Perfume Of Provence

“It’s like hurrying…” Rosie searched for a word from her school vocabulary without success. “Believe me, you really don’t want to know about it!”

She smiled at him brilliantly and ran out to the taxi that had drawn up outside. And the concierge was quite right — Eze village was just up the coast. The journey was as short as it was breathtaking and ‘up’ seemed definitely to be the key word. The taxi driver drove with alarming contempt bred from his obvious familiarity with the road that careered crazily out of Nice and in the general direction of the sky.

It was called the Moyenne Corniche, he informed her, turning completely around to face her in the back seat as he drove recklessly onward, one hand casually on the steering wheel. Whatever, thought Rosie, nodding quickly in agreement as she was swung from side to side as the car swerved round one hairpin bend after another. Moments later he turned round again and pointed up to the sky. Was he really trying to tell her that there was another road higher up called the Grande Corniche? She closed her eyes and rested her head back in a foolish pretence of sleep. She heard him sigh heavily and hoped he had given up on her feeble command of the French language.

The next moment her eyes blinked wide open as the sound of deafening music filled the car. He had turned to the radio for company but he had not quite given up on her. Turning around again, he smiled enthusiastically as he shouted, “Musique!” and thumped the steering wheel in time to the beat. Rosie smiled weakly back and nodded again in agreement, holding her breath as he turned once more and leant out of his window. He pointed down vigorously, shouting, “La mer…zee sea!”

Rosie made the mistake of looking and there, sure enough, was the sea…a mile or more below the car as they veered round the very edge of the steep hillside. Rosie firmly closed her eyes again as the sea and sky tilted madly around in her head. She tried to concentrate on which old James Bond film she felt she was taking part in…or had it been The Italian Job or that great film with Robert de Niro? Thus absorbed she realised with relief that the taxi was actually slowing down. Opening one eye cautiously, she saw they were entering the village of Eze.

Rosie’s head swam as she stepped from the taxi onto the smooth cobbles. Maybe that was why, when she turned to the entrance of the perfumery, she was so unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. For there he was…object of desire, subject of the day’s dreams…yes, the airport Prince Charming. He was standing by a dark blue limousine, one hand waving wildly in the air, the other holding the handle of the open door as he talked earnestly to two besuited men.

Rosie smiled and whispered, “Yes, yes, yes!” Fortunately he hadn’t seen or heard her. Rosie fought to recover her equilibrium although her knees were weak with excitement. This was the moment to employ all her social skills and arts of manipulation. Not the time to avoid eye contact. As she tried to think of a way to casually bump into him he turned towards her and looked straight into her eyes. Immediately he recognised her and raised a hand in a friendly wave. Just as immediately her best intentions to play it cool and calm completely deserted her. She found herself idiotically flapping her hand in reply as he turned back towards the car.

Was that to be it? Was this the extent of her well-honed talents? She forced her feet to walk towards the entrance foyer of the perfumery. The air filled with a thousand scents as she advanced slowly up the steps, resisting, for the second time, a tremendous desire to turn around and somehow, anyhow, get this unknown man into her life. She heard a heavy car door slam and the sound of the engine purring away into the distance. It took only minutes but it seemed as though a vast cloud had covered the sky and Rosie felt as though she would walk up these steps for the rest of her life. Moving like an automaton, she purchased an entrance ticket and continued into the museum hall. She felt the dizziness return as the air choked her with its sweetness. Why hadn’t she made some effort to speak to him? How could she let him walk out of her world once more? She moved slowly between the displays of herbs and flowers, engulfed in a new loneliness so complete that it took her some while to realise that he was standing in front of her.

“May I escort you on a guided tour, mademoiselle?” He smiled down at her, stretching his arms wide in welcome. Rosie hadn’t realised how tall he was. Suppressing a ridiculous urge to rush into his arms and hug him, she managed to reply.

“Do you work here?” Her voice, at least, had not been too squeaky. He burst out laughing.

