The French Perfumer

by Amanda Hampson

  Anyhow, we have actually started on some work, which is heartening. We spent quite some time sorting through a mishmash of documents he wanted categorised and filed. In the main these were invoices and bills of lading relating to raw materials: essences and oils. There were hundreds of telegrams he wanted filed in date order too. These were mostly perfume orders from all over the world, but particularly the Middle East; dozens from Libya and Kuwait. It was a painful and protracted case of the inept leading the blind: me stumbling through unpronounceable names of suppliers and merchandise and him (increasingly irritable) trying to guess at and correct my mistakes. The business was run from a factory nearby in Grasse, so it seems odd that these are even in his possession. Also strange is that the paperwork has been thrown higgledy-piggledy into cartons as though ransacked from its original filing system.

  Late in the afternoons, when he has tired of the work, we have tea and play chess in a nice companionable way – although he does like to win. He has a purpose-made board with the black squares raised slightly above the white. The chess pieces have a tiny spike to hold them in place. I had often played chess with my father so am quite adept at allowing my opponent to win by a whisker when appropriate.

  Despite his deep relationship with scents, Mr Brooke never so much as alludes to his own sense of smell, which must be highly refined and sensitive. He often comments on sounds he hears – the rain on the roof, an afternoon breeze riffling leaves, the peep of swallows as they dart about the eaves. Sounds but never smells. It’s as though he’s taken down his shingle and shut up shop. Today, over the chessboard, he asked about my earlier comment about smelling frustration. He asked how, specifically, I could smell such a thing.

  ‘I don’t fully understand it,’ I admitted. ‘I suppose it’s an amalgam of smells that tap into a memory, or perhaps an association with an emotion or state of being. It’s not an exact science. I do get it wrong occasionally.’

  ‘Smell is essentially vibration,’ he said. ‘Vibration and memory. You were right. I am deeply frustrated by the fact that, could I still work, the depth and breadth of my emotional experience now would enhance my art above anything I have ever achieved. Perhaps there is nothing left to achieve but there is nothing else in the world I want to do. Apart from —’ He stopped himself then.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Apart from move aside. When the time is right. Let things take their natural course.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help,’ I said without having a clue as to what he meant.

  He thought about this for some time and finally said, ‘Perhaps you can indeed.’

  Vivian approached me in the drawing room this evening, emitting her usual high-frequency anxiety signals, and I was able to assure her in good conscience that work was well underway. Immaculately groomed as ever, she is so unlike the creature I witnessed in the kitchen the other night it has been impossible to connect the two – did I dream it?

  Dinners this week have been a quiet affair. The Farleys have had meals sent to their room. Actually, I haven’t seen Lady Jessica for the past few days. I do know she was poorly as they had the doctor up yesterday, but the weather has been so beautiful it seems peculiar that she hasn’t at least come out to take in the afternoon sun on the patio. I feel sorry for her being stuck in that room with the awful Mr Farley.

  I have also begun to feel sorry for the abrasive Mrs Somerville. She is obviously here because she’s lonely but she lacks the requisite social skills for this kind of environment. As does Mr Geraldson; he eats his dinner in that particular way he has and barely acknowledges the other guests. I am a little curious to know what he does with himself during the day. He drives off in his car every morning and returns in the afternoon just in time to prepare for dinner. It seems as though he’s here for business rather than leisure, given he treats the place like a boarding house – an expensive one at that. Interestingly, Mr Farley seems to share my curiosity. Finally we have something in common. Considering he holds his own privacy so dear, I have heard him ask both Jonathan and Vivian about Geraldson. Like Mr Brooke, Farley is also interested in the man’s war service. Even ten years on, it seems important for men to know this information as a way of placing someone – knowing where they fought and, perhaps in this case, on which side. Both Vivian and Jonathan claimed no knowledge about Geraldson, which I know is patently untrue.

