The Little Perfume Shop Off the Champs-Élysées
Page 1
What is French for falling in love?
When Del leaves small town America to compete in a perfume competition in Paris, she thinks it is just the next step on her five-year-plan. It’s an exciting opportunity. What started out as just a dream for Del and her twin sister is nearly in her grasp. If she wins this competition, they are on their way to opening their very own perfume boutique!
Arriving in Paris, watching the sun glinting off the Seine and wandering the Champs-Élysées, Del discovers the most perfect perfumery she’s ever seen. Yet, as the competition dawns Del realizes that whilst she might have had the best nose in her small village, her competitors seem to know more than she could ever have dreamed. This competition isn’t going to be easy…
Del has the romance of Paris to sweep her away from her worries, but as the competition heats up, so does her desire for that which she cannot have! If only the dashing owner Sebastien didn’t smell so seductive, look so handsome and make her heart flutter like it never has before. They say love smells as sweet as a red rose in bloom, but Del would tell anyone that true love can’t be bottled – it’s beautiful and unique to everyone…even herself. With everything on the line for her future, can Del really let a little attraction get in the way of securing her dreams?
Also by Rebecca Raisin
Cedarwood Lodge Novellas
Celebrations & Confetti at Cedarwood Lodge
Brides & Bouquets at Cedarwood Lodge
Midnight & Mistletoe at Cedarwood Lodge
The Gingerbread Café trilogy
Christmas at the Gingerbread Café
Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café
Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café
The Bookshop on the Corner
Secrets at Maple Syrup Farm
The Little Paris Collection
The Little Bookshop on the Seine
The Little Antique Shop under the Eiffel Tower
The Little Perfume Shop off the Champs-Élysées
Rebecca Raisin
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Rebecca Raisin 2018
Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9781474035521
Version: 2018-01-24
REBECCA RAISIN is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. She’s been widely published in various short-story anthologies, and in fiction magazines, and is now focusing on writing romance. The only downfall about writing about gorgeous men who have brains as well as brawn is falling in love with them – just as well they’re fictional. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships, and, most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.
Follow her on Twitter @jaxandwillsmum
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/RebeccaRaisinAuthor
Website rebeccaraisin.com
Dedication
For Jeff. Like Del in this book we’ll always wish for just one more day…
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Author Bio
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
Acknowledgements
Excerpt
Letter from the Author
Endpages
Chapter One
Sunlight blistered the window of the car, shooting in bright prisms of light as I unfurled, shaking the grogginess of travel fatigue. The chauffeur came to a slow stop at the entrance of an apartment just off the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Goggle-eyed, I stared at my new lodgings awed at the grandeur, from the wrought iron balconies to the elaborate stone work surrounding the windows whose white shutters were thrown open to receive the breeze. Planter boxes housed a riot of red flowers which spilled over in search of the sun.
I was going to live here? A place so wildly different from the family ranch in Michigan, it may as well have been on another planet. I thanked my lucky stars once more.
‘Mademoiselle,’ the driver said smoothly. ‘Aurelie will meet you at the entrance.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur.’ With brisk efficiency he exited the car and opened my door, took my bag, and led me to the grand entrance.
‘Do you need anything else?’ he asked in heavily accented English.
I shook my head and smiled. ‘No, I’m all right. Thanks for the lift.’ I waved him goodbye as he sped off, blasting his horn at unsuspecting pedestrians. From what I’d seen so far, the French drove like they were competing in Le Mans, hair-raisingly fast, beeping and cornering like they had some place special to be.
I checked my watch and glanced up. A second story curtain shivered as if someone stood just behind it. Aurelie? I clutched my small suitcase close and waited while doubt grabbed a stranglehold.
What if I was out of my depth here? What if the other contestants all knew more than me with their formal training and chemistry degrees? What if… I gave myself a stern talking to – no more what ifs. I was just as good as anyone else, if not better! So I’d struggled a little without Nan when it came to composing new formulas; I was sure it was just a stage and I’d soon be back to my best with my secret weapon, Nan’s trusty perfumery bible. And I had passion, enthusiasm, and the desire to win.
Honestly, it could have been Mars and I’d have been happy to escape the gossipy confines of aptly named Whispering Lakes and everything I’d left behind.
