The Scent of You

by Maggie Alderson

  ‘So the thing is, Daphne,’ he said, ‘seeing you framed in the window like that is making me think we must shoot it in Paris. How do you like that idea?’

  ‘Oh, that would be marvellous!’ said Daphne. ‘I haven’t been for so long. We shot the Céline photographs in a big studio in a rather ghastly bit of London, which was disappointing. I would adore to go to Paris again.’

  ‘I wish we could do them at the Crillon, to really recreate the Mark Shaw photograph,’ said Guy, ‘but they’re closed for renovations, so I’ll get the shoot manager to find a location that looks like the Crillon – with those gorgeous long windows. We’ll stay at the Ritz, of course.’

  ‘Of course?’ thought Polly. Where did he get his funding? Oh well, Daphne looked beatific with happiness, that was the main thing.

  ‘Oh Guy, darling, how wonderful,’ Daphne was saying. ‘I used to stay there so often, I always had the same room and they always made sure there were white roses for me. I wonder if they’ll remember me?’

  Guy turned to Polly and winked at her. He’d make sure they ‘remembered’ her, she was sure of it, and the white roses would be there too.

  ‘And you’ll come, won’t you, Poll?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘What a treat.’

  Not adding that she would never let her eighty-five year old sometimes-confused mother go to Paris without her. Especially not with him.

  Lunch finished and they headed to the coffee lounge. It was pretty full up, because with their late arrival in the dining room and all the talking Daphne and Guy had been doing – not to mention Daphne’s torturously slow eating of very little. Everyone else had finished before them.

  There didn’t seem to be any free chairs, and Polly was delighted to see Chum waving at her. He stood up and came over.

  ‘We’ve saved three seats for you,’ he said, ‘and you’d better come quick, because it got a bit ugly holding on to them just now.’

  He turned to Daphne and put out his hand.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Masterson-Mackay,’ he said. ‘I’m Edward Cliddington-Hanley-Maugham. I was at St Andrews with Hippolyta. My stepfather, Bill Edmonstone, lives here, I think you know him.’

  ‘Oh, you’re Bill’s son,’ she said. ‘How lovely to meet you.’

  Chum then put his hand out to Guy, who was looking at him a bit coolly, Polly thought. Adding to the awkwardness, it was hard for Guy to shake it because Daphne had her arm tightly round his right elbow.

  ‘Edward Cliddington,’ said Chum.

  Polly remembered his cousin shortening his name, in the same way.

  Guy waved at him with his trapped hand. ‘Guy Webber-Tango-Foxtrot,’ he said, nodding curtly and then walking Daphne towards the empty seats.

  Polly was so mortified by what Guy just said she felt rooted to the spot, but Chum didn’t seem to care. He gave her a conspiratorial smile, and put out his left elbow for her to take. She smiled back at him and threaded her arm through it, willing her cheeks not to flame up again.

  ‘Artie’s dying to see you,’ said Chum. ‘I don’t think Bill can hold her back much longer.’

  As he spoke, Artie broke free and bounded over to them, jumping up at Polly. She fell to her knees and rubbed the dog’s lovely head, patting her back and submitting to some thorough face licking.

  ‘Oh, do stop that, Artie,’ said Chum. ‘I can’t take you anywhere.’

  ‘Hello, you lovely thing,’ said Polly. ‘I’ve got someone with me today who’d love to see you, but I’m not going to say the name, because you’ll go bonkers.’

  ‘Shall we skol the gruesome coffee and head out with them?’ suggested Chum, when Polly stood up again.

  ‘Let me just make sure my mum and Guy are sorted, so I can leave them for a bit,’ said Polly, ‘and then, yes, please.’

  She sat down and Chum took orders from them all for coffee, which was laid out on a sideboard at the end of the room. He headed off and Polly turned her attention to the other three.

  Bill was asking Guy how he came to be a perfumer. Nice going, Bill, thought Polly. Maybe he could get an answer out of him.

  ‘I always loved playing with my mother’s perfume when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘My parents went away a lot when I was young, so I used to go looking for my mum’s smell.’

