‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But you’ll do whatever you want anyway, so it doesn’t really matter what I say, does it?’
‘Do you mind if I hang around for a few more minutes now?’ he added. ‘I’ve got something to ask you.’
‘Fine,’ said Polly, ‘I’ll put the kettle on again.’
Shirlee left and Polly was glad to be fussing about making cafetière coffee for Guy and hot water for herself. She was trying to keep her English Breakfast habit to one a day, to help with her sleeping, which was increasingly fitful.
‘Are you still mad at me?’ asked Guy.
‘No,’ said Polly, ‘I’m getting used to you, but please don’t play any more of these childish tricks on me, Guy. I know you think it’s hilarious, but I find it enervating. A lot of the point of the yoga and meditation I do is to find a place of calm in my life, and your pranks don’t help with that. I suppose I’m just not a great fan of surprises.’
And I’ve had way too many of them recently, she thought. Perhaps if he had any idea what was going on in her life he wouldn’t spring these things on her, but she certainly wasn’t game to tell him.
‘I’ll try to rein myself in,’ he said, ‘but life’s so boring. I like to keep it interesting.’
‘You and Shirlee are soul mates,’ said Polly. ‘It’s her life’s work to make everything fun and interesting. She considers it her human obligation to make standing at a bus stop a life event.’
‘Goals . . .’ said Guy, pushing the plunger down on the coffee pot.
‘Sorry I don’t have a hookah for you,’ said Polly.
‘Oh, I’m over all that,’ said Guy.
Polly looked at him, puzzled.
‘I thought it was part of your Iranian identity,’ she said, ‘smoking your grandfather’s hubba bubba.’
‘I made all that up,’ he said, pouring coffee into a mug and stirring in two spoonfuls of sugar.
‘It wasn’t your grandfather’s pipe thing?’
Guy shook his head. ‘I bought it in Edgware Road,’ he said, grinning at her.
Polly dropped her head into her hands.
‘Here we go again,’ she said. ‘Was any of it true? The grandmother with the roasted preserved lemons . . .?’
‘No,’ said Guy. ‘I made all that up. I thought it enhanced the Great Eastern Fragrance Company if I had a real oriental connection, but now – thanks to your brilliant insights – I’m moving away from that and getting into more sophisticated styles of perfume, so I’ve dropped it.’
Polly couldn’t think of anything to say. She was certainly glad she hadn’t put all that in her blog piece and posted it.
‘Is that why you’ve been so cagey about the blog thing?’ she asked.
Guy nodded. ‘Yeah, I knew I was moving on from that angle and I didn’t want to make you look bad.’
‘Well, thank you,’ said Polly. ‘At least I understand what that was all about now. It did seem a bit peculiar. So can we do the interview now, with your real story?’
‘Not really,’ said Guy, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
‘Why not?’
‘I haven’t decided what it is yet,’ he said.
Polly just shook her head.
‘You’re a one-off, Guy Webber,’ she said eventually, ‘if that is even your name. It could be Harry Potter, for all I know. You do my head in, but I’m just going to go ahead and run my piece about the shop and your perfumes, without any background – in fact, I’m going to make your mystery part of the story – because while you drive me mad with all your posturing and silly games, your perfumes are simply brilliant and I can’t ignore them any longer. I want my readers to know about what you do – even if I’ve got nothing to tell them about the person behind it all.’
‘Great,’ said Guy, ‘that’s exactly what I’d love you to do.’
‘OK,’ said Polly, ‘we have a deal.’
‘There’s one more thing I want to ask you about,’ said Guy.
‘Fire away,’ said Polly.
‘I’m going to do an ad campaign – print and online, beautiful black-and-white pictures – and I want your mum to model for it. She’s got exactly the iconic sophistication I want to confer on the brand, so that people will associate it with the heritage houses, even though it’s actually newly minted.’
‘She’d love that,’ said Polly, with genuine enthusiasm. ‘There’s nothing Mummy enjoys more than getting in front of the camera, and she’s still really good at it. Did you see the Céline campaign she did a couple years ago?’
