‘I’m sorry, Polly,’ said Guy, looking as crestfallen as he had previously looked mischievous. ‘I get carried away sometimes. It seemed like a brilliant plan when I was on my own in the shop.’
‘Oh, the shop,’ said Polly, feeling increasingly irritated. ‘The shop you don’t seem to want me to write about – although I think you are a regular commenter on my blog. Is EastLondonNostrils you?’
He raised his eyebrows in faux innocence again, then grinned. The naughty schoolboy again. It infuriated Polly.
‘What’s with you, Guy?’ she said. ‘You comment on every blog I post, then when you have a chance to get your business featured on it, you make up excuses on a level with “The dog ate my homework”, if you even return my calls, and then you turn up here smelling like you’ve poured a bottle of your parfum over your own head to see if I notice.’
‘I do want you to write about the shop,’ said Guy, but when I’m ready.’
‘Well, that’s good, because despite all this, I do want to interview you, but right now I’m going to have to ask you to leave this event. Lucien is not happy and I can’t think about his perfumes with yours staging an armed occupation of my olfactory bulb. I’ll refund your ticket myself.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Guy. ‘Please don’t – and let me make it up to you. Are you rushing off afterwards? Could I buy you a drink to apologise? Or perhaps you’re having dinner with Lucien . . .’
‘No,’ said Polly, thinking that all she had to do after the event was go back to an empty house. Lucas had left for Brighton that morning. She was dreading going home. ‘Yes, a drink would be nice. I’ve got your number, I’ll ring you when we finish.’
‘Great,’ said Guy. ‘I’ll await your call.’
He started off down the stairs and Polly was about to go back into the event when something occurred to her.
‘Guy,’ she called after him, her voice echoing down the stairwell, ‘tell me one thing before you go – how did you get the sillage of your fragrance to be quite so pervasive?’
On the landing below, Guy’s face cracked into a smile again.
‘Smoked it,’ he said, and headed off.
When she walked back into the function room, the windows were open and Connolly’s head of PR and her team were waving their clipboards, trying to send Guy’s smell out and bring some fresh air in.
Lucien was charming the crowd, apologising for the cold and promising them it would be worth it – which wasn’t hard for him to do with his classic French perfumer look. They all seemed to have that dark floppy hair and sensuous mouth thing going on, and it never failed to amaze Polly what a uniform they adopted: the perfectly cut dark suit, the immaculately crisp white shirt worn unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of tanned chest.
Polly was convinced that for many of her readers the eye-candy factor of the perfumers was as big a part of the appeal of these events as the fragrances. Most of these men were classic Euro playboys, but Lucien was more interesting-looking than many, with an aquiline nose that added extra intrigue, and keen dark eyes brooding above it.
As she sat down opposite him, one of the Connolly’s PR team came in with some cups of ground coffee, which she handed to members of the audience to smell and pass on.
‘I’ve got them sniffing coffee, to clear their noses,’ said Lucien quietly to Polly, as she tapped her iPad and scrolled down her list of questions. ‘It doesn’t work, it’s just another strong smell, but they think it will, so this is the same thing, non?’
Polly smiled at him. She still felt mortified about what had happened, but her decisive action with Guy had clearly impressed Lucien, who turned out to be the most amenable interview subject, sharing wonderful stories of his years in the business, and describing his creative process, from the very first briefing for a new perfume, in fascinating detail.
It was a great relief for Polly, as Lucien had a reputation for being tricky, even when events were designed solely to promote his own brand, as opposed to the many leading design houses he also created fragrances for.
He was even rumoured to have created the signature smell of a leading brand of fabric conditioner, which had provided the funds to start his own house, but Polly had been warned by a French perfume blogger she’d met online not to mention that in any circs.
So she kept the focus entirely on his exquisite – and eye-wateringly expensive – eponymous range, raving with all sincerity over the two new ones that were being introduced this evening. Lucien’s ultra-sophisticated French style was her very favourite kind of scent. He was known as the King of Chypre, which was – as Guy had so astutely worked out – her favourite perfume ‘family’.
