The Scent of You

by Maggie Alderson

  ‘Oh that’s brilliant!’ said Clemmie, her face lighting up. ‘Are the kids coming too? I’d love to see Poppy so much, but she’d probably have let me know if she was going to be here.’

  ‘It’s just Lori and Rich this time,’ said Polly. ‘I can’t wait to see her.’

  She could tell by the expression on Clemmie’s face that she was already thinking about the complications.

  ‘Are you going to tell them, before they arrive?’ she asked quietly.

  Polly felt her shoulders slump.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘There’s no one – apart from you, of course – I’d rather talk to about this craziness than Lori.’

  ‘I thought you might have told her already,’ said Clemmie, butting in.

  ‘I’ve been very sorely tempted,’ said Polly, ‘but there’s the complication that Rich is in the same field as your father. You remember how he was particularly vehement about that – how we mustn’t contact the university, or let anyone know it’s anything other than a normal research trip? If I tell Lori what’s really going on, she’ll tell Rich. It’s unrealistic to think she wouldn’t. Then it will inevitably get round the academic world, which is very small as you know, and of course they’d hear about it at King’s. I can’t imagine what your father means by all that – what did he write? “It could create profound difficulties for us.” But he was so adamant I don’t want to risk it.’

  She paused for breath and had a drink of water. She knew she was rattling on, but it was such a relief to say it all out loud. Clemmie didn’t reply, so she continued.

  ‘How can I keep pretending David’s on a research trip when I don’t even know where he is – and to them, of all people? I’m not a good enough actress. And anyway, I really don’t want to lie to my best friend. So, there we are. I can’t think of anything I’d love more than a visit from Lori and now it’s become something to dread.’

  She put her fingertips on her temples and shook her head from side to side.

  Clemmie forked in some of her lunch and chewed silently for a while. It contained copious amounts of kale and looked like it would need an awful lot of masticating, Polly thought. Her own appetite had fled. She poked her food with her fork. It was a very tasty barley risotto thing, but she couldn’t face it.

  ‘When are they coming?’ asked Clemmie, after finally swallowing.

  ‘Second week in April,’ said Polly.

  Clemmie took a long drink from her water glass and looked down at her plate with something like trepidation.

  ‘Do you want my barley?’ asked Polly. ‘I had a big breakfast with Shirlee this morning and I’m really not hungry.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Clemmie, taking the offered plate and tucking in. ‘Mmm, that’s so much nicer that what I ordered. I’m coming to understand why kale was only used as cattle feed for a long time. Now where were we – you said mid-April for Lori?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Well, that gives us a deadline, doesn’t it?’ said Clemmie.

  ‘A deadline for what?’ asked Polly.

  ‘What I mean is,’ said Clemmie, ‘how long is a reasonable time to allow Dad to have this freak-out, before we actively start looking for him?’

  Polly still didn’t get it. Clemmie leaned across the table towards her.

  ‘When did he go?’ she asked. ‘20 December?’

  Polly nodded again. It wasn’t a date she was ever going to forget. And a Merry Christmas to you too.

  ‘So that’s very nearly two months,’ said Clemmie. ‘Which will make it three months on 20 March. That’s long enough.’

  ‘But he said he had six months’ research leave,’ said Polly.

  Clemmie rolled her eyes. ‘Who cares what he said? He might want to dress it up as a period of formal research leave, but he’s basically gone missing, and I think three months is long enough to indulge him. There might be something seriously wrong. So let’s give him the three months and then start asking questions at King’s, see if anyone there knows where he is.’

  ‘Despite all his dire warnings in that letter about not contacting them?’ said Polly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clemmie. ‘We can find a subtle way to do it. And if they can’t help us get in touch with him, I think we need to involve the police.’

  Polly felt her eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘The police?’ she said, stupidly. This whole conversation was making her feel as though her IQ was dribbling out of the end of her fingers.

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ said Clemmie, firmly. ‘And we can formally register him as a missing person right now. I’ve been looking at some websites about it and there are specialist organisations we could talk to that might be able to help us find out more.’

