‘And I’ve lost my flat,’ she added in a small voice. ‘It’s going up for sale and I had to put an offer in by the end of the week. I can’t do that without a job, can I?’
‘Oh, Cat.’ Bella squeezed her hand. Cat had been her best and most loyal friend since school and Bella couldn’t bear to see the pain and anguish in her eyes. Until a few months ago when Olivier had died, Cat had been so full of life and laughter, and now she had suffered yet another crushing blow. Bella thought worriedly of the letter in her pocket but she knew she had to tell Cat.
‘Sorry to dump this on you but . . . you know Serena in number ten?’ Cat barely responded and Bella pushed ahead. ‘She’s been away in South Africa visiting that millionaire boyfriend of hers. Anyway, she came back on Sunday and she had this mountain of post and when she finally opened it all, she found this.’ Bella pulled the letter out. ‘It had been posted through her letter box accidentally. It’s from some solicitor in France . . . Provence, to be exact.’ Bella paused. ‘The letter didn’t make any sense to Serena but then she saw your name at the top so she gave it to me to pass on.’
Cat took it listlessly. ‘I guess it’s something to do with Olivier.’
‘It is. Olivier Ducasse.’
‘Who?’ Cat asked, confused. Her Olivier went by the surname Laroque.
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Bella responded. ‘Because this letter is all about Olivier’s death in St Tropez . . . and it’s from his family.’
‘His what ? Olivier doesn’t have any family. He said his parents died and he was all alone . . .’ Cat stared at the letter, her eyes skimming over the polite words and formal English phrases, barely taking them in. They could have written it in French, Cat thought randomly; after all, she was fluent in the language thanks to the time she had spent in France with her parents as a child. But she guessed they didn’t know that. Bewildered, she read some phrases aloud. ‘. . . offer our most heartfelt condolences . . . hope you have recovered from Olivier’s untimely death . . . please join us at our house in Provence to discuss some business . . .’ Cat met Bella’s eyes. ‘Business? What business?’
‘I have no idea. Hang on . . . Ducasse . . . Ducasse . . .’ Bella shook her head. ‘Nah, it can’t be them. Forget it.’
Not really listening, Cat reread the letter. ‘Why would he lie about having a family?’
Bella shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s ashamed of them. Maybe they’re a bunch of nutters and he didn’t want you to be put off. Or . . .’ Triumphantly, she threw another idea out. ‘Perhaps he just fell out with them at some point and didn’t want to talk about it. That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?’
Cat nodded slowly. ‘I guess so. But I wish he’d confided in me about them, Bella. Maybe I could have done something . . . helped him mend whatever went wrong . . .’
Bella said nothing; now was not the right time. Still, when was the right time? She had tried once before to voice her concerns about Olivier not being who he said he was and Cat had blown up spectacularly. There was a lot about Olivier that hadn’t added up, such as his claiming to be penniless but somehow managing to afford a beachfront apartment in one of the swankiest areas in St Tropez, his phone constantly ringing, even though he claimed not to have any responsibilities elsewhere, his penchant for gambling and vintage champagne . . .
Maybe a rich friend had paid for the apartment, as he said, and for the champagne and the gambling. It was perfectly possible that Olivier had had rich friends who funded his holiday; he had been charming and charismatic enough to attract, well, anybody. But Bella had never managed to quite believe it.
‘You should go,’ she said brightly.
Cat lifted her head. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘To Provence.’ Bella tapped the letter. ‘I mean, you were his wife, you have a right to meet his family, don’t you? Those officials treated you like dirt when Olivier died.’
Cat grimaced at the memory. It was true. When Olivier had been pronounced dead, she had been treated like some silly bimbo who should back off and let those in charge get on with their job. When she had tried to protest that she wasn’t Olivier’s girlfriend, she was his wife, the officials had shrugged dismissively and told her to go home. She’d been in no state to do anything but flee back to England to the security of her job and her friends.
‘They must want to meet you,’ Bella went on. ‘Why else would they have sent you this letter asking you to join them in Provence?’
Cat shrugged. ‘I just don’t know if I can face it . . . it’s been so hard . . .’ Fiercely, she dashed her tears away.
