose-tickling bursts of spice aromas along the street, which mixed exotically with the staler smells of garbage, soot, diesel fumes and dank puddles, with added interest from the slightly fungal, damp wafts coming out of the many vintage clothing shops.
Polly wrote her next blog post in her head as she walked along, stopping in a doorway to make some notes in her phone, so she wouldn’t forget the smell and perfume associations jumping into her mind.
When she got to the corner of Cheshire Street, she caught a whiff of something very different, a rich smell – spices, but not the food kind. It was so interesting she turned off Brick Lane away from her destination and followed her nose like a beagle. The fragrant wafts got stronger the further she went, with the depth of exotic oud, along with with patchouli, sandalwood and musk.
Eventually she came to a stop outside a shop with the words the ‘Great Eastern Fragrance Company’ in gold-painted letters on its shiny black frontage, the original eighteenth-century shutters still in place.
Closing her eyes and getting distinct whiffs of frankincense and cedarwood along with the oud, Polly thought it was an excellent name for a brand that was clearly specialising in perfumes in the oriental style – based in London’s East End.
When she opened the shop door, which made an old-fashioned bell jingle, the combined odours were almost overpowering, causing her to stop and close her eyes. She felt quite dizzy for a moment.
When she regained her equilibrium and opened them again, blinking in the low light, she heard someone laugh and, as her eyes adjusted, she saw a man walking towards her, his right hand held out in front of him.
‘I should have known a nose as sensitive as yours would find my overblown oud conceit a bit much,’ he was saying.
He stopped with the hand still extended towards her and Polly realised she was supposed to take it.
‘Guy Webber,’ he said, returning her handshake with an almost finger-crushing grip. ‘So good to finally meet you, Polly.’
‘Hi, er, Guy,’ she said, nearly thrown off balance again by the heady aromas and the surprise of this complete stranger knowing her name. Although as she blinked back at him, there was something – very black hair, short at the sides, long on top and slicked back like a matinée idol, liquid dark-brown eyes, heavy brows – that seemed vaguely familiar.
He had the Shoreditch beard, as black as his hair and neatly groomed. But, clichéd face-rug aside, he wasn’t sporting the usual East End hipster look. He was just the age to be one – early thirties, Polly reckoned – but there wasn’t a trace of tweed, selvedge denim or corduroy. Not even an artisanal apron. Instead, he wore a black polo neck and an immaculately cut suit, charcoal-grey with a slight mohair sheen.
‘I’m a great fan of your blog,’ he said. ‘Would you like to sit down? You looked a bit shaky there for a moment.’
Polly was very happy to sink onto the elegant black velvet sofa at the back of the shop, beyond the shelves of sparkling perfume bottles topped with rose-gold caps.
Guy propped himself on a high stool next to her, his left arm on the counter as though it were a bar top. With one velvet slipper propped on the bottom rung of the stool, the other long leg stretched out, he reminded Polly of one of the men who had sometimes featured in 1950s fashion shoots with her mother.
‘I’ve seen you around at various perfume events,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to a couple of yours.’
‘Oh,’ said Polly, ‘that explains it. I thought you looked familiar.’
‘A very junior member of the perfume pack,’ he said. ‘Not nearly as well known as you. Yet.’
He laughed again and Polly smiled back at him. Like many people she met in the very particular world of fragrance, which was densely populated with eccentrics, Guy Webber was clearly his own man.
‘And I might not have had a beard then,’ he added, stroking it luxuriantly. ‘It’s a new addition, to fit into the neighbourhood.’
Although she felt awkward having to look up at him from the low vantage of the sofa, Polly found she was smiling again.
‘So, how did you hear about the shop?’ he asked, looking at her keenly, his dark eyes narrowed. He had very long eyelashes, Polly noticed. ‘I’ve done no publicity, no PR.’
‘I smelled it,’ said Polly. ‘From on Brick Lane and followed my nose to find out what the source of powerful oud was.’
Guy looked at her for a moment, and then roared with laughter.
‘You actually sniffed me out,’ he said. ‘How brilliant. Oh, you really do deserve your reputation as London’s leading perfume blogger. You found me all on your own – by nose. I’ve only been open a week. So you could be the first to write about my perfume. If you like it, of course.’
Still feeling slightly wobbly, Polly wasn’t entirely sure she did like it. She respected the heavyweight oriental perfumes – they were particularly hard to get right – but she rarely wore them herself. The bad ones made her want to unscrew her own arm if she was ever foolish enough to actually spray them onto her skin.