  Bill beamed at Polly.

  ‘I think we can all relate to that, eh, Hippolyta?’ he said.

  ‘That’s pretty much how it started for me,’ she agreed.

  ‘What perfume did your mother wear?’ Guy asked Bill.

  ‘You can ask Hippolyta about that,’ he replied. ‘I still want to hear how you went from liking your mother’s scent to making a profession out of it. How did you train to make them? It must be a very complex operation, I’ve often wondered about it. It must be a bit like painting with invisible paint. So how did you learn to do it?’

  Go, Bill! Thought Polly. Shame she now knew the answer to that part of it. Perhaps if she left them to it, Bill could find out how he funded it all, but before Bill could pursue his interrogation, Chum arrived back with a tray of cups and a large plate of biscuits.

  ‘Here you are, Hippolyta,’ he said, putting a cup and saucer in front of her. ‘Are you sure you only want hot water?’

  ‘So how come you and Bill are allowed to call her Hippolyta?’ asked Guy, looking at Chum pointedly. Polly could have thrown her hot water right over him.

  ‘I’ve always called her that,’ said Chum, looking right back at him and biting into a ginger nut.

  ‘Well, I’m only allowed to call her Polly,’ said Guy, turning to look at her. ‘Why can’t I have special naming privileges?’

  ‘Because I haven’t known you since I was nineteen,’ said Polly. ‘And in the perfume world – and my yoga classes – I’m Polly and I’d like to keep it that way.’

  ‘But these two are allowed to call you the full Hippolyta?’ persisted Guy.

  ‘It’s such a lovely name,’ said Bill, ‘and so rarely heard, I’m afraid I insisted upon it.’

  Polly glanced at her mum and saw that her eyes had closed. She was having a micro nap, something she’d started to do recently – particularly if the conversation wasn’t about her.

  ‘Your coffee’s here, Mummy,’ said Polly, with a gentle nudge, hoping to wake her before the others noticed she’d dropped off. However annoying he was, she didn’t want Guy to be put off using Daphne in his ad campaign. She really wanted her mother to have that treat.

  Daphne came to and immediately fixed her face into its most radiant beam. Polly hoped the coffee would stop her nodding off again.

  ‘Guy has asked Mummy to appear in his advertising campaign,’ said Polly to Bill, to turn the conversation back to Daphne.

  It worked, and Bill started asking Guy and Daphne interested questions about what that would entail. Polly caught Chum’s eye and he smiled at her. Artie saw the contact between them and stood up, walking over to Polly and putting an elegant paw on her thigh.

  ‘Shall we take them out while this lot are chatting?’ said Chum, nibbling on a bourbon biscuit.

  Polly nodded, hoping she could make it out of the room without running. She stood up.

  ‘I’m going to check on the dog,’ she said, ‘give him a breather. Will you be all right for twenty minutes or so, Mummy?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Guy will look after me, and if we finish down here before you get back, he can come and see my photographs.’

  ‘Great,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll see you up in the apartment, then.’

  ‘I’ll come out too,’ said Chum, as though it had only just occurred to him. ‘Artie needs to stretch her legs as well.’ ‘Have a nice time, Hippolyta,’ said Guy, with an infuriating smirk.

  ‘Thanks, Roger,’ said Polly, and followed Chum out.

  ‘That was strangely tense,’ he said, as they walked along the corridor towards the reception area.

  Polly rolled her eyes.

  ‘Guy’s a bit of a number,’
she said. ‘He’s a sweetie really – and very clever – but he likes to make everything into a . . . oh, I don’t know, a thing.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ asked Chum.

  ‘I went to check out his perfume shop one day and we became friends. He’s a really gifted perfumer and it makes up for a lot of his silliness. Now he wants to use my mum in his swishy ad campaign and it will be such a treat for her to be taken to Paris and stay at the Ritz and have a bit of a taste of the life she used to live. Guy was already a big fan of hers – which is a bit creepy, frankly, but he collects vintage fashion photographs and he’s got some of her and he wants to reproduce them for the—’

  ‘He’s gay, then?’ said Chum.