The interview was followed by questions from the audience and enthusiastic applause, but after they’d all left – heading down to the perfume hall to make use of the discount cards they’d been given for Lucien’s range – he didn’t seem too keen to rush off.
He was filling Polly in on the latest gossip in the perfume world – an eminent nose was leaving his role at one of the world’s leading luxury brands to work exclusively on his own line, which Estée Lauder had just bought – when his assistant came over to remind him he had a dinner booking.
‘Polly,’ he said, putting his hand gently on her upper arm, ‘would you care to join me? I would love to continue this conversation with you over dinner. It’s such a pleasure for me to talk to someone who is as passionate about chypre as I am.’
Polly hesitated. Did she want to join him? One of the leading perfumers of the world, who knew everybody in the industry and was very entertaining in his own right, not to mention as suave as only a Parisian perfumer could be? Of course she wanted to have dinner with him – but she’d agreed to meet Guy, dammit.
Lucien noticed her pause.
‘You have plans already?’ he asked.
Polly took a breath.
‘Well, I didn’t, and I would love to have dinner with you, Lucien, but I agreed to have a drink with the guy we had to throw out . . . he’s a new perfumer. I felt sorry for him. He has quite an interesting shop in the East End.’
‘And he’s trying to impress you?’
‘I think so,’ said Polly, feeling embarrassed. ‘He’s a bit of a character and I’m quite interested to know his story.’
‘Are all his fragrances so . . .’ Lucien rotated one elegant hand in the air and pursed his full lips as he sought the right word, ‘so impactful?’
Polly laughed.
‘Well, I’ve only smelled two so far, but yes, judging by the shop – which I could smell right down the street – he likes his creations to make a big impression.’
Lucien looked dubious.
‘Do you?’ he asked quietly.
‘Not normally,’ she said. ‘I adore your style, as you know, but there’s something wacky about the guy that quite intrigues me.’
‘Well, why don’t you ask him to join us?’ said Lucien.
‘Really?’ said Polly, surprised he’d consider sharing her attention with another perfumer, even one just starting out.
‘For coffee,’ he added, raising one eyebrow and smiling.
Polly laughed.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’ll text him.’
She felt mean tapping out the words. She wouldn’t normally drop someone like that after making an arrangement, but the chance of dinner with Lucien was an opportunity too special to turn down – and after what Guy had done, arriving at the event deliberately reeking of his own perfume, she felt he deserved a taste of his own medicine.
And if he wasn’t too miffed to accept, the chance even just to have coffee with the great nose would be a marvellous opportunity for him too. Any wannabe perfumer would leap at the chance to sit at a table with Lucien Lechêne. It was like offering a young musician a gig hanging out with Mick Jagger, or an aspiring tennis player a quick knockabout with Roger Federer.
But from her experience of the inflated yet fragile egos of even the average perfumer, she wondered
whether the snub of ‘just for coffee’ would be too much for him. It was his choice, she decided, and tapped ‘Send’.
Hi Guy really sorry but it seems there is a dinner organised. Lucien has suggested you join us for coffee? Polly
To her surprise, his reply came immediately.
Great. Let me know where and when. Guy
Polly had assumed that the Connolly’s PR head and Lucien’s team would be coming for dinner too, but when they got down to the shiny black car waiting outside the store everyone else seemed to melt away and it was just Lucien and Polly who slid onto the sleek leather seats.
Lucien was clearly well known at his chosen venue, Scott’s, and they were led to a table for two in an intimate corner. Polly wondered momentarily where Guy would sit when he arrived for coffee, but then put it out of her mind, relishing the faultless service, flattering lighting and starched tablecloths that came with this ultra-sophisticated end of London’s restaurant spectrum. Treats that she’d never experienced until she became involved in the perfume world.