Bella looked contrite. ‘I can’t even offer you a room in my flat,’ she confessed. ‘That guy I’ve been seeing for a while, Ben? I asked him if he wanted to move in at the weekend and he said yes . . .’ She winced. ‘I’m so sorry, Cat. I can tell him it’s not possible if you need to stay here.’
Cat’s head snapped up. What was she doing, sitting here being miserable? What would that achieve? She might be a jobless, homeless twenty-six-year-old widow, but life went on, she just had to take charge of it.
‘All right, I’ll go to Provence,’ she said resolutely. ‘I’ll book a flight and go.’
Bella grinned. ‘That’s the Cat I’ve been missing for the last few months,’ she said with some relief. ‘I was beginning to think that crazy, reckless girl I used to be best mates with had gone for good.’
Cat held her wine glass out for a top-up. ‘As if.’
Bella started to make plans. ‘I can look for jobs for you while you’re out there. Ben has some good contacts in the advertising business, he used to do IT for Brian’s competitor. I’m sure we’ll come up with something.’ She chinked her glass against Cat’s. ‘By the time you’ve sorted out whatever business you need to in Provence, you’ll have a brilliant new job and life will be back on track.’
‘God, Bel, I hope you’re right.’ Cat gulped her wine. ‘I just can’t help worrying that Olivier’s family might not like me as much as he did.’
‘Why on earth wouldn’t they?’ Bella told her loyally. ‘You’re fabulous and I bet this trip will be just what you need to, you know, get some closure, or whatever they call it.’ She pulled a face at the empty bottle. ‘I just hope Olivier’s family have a big enough supply of wine for your visit . . .’
Sitting in her office at the warehouse that packaged up Ducasse-Fleurie perfumes, Leoni gritted her teeth. She pushed her glasses further up her nose and sketched out yet another idea for the new line she was working on, scribbling rapidly for a good ten minutes without pausing. Finally she sat back and surveyed her handiwork. It was no good, she simply couldn’t concentrate. Just like her other efforts this morning, her latest one was terrible. Leoni screwed it up and threw it in the bin to join the pile of other scrunched-up, angry-looking balls of paper. Her ideas, usually so clear and precise, were muddled and chaotic this morning. Nothing was flowing and nothing made sense.
She stood up and surveyed the thousand-strong workforce that supported the Ducasse empire. They all seemed so laid-back. Where was the spark? Where was the passion? It was all very well being cosy and family orienated but she couldn’t help thinking the business needed a vigorous shake-up. The fact was, Ducasse-Fleurie was flagging. No one wanted to admit to it but the figures spoke for themselves. Sales were down and the once well-respected Ducasse-Fleurie name was fading into the background as trendier, younger and fresher perfumes hit the market.
Ducasse-Fleurie had been resting on its laurels for too long, Leoni mused. No new fragrances had been created for years. Their bestselling classics, Rose-Nymphea and L’Air Sensuel, formed the mainstay of the business, but they were seen as the older woman’s perfumes. Which made the product, and somehow the company itself, seem dated and out of touch. Ducasse-Fleurie still made money, vast quantities of it, comparatively speaking, but it was on the wane.
Leoni smoothed her chic black Roland Mouret dress and marched downstairs into the warehouse. If only she could create a n
ew perfume – or ‘juice’ as it was known to insiders – herself because then she could take control and mastermind a company revamp. But since Aunt Elizabeth, their master ‘nose’ or scent creator, had died two years ago, there was no one to conceive a new fragrance.
Actually, that wasn’t true, Leoni reminded herself as she sternly narrowed her eyes at a gossiping employee who quailed and hurriedly returned to work. Xavier had inherited his mother’s rare and much sought after gift for blending aromas and was more than capable of taking over the creative arm of Ducasse-Fleurie. He just didn’t want to. Or maybe he had reasons none of them knew about, Leoni acknowledged more charitably. Xavier had fallen apart after Elizabeth had died and he had hung up his lab coat, apparently for good.