“Non, mademoiselle, although they are trying to buy me. Allow me to introduce myself — Jean-Michel de Fleurenne, à votre service!” He held out his hand, and as she took it into hers she felt a high-voltage shock of contact. His hand was long-fingered and smooth and he pressed her fingers firmly and for a moment longer than necessary. They walked slowly side by side down the long alley between the barrels of flower petals and copper vats.

“How are they trying to buy you?” she asked, secretly wishing she could buy him for herself.

“Oh, that’s a long, boring story. First you must see the distillery and the museum before they close.”

“First”, he had definitely said “first”…and what would be second? Rosie wondered, her vivid imagination running wildly ahead. Jean-Michel gave her an excellent tour of the perfumery. He was serious and then amusing, telling her so much about perfume- making that she realised he must be involved in the industry. She found it fascinating and listened attentively. It wasn’t too difficult. She could have listened to an entire dissertation just watching his curving lips open and close.

Eventually they arrived back at the entrance foyer just as the lights were being turned out. Rosie hesitated awkwardly, inwardly panicking that their time together was coming to an end. Jean-Michel stood at the top of the entrance steps for a moment and then clapped his hands together.

“C’est une belle soirée! If you have time we could walk down to the beach.”

“That would be lovely. I’m completely at a loose end.” Rosie replied, making no pretence that she even needed to think about it. So it was not to be a bonne soirée but a belle one. Her heart fluttered ridiculously.

“There’s a footpath but it’s quite steep and uneven.” Jean-Michel looked down at her shoes. The faithful loafers. “Great…you’re wearing sensible shoes! If you trust me then follow your tour guide this way, please!”

Rosie saw the small path to the side of the car park. Did she trust him? Somehow she knew she did…completely. Supposing he was a murderer? Was she really going mad, diving off into the unknown undergrowth with a tall, dark stranger? She followed slowly and then saw that, although it was a small path, it was obviously well used. Several couples and family groups were making their way downhill. It was not, anyway, a romantic walk. Jean-Michel seemed to know nearly everyone they passed, stopping to shake hands and exchange kisses and pleasantries as they scrambled on down the hillside. Coming to a small resting place, he turned to her for a moment, holding out his hand as she jumped the last stone. “You must excuse me! I couldn’t introduce you to all the people we passed because I didn’t know your name.”

“Rosie Fielding. I’m sorry — I should have introduced myself before. In my work it’s a cardinal sin not to push your name around.”

“But you are on holiday, Rosie…and what is your work?”

There was a small silence. She was still recovering from his velvety French pronunciation of her name. Rosie! She had never liked her name until then. She pulled herself together and began to reply. “Publicity. PR in the fashion world…” Her voice tailed away to nothing. Suddenly it seemed a futile way to spend one’s life. She looked at the vast panorama of sea and sky stretching to infinity.

“I enjoy it and I’m quite good at it,” she added, almost defensively, justifying her work more to herself than to Jean-Michel.

“I’m sure you’re very good at it. A PR princess. I don’t know much about your world but I can’t imagine anyone being able to resist you in any way.” Before she had time to absorb the compliment he carried on down the path. She followed slowly until they reached the beach.

“This is like a film set!” she said, her voice filled with wonder as she took in the small cove curving away into the gold of the setting sun.

“Now, don’t get any ideas of bringing a film crew here. Work is work but you are on holiday, right?” He looked down at her. There were those dark, spiky lashes that she had seen in her daydreams earlier that very day. Close enough to touch, to kiss, to lick. Rosie held her hands tightly behind her back in case she should be unable to resist reaching out and brushing his cheek with her hand. How his skin gleamed to bronze in the last rays of the day’s sun.

“Would you like a drink…a sundowner?” Jean-Michel asked. Had he said it once or twice? Rosie pulled herself back from the brink of somewhere she yearned to be.

“Yes, a drink would be great. Is there anywhere down here?”

