The Scent of You

by Maggie Alderson

  The only thing she could cling on to was that she hadn’t gone any further with him that night, or the other time at his cottage. That was the one shred of dignity she had left.

  Her phone pinged again and a glance told her it was from Shirlee – yet again – asking what ‘flavor’ of doughnut she wanted, because it was a ‘Krispy Kreme emergency moment’ and she was stopping off on her way. The doughnut shop was just around the corner from the house.

  Polly jumped out of the car and dashed into the house, calling for Digger and grabbing his lead off the hook. He came running into the hallway and she ushered him straight out the front door and into the car, gunning the engine and racing off.

  Waiting to turn onto the main road at the bottom of her street, she glanced in her mirror and saw Shirlee’s yellow car pulling up outside her house.

  That was close. Too close. Polly just hoped Shirlee wouldn’t look down the street and recognise her car. A gap appeared in the traffic and she turned into it with relief.

  She’d got as far as the big Archway junction when she wondered where the hell she was actually going. Her normal response to a situation like this would have been to head north to her mum, but that no longer felt like a safe haven. What if Chum decided to do the same and visit Bill?

  And after what Daphne had said the last time Polly had seen her – ‘Well done, darling. Go get him’ – she’d want to know all about how things were progressing with Chum. She certainly wouldn’t want to hear about David’s mental illness and how Polly was going to bring him home and look after him. Daphne had revealed her true feelings about David and it was going to be difficult to come back from that.

  The lights changed, and as she was in the lane to turn right, down Holloway Road, that’s what she did. Her phone went off yet again: no doubt Shirlee wanting to know how she’d like her tea. She felt like throwing the damn thing out of the car window, but what she wanted to do more than anything was to ring the kids. They needed to know what Maxine had told her.

  She turned off into the next side street and pulled over. The last call had been from Clemmie. Polly didn’t bother to listen to the voice mail, just hit ‘Dial’, and Clemmie answered immediately.

  ‘Oh Mum, thank God,’ she said. ‘Are you all right? Where are you? Shirlee says you’ve gone missing. Are you going up to Granny’s? That’s what I thought you’d be doing—’

  ‘Forget about Shirlee,’ said Polly, with a cold calmness that surprised her. ‘This is nothing to do with her, and the reason I’m not at home is that she’s there and I need to talk to you and Lucas privately about what Maxine’s told me. I don’t need a nosy parker poking around in our family business. If Shirlee rings you again, please don’t talk to her.’

  ‘OK, sure,’ said Clemmie. ‘But please just tell me about Dad.’

  ‘Well, to cut to the chase,’ said Polly. ‘He’s got a severe form of OCD with extreme intrusive thoughts.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Clemmie, sounding truly shocked. ‘I know what that is. We covered OCD last year. That’s an awful condition. What are his main triggers, did she tell you?’

  Polly took a deep breath, but she couldn’t bear to say it.

  ‘Is it to do with children?’ asked Clemmie quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly.

  ‘Poor Dad,’ said Clemmie, her voice breaking. ‘What a living hell.’

  ‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘But why couldn’t he tell us, Clemmie? He didn’t need to suffer alone like this.’

  She wanted to say he’d been seeing Maxine for over a year at least, but then she’d have to explain why she didn’t make the connection – and she couldn’t bear to tell Clemmie the thing about how David had called his children Susan and John. Not yet. That would be too hurtful.

  ‘It’s all part of the condition, Mummy,’ said Clemmie. ‘The shame they have to live with is almost worse than the thoughts.’

  ‘That’s what Maxine said.’

  ‘I’m going to come home, Mummy,’ said Clemmie. ‘I need to be with you. Have you rung Lucas yet?’

  ‘No, I’m going to ring him now, but I can’t go home today, Clems. I can’t deal with Shirlee butting in – and I don’t want to be reminded of your dad’s suffering everywhere I look.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Clemmie. ‘Do you know where you’re going to go?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Polly, ‘but I’ll ring you when I’m settled somewhere.

  ‘OK, you do that, and I’ll get straight on the train to London and find you when I get there.’