Leoni headed outside for some air. She wanted to develop a new fragrance, two even . . . a home fragrance line . . . a store in Paris . . . Ducasse-Fleurie had been conceived as a ‘fragrance only’ line like Fragonard, Annick Goutal and Pierre Bourdin, and for several decades it had outsold some of the most popular household names. The ongoing obsession with celebrity had saturated the fragrance market in the same way it had the publishing world, and classical perfume lines had been hit hard, with celebrity scents stealing most of the coveted top ten spots each summer. Leoni sighed and got into her navy sports car, the most sedate-looking car the Ducasse family owned. Since Olivier had died, nothing seemed right, Leoni thought. Her private life seemed stark and empty, and professionally she felt equally dissatisfied. She needed something, anything, to give her a new lease of life.
God, she missed Olivier so much it hurt! The grief she had barely allowed herself to acknowledge rose to the surface and threatened to suffocate her. And some other emotion was hovering nearby – fury. Leoni was so angry with Olivier, she could barely see straight. How dare he leave her like this, she raged as she activated the security gates and headed up La Fleurie’s vast driveway. Didn’t Olivier know how lost she would be without him? Didn’t he realise the vulnerable position she would be in? Olivier might have been an irresponsible playboy but he had been her rock, the only one who ever took her work ideas seriously. Without him, working in the family business would be harder than ever.
How could he marry some stupid English girl and then get himself killed, the stupid idiot, Leoni thought tearfully. And on top of everything, her twenty-ninth birthday was only a few days away and a huge party had been planned, which was the last thing she wanted. She couldn’t even summon up the enthusiasm to comment on colour schemes or food ideas.
Leoni came to a halt in the driveway just as another car smoothly pulled up next to her. With a sinking heart she realised it was her grandmother’s bullet-grey limousine. The matriarch of the family was back, she thought gloomily, and that could mean only one thing. Aside from rocking her already unstable position in the family business and making a grand entrance before her birthday party, Delphine’s arrival signified something Leoni had been absolutely dreading. After an inexplicable eight-month silence, Olivier’s widow must be on her way. Maybe the strikes the French airport staff had promised would keep her away, Leoni thought hopefully. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Leoni slammed her hand on the steering wheel. She couldn’t bear it, she really couldn’t. Wasn’t it bad enough that Olivier had spent the last few weeks of his life with someone they didn’t even know? And now this girl was actually going to be staying at La Fleurie with them; they would have to speak to her, eat with her even. It was nothing less than intolerable.
Feeling panicked, Leoni took out her mobile phone.
‘Ashton?’ she turned on her car engine. Remembering how terrible his French was, she spoke in English. ‘I need a drink right now. Do you want . . . La Belle Vie is fine. I’ll meet you there in five.’
‘Should we disturb him?’ Seraphina fretted as they loitered outside Guy’s office. She fiddled nervously with the long white-blond plait that hung over one shoulder. ‘I really want to spend some time with him before we go back to that horrible college again.’
Max shrugged, looking sullen. ‘He’ll be too busy. He always is.’ He folded his arms across his chest, the gesture unconsciously defensive.
Seraphina sighed. Max was sensitive but the barriers he erected around himself made him quite unpleasant to be around at times.
Seeing Seraphina’s nut-brown eyes cloud over with disappointment, Max relented.
‘Fine, let’s try.’ But don’t say I didn’t warn you, his expression said as he moved closer to the door, his arms still folded and his chin tilted angrily.
Seraphina knocked on the door of their father’s office.
‘Come in!’ came the rather curt response.
Seraphina unconsciously squared her shoulders. She glanced around the office, noting how disorganised it was. Cardboard boxes containing sample perfume bottles were stacked under the window, paperwork to be signed sat in a neglected pile on the desk and reams of the lilac ribbon Ducasse-Fleurie was famous for spilled down from the shelves. The air was infused with a rich, heady aroma from tester tabs and open bottles belonging to other perfume houses.
Guy looked up irritably. ‘Yes?’
‘We wondered if you wanted to do something,’ Seraphina ventured timidly.
‘Do something?’
Seraphina cringed, mortified by her father’s slightly withering expression. ‘Er . . . together, you know. You, me and Max.’