‘So why didn’t you have a launch campaign, or an opening?’ she asked.
‘To be different,’ said Guy. ‘I imagine you get invited to several launches a week, don’t you? Or even a day.’
Polly nodded. With over fifteen hundre
d perfumes coming out a year – and that number was rising – it was hard to keep track of all the press releases and invitations that flooded her inbox and letterbox.
‘So,’ said Guy, ‘I thought I’d be deliberately obscure and build myself up as an insider-secret type of brand. Would you like some tea?’
‘I’d love some,’ said Polly, realising she was thirsty and hungry after leaving the restaurant without having any lunch, which was probably why the overpowering scent had made her feel faint when she came into the shop.
‘You don’t have a biscuit or anything, do you, Guy?’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I missed lunch and I’m feeling a bit light-headed.’
‘Of course,’ said Guy. ‘And there I was thinking you’d been overcome by my ravishing aromas. Won’t be a tick.’
He disappeared through a curtain of dark-red glass beads behind the counter, which made a pretty jangling noise as he passed, and Polly stood up to have a better look at the shop.
She could see at a casual glance that the fittings were very high-spec. The interior was panelled in polished dark wood, the perfume bottles sitting on glass shelves in mirror-backed cabinets.
She picked up a bottle and its weight suggested it was made of crystal. Her eyebrows went up. You didn’t expect to find that in a smutty little street off Brick Lane; crystal bottles were more of a Knightsbridge–Mayfair scenario. She glanced up at the chandelier in the middle of the room, and there it was: one little red crystal drop among all the clear ones, which showed it was genuine Baccarat. How surprising.
Pulling the pretty rose-gold cap from the top of the bottle in her hand, she found that also had a pleasing heft to it. This was quality stuff.
She raised the cap to her nose to smell, which she preferred to do before spraying onto a blotter. It gave a more accurate idea of the essence of the fragrance without needing to wait for the alcohol to evaporate.
She pulled the cap away from her nose in surprise, then smelled again. Yes, she’d been right the first time. A pretty extraordinary fragrance. It was based on a foundation of amber, shifting into incense and pure patchouli, with a touch of leather, but with a sharp green accord that pulled it back from the overbearing sickliness that put her off heavy orientals. Still way too strong for her, but interesting.
She smelled another cap. Woodier, with an interesting hint of sweet vanilla, balanced with the smart white note of jasmine, much closer to the kind of perfume she liked to wear.
Looking over the shelves, she saw there were six fragrances in total, but she didn’t want to smell them all in one go. She was weak with hunger and the slump after the adrenalin rush of her scene with Clemmie, and this wasn’t the time. These fragrances deserved more respect than that. She knew she’d be coming back to the Great Eastern Fragrance Company and would try the others then.
After a moment’s thought she picked up the second bottle and sprayed the perfume decisively on both wrists, just as Guy came back through the door.
‘Straight to the skin?’ he said, looking very pleased as he put a silver tray down on the counter top. ‘That’s a bold move.’
‘I really like it,’ said Polly, ‘and I want to see how it develops on me. I’ll come back and look at the others another time. I’d like to do a piece about your range and the shop – and you – but I don’t have enough time today. Perhaps we can fix a date before I go.’
She brought her wrist up to her nose again. Mmm, it was getting even more interesting. That vanilla note, then something sharper. But it wasn’t jasmine, as she’d first thought; it was more lemony, but not obvious kitchen-cleaner lemon . . . a kind of warm, smoky citrus. Burned lemon peel, that was it. Like the flavour of the dish she was making for Lucas tonight: chicken thighs baked in the oven with lemon wedges, which went black and sticky and were delicious to eat.
‘Which one is that?’ asked Guy, pouring tea from a tall silver pot with a long curved spout.
Polly looked at the label.
‘Half Past Eight,’ she said.
‘Interesting,’ said Guy. ‘What are you getting?’
‘Well,’ said Polly, putting the scent bottle down, then taking the gold-rimmed lilac teacup and saucer that Guy was holding out for her and going back to the small sofa. ‘On top of the more obvious sandalwood and vanilla: roasted lemon peel.’
Guy’s face broke into a beam.
‘Spot on,’ he said. ‘It was inspired by dinner at my grandmother’s house – hence the name. She used to serve a wonderful dish that featured preserved lemon wedges roasted with partridges, with lots of garlic and apricots.’
‘She sounds like an amazing cook,’ said Polly, sniffing her wrist again and wondering if there wasn’t a hint of apricot in there too.
‘Oh, she didn’t make it,’ said Guy. ‘She served it – well, had it served. Would you like one of these?’
