She raised her glass and Lucien smiled in that lazy, confident way he had. He was a very good-looking man, she had to admit, and so elegant, with gold cufflinks in the turned-back cuffs of his perfect white shirt. It wasn’t like he was some hideous old sleaze. Then she glanced at the front of that shirt and noticed that it seemed to be open a couple of buttons lower than before she’d gone to the loo. She could clearly see the curve of his pectoral mound.
Polly just stopped herself laughing out loud. It was as unsubtle as those dresses film stars sometimes wore on the red carpet, where you could see the line of their underboob.
He leaned forward, putting his forearms on the table and treating Polly to an even less obstructed view of his muscular brown chest, clearly about to say something, when their waiter appeared again – with Guy in tow.
‘This gentleman is asking for you, Monsieur Lechêne,’ he said.
Polly couldn’t believe how quickly Guy had got there, and felt as though the cavalry had arrived. She was so grateful to have the tension broken she had to stop herself from springing to her feet and throwing her arms around him.
She glanced at Lucien, whose brows had knitted together into a deep frown.
‘Oh good,’ said Guy, ‘I see we’ve already segued from coffee to brandy. I’ll have what he’s having.’
He clapped the waiter on the back and pulled a chair over from the neighbouring table, which had just been vacated. He sat down and put his right hand out towards Lucien, who took it with very little enthusiasm. Strong wafts of Half Past Eight were still coming off Guy. Perhaps Lucien didn’t want to get tainted by it, Polly thought.
‘Guy Webber’s the name,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry about arriving at your event wearing my own fragrance before. It was really bad form. I just wanted to impress Polly and I got carried away.’
Lucien said nothing, his only response being to tilt his head backwards, quickly raising and lowering his eyebrows in dismissal. A very clear Gallic expression of ‘whatever’. Polly was glad the waiter returned at that moment with Guy’s drink.
‘Well, it was a shame you missed the interview,’ she said. ‘Lucien told us the best stories, and I think you would have particularly appreciated hearing about his creative process.’
‘Yes, you might have learned something,’ said Lucien, then swilled his brandy balloon and buried his nose in it, breathing deeply.
Guy glanced over at Polly and pulled an ‘oops’ face. She shook her head at him. It was like being in primary school with him around.
Lucien raised his eyes, his nose still in the glass.
‘Do you like armagnac?’ he asked Guy.
Guy nodded. ‘Very much. My father drinks it.’
One point Webber, thought Polly.
‘Perhaps you would like to tell us what you get from this one?’ said Lucien. ‘It’s a Baron de Sigognac XO.’
Guy swirled his glass and stuck his nose inside it as Lucien had done. He moved the glass away and then went back down for another sniff.
‘Christmas-cake spiced fruits, vanilla – I’d even say custard – with hints of rose and violet,’ he said.
Lucien looked back at him steadily and nodded.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘You’re quite good. For an Englishman. Perhaps you’d like to smell my new fragrances? Seeing as how you missed out earlier.’
‘I’d love that,’ said Guy, apparently unperturbed by Lucien’s patronising tone.
‘Polly, do you mind opening your bottles?’ asked Lucien. ‘I will make sure you get fresh ones.’
Polly pulled two boxes out of the heavyweight carrier bag Lucien’s PA had given her as they’d left the event. She took off the cellophane and the outer sleeves with Lucien’s name on them in classic black engraver’s type, then opened the shiny black boxes within, to reveal the chunky crystal bottles. Their gold tops were in the shape of acorns: a play on his name, which meant ‘oak’ in French, and also a reference to oakmoss, one of the classic ingredients of his signature chypre style.
Guy watched the process with the concentration of a cat eyeballing its intended prey, as Lucien pulled some blotters out of his jacket pocket.
‘Do you always have those in there?’ asked Polly.
‘Of course,’ he said, picking out three and pushing one between each lower knuckle of the fingers of his left hand, holding them away from the table and spraying them with one of the perfume bottles.