Her social life for years had been based round lively dinners in friends’ kitchens, and big afternoon parties with everyone’s kids running around. Although once their children were old enough to be left on their own, she and David had started going out to the theatre a couple of times a month, eating beforehand at the interesting new casual places in Soho, which he seemed to prefer to bigger parties. The last couple of years she’d increasingly found herself going to those on her own.
When she first started her blog, inspired only by wanting to explore and share her lifelong fascination with perfume, she’d had no idea it would lead her into such a glamorous new world – and since her social life with David had become so quiet, it was one of the things she most loved about it.
As the waiter snapped open her napkin and laid it across her lap, offering her the menu with a slight bow, and the sommelier popped the cork on the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that Lucien had ordered, Polly sent up a little prayer of thanks. Amid the inexplicable weirdness David was inflicting upon her, the thrilling world of perfume felt like a glorious safe haven, and she didn’t know how she would have coped without the distraction.
Lucien was very entertaining company, regaling her with stories about the great names in the perfume world, which he could never have shared in public, and adding background to some of the anecdotes he’d told at the Connolly’s event, some of it so salacious Polly’s eyebrows were nearly at her hairline.
‘So, my dear FragrantCloud,’ said Lucien, after finishing an account of how one nose had bribed a lab technician to sabotage the work of a younger rival. ‘Let us raise a toast to the civilised world of international perfume.’
Polly clinked her glass against his, giggling, as the waiter appeared at their table.
‘Would you like coffee, madame?’ he asked Polly, but before she could answer, Lucien jumped in.
‘I don’t think we want coffee, do we, Polly?’ he said, his eyes glinting as he raised his wine glass again and drained it. He turned back to the waiter. ‘I think we would like to see your list for some armagnac.’
Polly felt a bit uncomfortable. She hadn’t given Guy a thought during the whole of dinner, she’d been having too good a time. But if they weren’t having coffee, how was she going to make good on her earlier offer?
Guy had behaved very badly, but she couldn’t just abandon him – he was probably sitting somewhere waiting for her text. But how could she bring it up with Lucien? Especially as he had invited her to dinner and was clearly going to be paying for it.
She found it hard to concentrate on what Lucien was saying after that, wondering if she should mention Guy – but her attention snapped back when Lucien took hold of her left hand.
‘So you are married, Miss Polly,’ he said, tracing the top of her wedding ring with his forefinger.
Polly felt very uncomfortable with the way Lucien was holding her hand, especially as his finger movement developed gradually into whole-hand stroking, his fingers creeping up towards her wrist as he smiled at her. That was awkward, but almost worse was the question about being married, because that would lead inexorably to the subject of her husband, which was to be avoided at all costs.
Slowly and, she hoped, subtly, she pulled her hand away, sitting back in her seat and touching her hair, hoping to give the impression that was why she’d moved it.
‘Yes, I’ve been married for twenty-four years,’ she said. ‘We have two children. Our daughter’s doing Medicine at Cambridge and our son has just started at uni too, he’s doing Music—’
‘So you have an empty nest,’ said Lucien, cutting her off. ‘And does your husband not mind you having dinner à deux with another man?’
Polly froze. Her husband clearly didn’t give a damn what she did, as long as he didn’t have to see her doing it. She forced her brain into overdrive, not wanting to be drawn any further into a discussion of David, trying to think of an answer that would simply close the subject down.
‘He’s away at the moment,’ she said quickly – too quickly. ‘He’s an academic and he sometimes has to go on long research trips. Sometimes I go with him, but this time I didn’t.’
‘So with your babies gone and your husband away, you are all alone,’ said Lucien. ‘You must get very lonely, in the house on your own . . .’
His hand reached out and covered hers again. Then he lifted it and brought the inside of her wrist up to his nose. She could feel his warm breath as he smelled it, his eyes closed in concentration. He’s only smelling his own perfume, Polly told herself, but then the sniffing became his lips, gently nibbling against her pulse point and starting to progress along her arm.
