Polly realised she now had her hands over her face – exactly as her daughter had a few moments earlier.
‘Look at me,’ she said, sitting up and putting her hands in the air. ‘I’m doing exactly what you just did. Like mother, like daughter – like father, like son. You’re studious like your father, but you act out your emotions like me. Lucas is a bit drifty and vague, like me, but when he’s upset, he clams up like Dad. It’s all written in our DNA, this behaviour. But even knowing that doesn’t make this any easier to take, does it, Clemmie? I don’t know where to put myself these days.’
‘I’m not going to collude with him again, Mum. I’m so sorry I did, but . . . I just didn’t know how to say no.’
‘Was he in a state?’
‘No, not at all. That was what made it so hard to argue with him. He called me out of the blue – with the number he was ringing from carefully blocked, of course – completely calm, and made it sound like coming to the house when you were out was a perfectly reasonable thing to want to do. It wasn’t until you quizzed me about it that I realised how awful it actually was.’
They both sat in silence for a moment and Polly was relieved when Digger brought his pheasant over to show her.
‘Oh, have you killed it good and proper, Diggs?’ she said, scratching him behind his ears. ‘What a clever dog. Now, go and do it again.’
She threw the pheasant to the other end of the kitchen and Digger ran to catch it, pinning it on the floor with his front paws and pulling at it. They both watched the show, glad of the distraction, until Polly could stand it no more.
She turned to look at her daughter, seeing the tension in Clemmie’s lovely young face. A little crease between the eyebrows that hadn’t been there before.
How could David have done that to his daughter?
‘What do you think it is, Clemmie?’ Polly asked her quietly. ‘I’ve driven myself nearly crazy trying to work it out. Have you got any idea?’
Clemmie sighed.
‘I just don’t know,’ she said, ‘but last term we did a module on mental health, and from what I learned then I reckon Dad’s behaviour is well along the neurotic spectrum, getting towards psychosis. It’s his ability to stay so calm while he does something completely crazy – like he did with me, talking about coming here – that freaks me out. Psychotics think they’re the normal ones and we’re all mad for thinking their behaviour is unusual.’
‘He wasn’t like this before,’ said Polly. ‘Was he? I mean, he’s always been a bit eccentric, with his tidiness and all that, but nothing you wouldn’t expect from a massive brainbox – they’re usually a bit quirky, it goes with the territory and all that. But this is a whole new level.’
Clemmie sighed again.
‘What he’s doing now,’ she said, ‘is just not reasonable behaviour, and what’s so hard for us – especially you – is that it’s not possible to process his irrational logic with our rational thought. They’re completely incompatible, like trying to play a violin with a banana.’
Polly nodded, smiling.
‘That makes sense,’ she said, enjoying a moment’s light relief. ‘I must try that some time.’
‘It would somehow be easier to handle if he was ranting and raving like a madman,’ Clemmie continued. ‘We’d know he was nuts then. But he’s so calm and cool about it all, it’s scarier.’
Polly felt a strong surge of love for her daughter.
‘Thanks for coming home,’ she said. ‘I feel so much better when I can talk freely about it all – and you’re the only person on earth I can do that with.
Clemmie got up and sat on the edge of the kitchen table, facing Polly, and held her mother’s hands in her own.
‘You can talk to me about it whenever you like,’ she said. ‘And you know, Mum . . . I’ve come to the conclusion that the best way for you to survive this is to be as selfish as he is. You’re always looking after other people – him, me and Lucas, your yoga students, and now you’ve got Digger too. Do what you damn well like for once. Come and stay with me, if it’s too weird being here on your own, or go away somewhere. I can have Digger. Dad told me he’d left you a stash of money in case of emergencies. I think this is an emergency – so spend it.’
FragrantCloud.net
The scent of . . . a daughter
Sugar and spice and all things nice is supposed to be the recipe for little girls, but it never fitted my daughter. She was always more likely to be covered in mud from wading into a pond looking for tadpoles.