Guy nodded enthusiastically.
‘I loved it. I’ve always loved her work. I’ve got an original print of one of Cecil Beaton’s Vogue pictures of her.’
‘Oh that’s nice,’ said Polly. ‘Did you have that before we met?’
‘Yes,’ said Guy. ‘I bought it a while ago at auction. I’ve collected old copies of Vogue since I was about eleven. My mum – and this is true, I’m not making this up now – used to buy it every month and I loved looking at them and that made me really interested in magazines. Then one summer holiday I found some old copies in the attic and realised I liked them even more than the new ones. I had to have the floor in my drawing room reinforced last year to take the weight of my collection. You know how heavy magazines are.’
His drawing room? thought Polly. Reinforced? She’d never been into Guy’s flat over the shop, but now she really wanted to get up there – to see if any of this was true, apart from anything. She wasn’t going to take anything he said at face value now.
‘And going through all the old magazines,’ he continued, ‘I got really fascinated spotting the models who kept appearing in different issues – and your mum was always my favourite. So when I looked at your blog and read that you were Daphne Masterson’s daughter I was really keen to meet you. You can imagine how excited I was when you came into the shop – my favourite perfume blogger, also the daughter of my favourite model.’
‘Well, it’s always nice when someone knows who she is,’ said Polly, quite briskly.
Was this nice, or was it creepy? She wasn’t sure, but she did know Daphne would be thrilled to get another ad campaign, especially for a luxurious niche perfume brand.
‘I’ll give you her agent’s number.’
‘Can’t I just arrange it through you?’ asked Guy.
‘No,’ said Polly, firmly. ‘She has an agent and all bookings go through him. I’ll go and get his number for you.’
She got up from the table and walked through to her study. She actually knew the number by heart and there was a pad of scrap paper in the kitchen, but she wanted a moment to think.
Did she want Guy to meet her mother? Hadn’t he already intruded on her life slightly too much?
He was in regular touch with Clemmie now, sending her samples of his perfumes to give to her friends and then getting feedback on how they were received. He’d even offered to pay her a commission on any online sales he made as a direct result of her introductions. And Clemmie had asked Polly a couple of times when they were all going to go out together to some fun at a glamorous event.
So, thought Polly, he’d infiltrated himself into her blog life and her yoga scene, he’d met Shirlee, as well as already being matey-matey with Clemmie – and now he wanted to work with her mother. Was it too much?
She pondered for a moment, tapping a pencil against her lip, and decided she couldn’t see what harm it could do. Doing the campaign – and being worshipped by somebody who would thrill to all the stories Polly had heard a million times – would make Daphne so happy it would be mean to turn the opportunity down. She scribbled the agent’s name and number down and took them back to Guy.
‘Thanks so much, Polly,’ he said, carefully tucking the piece of paper away. ‘I’ll ring him as soon as I get back to the shop. But I wonder if I should also meet your mum before we do the shoot. Then she’ll be more relaxed with me – and I won’t be all shy and star-struck with her.’
Polly d
idn’t reply immediately, pretending to do something to the cafetière and considering what he’d said.
‘That’s a great idea actually,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s nothing she likes more than talking about her glory days – and she adores perfume as well. She’s still got some of the bottles the great designers gave her when their perfumes were first launched – they’re empty now, but it’s pretty amazing to know that Christian Dior himself gave her that particular flacon of Miss Dior.’
Guy’s face was rapt with interest.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I read about that on your blog. It’s so amazing to think that she actually knew them all.’
‘And there’s speculation – and I got this from some research I was doing, not from her – that she was the inspiration for Jean-François Volant’s 1955 perfume La Cygne.’
‘Of course!’ said Guy, sitting up straight with his mouth open. ‘Her legendary swan neck. Wasn’t La Cygne her nickname?’
Polly nodded.
‘How amazing,’ said Guy. ‘Oooh, I’m so excited about meeting her I could pass out. When can we do it?’