  Although he can be irksome, Jonathan is adept at light conversation and puts in an effort to make the evenings convivial. He always compliments me on my clothes, which are really nothing much, and makes a point of remarking on my healthy complexion – often using exactly the same adjectives as the evening before. It seems that charm is a sort of currency for him and little wonder it’s got him into trouble with women. He is forever fobbing Vivian off when she tries to coax him into accepting trunk calls from various ex-wives and offspring demanding his attention. His usual excuse is that he is terribly busy and will call them later – which I am quite sure he never does.

  I had been looking forward to a quiet lunch with Alexander today – a welcome opportunity to dissect everything. But as soon as I got into his car I sensed he was in a odd mood and it dawned on me that although we have quickly become chums, we don’t know each other all that well. After a lack of response to my solicitous overtures, we drove for twenty minutes in silence. He then informed me (a little tersely) that we were invited to lunch with Topsy and Sebastian. They were apparently ‘desperate’ to see me, having been enchanted by my ‘unaffected’ ways – whatever that is supposed to mean. At that point, adding numbers to our little party seemed a good idea.

  Topsy and Sebastian live in a sumptuous house high in the hills above Cannes with views up and down the coastline. House is too modest a word – it’s really a mansion with a veritable firmament of crystal chandeliers and acres of marble floors occasionally interrupted by staircases sweeping up to other levels of unimaginable luxury. A miasma of boredom (an unpleasant dusty smell like a forgotten sack of flour) hung in the air.

  Alexander and I were ushered in by a pompous uniformed butler and taken through a grand dining room into a sitting room of more modest proportions. We were offered drinks. I requested tea and Alexander champagne which were duly delivered by a maid. Sebastian wandered in, drink in hand, and the two men went through the rigmarole of lighting cigarettes (fortunately the pipe seems to have lost favour!) as they exchanged desultory pleasantries. I was almost relieved when Topsy gusted into the room in a flurry of kissing and small talk. ‘Isn’t Freddy coming?’ she asked Alexander.

  ‘He’s gone to Madrid,’ he replied. ‘Chasing his little toreador.’

  ‘Matador,’ I corrected.

  ‘Quite.’ Alexander had been glum before but having admitted the source of his melancholy he now sunk into deeper gloom.

  ‘Ohhh dear, how disappointing,’ Topsy cooed. ‘We were so looking forward to hosting him here. Weren’t we, Seb?’

  Sebastian switched on his noncommittal smile that makes him look a little daft. I asked him how his novel was going and he said not well. Too many interruptions. Did that include us, I wonder? The butler returned to announce that lunch was served and threw open the doors to a small dining room where the table was beautifully laid for six people.

  ‘Will your children be joining us?’ I asked as we took our seats.

  Sebastian and Topsy both crowed with laughter at the idea. ‘What an unbearable thought!’ she said. She flapped her bejewelled fingers in the vague direction of upstairs. ‘They have their own little fiefdom where Nanny is entirely in command. No, Sebastian’s cousin, William Beaumont, will be joining us. He had some meeting or other so I said we would go on without him.’

  The butler served up an oily fishy soup that impressed everyone but me. The talk turned to social arrangements and gossip about people I didn’t know which allowed me to drift off and think of other things. Just as the main course was being served, the door opened and a quietly handsome fellow in his forties was shown in by the
maid.

  ‘Iris, William. William, Iris,’ said Topsy. He nodded in my direction and sat down next to Topsy, who gave his shoulders a vigorous brush as though he were a dusty antique needing cleaning up for a potential customer. It occurred to me that since he wore no wedding band perhaps I was the intended customer? ‘Iris is a chum of Freddy’s,’ said Topsy.

  ‘Truly, I barely know Freddy,’ I said. William seemed not particularly interested in any case.

  ‘I spoke to my mother about Hammond Brooke,’ said Seb­astian. ‘She was shocked, I must say – about him being blind.’ My heart sank at the thought that my indiscretion had now crossed the channel.

  ‘I was right, Mummy was friendly with his mother; her name was Camille,’ he continued. ‘She had apparently followed her father, Monsieur Rousseau, into the family perfume business. They had a factory up in Grasse. They were both respected “noses” but she died in a motor accident when Hammond was quite young. His father was English. He put the boy into board. Harrow, I believe.’

