After they’d had gone, Polly tried to settle down to work, but couldn’t stop thinking about what Maxine had said to her. She tried to remember her exact words, but couldn’t quite pin them down.
She opened a document on the computer and made notes, trying to draw the words down from her memory, a technique she’d used for revision in her uni days, but she could only come up with fragments. ‘Muddle-headed’ was one and ‘making decisions you won’t understand later’ was another. They definitely applied to her – but weren’t all busy middle-aged people a bit foggy-brained like that?
So how could she cleanse her head and start to see things more clearly? Surely now she knew exactly what had happened with David – he was very ill – and what was going to happen between them – they were getting divorced – she should be able to. But even trying to think it through was giving her a headache.
As Maxine had said, her daily meditation usually helped Polly think more clearly, but, although she still practised it every morning, it didn’t seem to be working its usual magic. She looked out of the window wondering what else she could do. Spring-clean the house? It certainly needed it, but that would just make her think of David, who’d be horrified if he could see how grubby she’d let it get. Go for a walk with Digger enjoying the wild flowers? No, that would just make her think of Chum.
In the end she decided to do some work and take her mind off it all.
She opened a new document, ready to write a blog post – but about what? She was sure she’d had an idea for something the day before, but couldn’t remember what it was now. It had got tangled up with all the unfinished business in her head.
Polly groaned and typed the heading ‘FragrantCloud’, to get herself in the zone, as she always did. Perhaps if she just kept on writing she’d remember what the idea was. ‘The scent of . . .’ she wrote. But the scent of what?
She chewed her finger for a moment and then typed ‘being hopelessly brain boggled’. She laughed and was about to delete it when she suddenly had an idea. Maybe that was the answer. What was the scent of being brain boggled? She’d smell her way out of it.
She ran upstairs, grabbed a tote bag and put every box of perfume she had in her cupboard into it, then all the ones next to the bed and the one she had carelessly left on her dressing table that morning – which was PM, as it so often was these days.
Carrying the bag downstairs, she tipped them all out on the floor of the study and then opened up the bigger perfume cupboard in there. She got down the loose-leaf folder where she kept a printout of the text of each blog post, a throwback to university days she just couldn’t stop herself doing. Sometimes she just needed to read things on paper.
She started at the first blog post she’d written after David left, ‘The scent of yoga’, and scanned down the list of perfumes she’d chosen for it. Just reading the names – Madagascan Jasmine, Exhale, Black Lapsang – she could summon up the smells in her head, as she imagined composers could hear their music as they wrote it.
Then she worked her way through every post she’d written since then and pulled out the ones that felt like they marked turning points – not the general posts about new launches, shops, events and stuff, but the ones that were really about her life.
From each of them she chose one, or two, perfumes that seemed most to sum up that particular moment in her journey since David had left, and lined them up in a row along her desk.
Then she took out a packet of sampling blotters and got to work. For ‘The scent of yoga’ she chose Black Lapsang because its smoky opening always made her think of incense and sacred spaces – which is what she tried to create in her former dining room, but without using joss sticks because she didn’t think they went well with deep breathing.
She closed her eyes as the perfume developed to reveal its Assam-tea middle note, which made her think immediately of that first yoga breakfast with Shirlee and Maxine and the yogi bears.
What a landmark that had turned out to be and how important those friendships had become, a lifeline to get her through such a bewildering time. She couldn’t imagine life without Shirlee’s party-popper energy now. However maddening Shirlee could be, Polly had come to love her.
And, Polly reflected, she’d had no idea then, at that first breakfast, when she was as vulnerable as a newly-hatched turtle trying to find its way to the sea, what a role Maxine would end up playing in her life.
The next blog post was ‘The scent of the elders’ and there was only one possible perfume choice for that: Mitsouko. Polly hesitated before bringing the blotter to her nose. She knew that perfume – which scent connoisseurs considered ‘the greatest chypre’ – so well, she wanted to play it through in her mind first, from the sparkling peach top note to the spicy vetiver base, because she didn’t have time to let all the stages of it develop.
When she did smell it, even just from that opening hit, she felt catapaulted back to Rockham Park, meeting Bill at her talk and then seeing Chum again at that lunch with the dogs. She could remember the exact moment she’d seen his face for the first time for well over twenty years, and had suddenly realised who this smiling, handsome middle-aged man was.
And then she could see him again, as a young man, by the light of the bonfire on the beach, surprising her in the library . . . She moved on quicky to the next blog post: ‘a daughter’.
Darling, earnest, brainy, loving Clemmie. Although now she was wearing lots of different scents – all made by Guy, because he was giving her commission on any sales she generated among her well-heeled student pals – it would always be Cristalle, for its clear, bright, citrus purity, which Polly would associate with her daughter.
What a rock Clemmie had been through it all – even despite that awful day when David had used her to get into the house undisturbed, and splitting up with her own boyfriend in the middle of it. And how helpful it had been to have her steady, rational, medical mind to keep her and Lucas grounded through the most difficult moments.