For her sixth birthday present, when all her friends seemed to want horrible Bratz dolls, Clemmie asked for a telescope.
A science-minded eco-warrior vegetarian, she’s a very studious girl. She got straight As in all her exams and is now at Cambridge uni training to be a doctor. So I make no apology for being a superproud mum!
But while she might be ultra serious about her studies, Clemmie has a very loving nature. She’s always been very close to her dad – she would go off to the science museum with him on Sunday afternoons as a kid, while her brother would curl up with me on the sofa and watch DVDs of old musicals – but as she’s grown up (she’s twenty-three) she’s started taking more interest in the things I love. Like yoga – and perfume . . .
She was never particularly interested in my perfume life before – growing up, it must have just been something boring that Mum did – but it turns out some of her friends at Cambridge follow this blog (hello, if any of you are reading this!) and she’s decided there must be something to it after all, which is lovely for me.
She’s been to a few launches with me, helped out at a couple of my events and has started poking around in my perfume cupboard, looking for things to steal – always a good sign of a new perfumista in the making.
So I find that something I once saw embroidered on a cushion is turning out to be true: ‘A daughter is a little girl who grows up to be a friend’.
As for the smells I associate with her, I was a bit of a swot too, so I love all the stationery aromas: the woody/metallic aroma of pencil shavings, the flat winey smell of ink, the sticky sweetness of a leaking biro and – my favourite – the almost talcum-powder softness of a new exercise book.
For her veggie diet there is the powerful grassiness of leafy vegetables, the caramel of sweet potatoes, carrots and beetroots roasting, and the sulphurous note of brassicas. The nutty starchiness of brown rice and other whole grains. The green tang of fresh herbs, warm ginger. The bite of garlic and the spiciness of coriander seeds, cardamom, turmeric and chili. White flowers for her youthful freshness and lemon for her mental sharpness.
So my scents for a daughter are:
Gold Heart v.4 by Map of the Heart
Botanical Essence No.20 Rose by Liz Earle (it has a carrot seed note in it!)
Wild Green by Bronnley
White Musk by The Body Shop
Neroli by Annick Goutal
Cristalle by Chanel
COMMENTS
JustRos: This is lovely. It brought a tear to my eye!
FragrantCloud: Thanks, Ros x
PerspiringDreams: I’m at Cambridge with Clemmie! She’s so lucky to have a mother who blogs – mine still calls it the Interweb and the thing she smells most of is compost heaps because she’s always gardening. I love your blog.
FragrantCloud: That’s so lovely of you. Will Clemmie know who you are from that name?
PerspiringDreams: Yes! I’m always asking her questions about you! It’s driving her mad ha ha. My name is Talitha.
NoseFirst: I love this. I do a perfume blog, perhaps you’d like to have a look?
FragrantCloud: I will – and thanks for subscribing.
LeichhardtLori: Darling Clems. Give her my love. xxx
FragrantCloud: Back at you xxx
Monday, 11 January
Lucas was singing along to the car radio, opening the window to share his performance with pedestrians at a crossing in Finchley, and conducting himself for a moment with his bandaged l
eft hand.
‘Ouch,’ he said, putting it back on his lap and resuming with the other one.
Polly was delighted he was so cheerful, although the dog joining in on the chorus was making her head throb.
‘Pack it in, Digger,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Let him sing, Mum,’ said Lucas. ‘He’s an essential part of my soundscape. Now I’ve knackered my finger, I might have to give up bass and become a vocalist, and I’ll need all the help I can get. Come on, Digs, from the top.’
Polly smiled as Lucas howled along with the dog. She felt happier than she had for weeks, so relieved after that conversation with Clemmie. And here she was, as a result of it, on her way to spend some of David’s ‘emergency’ money, taking Lucas and her mother away for a few days to a gorgeous country house hotel near the Suffolk coast, which was famous for its spa. It might not be running away to Zanzibar in rebellion, but it was what she wanted to do.