  ‘What line of business was Hammond’s father in?’ asked Topsy.

  ‘I think she said he was in the spice trade. In which case, I expect he would have spent most of his time travelling abroad.’

  ‘So where was Vivian?’ I asked.

  ‘Vivian?’ repeated Sebastian.

  ‘His sister.’

  ‘There wasn’t any mention of a sister. Vivian, you say?’

  ‘It would be fascinating to meet Mr Brooke,’ said Topsy. ‘Do you think you could wrangle an introduction, Iris?’

  It was difficult to explain what a preposterous idea this was so I didn’t bother trying, but murmured I would give the matter some thought.

  ‘Freddy is really such a nuisance making us uneven numbers,’ said Topsy. ‘I thought we could play a rubber or two of bridge after lunch. Do you play, Iris?’

  ‘I have played. I may be a little rusty.’

  ‘You four play. I’m not in the mood anyway,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Perfect. Seb and I can play against William and Iris – you two will make a great team.’ She dealt us conspiratorial smiles, as though we were party to her unsubtle attempts at matchmaking that made us both squirm. I tried to avoid William’s eye which wasn’t difficult since he was playing the same game.

  Alexander stretched out on the settee affecting a tragic pose while we played bridge, which was a bit of fun but I was glad when the afternoon came to an end. William is one of those people whose naturally sad expression is transformed by his smile. He seemed to go out of his way not to encourage my interest in any way which is probably a kindness.

  As Alexander drove me back to the villa I asked, ‘Surely they didn’t acquire all that wealth through Sebastian’s writing?’

  ‘Lord, no! He encourages the idea of the tortured writer – probably because his life is relentlessly pleasant and easy. His writing is excruciating. If he ever asks you to read something, make an excuse. Feign illiteracy.’

  ‘I doubt he’d want my opinion of his writing,’ I said.

  ‘You’d be surprised how low some people will stoop for a tiny glimmer of approbation. No, his family’s in the whisky business. Hers are in gin. Or it could be the other way around. In any case, they’re a distillery dynasty – slowly drowning in money.’

  I wasn’t sure whether to broach the topic that hung in the air but finally I asked when Freddy was coming back. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘He didn’t even tell me he was going.’

  On my way out this morning, I was delighted to see a letter for me on the hall table addressed in Alan’s handwriting. While he was away at the war, Alan wrote occasionally and Father and I devoured his letters, reading them over and over. He has a dry wit and his stories were full of wonderful observations and insights. I had a few moments to spare and took the letter outside in the sun to relish. My heart sank at the first line. It was evident that this was not a genuine letter from my brother but one transparently dictated by his overbearing wife. The upshot was that Ruth’s sister and husband were interested in buying Linnet Lane and had made an offer to purchase it. This, he assured me, was a simple solution to the problem. The proceeds would be split and my share deposited in a trust fund until my return. I would, he explained, have enough left for a nice little bedsit nearer to Balham village. He had enclosed a document for my signature authorising him to accept the offer and dispose of my home without further consultation. A final betrayal by my beloved but weak brother.

  Shaken, I tucked the letter away in my pocket and hurried across to the cottage. I thought I was relatively composed but Mr Brooke picked up the wobble in my voice. He listened patiently while I explained the situation, Ruth’s ambitions and how I didn’t believe these were Alan’s true wishes because he knew Father had wanted me to have the security of the house and (by now there were tears) that I don’t want to live in a bedsit!

  He shrugged dismissively. ‘Don’t sign it.’

  Perhaps it is in my nature to be cooperative and eager to please, but more likely the result of a lifetime of training by Father because I did feel a tiny thrill at the idea of mounting a rebellion. It faded quickly. ‘Alan is a solicitor. I’m sure, under pressure —’

  ‘All right, go in guns blazing then.’