The application process for the Leclére Parfumerie competition had been interminable with rigorous testing in every facet of perfumery. I’d made videos, sen
t perfume samples, been grilled by the Leclére management team over Skype about perfume regions, produce, blending, extraction techniques, ageing, and marketing strategies. They’d frowned at first when I explained I used perfumery almost like a tonic for all that ails, so I soon stopped mentioning that and focused on wowing them with secret formulas I’d developed with Nan. Thankfully, she’d left me them as a legacy, but I knew I needed to step out from the shadows and make my own again soon. It felt so wrong without her, that’s all. Like part of me was missing.
It had taken months to get to the last round of the application process; so many times I thought I’d bomb out, so when I got The Call I felt like I’d earned my place. And the timing couldn’t have been better. This was my chance to escape small town living, and take my perfumery to the next level.
The grand prize was an impressive amount of money, and the chance to design a perfume range which would open a lot of doors in the notoriously cliquey world of fragrance.
So here I was, in the most romantic of cities. The Leclére Parfumerie store was just down the street; I couldn’t quite make it out but the alluring scents of jasmine, cedar, and French vanilla drifted into the summer day, beckoning to me like some kind of fragrant Pied Piper. Could I resist the urge to follow my nose? The mélange of aromas was intoxicating and warranted further investigation…
As I dithered about taking a quick peek, my scarf disentangled itself and flew across the street, the delicate silk undulating in the wind. Without thinking I stepped off the curb to grab it just as a car whooshed past perilously close, sending me sprawling backwards to the pavement. With an oomph I landed hard, hurting both my derrière and my pride.
Taking a shuddery breath, I caught the eye of an attractive stranger across the road. His face was etched with concern, his deep green eyes clouded with worry. Red-faced, I shrugged in apology to the man, the witness of my near-miss. Our gazes locked for fraction of a second. Time stopped and my lonely heart skipped a beat. That feeling was quickly replaced by mortification, so I closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to steady my heart. When I looked up again, he gave me a brief nod and continued on, striding down the Champs-Élysées, hands in his jeans pockets, black hair ruffled and windswept.
Whew! I reminded myself I wasn’t in Whispering Lakes anymore and couldn’t just blithely step out on the road like I could back home. I took some comfort in the man whose concern had given me pause. And a little zap of longing too.
Standing up, I patted myself down and straightened my skirt just as Aurelie appeared. With immaculately coiffed hair and make-up she walked surefootedly in high heels and came to greet me, smelling of Indian rose, a scent I adored. She had the posture of a dancer, and was lithe and graceful, a trait it seemed many French women shared. Was that glamour something they were all born with? Or was it something they were taught? I envied it. My newly purchased clothes suddenly seemed gauche, so obviously chain-store bought.
‘Welcome, Del.’ She smiled graciously and ushered me into a luxurious foyer, all gilt and dark wood, velvet draperies, the scent of polish and whispers from the past. It was grand and sumptuous, and I had to work hard not to stand there slack jawed with wonder.
Aurelie smiled as if she knew what I was thinking. ‘Welcome to Paris,’ she said in thickly accented English. ‘I’ll to take you to your room so you can settle in. Hopefully Seb will be along later to greet you.’
Hopefully? Sebastien had been promoted to head of Leclére Parfumerie after his father’s death, but so far I’d had no contact with him despite the myriad of calls that had gone back and forth between me and the management team in the lead up to the competition. Truth be told, I itched to meet the enigmatic man because there was so little known about him. All my internet searches had come up blank.
‘I’m looking forward to meeting him,’ I said as a yawn got the better of me. Damn! It smacked of bad manners and my nan would have told me so in no uncertain terms.
‘You must be tired from all that travel?’ Aurelie said with a smile.
‘Yes,’ I laughed. ‘I binge-watched TV shows on the flight when I probably should have tried to sleep.’ Who knew air travel was so fun? From the little bags of peanuts to the plastic flutes of champagne, I’d said yes to everything offered, delighting in it all. And now I was too wound up to feel anything other than excitement and a new level of jitters.
‘Enjoy every moment, I say. Life is for living.’
There was a real warmth in the French woman, she wasn’t the least bit standoffish like I’d presumed the Lecléres would be. They’d shunned the press for years claiming their perfumes told their own stories and they refused to muddy those with their own, so I expected her to be more contained, less friendly.
After the death of patriarch, Vincent, things were changing. It was out of character for the family to open their doors and let strangers in. Was son and heir Sebastien going to make his own mark on the world of perfumery? Were they going to expand the business? Were they secretly holding the competition to find another head perfumer? So many questions remained unanswered.