  Polly rang off and let out a deep sigh. One down, one to go. She tapped Lucas’s number.

  ‘Muuuuuuum,’ he said, answering after half a ring. ‘Tell me . . .’

  ‘Hi, Lukie,’ said Polly. ‘Well, it’s good news and bad news.’

  ‘Tell me the good first and that will give me strength to take the bad,’ said Lucas.

  ‘The good news,’ said Polly, ‘is that it’s not about us – it’s about him. The bad news is he’s got a really horrible mental illness, which makes him have constant intrusive thoughts – urges to do things he really doesn’t want to do and would never do in a million years, but his brain keeps making him think them.’

  Lucas said nothing.

  ‘It’s like when you get an ear worm after listening to a rubbish song,’ added Polly.

  ‘What kind of things does his brain think?’ asked Lucas quietly, with a frightened tone in his voice.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Can you come up? Clemmie’s going to.’

  ‘Of course – but how bad are we talking?’

  ‘Horrible enough to make him do what he’s done – run away from us,’ said Polly. She’d said it to Clemmie, but she just couldn’t bear to tell Lucas over the phone. ‘He’s really trying to run away from himself.’

  ‘I’ll get the train right away,’ said Lucas.

  ‘Give me a couple of hours, and don’t come to the house,’ said Polly. ‘I can’t stand being there today, so I’m going somewhere neutral, I’m not sure where yet – I’ll text you as soon as I’ve found somewhere to be. And one other thing: if Shirlee calls you, please ignore it. She’s being a royal pain in the arse.’

  After she rang off, Polly sat for a moment looking at the residential London street, not that different from the one where she lived. What secrets and strange situations were lurking in all these houses? she wondered.

  She wished she could just walk into one of them, get into a strange bed and pull the covers over her head. And possibly never get up again, it was all too hard. But she couldn’t do that, so where was she going to go? A hotel?

  She flipped down the sun shade to check her reflection in the mirror, to see if she looked as bad as she felt.

  As she put her hand up to smooth her hair, she caught a trace of the perfume she’d sprayed on her wrists that morning. She’d chosen PM for strength. And then it struck her who she could ask to give her sanctuary on this strangest of days, who wouldn’t judge, or offer intrusive advice . . .

  Guy.

  There were three customers in the Great Eastern Fragrance Company when Polly opened the door – the most she’d ever seen in there at once – and judging by their clothes, hair and handbags, they weren’t the usual Shoreditch shoppers. Guy was in full charismatic mode, fussing around them with glasses of mint tea – Polly wondered if they were getting the Iranian grandmother story – and looking very sleek in a charcoal-grey raw-silk suit and a crisp dark-green shirt.

  He smiled when he saw Polly in the doorway, but it was more guarded than his usual greeting. That was a relief, as she’d been worried for a moment that he might launch into a big introduction of her as a perfume blogger. Instead he raised his forefinger to indicate he’d be with her in a moment.

  Polly stepped back outside and waited by the door, not sure if Guy would mind having Digger in the shop. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, getting lost in identifying the
delicious smells she could pick up through the door.

  The overpowering oriental oud that had first led her there was tempered now by a much more varied and subtle fragrance palette. She could pick up strong threads of the most classic florals, rose, lily of the valley, magnolia, which Guy would have turned his nose up at before, alongside the more Mediterranean jasmine and neroli, with the warm notes of sandalwood and tonka, balanced by the bite of citrus.

  She was snapped back to reality by Guy’s voice.

  ‘Hey, Pollster,’ he was saying. ‘Why are you standing out here?’

  Polly opened her eyes to see him looking at her round the edge of the door with a concerned expression, and pointed down at Digger, who stood up and wagged his tail in greeting.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Guy. ‘Thoughtful of you. But tell me, honeybun, are you OK?

  ‘Did Shirlee ring you, by any chance?’ said Polly.

  Guy nodded. ‘She wanted to know if I knew where you were. I didn’t then. She said you needed help. What’s happening?’