‘Whenever you can take a day away from the shop and I don’t have anything on. We’ll go up to where she lives and have lunch. It’s just under an hour from here. She can be a bit dotty at times, just to warn you, but she’s mostly OK, as long as she’s been eating and drinking enough, and I’m sure the prospect of meeting someone who admires her work will perk her up no end.’
‘Oh, I know she’ll be just wonderful,’ said Guy, then he stood up, pulled Polly to her feet and whisked her round the kitchen in a polka.
‘I’m going to meet, Da-a-aphne,’ he sang, in time to their steps. ‘I’m going to meet a le-e-gend . . .’
Polly had to laugh. Guy drove her nuts, but she couldn’t help loving his company. Like Shirlee, he seemed to make the sun come out – and she had to take her fun wherever she could find it.
Monday, 14 March
As she pulled up at Rockham Park, Polly wondered how her mother would receive Guy. Would she be waiting on the sofa in reception in full regalia, possibly a fur, legs entwined, one elegant hand extended out, the other on her hip?
Or perhaps she would throw open the apartment door, in profile, head back laughing, for maximum amazing neck impact.
‘This is swanky,’ said Guy, as Polly pushed the entrance buzzer and they were admitted by the receptionist. ‘Is it a hotel?’
‘This is the new age of assisted living for the well-derly.’
Guy raised an eyebrow.
‘Well-off, pretty fit and elderly,’ explained Polly. ‘It’s like a hotel: there’s a dining room, a bar and a café, a pool and a hairdresser, but they all have apartments, with a front door and a letterbox. Mummy won’t let me call it a flat. It’s an apartment.’
Guy chuckled. ‘I love her already.’
The receptionist told them Miss Masterson was waiting for them in the library, and Polly led the way, curious to see what tableau her mother would have created for herself in there.
They walked in to see her standing with her back to them at a three-quarters angle, looking out of the floor-length window, her slender frame perfectly outlined against the light in an immaculately cut little black dress, her hips forward, feet – in her favourite heels – in fourth position, holding a champagne flute in one hand, the fingers of the other resting lightly on its base. Her head was turned fully towards the view, extending the famous neck.
Guy gasped. It was a perfect rendition of an iconic shot Mark Shaw had done of her for LIFE magazine in 1958.
‘The Crillon session,’ he said under his breath, in awed tones.
It was all Polly could do not to laugh. Daphne had a print of that very photograph in her flat/apartment. Polly had known it all her life and this wasn’t the first time she’d seen her mother re-create it. God, she was funny.
Hearing Guy’s exclamation, Daphne turned – impossibly slowly – towards them, breaking into a delighted smile, as if surprised to see them there. Guy rushed over and took her right hand in his, bringing it to his lips, as he had Clemmie’s, except this time he also bent his right knee.
Polly stood back and watched the show. A pair of posturing peacocks together.
‘Miss Masterson,’ he said, breathily, ‘I’m so very honoured to meet you.’
‘Oh, do call me Daphne, darling,’ she said.
‘Guy Webber,’ said Guy, kissing her hand again before letting go of it.
Polly saw her mother’s eyes giving Guy the once-over, warm with approval. He was looking particularly sleek, in one of his immaculate bespoke suits. This one was a dark navy, lined with bright orange silk, and he was wearing it with a crisp white shirt, no tie, but a burgundy and white polka-dot silk square in his breast pocket. He had a cashmere muffler, in a slightly darker orange than the suit lining, draped around his neck.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ said Polly, bringing up the rear and kissing her mother’s delicately proffered cheek. Daphne’s sculpted face looked even more beautiful than usual. She must have been getting ready for days.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Daphne. ‘Would you like a drink before lunch? I’m just having a little coupe. Let’s ring for a bottle.’
Polly had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the thought of ringing for drinks, and headed for the bar. She could imagine that someone probably had come and brought that glass of champagne to her mother. Dazzled by her glamour – or perhaps just too kind to let an old lady down – the staff at Rockham Park did indulge Daphne.
When Polly came back with the drinks, Daphne and Guy were roaring with laughter. They hardly seemed to notice she was there, they were so engrossed in discussing what it had been like to work with Mark Shaw.
