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Advertencia Antipirateria del FBI: La reproducción o distribución no autorizada de una obra protegida por derechos de autor es ilegal. La infracción criminal de los derechos de autor, incluyendo la infracción sin lucro monetario, es investigada por el FBI y es castigable con pena de hasta cinco años en prisión federal y una multa de $250,000.
PERFUME GIRL Copyright © 2018 Vanessa Fewings All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author.
This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Cover design by Najla Qamber
(NajlaQamberDesigns)
Cover photo from Depositphotos: Martyna1802
Formatted by: Champagne Book Design
Book edited by Debbie Kuhn
ISBN-13: 978-1725976511
ISBN-10: 172597651X
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also from Vanessa Fewings
Perfume is the art that makes memory speak.
—Francis Kurkdjian
For Margaret
Before
THE LOVING FINGERS THAT SWEPT over the petals of the sweet-smelling rose were the same ones that cut through its thorny stem with shears.
I’ll give you another life, I thought, dropping the shears to the ground.
I raised my gaze to the bay window to see if Mummy had stirred. She usually slept in, allowing my nine-year-old mischievous self to take advantage of her absence.
I continued exploring the garden’s gems, finding a sprig of mint. I plucked it from the ground for the sole purpose of turning it into perfume.
The roses wither and fall, but not you. I’ve chosen you and surely that means something, surely that alone soothes the bitterness.
Inhaling its delicate perfume, I carried my little treasure across the garden all the way to the bottom of our property and opened the door to the corner shed, hurrying in and finding my usual place on the tarpaulin to protect my dress’s hem. On my knees, surrounded by tools that hung where my father had left them weeks before he left, I plucked each velvety petal from the blossom and dropped them into the base of my marble mortar. Reaching for the round-ended pestle reserved for grinding herbs from this very garden, I began crushing them with a twist of my wrist.
Although I knew stealing a flower from our garden was wrong, I couldn’t deny myself the poetic pleasure of smelling the sweet licorice scent that filled the air.
Yet nature is selfish.
I batted off a wayward bee, lured by the aroma of my precious elixir, too enticing for an insect driven by its obsession with nectar to resist. When the black and yellow insect persisted, I waved my pestle in the air until it rushed to escape, blurring from sight.
My focus returned to creating a perfume unlike any other. This is what I imagined glamour to be…the pathway to a happy ever after, a pampering self-love in liquid form. I’d surprise my mum with this later and make her smile.
Yesterday, when she’d braved leaving the house and we took the bus into Truro to visit the elegant perfumery near the cathedral, I had watched her sniff scents from the prettiest glass bottles. Her worry lines softened as she forgot herself in that sweet-smelling room, choosing a favorite scent and rubbing her wrists together—a perfume she never bought.
“It’s not quite in our budget,” she told me. “Maybe I’ll get it for Christmas.”
I had wondered who would buy it for her. After all, Daddy was gone and she never spoke to Grandma…and I was far from being able to afford it.
I watched her sadness return as she led me toward the cathedral to speak to a God that never answered her, no matter how much she bruised her knees in prayer. Or so it seemed.
I would find another way—create my own for her.
The petals within my mortar were giving up their perfume and waiting patiently for me to add other ingredients to balance out the bouquet—like a dash of lavender or ginger, or even the spice I would hunt down later.
A beetle crawled up my forearm to take a closer look at all this activity in his usually quiet sanctuary. I brushed him off with care and watched him scurry across the uneven ground back to his hideout.
A minute later I heard a familiar buzzing sound. Though this time the bee sounded angry—
Suddenly I felt a sting and an all-consuming pain in my forearm. I panicked as my throat swelled and dizziness overtook me.
I had a vague sense of being carried out in someone’s arms.
I never did return to the garden or that house. Not even the street.
And though it had been flowers that had ruined my life, I’d remained under their spell. This, after all, was how I held on to the memory of my old life.
The one with Mummy.
My brush with death in that idyllic English countryside changed everything. Three days later, after being released from the hospital, I stepped over the threshold of my first foster home.
I stood at Mrs. Clark’s living room window and peered out at her well-tended garden.
And I began again.
Grinding petals into the base of a pestle, sure if I got the formula right and created a pretty scent, I’d get it to Mummy and somehow, some way, we would go home.