  ‘Please don’t tell her if she rings again,’ said Polly, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I need a break from Shirlee.’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Guy, then looked over his shoulder as one of the customers asked him a question in an American accent.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said to her, then turned back to Polly.

  ‘Look, Poll,’ he said, ‘I need to look after these ladies, but can I help you with whatever’s going on?’

  ‘I need a place to be for the afternoon,’ she said. ‘I can’t go home, Shirlee’s staking it out. I’ve had a horrible shock.’

  She could feel tears rising up and tried to hold them back.

  ‘Hey, sweetie,’ said Guy, very tenderly, putting his arms round her. ‘Don’t cry and don’t worry.’

  He paused for a moment, seeming to consider his options.

  ‘You can stay here as long as you need to. Why don’t you and Digger go upstairs and chill out? Make yourself some tea – or a drink, whatever you need. I’ll come up as soon as I can.’

  She hugged him quickly, pecking him on the cheek, and followed him into the shop, then kept walking through the bead curtain and up the stairs.

  She headed immediately to one of two big inviting sofas, kicked off her shoes and threw herself down, allowing a long breath to stream out out as she looked around. It felt so good to be somewhere completely detached from the rest of her life. Especially as it was so elegant, humming with discreet luxury.

  The whole first floor of the building had been knocked through – which she wasn’t sure could be legal in a house that old – to create one big space, with two marble fireplaces, and a kitchen area off to one side. The rest of the room was furnished with great sophistication, featuring low tables and cabinets of highly polished wood, beautiful lamps and big vases of flowers. The floor was parquet, with large rugs in strategic places, and there was a magnificent 1960s brass chandelier overhead.

  But what really jumped out at Polly were the framed vintage fashion photographs covering most of the walls, many of which she recognised as iconic images from the 1950s and early ’60s. She scanned the nearest ones to see if she could spot Daphne and, sure enough, alongside Barbara Goalen and Dovima, were all the most iconic shots of her mother, most of them by Mark Shaw, with some John French and a couple of Cecil Beatons.

  Lying back down again, she checked the time, desperately wanting to message Clemmie and Lucas to tell them come and meet her there, but didn’t feel she could until she’d asked Guy. She wished he’d hurry up.

  Feeling a bit chilly, she unfolded a cashmere throw that was over the back of the sofa and arranged it over herself. Then, despite all the jangling thoughts, her eyes closed and she allowed herself to float away for some blessed respite from the clamour in her head.

  She was woken – she had no idea how much later – by a great commotion.

  ‘Polly! Polly! Polly! Polly!’ Guy was shouting, as he ran up the stairs and into the living space. He’d taken his suit jacket off and was twirling it round his head like a flag. ‘Polly! Polly! Such news—’

  He came to an abrupt halt when he saw her tucked up on the sofa, and laughed.

  ‘Who’s been sleeping on my sofa?’ he said. ‘Wake up, sleepy head, we have to celebrate.’

  Polly blinked at him, still coming to. She’d never felt less like celebrating in her life, but Guy’s enthusiasm was as infectious as ever and she sat up.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Guy put out his hand to help her to her feet, then clasped her in a ballroom hold and waltzed her over to the kitchen. Polly stumbled along as best she could and Digger ran alongside, barking enthusiastically.

  ‘We must have champagne,’ said Guy, letting go of her and throwing open one of the kitchen cabinets to reveal a fridge full of wine.

  ‘Now, which one?’ he said, peering in and rubbing his hands together, before pulling out a bottle.

  He popped the cork, filled two flutes and handed one to Polly. She took it, hoping her lack of enthusiasm wasn’t too obvious. It was early afternoon; the sun was nowhere near the yardarm. Just that morning she’d had a terrible shock, followed by the realisation that she had to end the teen fantasy romance she’d been indulging in, which had forced her to be horrible to someone who really didn’t deserve it . . . and she still had to talk it through properly with her children. She really wasn’t in a party mood.

  Despite all that, Polly did her best to put on an appreciative expression and held her glass up for a toast. She’d take a few sips and hope Guy didn’t notice if she only pretended to drink the rest of it.