Guy suppressed a sigh and with obvious reluctance put the disappointing spreadsheets he was deciphering to one side. What was it about the twins that irked him so much? he asked himself.
Max was as tall as all the Ducasse men, with tousled dark hair and moody, liquid-brown eyes. But he had a chip on his shoulder the size of Paris and he wore a permanent scowl. He was wildly out of control and under constant threat of expulsion from his expensive college. Hardly the model son. And then there was Seraphina. She was the very image of his beloved Elizabeth with her fragile, luminous beauty and her dreamy, idealistic approach to life. She was wearing tight black jodhpurs and a red silk shirt, a disturbing combination of schoolgirl innocence and womanly maturity.
Guy stared at them, conscious of the inexplicable pain in his heart. He knew he couldn’t deal with them right now. ‘I . . . have too much work to do,’ he stated, averting his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added inadequately, not looking up.
Max’s lip curled. It was just as it had been for the last two years.
‘Come on,’ he said to Seraphina, taking her arm. ‘We’re clearly wasting our time here.’ Ignoring his father’s tense shoulders, Max shot him a contemptuous look before leaving.
Seraphina allowed herself to be pulled from the room and followed Max to the stables behind La Fleurie. Nothing seemed to please their father these days, she thought miserably, least of all his children.
Max saddled up his favourite horse, a fine dappled grey named Le Fantome. Some people said greys were unlucky but Max adored his horse. Even after what had happened to his mother, he trusted Le Fantome with his life. He pulled the worn, navy cashmere jumper he always wore out riding over his dark hair and breathed in the stable’s pungent aroma of straw, manure and excited horses. It cleared his head and calmed him, the way it always did. He had found other ways to relieve his stress over the past couple of years but this was legal and far safer than his other hobbies.
‘What do you think Olivier’s wife will be like?’ Seraphina wondered aloud, hoping to distract Max’s dark mood. She smiled as her horse Coco, named after her heroine Coco Chanel, came to the stable door and nuzzled her hand.
Max shrugged, his mouth twisting scornfully. ‘Who cares? She’s probably just some bimbo who found out how much Olivier was worth and made him marry her somehow.’ Inserting a foot into a stirrup, he smoothly mounted his horse.
Seraphina looked unconvinced as she hoisted a saddle on to Coco’s back and quickly did up the straps. ‘I can’t imagine how anyone could have persuaded Olivier to do anything he didn’t want to do.’ She couldn’t help feeling
sorry for Olivier’s bride; not only had she lost her new husband within weeks of marrying him, she now had the Ducasse family to contend with. And they were a force to be reckoned with, Seraphina thought grimly. The ones that were left, anyway. Suddenly overcome with sadness, she cast her eyes to the ground to hide her tears.
Max slipped off his horse and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Stop that, will you? You can’t let this get to you . . . you just can’t.’
‘I know, I know. I’m trying to be strong.’ Seraphina’s shoulders shook as tears slid down her cheeks. ‘It’s just . . . losing Mother . . . and now Olivier . . . it’s too much.’
Max felt despair wash over him. What did she want from him? Why did she keep crying like this? Max felt sorry for his sister but he didn’t know how to deal with her unhappiness.
‘Let’s ride,’ he said roughly, pushing her towards her horse. He remounted his and kicked his heels against Le Fantome’s flanks. ‘Catch me up!’ he shouted as he cantered towards the Ducasse family lavender fields.
Quickly wiping her tears away, Seraphina jumped up on to Coco’s back and headed after her twin. If Max could cope with Olivier’s death without shedding a tear, then so must she.
With the assurance of a seasoned player, Xavier tossed his remaining poker chips on to the table and flipped his hand over. It was a royal flush, with spades – the perfect hand. There was a ripple of applause from the watching crowds but Xavier shook his head modestly. He might be a good bluffer but he couldn’t take credit for the luck of the cards. Thank God he didn’t have Olivier’s penchant for gambling; as fun as it was, everyone knew the house always won in the end so it was a mug’s game unless it was a casual pastime.
Heaven Scent Page 2