Lucas was reading about the hotel on his phone. Having chosen what he was going to have for dinner, late-night snacks, later-night snacks and breakfast, he was now looking at the spa section.
‘I can have a manicure,’ he was saying, ‘of my nine good fingers. Would you like a manicure, Digger? It doesn’t give a price for paws. Do you think I’ll be able to go in the pool, Mum? It’ll be so annoying if I can’t, I’ve brought my trunks. But ooh, look, there’s a big hot tub – actually there are two, one inside and one outside – so we can sit in hot water with total strangers, sharing toe jam in a hot soup of organic detritus, under the stars. I could go in that with my left hand up in the air.’
His good humour was very infectious. Getting away from home for a bit was exactly what Polly needed – and getting Lucas away from his friends was exactly what he needed.
A crowd of them had come to visit him the day after his accident, arriving with a bag containing a bottle of bourbon and several cans of Coke. Polly had confiscated it in the hall, telling them she wasn’t risking another booze-related accident before he was even over this one.
She’d been concerned Lucas might be angry with her for interfering with his social life, but he’d seemed relieved to sink back into mother-and-child mode, with Polly taking his meals up to him on a tray for the first couple of days. He’d even asked for porridge with golden syrup and a copy of The Beano, which had been their ritual during childhood illness.
Polly had been happy to indulge him, and she’d been delighted at his enthusiasm over her suggestion of a little holiday with Granny.
She knew Daphne would love it. Lucas was the one person in the world she seemed able to put before herself. She doted on him.
Daphne was waiting for them in the reception area when they arrived. She was sitting on the edge of a sofa, swathed in a black mohair coat, one of her long shins hooked behind the other, her feet off to one side in their shiny black pumps, long manicured fingers holding the coat shut at her neck, as though she were sitting in howling gale. Daphne was always ready for her close-up.
‘Granny hardly needs to go to a five-star hotel,’ said Lucas, as they waited for the receptionist to press the button to open the sliding glass doors for them. ‘She already lives in one.’
Polly laughed. Rockham Park was pretty glam, which was exactly why her mother had chosen it, of course. There had been several perfectly nice developments of a similar kind much nearer Polly’s house, but the on-site hairdresser and beauty salon at Rockham had prevailed over anyone else’s needs, so Polly was stuck with a fifty-minute drive each way.
‘Lucas, my darling!’ cried Daphne, standing up and opening her arms for him to run into.
‘Hello, Granny,’ said Lucas, hugging her and lifting her off her feet, which she loved.
‘Oh, put me down, you naughty boy,’ she said with her best tinkly laugh.
While everything Daphne did was for show and attention, Polly knew the happiness in her voice this time was genuine and it was touching to witness.
‘Let me look at you,’ she was saying, cupping his face in her hands and pushing his long shaggy hair back from his forehead. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t hide your lovely face behind this mop. You have such good bones.’
Polly could read her implication as clearly as if it were subtitled: ‘You’ve got my bones.’
‘Hello, Mummy,’ she said, kissing her mother’s cheek and hoping Lucas’s presence would distract Daphne’s attention from her hair. She’d absentmindedly plaited it that morning, as she often did for yoga, forgetting it was the style that provoked the most criticism about age inappropriateness from her mother. She dropped the offending braid quickly behind her coat collar before Daphne could notice it.
‘Hello, Polly, darling,’ said Daphne, offering a sculpted cheek. ‘Now, come along, or we’ll be late for lunch.’
She looked pointedly at Lucas – with her heels on, she was nearly as tall as him – and he got the hint and put out his arm so she could link her own through it.
They didn’t so much walk through to the restaurant as process, with Polly and Digger bringing up the rear. Polly felt as though she should be carrying Daphne’s train, as her mother graciously nodded and waved to the people they passed.
On arrival at the dining room, the maître d’ – as Daphne insisted on referring to him, although Polly had also seen him doing shifts on the front desk and in the ironing room – almost bowed to Daphne.