  ‘To the Great Eastern Fragrance Company,’ he said, ‘which will soon be stocked exclusively in the USA by Bergdorf Goodman, New York!’

  ‘Wow,’ said Polly, understanding why he was so excited now. ‘Is that who those women were?’

  Guy nodded and took a deep drink from his glass. Polly pretended to do the same, sipping as little as she could.

  ‘Yep,’ said Guy. ‘They’re in London on a buying trip and came to the shop after a tip-off from one of their scouts – who’d read about it on your blog and came for a look incognito. So I owe you and your FragrantCloud big-time, Miss Poll.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Polly. ‘How lovely. But I’m sure they would have found out about you eventually. You’re too good to go unnoticed, Guy.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ he said, picking up the bottle and heading towards the sofas. ‘Let’s go and get comfortable. How do you like my little place?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Polly, taking the opportunity to tip half her champagne down the sink while his back was turned, then catching up with him.

  ‘Let us lounge,’ he said, settling on a sofa.

  ‘What about the shop?’ asked Polly, sitting down, with her feet tucked underneath her, reclaiming her sofa as he suggested.

  ‘I’ve declared a national holiday,’ said Guy. ‘I need to take a moment to celebrate this great leap forward for my little business – and I also want to pay some attention to you. From what Shirlee told me, things have come to something of a head for you today.’

  ‘What exactly did she tell you?’ asked Polly.

  ‘She said you’d been to see Maxine to find out what’s been going on with your husband all this time, and that she hadn’t been able to get hold of you since. And that she’d spoken to your friend Edward and he’s really worried about you too. Also that the kids don’t know where you are . . .’

  ‘God, she’s the limit,’ said Polly, reaching down and grabbing her phone out of her bag. ‘I’m just going to check the BBC website, because presumably everything about my personal life will be on there by now. She’s probably instructing some skywriters as we speak.’

  Guy roared with laughter.

  ‘Oh, Poll doll,’ he said. ‘I can see why you feel invaded, but it’s only because she cares about you so much.’

  ‘I appreciate her caring – Shirlee is a wonde
rful friend – but she needs to understand boundaries,’ said Polly. ‘She doesn’t have a right to meddle in my private life to this degree, especially with the kids.’

  And with Chum, she thought.

  ‘She rang them before I could, Guy, that’s just wrong and the thing is I really need to see them today, to talk it all through, but I can’t bear to go back to the house, because she has keys and I saw her car pull up outside it. She’s probably still there, waiting to interrogate me.’

  ‘Bring them here,’ said Guy.

  ‘Can I?’ said Polly.

  ‘Of course,’ said Guy. ‘And you’ll have the place to yourselves, because I’m going out tonight – all night . . .’

  Polly was so happy she jumped up and gave him a hug, then picked up her phone to text Clemmie and Lucas.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, the messages sent. ‘You’re a true friend.’

  ‘But there’s something I should probably warn you about, before you go upstairs,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye, Polly hadn’t seen before.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There’s some quite, shall we say, “interesting” art in my bedrooms,’ he said.

  Polly put her head on one side, inquiringly.

  ‘It pertains to the great mysterious riddle of my sexuality,’ said Guy, toasting her with his glass and draining it. ‘The thing Shirlee is always trying to find out about me.’

  ‘So what are you?’ said Polly.

  ‘Well, you could call me bisexual,’ said Guy, refilling his glass. ‘I’m not going to offer you any more champers, I can see you’re not drinking it.’

  ‘So you like men and women?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Guy, sitting back down again. ‘But at the same time. Together. That’s my bag. I don’t talk about it to people, because it doesn’t fit into a box that they can slap a name on, but I only really enjoy sex if I have it with a man and a woman at the same time – or a man and two women, five men and three women, any combination as long as it’s mixed and multiple. That’s my thing, it works for me and I don’t need to tell anyone about it. People are always trying to find out if I’m gay or straight – sometimes they decide I’m “asexual”, but I’m not. I’m multisexual.’