With great ceremony he then waved the blotters in the air to disperse the alcohol, and handed one by its unsprayed tip to Polly, then another to Guy.
Polly brought hers slowly up to her nose and closed her eyes, letting the magic of Lucien’s artistry unfold. It was a classic chypre, exactly what Lucien was known for, and she adored it.
She knew the ingredients from the interview, but what came crowding into her mind now were her own associations with the smell – Hermès Kelly bags, camel coats, Catherine Deneuve smoking a cigarette in a Paris café, a perfect French manicure, parquet floors, a lazy Persian cat . . . gorgeous.
Without thinking, she opened her eyes, found the bottle and sprayed it liberally onto her left inner arm, waiting for a moment and then bringing it up to her nose to see how it smelled on her skin.
She glanced at Lucien to see him smiling at her, his lids half-closed. He was a very attractive man, she thought, there was no denying it. If she’d been single like many of her yoga girls, she would have felt much less confused about him. He was, as Shirlee would have said, ‘a hot patoota’. Just not for her.
Meanwhile, Guy was in the zone, eyes closed, a beatific expression on his face as he slowly fanned the blotter back and forth under his nose, taking alternately one long then one shorter breath in. Polly and Lucien watched him as he opened his eyes.
‘Another classic for the history books, Monsieur Lechêne,’ he said. ‘Superb.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lucien very seriously. ‘And what do you get?’
‘Your classic chypre base at the heart, of course,’ said Guy. ‘Oakmoss, patchouli, bergamot, labdanum, in the balance you constantly shift and nuance like a conductor, but dancing on top of that tonka, a hint of leather and a cheeky reference to Miss Dior, with some carnation. I think there will be ambergris and sandalwood in the dry-down, and I can’t wait to see how it smells in the middle of the night.’
He picked the bottle up from the table and, pulling his shirt forward, liberally sprayed his chest with it, squirting a bit down his back for good measure.
Lucien laughed. ‘But what if you like the second one better?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be going back to Connolly’s to buy them both tomorrow,’ said Guy, ‘so I can try each of them again and again. How did I do with my guesswork?’
Lucien’s eyes narrowed.
‘You did very well,’ he said. ‘Especially given you had to identify my work over the still somewhat overbearing presence of your own mélange. Let us try the second one.’
He went through the same ritual with the blotters, then Polly and Guy closed their eyes and inhaled.
Again Polly remembered all the notes in this perfume from the event earlier, and enjoyed waiting for each one to register in the olfactory bulb in the front of her brain, while her imagination did its own thing. The neroli, jasmine and sandalwood transported her to a summer night in the south of France, wearing a crisp white shirt – this was a much fresher chypre than the first one. Then she remembered she’d sprayed this one on her wrist during the event earlier and lifted it to her nose to see how it had developed since then. Suddenly, out of nowhere: David.
Her eyes snapped open. Coal tar?
‘Has this got guaiac wood in it?’ she asked Lucien, not caring if it interfered with his testing of Guy.
Lucien smiled broadly.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but very, very deep inside, it’s a basenote, as you would know. Your nose is very good, Polly.’
Guy grasped her wrist and brought it to his nose. ‘It’s just under the bergamot and b
efore the honeysuckle,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘I do like this one more, actually. It seems simpler than the other one, but it’s actually more complicated.’
Lucien regarded him coolly, pushing out his lips.
‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘You have a nose, Mr . . . what was it again?’
‘Webber,’ said Guy. ‘Guy Webber. But my house is called the Great Eastern Fragrance Company. It’s based in the East End.’
‘You are very good – for a beginner – Mr Webber. If I am ever in that part of London, I will come and see you. I would like to smell your work – just not in the strength in which we experienced it this evening.’
They all laughed, and without missing a beat, Guy pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Lucien.
‘It would be a great honour, sir,’ he said.
Lucien took the card and put it in his pocket, then looked at his watch, which Polly had already noticed was a Baume et Mercier. She’d come to know about such things since she’d been doing the blog.