Polly bit her lip when she looked at her list for the next blog post: ‘university days’. There would be no surprise what Yardley’s Lily of the Valley would make her think of. She had almost certainly been wearing it that night on the beach, which had been an impromptu event, because if she’d known she was going to a party, she would have sprayed on one of the birthday-present perfumes she used to keep for best, before she knew better.
Calvin Klein’s Obsession had been just that for her, and she’d treasured that bottle so much she hardly ever used it, so the memory connection with that wouldn’t be nearly as strong as it was with the cheap eau de toilette she bought herself in the chemist.
Polly felt a great sense of affection for her young self, when she inhaled that pure and pretty Lily of the Valley. How innocent it was. Just as she had been, but not a goodie goodie – what was it Chum had said? You’d have been mad not to have had a good time up there, and Polly was glad she’d made the most of the dashing actor types Chum had been so funny about.
Then, suddenly she remembered him by the lake at Hanley Hall. Not in the past, up in Scotland, but as he was now, in her current life – or what had been her current life, until she’d walked away from it.
She moved on quickly, hoping for distraction from that line of thought, but finding none because it was ‘The scent of a dog’. Dear, adorable, badly behaved, farty Digger. What a comfort and companion he’d become. Life without him was unimaginable now and she couldn’t believe she’d been angry with David for dumping him on her. Well, he wasn’t having the dog back. Digger was hers now.
She called for him and he came running through from the kitchen, tail wagging, head raised in eager anticipation, no doubt expecting a walk. Polly fell to her knees and hugged his furry neck, covering his head in kisses, before rummaging in her handbag to find him a handful of treats.
‘Good boy,’ she said, as he snaffled them up.
Polly sprayed a blotter with the scent she’d pulled out from Digger’s post – Bar
bour For Him – wishing she’d had one of the others, like Dirt, by The Library of Fragrance, to use instead.
She knew what the Barbour aftershave would make her think of, and of course it did with its forest violets and cinnamon bark. Walks with Chum. Both of them wearing their Barbours. His green and ancient – it was probably the same one he’d had at St Andrews; hers black and only a year old, bought when they’d become fashionable in London.
She closed her eyes, remembering that first walk they’d taken. It hadn’t been anything special in terms of landscape, but what a surprise how much she’d enjoyed it. Being in the proper country, air so fresh it was silky – and Chum’s company. The ease she felt with him right from the start and the fun of walking Digger with someone else and another dog. It was such a wonderful change from her ‘real’ life, in the family home, constantly reminded of the strangeness of David not being there.
She was relieved to see the next post was ‘The scent of a son’. Her heart contracted just at the thought of her baby boy, which is what he would always be to her, even though the last few months had made him grow up so much. It seemd corny even to think it, but the stress of it had turned Lucas from a boy to a man. His courage in standing up to David, forcing him to talk, and not letting her and Clemmie sink into despondent inaction – he’d pulled them all through it.
Which was even more impressive after his first reaction to the situation – alternating beers and shots with his old friends, until oblivion took his mind off it all.
Polly laughed to think how outraged Lucas would be that she’d chosen one of Britney Spears’s perfumes to represent him, but the name – Rocker Femme – and the sweet gourmand mix was just perfect for him. It opened with blackberry liqueur and coconut cream, which made her think of one of his horrible biscuits . . . Aaagh, up popped Chum again.
Onwards, thought Polly. What was next? Easter. No escape there. It had to be Thierry Mugler’s notorious Angel for its sweet chocolate caramel mix.
It wasn’t a perfume Polly liked, but you had to admire it. Just smelling it made you feel like you were on a scary ride at a fun fair – and it brought to Polly’s mind very strongly the fun of rolling Bill’s wooden Easter eggs, and Lucas and Chum’s competitive gorging of the huge chocolate egg Shirlee had brought.
What a fun day that had been. Probably the best she’d had in all the months since that shock on 20 December. Next . . .
There was one more blog to go – appropriately enough, ‘The scent of an ending’, which meant it had to be Atelier Cologne’s Oolong Infini’, with it’s gauiac wood notes that reminded her of David’s coal-tar soap.
Not a smell she ever thought she’d have happy associations with, but over their years together, she’d found it had become very comforting as a reminder of him. Her strong, reliable husband, who had always made her feel so safe and protected.
How could she have been so deluded? Because, she reminded herself, he was a very clever man and brilliant at hiding what was really going on. And because he did – he had – in his own way really loved her. The last few months had made her doubt everything, but in her deepest heart, she was sure of that.
For a moment, she felt intensely sad, as though the end of their relationship had somehow wiped out all that had been wonderful about it, at the beginning and through the joyous family years.
But they had been happy, she had been loved, Polly knew that in the core of her being, and she wasn’t going to allow the bitter way it had ended spoil it. She was going to separate the two things. Be proud of one and put the other down to experience.
So where did that leave her now, she wondered, putting the stopper back on the last perfume bottle and packing it up in its box. What came next? Well, the obvious thing after ‘The scent of an ending’ would be ‘The scent of a beginning’, but what would that be?
She let her eyes run over the pile of perfume boxes on her office floor. There was nothing there that seemed right. She stood up and went over to her cupboard, scanning the shelves for inspiration.