Sebastien was a master at eluding the paparazzi and after many years they’d eventually given up so it was a mystery what the man looked like. I imagined the stereotypical perfumery nerd; the typical pinched-face, thin-lipped, starved of sun type. Sad as it was I could’ve used a good dose of vitamin D myself.
‘Come this way, I want to show you something,’ she said and led me back outside.
I followed Aurelie’s brisk pace, and then came to a sudden stop. Before me stood the wondrous Leclére Parfumerie. At the sight of the legendary boutique my pulse raced. I’d dreamed of stepping into this fragrant nirvana for years! Any good perfumer revered Leclére and its heritage; it was famous the world over because Vincent had turned the art of making fragrance on its head and revolutionized scent, but the store resembled an old apothecary, and was even more breathtaking in person. ‘Oh, Aurelie, this is like something out of a dream!’
‘Our little version of Wonderland…’
The dark stone façade of the store was weather beaten and grey with age. Thick teal blue velvet ruched draperies graced the edges of the window. Inside, antique chairs in hues of royal blue sat solemnly in front of golden display cabinets. Knotty and scarred cabinetry lined the walls, and housed a range of lotions and potions. Centre stage hung a black and white portrait of the master himself, Vincent Leclére. The eccentric man with kind eyes and a secretive smile.
Perfume bottles glowed under soft spotlights. They were unique to each other, some were fringed with delicate gold beading, others had sparkling crystal stoppers. What magical scent did they contain? It was all I could do not to step inside and test them all on the soft skin on the inside of my wrist. Just as I pulled myself from the window I caught sight of a woman who looked so much like that red-haired, powerhouse singer from the UK. When that famous bawdy cackle of hers rang out I was certain it was her.
If rumours were true, Leclére perfumed the biggest names in show business, but of course the family never uttered a word about their famous clients. ‘Is that…?’ Today was no different, Aurelie gave me the ghost of a smile and just lifted a brow.
Aurelie pointed out this and that of special significance through the window – a pretty pink high back chair that had once belonged to a princess long gone from this world, and was gifted to Vincent, along with her antique dressing table where customers now sat and stared at their reflections. Did the princess visit the store late at night, the mirror a portal from another world? As farfetched as the idea was, the perfumery gave you that kind of impression, that it was a place where magic abounded.
And it was so French, I felt as though I’d stepped into a vintage postcard. Even though Jen wasn’t here, I could hear her voice. Would you look at that, she’d say, or aren’t you a lucky thing getting to visit Paris? If only my twin sister Jennifer could see the perfumery! She’d be clutching my arm and exclaiming at everything like a child.
&
nbsp; There was a dull ache in my heart when I thought of her, a quiet thump that reminded me we were under different patches of sky for the first time ever. She was the girl who mirrored my movements, finished my sentences and was identical to me in every way except she was born with no sense of smell. Incredible really, when I lived, breathed and dreamed fragrance. Still, we had planned on opening our own business. The perfumery boutique we envisaged, our empire, the thing that would take us from small town Michigan and catapult us into the stratosphere, was on hold. Indefinitely. It still smarted, to be honest, the way she just gave up on me. Never in a million years did I see that coming, not from my twin, the girl who wanted the same things as me. Or so I’d thought.
But I was here now, fresh start and all that.
‘You’ll have more time to explore the perfumery,’ Aurelie said, bringing me back to the present. ‘But for now, let me show you to your home for the next little while.’
Back at the apartment, Aurelie glided noiselessly upstairs while I clomped behind her, hefting my suitcase trying not to huff and puff like I was out of shape. The space was rich with the scent of French cooking; buttery garlic, white wine, fresh thyme, and something delectable slowly simmering, its intoxicating flavors wafting through the walls.
‘Down the hall to the left is a sitting room and there’s a shared kitchen and dining room just past. If you want anything in particular, let me know. You have a mini kitchenette in your room, but any proper cooking will have to be done in the shared kitchen. I trust you’ll enjoy it here.’
I nodded my thanks.
‘This is where you’ll stay with your roommate, our Parisian entrant Clementine. If you need me there’s an information pack on the bedside table with my contact details. The afternoon is yours, though there’s not much left of it. Dinner is at eight o’clock at our apartment. Sebastien will be there to welcome you.’