‘Custom?’ I repeat curiously.
‘Sometimes a customer will want an individual scent that is unique, that no one else has—’
‘And you make them here?’
‘We have been creating perfume here for three generations,’ he says proudly, ‘I learned the ancient craft from my father, and he from his father. There is a magical alchemy to producing a fragrance, it’s not simply about layering notes and ingredients, it goes much deeper—’ he breaks, off and taps the side of his nose, ‘and of course you must train your senses to distinguish between the different scents with the most heightened accuracy.’
As he’s talking, I suddenly remember I dabbed some on my wrist last night when I was at the apartment. I wonder—
‘Would you be able to recognise any scent?’ I challenge, holding out my wrist.
The old man looks at me curiously, then a smile spreads on his face. ‘The pulse point will warm the perfume and release fragrance continuously . . .’ He bends closer, his large nose pressed up against my skin as he inhales. ‘It’s very faded, the top notes have long disappeared, but there is a musk and an orange blossom—’ He breaks off and gazes at me. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘It was bought from here for someone seventy years ago.’
He looks both impressed and proud. ‘Then we are better parfumiers than even I thought, for the scent to have endured for so many years.’
‘Yes, it was in the same blue bottle as the one in the window.’
‘In that case, we will have a record,’ he says confidently.
‘You will?’ I feel a beat of sudden excitement as he goes to a drawer and pulls out an ancient, leather-bound ledger, which he lays out on the countertop. He opens it to a page filled with tiny handwriting and, peering so closely his nose almost touches the page, he scrolls down with his forefinger. ‘Do you know which year exactly?’
‘1939 I think. Before the war.’ I feel my heartbeat quicken as I speak.
‘And what name?’
‘It was a gift for an Emmanuelle Renoir.’
I can’t believe it, I’m going to find out Henry’s identity!
‘No, the name of the customer please. A monsieur . . . ?’
Abruptly my excitement disintegrates. ‘His first name was Henry, I’m afraid that’s all I know,’ I say, feeling a wave of disappointment.
He glances up from the ledger and, seeing my expression, smiles kindly.
‘Ah, but that is not true, we have the scent, we know there was musk, and orange blossom and . . .’ He grabs my wrist again and inhales deeply. ‘I can’t quite tell, there is something elusive . . . some fragrance—’
We’re interrupted by the faint chime of the bell as someone enters and I suddenly realise the shop’s got quite busy. In fact there’s an assistant serving another customer. Gosh, I hadn’t even noticed, I’ve been so absorbed.
‘If you leave me your telephone number I will call you if I discover anything. Don’t be disheartened. Remember the mystery of a scent is all about removing the layers.’
Smiling gratefully, I take a pen and scribble down my number on his card.
‘Thank you,’ I say, passing it to him.
He nods kindly and, slipping it into the pocket of his apron, turns back to the line of customers that has now gathered behind me. Including a very tall man with his back to me who must be at least six foot seven. Wow, he’s almost a giant, I think, trying to scoot around him, but he’s blocking my path, talking to a sales assistant. I can’t help but overhear their conversation as she says something to him in French.
‘I’m sorry, do you speak English? I’m afraid my French is a little rusty.’
I smile to myself. At least I’m not the only one. My attention caught, I glance at him as I squeeze past and feel a jolt of recognition. It’s WineNot. I mean, Rupert. I recognise him from his photograph.
No, not that photograph.
Reminded, I give a little shudder. No, I’m talking about his black and white headshot. I peer at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s gained a bit of weight since it was taken, and I have a feeling those skydiving photos are more than a couple of years old, but it’s definitely him.
I watch him curiously. What’s he doing buying perfume?
Loitering in the doorway, I zone in on his conversation.
‘Could you wrap it? It’s a gift.’
A gift? My ears prick up. Of course! I bet he’s buying a gift for Harriet, ahead of their date.
‘How wonderful.’ The sales assistant beams at him. ‘Is it for a special occasion?’
‘Do you need a special occasion to buy a beautiful woman perfume?’ he asks, smiling.
The assistant smiles, completely charmed, and pulls out a length of ribbon. As she begins tying an elaborate bow, I feel a burst of excitement for Harriet. Maybe I’ve been wrong and he’s not such a bad guy after all. I watch for a moment, then, pushing open the door, step out onto the street.
20
Dearest Manu,
When I woke this morning and saw you still asleep by my side for the very first time, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. To be able to wake up and see you sleeping next to me has been something I have dreamed of all these months, ever since I first laid eyes on you outside that café. I don’t just say this as your lover (I truly am your lover now my darling), for it was never just your nakedness I desired, but your soul. As we lay together last night in each other’s arms, lit by the moonlight that shone in through the gap in your shutters, I felt it was not just our bodies, but our souls that were entwined.
Oh my darling, it was so hard to leave your soft, warm body early this morning when the light was still grey and walk back to the bookstore. Even now, after Paris has washed over me, I can still smell your scent on my skin. I can think only of you. I should be writing, but I cannot concentrate, for my mind keeps returning to you.