FROM WHERE I SAT ON the white leather sofa in Dazzle and Bazaar’s waiting room, staring through the impressive window overlooking Plaza Street, I could see the downpour had lifted and the sun had broken through the clouds. Unlike England, Orlando’s climate would be warm despite the rain.
Even now, after living on the other side of the pond for years, I marveled at the sunny weather. The invigorating rays brightened my Monday morning.
“It’ll be a few more minutes, Ms. Wren.” The receptionist’s voice drew my gaze away from the window. “They’re just finishing up.”
The pretty blonde had spent the last t
wenty minutes unabashedly looking at her iPhone from behind the desk. Her pale blue eyes were now focused on me.
I feigned a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
She returned her attention to the phone.
Don’t do this.
Don’t give away your finest work.
I pretended this was easy for me. That being here and doing this was just fine.
“How much longer do you think it will be?”
“Five minutes.”
Perfect. Enough time to check my hair and make-up. I pushed myself up and walked the few short steps to the restroom.
Even in here I found a classic elegance—pristine gold taps and marble sinks. In minutes, I’d be sitting opposite the infamous Anna Rosenthal and I was determined to wow her. She could be cold—I’d read that about her—and impatient. Each second in her presence counted.
I stood in front of the mirror and fluffed my long brunette hair, which shone with amber highlights. The same sun that had tinted my locks had brought out freckles that kissed my nose and cheeks. After softening the eyeliner beneath my turquoise eyes, I retouched my lipstick.
This morning I’d gone for dynamic and now I just saw severity looking back. I changed my mind and decided the “girl next door” look offered a less competitive edge and I needed this to be all about my product instead of about me. Anna hated self-importance, too, apparently.
I faked a smile—a convincing one that said all was well in my life and I was a shining example of success. Anna didn’t need to know my world was falling apart.
Not once had I considered the possibility that I would be divorced at thirty, a recent separation after what had felt like a happy marriage. But as I straightened my pencil skirt and smoothed my gold satin blouse, I felt my self-respect returning.
I recognized that brightness in my gaze, that sense of aliveness.
I was back.
The drive from Dunedin had been pleasant—fun even—in my open-top Alfa Romeo. No matter how much Damien wanted it I was keeping the car. It was my ex-husband’s fault I was here.
Still, if I managed to license my new scent I would be able to save Perfume Girl—my beloved store nestled on Broadway in Dunedin. My heart and soul was invested in that place and I wasn’t going to let it go without a fight. It was either this plan or I would have to sell my perfumery and give him half the money. The bastard didn’t deserve anything. Not after leaving me for her.
I’d found a way out of this nightmare and licensing my new scent was it. Even if it broke my heart to let it go.
His greed left me no choice but to offer my new fragrance to one of the industry’s prominent companies. A formula so alluring it would take the industry by storm with its unique properties. It needed one more ingredient to elevate it to a new level, but that would only be shared with Anna after a contract was signed.
It was my finest work.
Licensing it would enable me to take my life back. If I kept this special scent for my business, it would sell well but I would be challenged to market it to a wider audience on my modest budget.
Time I didn’t have.
Raising my head high and exuding a sense of calm, I left the restroom and made my way back to the waiting area, reaching into my handbag for the bottle of perfume. I would present this to Anna Rosenthal within seconds of entering that meeting.
Start out strong.
Hell, yes.
This was my moment to shine.
I jolted to a stop, my hand continuing to rummage in my handbag, not feeling the small Lalique bottle.
The receptionist raised her gaze. “They’re ready for you, Ms. Wren.” She pointed to her right. “Through that door.”
Kneeling on the carpet, I tipped my bag and spilled the contents, searching for the precious object.
“It’s gone,” I said, my voice cracking.
“You forgot something?”
“I double checked before I left.”
She got up and rounded her desk. “They’re waiting.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” I mentally replayed every step I had taken this morning. “I…don’t know what happened.”
“Wanna reschedule?”
She was right, of course. You didn’t keep an executive like Anna Rosenthal waiting. Her status was far-reaching. She was to perfume what Coco Chanel was to fashion. A legend in her own right—and I’d been moments away from meeting her. A yes from her would have breathed new life into my career.
Vaguely, I realized the receptionist had walked back behind her desk.
Her gaze met mine above her computer screen. “Three weeks okay?”
“It will be too late.”
This was my last chance to save my life’s work.
“I’ll let them know you’re cancelling.”