  Polly sighed. The thought of Clemmie sitting at her computer, typing the words ‘missing person’ into a search engine made her feel desperately sad.

  ‘I don’t feel ready to do that, yet,’ she said. ‘I think we should wait the three months, like you said.’

  ‘OK,’ said Clemmie. ‘We have a plan. If we haven’t heard from him properly by 20 March we will start actively looking for him, and it will give us two or three weeks to make some progress before Lori and Rich arrive.’

  ‘Er,’ said Polly, sitting up straight. ‘What do you mean by heard from him “properly”? Have we heard from him at all? Apart from that time when he wanted to sneak into the house?’

  Clemmie looked down for a moment, clearly anguished, then at her mother again. She nodded.

  ‘He’s in touch with you – and you haven’t told me?’ said Polly, hardly able to believe this was happening. ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain, Clemmie.’

  ‘He texts me once a week.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I don’t know. I always try ringing the number back straight away, but it’s always just off, no message thing.’

  ‘So what does he say in these cosy little texts?’ asked Polly, feeling the rush of anger that seemed to be a new part of her world. ‘“Having a lovely time, glad you’re not here”? God! Every time I think I’m starting to cope with this insanity, something else comes up!’

  ‘I know, Mum,’ said Clemmie, sounding desolate. ‘I didn’t know whether to tell you or not, but I have now.’

  ‘Well, here we go again,’ said Polly, throwing the piece of bread she had been playing with onto the table, ‘with this restaurant working its usual magic. Every time we come here we have an upset.’

  She stopped herself from saying anything else, closing her eyes for a moment and taking some slow, calming breaths. Don’t lose it, she told herself. Don’t do it to Clemmie – and don’t do it to yourself.

  ‘I’m not going to fall out with you, Clemmie,’ she said after a few seconds, feeling more in control. ‘I wish you’d told me about these texts, but it’s not your fault at all – it’s David’s, yet again, for singling you out for this responsibility. Just like with his sneaky house visit, it puts you in such a difficult situation. I’m just glad I know now. So tell me, what do these texts say?’

  Clemmie smiled at her, clearly very relieved.

  ‘They all say, “I’m OK, don’t worry. Dad.” That’s it.’

  ‘“Don’t worry”?’ repeated Polly, laughing bitterly. ‘That’s a cracker even by David’s current standards. But at least we know he’s still alive. I think I’m glad about that, but I can’t be sure any more.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Polly’s head was spinning from it all. But then something began to bubble up inside her. She could feel herself beginning to giggle, and once she’d started she couldn’t stop until it turned into a full-on belly laugh.

  After a moment’s puzzled surprise, Clemmie’s face broke into a grin and she joined in. Within moments they were both laughing uncontrollably, bent over the table, then throwing their heads back. The more Polly thought how crazy it was to be laughing about it, the funnier she found it.

  ‘Oh! This is ridiculous,’ she said, gasping fo
r air, ‘but it’s all so nuts, it suddenly seems hilarious.’

  They had tears streaming down their faces and people at tables nearby were looking at them curiously.

  ‘“Why are you laughing, lovely ladies?”’ said Clemmie in a fake sleazy voice. ‘Well, kind sir, you see, my dad’s a nutter and he’s run away from home and he texts me once a week to tell me he’s not dead. It’s hilarious!’

  This only set Polly off again, making her bang the table with her hand, until gradually they started to calm down, tiny snorts escaping. Polly caught the waiter’s eye and ordered two glasses of champagne.

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion,’ she said when the drinks arrived, ‘that the only way to survive this is to have a good time doing it.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Clemmie, and they clinked their glasses.

  ‘To you,’ said Polly, ‘for helping me survive this nightmare.’

  ‘To you,’ said Clemmie, ‘for being the best mum ever, who doesn’t deserve this crap.’

  After that, they were finally able to chat generally for a while, enjoying the drinks then ordering more of them, plus a portion of steamed raspberry sponge and custard with two spoons.

  ‘This kind of trauma I can deal with,’ said Clemmie, wiping her mouth on her napkin before taking another sip of champagne.