Last night, when you whispered to me in the darkness that you loved me now and would love me forever, you made me the happiest fellow on this fine earth. Happier even than I was before, and I didn’t think that was possible. I’m glad I have Franklin to act as witness, for I fear I might otherwise believe it was all just a dream! Do you know how wonderful it is for me to hear that? To hear it whispered to me in the shadows as we lay together in your bed?
I hope this joy can last, but I also know of your father’s wishes for you to accept your cousin’s proposal. I know you are trying to protect me by not telling me the extent of your fears, but sometimes when you think I am not looking, I see the worry etched on your face. But darling, do not worry! We will always be together now, don’t you see? Nothing can undo this love we have for each other, we have promised ourselves to each other, in body and soul, and whatever happens, nothing can break such a bond.
Oh, I know you think me a romantic fool, and perhaps I am, but I am also a realist. The realities of war look set to be upon us soon and the world is changing fast. No one can stop it. Not even your father or tradition or Paris itself. Everything will soon be turned on its head and who knows what the future will bring.
Let’s run away together now, before it is too late. Let’s escape this madness. I know that you don’t want to leave your family, and I know the love you hold for them, but I also know of your desire for freedom, to love who you choose, and after last night I now know for certain that is forever to be me.
Before I was happy to wait, to see what fate had in store for us, to leave it up to destiny, but that was before I woke this morning in your arms. Now I know I can no longer take a gamble. I want – I must – wake in your arms each and every morning for the rest of my life, I must be able to feel such joy again and again forever. To not have you by my side would be torture.
I know, I am speaking with feverish excitement, and you must be thinking I have gone half crazy, but let me assure you I have never been more sane in my life. Be brave my darling. Hold my hand and let’s be together. To start a new life. In a new world.
&
nbsp; Please reply to me my darling, and when you do, it must be only one word.
Yes.
J’attendrai,
H
Feeling the golden evening light fading on my face, I look up from the letter to discover it’s grown late. Dusk is falling, yet my heart is still racing from Henry’s words. I must have been here for hours.
I’m back at Harriet’s apartment, sitting on the tiny window seat that’s tucked snugly underneath one of the large, arched windows. There’s not much room – I’m wedged, knees up to my chest, on a small cushion – but it had looked so inviting when I’d got home, with the sun streaming in across the rooftops, that I’d curled up like a cat with Emmanuelle’s letters, basking in the warmth of the evening sun and Henry’s love, being transported back in time to a different Paris.
Or is it? I wonder, gazing out at the view that stretches far beyond. For while of course the fashions and music were different back then, and there was the threat of war and feeling of uncertainty for the future, up above the city there’s a feeling of timelessness. Did this view look any different through their eyes? I muse, imagining Henry and Emmanuelle staring out across the rooftops of Paris, just as I’m doing now, as the daylight fades into dusk.
It’s like a whole other world up here in the sky, among the chimney pots and pigeons and roof terraces. Famous landmarks stretch their heads and shoulders up above the skyline, like tall people in a crowd, while the rest of the city falls away beneath them. Down below on the streets, the city has gone through some real changes, has witnessed so much history, but up here at these still, lofty heights, it feels like a different Paris. A secret Paris. An eternal Paris. A Paris that hasn’t changed since Henry wrote these letters.
My mind is still buzzing with the urgency of Henry’s words. What happened next? What was Emmanuelle’s reply? Left with this cliffhanger, I think about her note to Henry that I first found in her apartment. In it she spoke of her resolve to go against her family’s wishes, and her love for Henry. So what caused her to later change her mind and marry Monsieur Dumont after all? There’s more to this story and I’m desperate to know what happens, but at the same time there’s a part of me that’s afraid.
Slipping the notepaper carefully back into its envelope, I gather up the rest of the letters in my lap and put them away safely with the rest in my bag. It’s late. I’m going to wait. Sometimes it’s better not to know. Even if it’s only for a little while.
Stretching out my stiff limbs, I pad barefoot over to the small fridge. I stopped at a few shops on the way home and bought some cheese, fresh figs, a baguette and a bottle of red wine. Well, when in France and all that.
Locating the corkscrew, I open the bottle of wine and pour myself a large glass. I don’t usually drink red wine, not since I downed several glasses at my publishers’ Christmas party and spent the evening chatting to lots of Very Important People and trying to impress. It was only later when I went to the loo I discovered my teeth had turned black, along with my tongue, and realised my smile was less winning and more terrifying.
But tonight, with Harriet out on her date, I won’t be able to scare her until she gets home – though who knows what time that will be. I feel a twinge of concern as I think about Rupert and all the red flags, but I brush them aside. I’m just being overprotective. He bought perfume, remember? He can’t be all bad.
Hungrily, I start unwrapping the round of Camembert I’ve left out on the counter, then have to stand back for a moment as the pungent smell hits me. The man in the shop gave me strict instructions that I had to keep it out of the fridge. Apparently it’s important to let the cheese ripen. Though I’m not sure I’d call that ripened, more like stinks to high heaven.
Taking a knife, I cut through the thick white rind. Its pale yellow insides ooze out, thick and creamy, and, tearing off a hunk of bread, I scoop it up. As soon as it hits my taste buds, the smell is forgotten. Crikey, this is delicious. Now I know why the French are so famous for their fromage. OK, so we Brits make a nice Cheddar, but it’s like your boring old aunt compared to this big, charismatic Gérard Depardieu of a cheese.