She panicked, snatching her hand away.
‘I really must go to the loo,’ she said, standing up and staggering slightly, a combination of the suddenness of her move, her high heels, and the champagne, wine and brandy she’d consumed in quick succession. She steadied herself, grabbed her handbag and headed determinedly towards the lobby.
Down in the ladies’ loo, she leaned her forehead against the tiled wall, feeling slightly dizzy, mildly sick and very fuzzy-minded. Part of her wanted to make a run for it, up the stairs, out of the door and into the first passing taxi, but what would she do about her coat? Lucien had the bloody cloakroom ticket; she’d noticed him pocket it. And wasn’t that an embarrassing overreaction?
He hadn’t actually lunged at her – and after all, he was French; they had different ideas about that kind of thing. If she’d been a chic Parisienne, she probably would have returned the gesture with some expert footsie action under the table, taking Lucien’s advances as nothing more than a compliment to her womanhood.
He probably didn’t mean anything more than that, Polly told herself. She was just a frumpy North London housewife who didn’t understand the ways of the sophisticated world into which she’d accidentally propelled herself by writing about perfume.
And then, on top of all that, David came marching into her head. David as he used to be, in his brown brogue boots, worn-in jeans and chunky fisherman’s jumper. Reading the Sunday papers at the kitchen table, his heavy tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose, his chin stubbly, grabbing her hand as she walked past with a big basket of laundry and pulling her onto his knee. Holding her tight and kissing her passionately there in the kitchen, until Lucas had come in and made loud retching noises.
David was such a good kisser.
Polly felt a sob escape her. The alcohol had loosened her inhibitions, and all the thoughts about David she’d worked so hard to keep locked away – all the wonderful things about him which she missed so badly – came rushing into her head.
David coming home with flowers because it was the anniversary of the day they’d met. David building tree houses for the kids, one in each tree in their small London garden. David’s strong hands wielding the hammer, his chunky watch and hairy arms. David intently absorbed in choosing the music to play while they made Sunday lunch
together. David in bed, broad shoulders and flat stomach, kept in shape at the university gym. David pressing against her, his lips nuzzling her neck as his hands explored her body.
Polly sobbed again and knew she was on the brink of a full crying jag. She couldn’t let it happen. Not in Scott’s, with Lucien Lechêne waiting for her upstairs.
She had to pull herself together. However embarrassing she might find his behaviour, she couldn’t make a scene with one of the world’s most admired noses in one of London’s chicest restaurants. Apart from the general shame, it would disastrously compromise her reputation in the rarefied milieu that was keeping her together amidst all the domestic madness.
She needed her perfume life to survive her real one. She couldn’t risk anything that might damage it.
Standing up straight, she closed her eyes and did some slow breathing until she felt more clear-headed, then checked the extent of the mascara damage in the mirror over the sink and reapplied her lip balm. She smoothed down her hair and picked up her bag.
Then, just as she was about to open the door to go back upstairs, she had an idea. She pulled out her phone and quickly tapped out a text to Guy.
We’re in Scott’s if you’re still around. Come soon! Polly x
When she got back to the table Lucien was cradling a fresh balloon of armagnac and didn’t look the slightest bit perturbed. Was he one of those men who just got off on the chase, she wondered, who didn’t really want to get it on? Or was he one of those who hit on every woman he met, in a kind of elephant-gun approach? And weren’t there some operators who got a particular thrill out of seducing married women?
Who knew? She’d heard all kinds of stories about the antics of men from her yoga girls over the years. Something about the ‘sacred space’ of the studio seemed to make people open up about such personal stuff.
Whatever was going on, she was going to make this be all right, she told herself, sitting down at the table and picking up her own glass of brandy. Hopefully Guy would show up. If not, she’d make enough conversation to move on from the previous oddness, then say she had to get home to her dog.
The Scent of You Page 11