‘Oof,’ he said. ‘It is late, and tomorrow I have to see Harrods and Selfridges and explain to them why I gave the exclusive for the new perfumes to Connolly’s, and why they should keep selling the rest of my range . . . It’s not all smelling beautiful things, what I do. I must go. You can both stay and have another drink if you want to. It’s all on my account.’
He stood up and shook Guy’s hand and then, inserting himself firmly between Guy and Polly, he put his arms around her in a tighter clinch than was normal for a social farewell kiss.
He smelled heavenly. Associations crowded into Polly’s mind, which she did her best to bat away.
It got more difficult to do as he whispered very quietly into her ear.
‘I’m tired of this,’ he said, ‘but I’m not really so tired. I am staying at Claridges. It’s not far. Room 212.’
He paused to fish the cloakroom ticket out of his jacket pocket, threw it on the table, gave her one last lingering look and left.
Polly immediately sat down again. She really needed to finish her brandy. Lucien’s closeness had gone through her like a lightning bolt, making her feel something she’d almost forgotten: extreme arousal. There was no denying it. She experienced a frisson remembering his smell and what he’d said, and took a big swig from her glass.
What was happening to her?
‘Well, that was intense,’ said Guy, wafting the scent up to his face from his shirt. ‘Mmm, it gets even better as it warms up. God, he’s clever. How annoying.’
‘Didn’t you like him?’ asked Polly.
‘It’s not a matter of liking, it’s more that I sensed he might challenge me to a duel at any moment. I don’t think he appreciated my turning up when I did . . . I have a feeling that was your doing and he wasn’t expecting me.’
Polly giggled, she couldn’t help it.
‘I’m glad you did,’ she said.
‘Was he hitting on you?’ asked Guy.
‘Of course not,’ lied Polly. ‘He knows I’m married.’
Guy laughed again. ‘He’s French. That just makes it all the more appealing. Belle de Jour and all that caper.’
‘He’s just intense,’ said Polly, now desperate to change the subject. ‘But I am glad you came, I felt bad letting you down earlier. Tell me, though: however did you get here so quickly?’
‘I was in the pub round the corner,’ Guy said blithely.
‘That was a lucky coincidence,’ said Polly.
‘Nothing coincidental about it,’ said Guy, draining his glass. ‘Shall we have one more? I’ll pay for it. I’m not jumping on Lucy Lechêne’s bill, despite his kind offer.’
‘OK,’ said Polly, thinking the night had been so weird already she might as well keep going. And she welcomed anything that would put off the moment of opening the door to her house, to be greeted only by Digger, who she hoped wasn’t already howling. He’d accepted being left at home for a few hours now, but it was always at the back of her mind. So even if she had fancied a trip to Claridges, she couldn’t have left Digger.
Then what Guy had said just before sank in. The booze had given her brain-lag.
‘What do you mean it was no coincidence you were round the corner?’ she asked him.
‘I followed you from Connolly’s. I found the exit with the limo waiting outside it and sat in a cab behind it.’
Polly thought back.
‘I did see a cab,’ she said.
Guy grinned at her, then turned round to attract the waiter’s attention.
‘Why on earth did you do that?’ she asked him.
‘I thought he might try to stiff me, and if he did, I was going to swoop on you when you left the restaurant.’
‘Oh, that’s not at all creepy and weird, Guy,’ said Polly, suddenly uneasy. It was very creepy and very weird, and it was the last thing she needed after Lucien’s carry-on. First a seducer and now a stalker. Between them and a psycho husband, she really knew how to attract the crazies.
In that moment, exhaustion overtook her and the prospect of Digger’s uncomplicated welcome was suddenly very appealing. It was probably a night for him to have upstairs privileges again. She really didn’t want to be on her own.
‘I’m really tired, Guy,’ she said as the waiter appeared at the table. ‘I won’t have another armagnac after all. It’s surprisingly enervating doing those interviews. I’m going home.’
‘OK,’ said Guy, and turned to the waiter. ‘Can you bring over another armagnac and I’ll come back for it after I’ve put my friend in a taxi?’