I cut another large wedge and this time I combine it with a bite of plump fig. If the first mouthful was delicious, the second is like a high-definition version of delicious, with surround sound thrown in. I have no idea how French women don’t all become the size of houses. This stuff is to die for and about three zillion calories. Just to add to the other three zillion calories I consumed this morning with all those pains au chocolat, I remember, loosening the waistband of my jeans.
Carrying a plate of food and my wine glass, I head back to my little spot by the window. It’s grown dark now, and as I take a sip of wine I notice the twinkling of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. It’s almost out of my eyeline, but I can just see it, like a giant sparkler lighting up the night sky. I feel a little burst of delight, the way you do when you catch a gorgeous sunset, or a rainbow, or the fin of a dolphin arching over the waves.
Wow, isn’t this wonderful? To be here in Paris, looking at this view, on a Thursday night—
Gosh, is it Thursday already? It’ll be the weekend soon and my birthday . . .
I’d lost track of the days, but now I’m suddenly reminded. Still, that’s fine. So what if it’s my birthday soon? I’m going to be spending it in one of the most beautiful cities in the whole world. I mean, seriously, how lucky am I? Some people spend their whole lives dreaming of visiting Paris. In fact, there’re probably millions of women out there who would love to trade places with me right now, sitting here with my lovely wine and my delicious cheese and my amazing view and—
Oh for god’s sake, shut up Ruby. You’re not fooling anyone, and certainly not yourself. Paris is wonderful and you are lucky. But you’re also upset and missing the man you’re in love with like crazy and no woman in the world would want to trade you for that.
And suddenly, as I admit it to myself, I feel myself start to crumble.
Because I can block it out as much as I like. I can push it down inside of me so hard I can make it seem like it’s disappeared. I can jump on the Eurostar and be here for my friend. I can read someone else’s love letters from nearly three-quarters of a century ago and lose myself in their romance. I can buy fancy wine and look at gorgeous views and tell myself that everything’s all right. That it’s more than all right.
But at the end of the day, it’s all just a trick. It hasn’t really disappeared. Like a magician with his sleight of hand and top hat, all the hurt and fear and insecurities are still there; I’ve just hidden them somewhere, deep down inside of me, where no one can see them. Not even myself.
On the surface, the row with Jack might have blown over, but the emotions and doubts that were triggered by it haven’t gone away. I didn’t leave them behind in London when I came to Paris. On the contrary, I brought them with me. And the harder I try to ignore them, the bigger they get.
Falling in love is a scary business. It leaves you vulnerable and it’s risky. You’re taking a leap of faith and there isn’t a safety net. But when I met Jack I didn’t have a choice. You don’t when you fall in love. Swept up in a whirlwind, you just jump. It didn’t matter that we lived thousands of miles apart, or that we hardly knew each other, or that we both had pasts – none of that stuff was important, we just dived straight in at the deep end.
But now the sobering reality of our relationship has set in. We’ve been apart for three months and the closeness I felt to him is fast growing distant. It’s so long since I buried my face in the crook of his neck and inhaled his unique Jack-smell that I can barely remember what it’s like any more. So long since he wrapped his arms round me and held me close and I felt like there was no one else in the world but us.
Will that feeling ever come back? Was it ever real in the first place? It felt real, but now everything between us feels as if it’s disintegrating. Seeing the photo today of Jack and his ex has only added to my fears. Fears that, ever since I discove
red Sam was cheating on me, I’ve tried to keep buried.
Harriet said it was better to feel the pain of love than to have never been in love, but I’m not so sure. I’m not sure of anything any more.
Least of all, Jack – which is the scariest thing by far—
A faint beep distracts me from my thoughts. It’s my phone. I’ve left it buried in the bottom of my bag to prevent any temptation to check it, but now I get up and dig it out.
Hey, sorry we got cut off yesterday, it’s been crazy here. Finally found a signal. How are you?
It’s a WhatsApp message from Jack.
I stare at it, my hearting beating fast. It’s so normal and matter-of-fact, as if our row at the airport never happened, and what caused it has all been forgotten.
Good, just eating dinner.
Using the same tone as him, I ignore the thoughts that have been swirling around in my head.
How are you?
I don’t mention Paris. Funny, but my earlier desire to tell him I’m here has vanished. Right about the time I saw the photograph of him with his ex, I realise, remembering their smiles and then wishing I hadn’t.
Still working on site and pretty exhausted, but not too tired to miss you.
It didn’t look like he was missing me that much in the photo, grumbles the monster under the bed, but I refuse to react. I’m just being paranoid. Jack has never done anything to make me not trust him. I can’t let the ghosts of my past come between us.
I miss you too. When can I see you?
I press send and for the first time in our conversation I feel myself letting down the barriers and reaching out to him. There’s a pause, and then I see the icon that says he’s typing.
I don’t know. There’s a bit of a crisis going on here. One of the structures collapsed in the storm and I need to figure out how to fix it before I can jump on a plane.
Love From Paris Page 18