  With his support I agreed to push back against Ruth. He dictated a short explanatory note to Mr Hubert instructing him to represent me and ‘knock this whole business on the head’, referring to the intent expressed in Father’s will. I typed up the letter on Mr Brooke’s Imperial and enclosed the documentation. It will go off in tomorrow’s post. Much as I hate to defy Alan, I would love to see the expression on Ruth’s face when she opens a letter from my solicitor.

  I have been uneasy about Lady Jessica, who is still indisposed. Perhaps that’s simply because of my prejudice toward her beastly husband. Mr Farley, who used to be so jittery, seems more relaxed and this evening joined Mr Geraldson and Jonathan out on the patio for port and cigars after dinner. I took a moment to step outside and enjoy the night air myself before going up and overheard Farley enquiring into Geraldson’s alma mater. Geraldson hesitated and then said, ‘Cambridge.’ Farley also announced himself an old boy and asked when Geraldson had attended but Jonathan interrupted and changed the subject – almost as if to protect Geraldson from Farley’s prying.

  Fascinating as it was to eavesdrop on this mismatched trio, I took the opportunity to dash upstairs, where I discovered that while Mr Farley enjoys a leisurely evening, he locks up his sick wife!

  I tapped several times on the bedroom door and then, hearing someone behind me, swung around to see Menna advancing rapidly down the hall sorting through a bunch of keys as she walked. She held my eye as she unlocked the door and, the moment I stepped inside, pulled the door closed behind me.

  The room was immaculate and even Lady Jessica looked very neat and tidy lying perfectly still in the bed. She was lipsticked and rouged as if ready for a party but didn’t appear to be breathing. She was dressed in a rose-coloured silk robe. Her arms lay unnaturally by her sides and when I took her hand it felt warm but quite lifeless. Only when I put my face close to hers did I feel her soft breath on my cheek. I gave her a shake and spoke her name. She slept on. There was an urgent tap on the door that I took to be Menna’s warning signal. Before I could decide what to do, the key rattled in the lock. The door flew open and Mr Farley stood in the doorway.

  ‘What the devil are you doing in here?’ Without waiting for a response, he strode across the room to check on the patient. ‘How dare you disturb my wife!’

  ‘I was concerned about her,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Mind your own damn business. I’ll speak to Miss Brooke about this. Get out!’

  I didn’t need a second invitation and fled upstairs to my room. Menna was nowhere to be seen. I now expect to be summoned in the morning and dismissed. Oh, why did I get involved? Just when things are going so well with Mr Brooke . . .

  I heard nothing in
the morning but when I returned from the cottage this afternoon Vivian was arranging flowers on the hall table – her favourite ruse to ambush people. She looked up and smiled her gracious smile, so it seemed that Mr Farley had not yet carried through his threat. I took the opportunity to enquire into Lady Jessica’s health. Vivian frowned and murmured something about convalescence. She looked a trifle irritated when I persisted. I felt that she wanted to tell me it was none of my business but thought better of it. Since my work with Mr Brooke has started in earnest it seems that my stock has appreciated somewhat.

  ‘Hysteria, I believe,’ she said, loosening out the arrangement in a practised manner.

  ‘Hysteria? I’m sure that’s not a real illness. Is that what the doctor said?’

  She gave me a look of cold disbelief. ‘I suggest you concern yourself exclusively with the work you are being paid to do. You’re very privileged to be mixing with people of a different class here. Don’t take it for granted.’ I felt as though I had been slapped. Slapped back into my place.

  The records we are putting in order now are those stored in a second bedroom of the cottage. There is no bedroom furniture in the room but dozens of cartons mostly containing papers, and five large cupboards the size of wardrobes. These are placed around the room without any thought of order; in fact, several of them block windows and much of the light. Each cupboard has double doors and all are locked. Mr Brooke has made no reference as to the contents and while I am curious, if anything is clear to me by now, it is that in this household one needs to appear uninterested in order to discover anything of import. One thing I am particularly curious about is the mystery of Aurélie. How is it that this perfume for which he is so famous is never mentioned – not by him and not by Vivian?