Guy waited while the doorman hailed her a cab, then walked her over to it. She told the driver she wanted to go to Archway, not saying the full address because she didn’t want Guy to hear it. That stalkerish behaviour had made her wary.
Then she got in and looked out at him through the open door.
‘Goodnight, Guy,’ she said. ‘It was fun. Let’s get that interview in the diary, yeah?’
He nodded, but didn’t shut the cab door immediately. Fishing in his jacket’s inside pocket, he pulled out a small sample vial and a blotter.
‘This is why I’ve been putting off seeing you,’ he said, handing them to her. ‘I wanted to finish this first. It’s for you.’
She looked down at the tiny bottle of golden liquid as he slammed the taxi door shut and they drove away. Polly turned on the cab’s inside light to examine the vial more closely and saw a round sticker on the side with two letters written on it: ‘PM’.
She assumed it was his name for the new scent. It fitted in perfectly with his time-of-day theme – but it also happened to be her initials and he’d said the perfume was for her. Was that what he’d meant? Had he named it after her?
The small bottle had a spray closure, so she picked up the blotter, gave it a good wetting and waited for the alcohol to evaporate, then brought it up to her nose and breathed in.
She smelled it again. And again.
It was a chypre and it was even better than either of Lucien’s. It was a masterpiece.
Wednesday, 20 January
‘Namaste,’ said Polly, smiling, as everyone in the class put their hands in prayer position and bowed, repeating it back to her.
After a night as strange and intense as the one she’d just experienced – which had also left her with a stonking hangover – this class had been exactly what she needed, making her feel grounded back in reality. Sometimes she thought she should be paying her pupils rather than the other way round.
Everyone was gathering up their bits and pieces and heading off, but Shirlee went straight to the kitchen for what had become their regular post-yoga breakfast. Since she’d come to her aid with Lucas, Polly had begun to see Shirlee very much as a friend and really looked forward to their jolly morning hangouts. Sometimes they invited other people from the group, which Shirlee had dubbed the ‘yogi bears’, but often it was just the two of them, with Maxine on the three mornings a week she now came to the class.
&nb
sp; Polly smiled as she heard the kettle go on and cupboard doors being opened and banged shut. If anyone else had been so presumptuous in her house, she would have been outraged, but Polly found Shirlee’s total lack of regard for other people’s personal space lovable. Living as she was, creeping around the truth, being with someone who said and did whatever she liked was a great comfort.
One by one everyone else left, until it was just Maxine with her in the yoga studio, helping put the belts and blankets away. Suddenly super loud music boomed out of the speakers, making them both jump. Chaka Khan at ten past ten on a Wednesday morning, was a bit surprising. The volume went down and they could hear Shirlee laughing in the kitchen.
‘Sorry, guys,’ she yelled. ‘Turned the wrong knob there.’
Polly and Maxine looked at each other and laughed.
‘What is she like?’ said Maxine.
‘Like no other,’ said Polly. ‘If it was anyone else, I’d be appalled, but somehow when it’s Shirlee, I don’t mind.’
‘She’s a life force,’ said Maxine. ‘Not everybody gets her, though, and I’m glad you do. I’ve known her a long time, how about you?’
Polly thought about it.
‘Well, she’s been coming to my classes for a couple of years, but I’ve only got to know her properly recently. Since that first breakfast on Jan 1. She’s become a friend now, although we don’t see each other much outside this room. How did you meet her?’
Maxine’s eyes flicked away for a moment and then back to Polly’s face.
‘I met her professionally, too,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Polly as they walked into the kitchen together. ‘What do you do?’
‘She’s a shrink,’ said Shirlee with glee. ‘She put my head back together twenty years ago and I haven’t let her out of my sight since, in case it falls to bits again.’
Polly smiled at Maxine, understanding her earlier reticence.
‘What kind of therapy do you do?’ she asked. ‘If that’s not an infringement of your professional discretion?’
The Scent of You Page 12