  Polly reached over and held Clemmie’s hand again, sending up a silent prayer of thanks for her wonderful daughter.

  When they’d paid the bill and were gathering up their things to leave, Polly realised she couldn’t bear the idea of parting with Clemmie again so soon.

  ‘Do you have to rush back to Cambridge right away?’ she asked, as they shrugged on their coats and started for the door.

  ‘Not immediately,’ said Clemmie. ‘Is there something you want to do?’

  ‘Well, I’m going to do an interview and take some photos for a blog post – there’s an interesting new perfumer who’s opened a shop just off Brick Lane, down the road – and as you seem to be more interested in perfume these days, I wondered if you’d like to come and do it with me. It will make a change from the inner ear, or whatever it is you’re “boning” up on at the moment.’

  She nudged Clemmie with her elbow.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Clemmie, pulling out her phone and checking the time. ‘It sounds fun – and I can torture Talitha about it. She’s being insufferable about how she’s a perfume blogger now. Let’s do it.’

  They set off, walking arm in arm, chatting as they went, enjoying the vibrant bustle, until they were standing outside Guy’s shop in Cheshire Street.

  ‘This looks sprauncy,’ said Clemmie, taking in the glossy black shop front and the window featuring a pyramid of crystal bottles, with the Baccarat chandelier visible behind them. ‘Very posh for Brick Lane.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Polly. ‘I’ve got to know the owner, we’re friends, really. He’s quite a character, but weirdly cagey about the set-up – like who’s funding all this. I’ve been trying to interview him for a blog post for weeks, before anyone else does it, but he keeps cancelling on me, so I thought I’d just ambush him today.’

  ‘So he doesn’t know you’re coming?’ asked Clemmie.

  Polly shook her head, smiling, and pushed open the shop door. The old-fashioned bell tinkled and Guy appeared immediately, swishing through the bead curtain behind the counter.

  ‘Pollissima!’ he said, sounding delighted. ‘I’m so happy to see you. I’ve nearly finished the iris scent and I want to see what you think.’

  ‘Great,’ said Polly. ‘I can add it to the blog post – because that’s why I’m here today, Guy. I won’t be put off any longer.’

  Guy’s face fell, but he quickly recovered himself and came out from behind the counter.

  ‘And who is this lovely creature you have with you, Miss Polly?’

  He took Clemmie’s hand and raised it to his lips.

  ‘Are you by any chance Polly Junior?’ he asked, still holding her hand, clasping it between both of his.

  ‘I’m Clemmie,’ she said, looking a bit flustered. She glanced at Polly and widened her eyes.

  ‘This is my wonderful daughter,’ said Polly, putting an arm around her and pulling her closer, so Guy dropped her hand. ‘Clemmie, this is Guy, who we are going to be interviewing today about his lovely shop and his wonderful perfumes.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Polly,’ said Guy, ‘leave off with the interview thing. Why don’t I make some tea and we can have a lovely natter and I’ll show you the iris? Do have a sniff around, Clemmie, I’d love to know what you think of my perfumes.’

  He set off towards the back of the shop, turning as he went.

  ‘Think of some good goss for me,’ he said as he disappeared back behind his curtain. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  Clemmie looked inquiringly at Polly.

  ‘He really doesn’t seem keen on the interview idea, does he?’ she said. ‘And does he always kiss people’s hands like that?’

  Polly laughed.

  ‘Guy’s a piece of work,’ she said, ‘but he’s great fun – and seriously talented.’

  She went over to the shelves and took down the tester for PM, sprayed some on a testing blotter and handed it to Clemmie.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘It smells like you.’

  ‘Well, I have been wearing it a lot recently,’ said Polly.

  She sprayed another blotter with The Darkest Hour.

  ‘How do you like this one?’

  Clemmie grimaced.

  ‘Yuck,’ she said, just as Guy walked back in.

  He roared with laughter.

  ‘Oh, you must tell me which one that was,’ he said. ‘I love it when I see a strong reaction, even if it is “Yuck”.’