  Polly laughed.

  ‘What an assumption! I don’t know what he is. He never talks about his love life. I’m not sure he has one.’

  ‘I know how he feels,’ said Chum. ‘Artie doesn’t, though, look at her.’

  The moment they’d stepped out of the main door into the car park, Artie had bolted towards Polly’s car. She jumped up and put her paws on the window, barking. Polly could hear Digger’s answering woofs from inside.

  She rushed to let him out, glad of an excuse to have a moment to think about what Chum had just said. He was definitely single, then. Not just unmarried. Why did that knowledge please her? She wasn’t. If anything, knowing he was single just made things worse.

  Digger and Artie went bouncing off together onto the grass, chasing each other round the trunk of their favourite monkey puzzle tree.

  ‘There isn’t really anywhere much to walk here,’ said Chum, leaning back on his heels and surveying the scene. ‘Shall we take a turn around the lawn, ma’am? See what flowers are up? I saw some primroses on the way over, which always makes it feel like spring is starting to stir. I love this time of year.’

  He put his arm out again and Polly was happy to take it. Too happy. They set off past the tree where the dogs were still playing, stopping as they went to admire the daffodils and crocuses. The garden turned round the side of the building, and there was a bench set into a lovely old wall, which must have surrounded the garden of the old house that was knocked down to build the complex. On either side of the bench were two beautiful clouds of yellow flowers.

  ‘Oh, look,’ said Polly, ‘the mimosa’s out, how lovely. Let’s go and smell it.’

  They headed over and as they got closer the scent of the fluffy yellow blooms filled the air.

  ‘Ah,’ said Polly, breathing deeply. ‘Some of my favourite perfumes are based on this smell. It reminds me of my time in Australia. It’s a native plant there. They call it silver wattle.’

  ‘Shall we sit and enjoy it for a moment?’ said Chum.

  They settled themselves down on the bench and the dogs raced past, glancing over at them as though checking in to make sure Chum and Polly were still there and letting them know that they were, too.

  ‘Hey, Artie!’ Chum called out, and the dog came to a sudden halt and turned to look at him, her elegant head on one side. ‘Nothing, just kidding, as you were.’

  Artie seemed to sense she wasn’t really being summoned and ran off to catch up with Digger, who had stopped and turned round, searching for her.

  ‘Rotten tease,’ said Polly.

  Chum grinned at her. ‘I like to keep her on her toes – well, her paws. Remind her who the pack leader is.’

  ‘OK, Mr Dog Whisperer,’ said Polly.

  ‘So you lived in Australia,’ said Chum. ‘Lucky you. I’ve always wanted to go. Did you like it?’

  ‘I loved it,’ said Polly. ‘We were only there two years and it broke my heart to come back after such a short stay. The kids were little and it was just heaven for them.’

  ‘So why did you come back?’ asked Chum.

  ‘My husband got offered a really good job,’ said Polly.

  She’d started the sentence without thinking, but by the time she’d finished it, she felt almost sick. That word ‘husband’ hung in the air between them. Like a bad smell, thought Polly.

  What used to be one of the most positive things in her life – her happy marriage – now seemed dirty and tainted, with too many unhappy and confusing associations. And now complicated even more by the inappropriate feelings she was starting to have for another man. The one she was sitting in this garden with.

  ‘Has he still got that job?’ asked Chum.

  Polly thought for a moment, looking Chum right in the eye.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said very quietly.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about that?’ asked Chum, gently, as though he was speaking to a frightened animal.

  She felt tears fill her eyes and tried to blink them away.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Polly. ‘One day. Not right now, but some time soon, yes.’

  After that looming deadline she’d decided on with Clemmie had passed and she might actually know something. It was only a week away now. Ugh.

  Chum looked away for a moment, brushing his hand over the mimosa bush, so more of the glorious scent was released into the air, then turned back to her.

  ‘Have you googled me yet?’ he asked her.

  Polly shook her head, wiping a tear from her cheek, but smiling.