Stunned, I returned the items to my bag and pushed unsteadily to my feet. This is my walk of shame, I thought, making my way back along the hallway decorated with colorful photos of my competitors’ products—scents welcomed in the highest echelons of Dazzle and Bazaar.
I took the elevator down.
With my heart racing I headed out to the parking lot. Desperation had me searching every inch of my car for the finely cut glass bottle that held my future.
Finally I gave up and slumped in exasperation in the driver’s seat. Taking a moment, I sat there gripping the steering wheel unable to drive.
I blew it.
Solemnly, and half in a daze, I drove those terrible hours back to Dunedin. Not even the journey over the bridge with its sweeping ocean views on either side could soothe the ache of failure.
You left it on the countertop, I said reassuringly to myself as I parked my car outside the store. I managed to get the key in the door’s lock at last, my hands shaking in anticipation.
Once inside, I scanned the countertops for my bottle, inhaling the heavenly aromas that melded together from a generous collection of both vintage bottles and modern pieces meant for the younger crowd and their flair for fun.
The same fun I had given up to make this place a reality. I couldn’t fathom losing my beloved store. Couldn’t understand how my usual pedantic methods had fallen short. I was a chemist, for goodness sake. Nothing I did was spontaneous or without conscious effort.
Usually, I would be pleasantly distracted by the sunlight flooding in through the front bay window, reflecting off the rows of perfume samples and throwing colorful rainbow patterns around the room—but not now.
Now I was frantic.
The bottle wasn’t here.
I couldn’t understand how it had slipped away from me. I had left the store at ten this morning after placing the bottle in my handbag. After locking up, I had raced off to fight the traffic so I could make good time for my meeting with Anna.
Where the hell was it?
I hurried down the hallway and shoved open the door to the workroom, ready to scour the countertops. I stopped short when I saw my set of scales on the floor, smashed to pieces. Where my iMac had once sat was a fine square of dust.
Breathe.
Heart racing, I glanced toward the stairs that led to my private space, listening for any noise that might hint the thief was still here. The alarm had failed…though I remembered setting it right before I left.
How could so much go wrong so quickly?
In a daze, I walked toward the storeroom cupboard that was ajar and cautiously stepped inside. My Orris root oil was gone, my most expensive ingredient flown in from abroad. I backed out and spun around, realizing all my formulas were gone.
I still had my notes.
Right?
As long as my ledger was untouched I could replicate my creations—including the one that was two years in the making. Each minuscule drop carefully documented in that ledger, each tincture extracted, each combination of bourbon vanilla, rare spices from Tibet, roses from Penzance.
Every day of the last two years dedicated to not only running this place but crafting a wondrous fragrance. I had p
erfected its top notes and painstakingly tweaked its base notes until I’d captured a scent with all its complex mysteries. More than this, I had invoked an ethereal experience, a profound sense of being.
Hurrying over to the cabinet where I kept my ledger, I reached out and grasped the drawer handle, knuckles taut with tension. I stole a few seconds to stir my courage. The formula was so elaborate it had been impossible to memorize.
That ledger had to be in here.
As this truth burned through me, I inhaled a desperate breath and pulled open the drawer.
THERE WAS ONLY ONE WOMAN I would allow to derail my Monday. Though, admittedly, The Artisan Cafe was a decent choice for lunch, so this spontaneous meeting with Penelope would at least be bearable.
Dealing with my sister was at times entertaining and other times strained. Our personal visions for our company clashed with the same fervor as the Cuban blood surging through our veins, albeit third generation. Penelope’s volatile temperament and my more reasoned outbursts saw us flashing hot and cold and everything in between. Of course, running a multi-million dollar business meant that passion was the bedrock of our success.
Here, in the outside seating area, I waited for the concierge to tell me which table would be ours. Beyond, upon still waters, a yacht sailed by and I took a deep, envious breath of fresh air, wishing it was me out there on that never-ending blue expanse.
The serenity here wouldn’t last.
The tables would fill with diners and all of them would be vying for the best view overlooking Bel Harbor with its stretch of Atlantic.
“Sir, your table’s ready,” said the young waitress, ending my daydreams.
Turning, I threw the petite blonde a warm smile and she froze for a beat. This wasn’t an uncommon response. My heritage had awarded me a light golden complexion, and my raven locks contrasted appealingly with my hazel eyes. Today I was wearing a bespoke suit tailored with extraordinary skill and cut to highlight my physique. I took more amusement than I should have from towering over her, reveling in her soft blush when I flashed a wicked grin.
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