Then her eye fell upon a very simple cream-coloured box and as she reached for it, she knew exactly where it would take her. Hermès Equipage could only make her think of one thing, of one person.
She didn’t bother with a blotter, but sprayed it onto her arms, round her neck, behind her ears and down the front of her shirt. Then as the smell settled on her skin, releasing its refreshing bergamot, mixed with lily of the valley – one of her own signature notes, she realised – blended with the more subtle outdoor smell of pine, it was almost like Chum had been conjured up in front of her.
The way he smiled with his lips tightly together, his eyebrows up, eyes wide, but mischievous; those deep creases in his cheeks. The feeling of his strong arms around her. His surprisingly youthful laugh. The very smell of him.
And then finally she remembered the other thing Maxine had said that morning, which had resonated so strongly with her: ‘you will be confused about things you used to be sure about’.
Suddenly, all confusion was gone. She was sure again and she knew exactly what she had to do.
An hour and three-quarters later, after many wrong turnings and frustrations with her phone’s map satellite not working in the no-signal country lanes, she finally pulled up in front of the entrance to the stable block.
Digger jumped over her and was out of the car door before she’d even got a foot on the ground. He could smell Artie – that was the only explanation – but was it just the dog’s lingering scent, or were she and her owner actually there?
Polly had the answer seconds later, when Digger appeared again running out of the stable entrance and then back in again, in hot – and hopeless – pursuit of his favourite lady dog. And where Artemis was, Chum was likely to be too.
Polly heard him before she saw him.
‘Digger!’ his distinctive voice exclaimed. ‘Is that really you, old boy? Come here, you rascal – and is your human with you, by any wonderful chance?’
Polly had just closed the car door behind her when she saw Chum’s long-legged figure framed in the gateway, silhouetted by the early-afternoon sun behind him.
‘And there she is,’ he said gently, walking towards her. ‘Returned from her long journey.’
He came up to her, standing very close, but not touching her. Even over the powerful residue of the Equipage on her own skin, she could smell him. She could smell Sorrel too.
‘How are you, Hippolyta?’ he said very quietly.
For a moment Polly felt shy and stupid and looked down at her feet in confusion, wondering if she’d been mad to spring herself on him like this. She should have texted first, he might not want to see her . . . but then Chum put his finger under her chin, in that way he did, and very gently lifted her head up to look at him.
‘Hey,’ he said, almost whispering.
‘Oh Chum!’ she said, overwhelmed, and threw her arms around him. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been so rude and so stupid, I’ve just been completely confused, I haven’t known, well, anything . . . but I’ve missed you so much.’
He held her tight, rocking her back and forth, kissing the top of her head.
‘You don’t have to say sorry to me,’ he said. ‘You’re here now and that’s all that matters, and – if you don’t mind – I’m not going to let you out of my sight again for a long time.’
Then he kissed her and, as Digger and Artemis ran over to see what was going on, tails frantic with wagging approval, Polly knew there would be no more wasted chances.
FragrantCloud.net
The scent of . . . a wedding
My wedding was in the chapel of a stately home.
It was my second wedding, but that didn’t take any of the shine off it. My first was in a grim London registry office, so it meant even more to me to hold this one somewhere special.
And it wasn’t hired for the occasion. It was the family chapel of my husband Edward’s (eek! it still amazes me to type those words!) ancestral home.
&n
bsp; I should probably say here that I call him Chum. It was his nickname from childhood and how I was first introduced to him, so I can’t think of him as anything else.
Chum grew up at Hanley Hall, but the family doesn’t live there full-time now. The house is owned by a family trust that has recently negotiated a contract whereby the National Trust will run it, opening it to the public for a certain number of days a year, with parts of the house and grounds still private for the family to use.
It was so special to have our wedding in the chapel where Chum had been christened, with a reception in the garden, followed by a brilliant party in one of the estate’s follies, down by the lake. We danced until dawn, when we served breakfast.
My mother had a lovely time being whisked around the dance floor by Edward’s stepfather, Bill. He’s not too steady walking, but he’s still a great dancer. He says it’s easier when you’re moving faster.
And she looked absolutely beautiful in several changes of outfit, including a fuchsia-pink raw-silk Givenchy suit and hat she’s had since the early 1960s, then a full-length dress from the current Givenchy collection for the dancing.
She lent me her own Christian Dior couture wedding dress to wear. It had to be taken out quite a lot – as she kept telling everyone(!) – but it was thrilling to wear it.
My daughter wore a beautiful contemporary dress lent to us by Gucci, because we had agreed to have a photographer from Vogue come and take pictures for the magazine. Mummy is doing a blog for them these days; she’s become very famous again after doing the ad campaign for my friend Guy Webber’s wonderful perfume brand, the Great Eastern Fragrance Company.
Chum and I spent our wedding night in the house – but not in one of the state beds, which look terrifyingly hard and damp, with old drapes that are probably dripping with spiders. Instead, we were very cosy in the suite of rooms where his grandmother used to live: a little corner of the huge house that is very special to him, and also now to me.
The Scent of You Page 44