  ‘The Darkest Hour,’ said Polly. ‘Clemmie’s a fresh, green kind of a girl. She doesn’t like strong fragrances, but she loved PM. Clemmie, tell Guy what you think PM smells like.’

  ‘It smells like Mum,’ said Clemmie.

  Guy grinned.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t pay me a higher compliment, because I created that perfume for your mother – and named it after her.’

  ‘PM,’ said Clemmie, picking up the bottle. ‘For Polly Masterson-Mackay. Cute. It should be PMM really, though.’

  ‘Clemmie’s a science brain,’ Polly explained. ‘She’s studying medicine and she doesn’t do poetic licence. Facts only, please.’

  Guy smiled and gestured for them to sit on the black velvet sofa, while he perched in his usual elevated position on the stool, pouring the tea in a long stream from the elaborate silver pot and offering around a plate of baklava.

  ‘So this is all connected to your Iranian roots, I assume,’ said Polly, taking a honey-dripping triangle from the silver platter Guy was holding. ‘When did your family move to the UK?’

  Guy said nothing, offering the platter to Clemmie, then taking a piece for himself, chewing it and following it with a sip of tea.

  ‘Did you say something, Polly?’ he said, one black eyebrow raised.

  ‘You know I did,’ said Polly.

  ‘Well, it sounded to me as though you were talking in a sort of interview-y language that I don’t speak,’ he said. ‘Can’t we just have our tea and a nice chinwag? Where are you studying, Clemmie?’

  ‘At Cambridge,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, like your grandfather,’ said Guy. ‘Although, of course, your mum went to St Andrews, with all the Yahs. They sound awful.’

  ‘So it was you!’ said Polly. ‘EastLondonNostrils, I bloody knew it, although you never fessed up.’

  Guy stuck the very end of his tongue out at her and pulled a face.

  ‘The same to you,’ said Polly, sticking her own out back at him. ‘So how come you’re allowed to know all about me and my family, which you’ve stalked off my blog, but I’m not even allowed to ask you one question about yours?’

  ‘Well, you’ve just answered that yourself,’ said Guy. ‘All your pe
rsonal info is sitting where you’ve chosen to put it, out into the blogosphere for the great wide world to read – and very interesting it is too, for fellow perfume nuts like me. But you will notice that I don’t have a blog, or even a Facebook page. I’m not on Twitter, Instagram or Snapchat. I’m just not into that public persona thing. I would love it if you would do a blog post about my perfumes and the shop – but not about me.’

  ‘But your perfumes are part of you,’ said Polly. ‘People will want to know who created these wonderful scents. It’s part of the experience.’

  ‘Why?’ said Guy. ‘It never used to be. Women have been buying Chanel No. 5 since 1921 but only recently has it become widely known that it was created by a bloke called Ernest Beaux. Everyone thought designers like Coco Chanel and Christian Dior made their perfumes themselves. They didn’t know about noses; perhaps they imagined the designers mixing them up in old jam jars in their ateliers, between fittings. Some people probably still believe David Beckham and Kim Kardashian make their own perfumes when all they do is sign the contract, choose one of five samples and bank the money. All the smell work is done by a wonk in a lab. It’s a new thing for the perfumers themselves to be known.’

  ‘So don’t you need to be at the vanguard of that?’ asked Polly.

  ‘I don’t want to be some kind of pseudo-celebrity like that pompous git Lucien Lechêne, I just want to make smells so beautiful they make people sigh and then sell a shitload of them.’

  Polly laughed.

  ‘Lucien is a bit of an arse,’ she said, ‘but he’s a very successful arse.’

  ‘Well, I want to try to achieve that success on the strength of my perfume alone. I aspire to be Jacques Guerlain – not Tom Ford. I’m not going to have my flat in magazines, or be photographed next to my bottles. When every semi-celebrity on earth has their own fragrance – Star Wars characters have perfumes now, for God’s sake – I think it’s really tacky to put your face to a scent. I’m going to go incognito.’

  ‘Perhaps you should get a wig with a fringe to cover your entire face, like Sia,’ said Clemmie. ‘And ask an eleven-year-old to act as your persona.’