  ‘I’m not going to,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to do that to you. It doesn’t seem right. I’ve got a lot of my life out there on the internet, because I put it there – but I only broadcast what I’m happy for people to know. I don’t think the stuff you’re referring to is something you put on a blog, right?’

  Chum laughed.

  ‘You’re so right,’ he said. ‘And I do heartily wish it wasn’t out there for all to see. It doesn’t turn into chip paper any more, all that stuff, that’s the problem. It’s all there to be picked over forever like a dead gazelle in the Kalahari.’

  ‘That’s why I don’t want to look at it,’ said Polly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Chum, laying his hand gently on hers, where it was resting on the seat of the bench. ‘It’s very thoughtful of you, but I do want to tell you about it some time. You’ll understand me more when you know what’s gone on, and then, when I’ve done that, if you like, you can tell me about your skeletons.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Polly. ‘But probably, yes.’

  He gave her hand a squeeze and lifted his off again.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘I think they’re saying it’s going to be nice weather again next week—’

  ‘Your friends at Farming Today?’ said Polly.

  ‘The very ones,’ said Chum. ‘You should listen. They had a gripping item today about paddock eggs. But I mean it – if the weather is good and you’re free, let’s do a really long walk. I’ve got just the one in mind – it would take all day.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more,’ said Polly.

  And she meant it.

  Thursday, 17 March

  Polly and Clemmie were sitting in the kitchen trying to work up the courage to ring the police about David. It was three days before their deadline of 20 March, because they hadn’t realised that was a Sunday. It seemed important to do it in the working week.

  ‘Please, you call them, Clemmie,’ pleaded Polly, throwing a piece of orange peel at her. ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘He’s your husband,’ said Clemmie, throwing it back.

  ‘He’s your father,’ said Polly.

  ‘Who’s her father?’ asked Lucas, coming into the kitchen scratching his tummy, his hair standing up on his head in a tangled mess that reminded Polly of Digger after a particularly rough exchange with a hedge.

  ‘Have we got a new one?’ he continued. ‘We seem to have lost the other one.’

  Polly and Clemmie looked at each other. They’d been hoping that Lucas would spend most of the day asleep to give them space to start making inquiries. They hadn’t wanted to tell Lucas about it until they were sure he was all right.

  Lucas had only arrived home for the Easter vacation late the
night before, so Polly hadn’t had a chance to talk properly with him, to be sure he was really OK and hadn’t just been putting on a good FaceTime front to her and Clemmie.

  Polly glanced at the clock – not even midday. Practically dawn by his standards – that had to be a good sign in itself.

  ‘It’s the same father,’ she said. ‘The one we haven’t seen for three months . . . I’ll make you some coffee and we can all talk things through.’

  ‘Oh, are we talking about it now?’ said Lucas, sitting down at the table and massaging his temples with the heels of his hands. ‘I thought there was some kind of super-injunction against discussing it, because every time I’ve tried to bring it up before, it’s like I’ve been struck mute and nobody can hear me.’

  ‘There kind of was a total news blackout,’ said Clemmie. ‘That’s what Dad wanted for some unexplained reason, and it seemed best to go along with it at first, but it’s been three months now, and Mum and I have decided we’ve had enough of his nonsense and we’re going to find him.’

  Polly busied herself with making the coffee and a pile of toast for Lucas. She was more grateful for her level-headed daughter at that moment than she could possibly express.

  ‘Ooh, thanks, Mum,’ said Lucas, as she put the toast on the table, followed by the butter and various jams and spreads.

  Clemmie reached out and took a piece.

  ‘Oi!’ said Lucas. ‘I need that. That was going to be my Nutella slice. I was going Marmite, peanut butter, raspberry jam, Nutella – starter, main course, pudding, petits fours – and now I’ve only got three slices, I can’t run my full gamut.’

  ‘I’ll make some more,’ said Polly, thinking a nice pile of buttery toast would be comforting for all of them. She felt like she was going to need some props to get through this. She still had Lucas’s old sniffy blanket stashed away somewhere in the house and right now the thought of sucking her thumb while cuddling a bit of old ragged wool was quite appealing.