‘Oh, he was heaven,’ said Daphne. ‘I adored Mark. When he took your picture it was as though there was no camera in the room, you were just having a private moment with him. He was so young, when a lot of the photographers then were so much older than I was – of course I loved Cecil Beaton too, but he was an Edwardian, really, and even Parkie – you know, Norman – was twenty years older than me. And with Mark being an American, he had that lovely easy manner. It was so sad how he died so young.’
‘He was only forty, wasn’t he?’ said Guy.
Daphne nodded, taking a delicate sip from her champagne flute.
‘I have some of his pictures in the apartment,’ she said. ‘Original prints. You must come up after lunch and see them.’
‘I would love that,’ said Guy. ‘I collect Mark Shaw’s photographs myself . . .’
They carried on like this, apparently oblivious to Polly’s presence, and she resigned herself to a lunch spent mostly with her own thoughts. But she couldn’t resent it, as they were both clearly having a wonderful time.
Checking her phone to see if there was anything she could look at on Instagram to pass the time, Polly noticed it was already ten past one.
‘We need to go through to the dining room,’ she said. ‘They’ll be wondering where we are.’
Guy helped Daphne up and put out his arm for her, and they set off in state for the dining room, with Polly following on behind as usual.
As they entered the room – which was full, except for Daphne’s table in her special corner – everyone turned to look at her on the arm of the striking-looking man, with a thick black beard, in a beautiful suit, hair slicked back like a matinée idol. Polly felt like the village idiot, trailing in their wake wearing jeans and a sweater. She hadn’t thought to dress up.
She was so mortified at the way everyone was staring at them that she didn’t notice until she was right alongside the table that Chum was sitting with Bill.
It wasn’t a Friday, when he always had lunch with Bill, so it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be there. Oh, why hadn’t she checked beforehand when she made this arrangement? It didn’t matter, she told herself, but somehow she felt embarrassed to see Chum when she had Guy there. Two worlds colliding.
&nb
sp; ‘Hippolyta!’ said Chum, sounding delighted to see her. He got to his feet and she went over to kiss him and then Bill, horribly aware her cheeks were burning. It was all too confusing.
‘How lovely to see you both,’ she said. ‘I’d better keep up with Mummy, she’s with my, er, friend.’
‘Perhaps we’ll see you in the coffee room afterwards,’ said Bill.
‘That would be great,’ said Polly.
‘Artie’s in there already,’ said Chum. ‘Is Digger with you?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, ‘but luckily he’s in the car this time.’
‘Perhaps they can have a bit of a run around together after lunch,’ said Chum. ‘Outside, I mean, not in here again. If you can . . .’
He glanced at Guy, who Daphne was introducing to some of her friends at a nearby table. He was kissing their hands. Polly cringed.
‘Yes,’ said Polly, ‘that would be great. That’s my friend Guy. He’s come to see Mummy.’
She felt like she had to explain him somehow.
‘Well, he’s certainly not dressed for dog walking,’ said Chum.
Polly smiled at them both and then turned away to catch up with Guy and Daphne, only to see they had stopped for more introductions.
‘Guy has very kindly invited me to model in his new advertising campaign,’ she could hear her mother saying. ‘He’s a very distinguished parfumeur . . .’
She wondered how the other women at Rockham Park put up with her. It was a miracle they hadn’t poisoned her lunch.
‘I think we need to get to the table, Mummy,’ she said, touching her gently on the arm.
Then she caught Guy’s eye and spoke to him in a low voice. ‘They get thingy if you’re late. It’s not a proper restaurant, it’s a lunch service.’
He nodded and steered Daphne on at a brisker pace, preventing her from making any more introductions. She made do with nodding from side to side, like the queen she was.
‘We can go through to the coffee lounge after lunch,’ said Polly, ‘and you can introduce Guy to everyone else then.’
The meal progressed just as Polly had expected, with Guy and her mother locked in conversation about photographers and fashion designers and Paris in the 1950s, then a long discussion about perfume, which at least Polly could make some contribution to, before Guy finally got onto talking about the shoot.
The Scent of You Page 25