He held out a plate that matched the teacups, piled up with different kinds of baklava.
‘I’m half-Persian,’ said Guy. ‘Half-Iranian, to be more accurate. Hence the overwhelming smell of the kasbah and the Edgeware Road snacks. We can smoke a hubba bubba if you like . . .’
He had that expression on his face again – camp, but ironic – that made it hard for Polly to know how serious he was being. She had assumed he was joking about the hookah pipe, but he reached behind the counter and pulled one out. It looked, to her inexpert eye, to be rather beautifully made.
‘My grandfather’s,’ he said. ‘I inhale pure fragrance through it, not tobacco, not even the scented versions. That’s why there was a bit of an overwhelming miasma when you arrived. I’d been having a suck on that. Next time you come, you can try it. It’s a very intense way to experience aromas.’
‘Gosh,’ said Polly, ‘that sounds almost illegal.’
‘It is,’ said Guy, laughing, and once again she didn’t know whether he was joking or not.
The sugar and caffeine hit of the baklava and the tea, which Guy served black, with no offer of milk, was making Polly feel much better. After some more general chat about the perfume world, they fixed a date for her to go back to interview him for the blog, and she made her departure.
She was nearly back at the junction with Brick Lane when she heard footsteps behind her. Turning quickly in case her bag was about to be snatched, she saw it was Guy, grinning and waving something in the air.
‘Glad I caught you,’ he said, puffing. ‘I want you to have this.’
He put one of his heavy crystal perfume bottles into her hand. A big one with an old-fashioned silk puffer spray. She looked at the label and saw it wasn’t the one she’d sprayed on her wrist, but the first cap she’d smelled and hadn’t liked so much. It was called The Darkest Hour.
‘I know you like Half Past Eight more,’ said Guy. ‘You think you’re not a spicy-orientals girl, with your Celtic blood and your dry skin; I read your blog, I know about your fetish for chypre fragrances. It’s the oakmoss and patchouli combo alongside the burned lemon you’re responding to in Half Past Eight.’
Polly had to laugh.
‘Bang to rights,’ she said. ‘Halfway to chypre paradise . . .’
‘But I want you to try this,’ he said, ‘and live with it for a bit before you come to do the interview.’
‘OK,’ said Polly, hoping she wouldn’t be spending a day with both arms extended as far away from her nose as possible.
Guy leaned in towards her. Assuming he was about to give her a social kiss – and used to such over-familiarity in the perfume world – Polly turned her left cheek to receive the first ‘mwah’ and was surprised when instead she felt his warm breath up against her ear.
‘Spray it on late at night,’ he said, ‘when you’re in bed.’
And before she could answer, he’d turned and started jogging back up the street, one arm raised over his head in a farewell salute.
Polly stood outside her own front door, nervous even to put her key in the lock. What if David was still in there? What if
he wasn’t? She didn’t know which would be worse.
Telling herself to get a grip, she opened it quickly, stepped inside and closed it noisily behind her. If he was there, she wanted him to know she was back.
She leaned against the back of the door, cocking her ears to listen. Nothing.
‘Hello?’ she called out, her heart pounding with anxiety. ‘David?’
There was no reply. The house felt empty, completely still, but she couldn’t relax. Walking slowly, feeling as though she were in the kind of film where an axe murderer could jump out at any moment, she went through to the kitchen, looking into the sitting and dining rooms on the way. He wasn’t there.
Then she checked every part of the house – even the broom cupboard and under the stairs – until she was certain he wasn’t inside, but she still felt uneasy. A sense of intrusion, that was what it was, she realised. Something like the violation people feel when they’ve been burgled.
It was so horrible and so bizarre to feel like that about her own husband that Polly found herself face down on the bed, heaving with painful, wracking sobs. How had they got to this place? Could they ever return to normal when he came back? If he came back . . .
Once she’d recovered enough to stand up and wash her face – terrified Lucas would come back and find her in that state and she’d have to explain it – she looked right through the house again for clues to what David might have come back for, but couldn’t find anything changed.
The only thing was the smell, which was subtly different from when she’d left that morning. Even beyond all the scented candles and diffusers – and her huge collection of perfumes, which added a light hum of fragrance to the place – the house had its own smell, and Polly was very attuned to it.
It had been there the first time they’d looked round the house twenty years before, and it grew stronger again any time they went away. The first thing she’d notice when she opened the door after coming back from holiday was how the very particular Edwardian odour – stale gas, dead flowers, old soap – had settled in again.
The Scent of You Page 6