‘Miss Masterson,’ he said, in a strong but oddly unidentifiable accent, using Daphne’s professional name. No doubt she’d asked him to. ‘How radiant you look, madame. I have your special table ready. Please come with me.’
‘Isn’t he a dear?’ said Daphne, after he’d pulled out her chair, helped her sit down and gently pushed it in again, before bustling off to get menus. ‘He used to work at the Crillon.’
Polly strongly doubted that he had, but kept that thought to herself. She glanced around the room, waving at a couple of very nice women who’d been at her talk and taking in the usual mix of a few couples, many tables of all women and the odd family group, like their own.
She was pleased to see the man she now thought of as ‘Mr Mitsouko’ on the far side of the room and raised a hand in greeting to him. She had a present for him in her bag and was glad she’d be able to give it to him directly, rather than having to try to find out who he was at the front desk.
He was sitting with someone Polly thought must be his son. The man had his back to the room, but she could tell by his hair and straight back that he was younger. Mr Mitsouko was laughing heartily at something he was saying, which made Polly smile.
Several of Daphne’s friends came over to say hello to them and to be introduced to Lucas, who did his grandmother proud, standing up each time a lady came to their table, shaking hands and being utterly charming.
Lunch was the usual three-course torture, served by waiters in white gloves. Polly normally had an apple and some cheese for her midday meal and it took a big effort to hide her frustration at having to sit through this one, delaying their departure to the hotel, where they would be having another three courses for dinner.
She’d suggested they get a light snack in the café before setting off, but Daphne had been appalled at the idea. Polly had immediately backed down, understanding that her mother wanted to show Lucas off. She was now glad she had, watching him happily chomping his way through his own food then finishing Daphne’s after she barely took a mouthful from her plate, chatting away while he fondly teased her.
She’d been a bit concerned when Lucas had ordered a glass of wine to go with his lunch and had tried to talk him out of it – only to have Daphne tell her she was being a spoilsport, they were going on holiday, and had ordered one for herself too.
Then Polly had to rally all her patience anew when Daphne insisted Lucas must be allowed to have cheese after apple crumble and custard. It would now be another fifteen minutes at least before they could set off, even longer with the inevitable loo stop and lipstick reapplication.
> She looked around the room to distract herself and noticed that Mr Mitsouko had put his napkin down on the table next to his empty plate and appeared to be feeling around for his stick. The son, or whoever he was, had already left.
She didn’t want to miss the opportunity to give him the bottle of Mitsouko she’d brought for him, and thinking it would also be a good idea to check on Digger – who she’d left with his lead looped under a chair leg in the coffee lounge – Polly told Daphne and Lucas she’d be back in a minute and nipped across the room.
‘Hello,’ she said, just as Mr Mitsouko was getting to his feet. ‘I’m Polly, we met at my perfume talk.’
‘Of course, my dear,’ he said, smiling then taking her hand and patting it. ‘How could I have forgotten? It was such an interesting afternoon. Have you come to visit your mother?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘We’re going away for a few days, with my son. That’s him at the table with her.’
‘Very nice,’ said Mr Mitsouko. ‘I’ve been having lunch with my stepson. He’s just popped off to check on his dog.’
‘Ah,’ said Polly, smiling. ‘I’m just off to do that as well. I left mine in the coffee lounge.’
‘So did Edward,’ said the man. ‘I wonder if they’ve made each other’s acquaintance.’
Polly laughed.
‘I rather hope not,’ she said. ‘Digger’s not the best behaved animal, but, the thing is, er . . . actually I don’t know your name, I’m so sorry.’
‘Edmonstone,’ he said, ‘Bill Edmonstone.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Mr Edmonstone. The thing is . . .’
‘Oh, do call me Bill,’ he said, as a great commotion suddenly erupted in the dining room.
Polly looked over her shoulder to see Digger running round the room, barking enthusiastically, his lead trailing, in hot pursuit of a very elegant lurcher. Bringing up the rear was the man who’d been lunching with Bill Edmonstone, tall and lean like his dog.
The Scent of You Page 9