“Oh, yes, there’s a bar called ‘Zara Zazou’ — it should be just opening up for the evening. Thank goodness you’re not wearing silly shoes. It’s just over there on the beach.”

Again it was obvious that Jean-Michel was well-known. First the barman kissed him on both cheeks and then a truly stunning girl rushed out from the kitchen and threw herself at him. “Jean-Michel,mon amour, pourquoi tu ne viens plus me trouver?”

Rosie knew that Frenchmen kissed each other but she could do without this voluptuous bombshell calling Jean-Michel ‘mon amour’. Her school French was more than adequate to get the gist of that. Jean-Michel turned to Rosie.

“This is Zara!” he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace. “Suffis, Zara, suffis, laisse moi tranquille. Put me down!”

Zara gave Jean-Michel a light cuff around the back of his head and called across to Rosie. “Don’t mind me, ma chère, I kiss all the beautiful boys — it makes my job more interesting! I live for my work! But this one — he is an old favourite of mine!” Her accent was superbly exaggerated. She slapped Jean-Michel lightly on both cheeks. “And that is for not visiting us for so long. I no love you no more — is finished, you unnerstand?”

She spun around and came over to the table where Rosie was sitting. She was even more beautiful in close-up. Beautiful and powerful. Dark olive skin and blonde hair, lustrous violet eyes under dark eyebrows and the reddest of red lips that pouted and exaggerated her words as she spoke. “Are you with ’im, ma chère? Be careful, he is a very good boy. He does nothing but the work, work, work. He is not the good fun. I was at school with ’im — always the same — workin’ and workin’. Such a good boy — pah!” She pulled a scornful face and threw her hands in the air in disgust as she swung her way over to the ancientjukebox. Leaning against it, with one hand on her impressive hip, she gave it a resounding kick with one pink-booted foot and it sprang into life. The plaintive electro-synthetic sound of ‘Rage in Eden’ filled the café with heady nostalgia.

“They’re playing our song, darleeng, you remember?” she drawled in fake American and returned to the kitchen, making a magnificent exit.

Jean-Michel came over to the table carrying two tall glasses of pink wine. “Phew! That’s my punishment over. I’m sorry about all that — she’s always larger than life!” He glanced at Rosie anxiously. Rosie burst into laughter.

“She’s great, simply fantastic.”

Jean-Michel laughed too, his dark eyes sparkling with vitality as he set the drinks on the table.

“Do you like Kir? It’s the only way to drink the cheap wine here.”

“Kir is perfect and so is this place.” Rosie had a really brilliant smile but this time she smiled as she had never smiled before.

“And so are you,” Jean-Michel said quietly as he looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Let’s drink to perfection.”

“To perfection!” said Rosie, sipping the cool, blackcurrant-flavoured wine and reflecting that this was what eye contact was really all about. And the evening was perfect — so perfect that Rosie felt she had floated into a dreamlike world. The only cloud looming on the entire horizon was her absolute certainty that he must be married. She kept pushing the doubt to the back of her mind, enjoying the moment and avoiding any questions about his private life. It wasn’t difficult. Jean-Michel was an excellent listener. She found herself telling him more about her work. Finally she drew to a halt.

“Now it’s really your turn,” she said. “You must tell me your long, boring story and why the perfume house are trying to buy you. Was it the buyers that you were seeing into the stretch limo?”

“You’re very observant. Was it that obvious I was trying to send them on their way?” Jean-Michel smiled but his eyes were serious. “If you really want to know then I have to insist we have dinner together — somewhere more comfortable.”

Rosie dreaded that he would make some crass comment about going back to his flat. Was his wife away perhaps?

“There’s a restaurant perched on the very edge of the village with a superb view. Can I tempt you?”

Rosie gave another of her wide smiles. “That sounds perfect. But how ever are we going to make our way back up that path in the dark?” she asked doubtfully.

“Mais non — you have sensible shoes but you’re not a goat. Did I mention on the way down that it was a goat-path?”

Rosie laughed. “No, but I’m not at all surprised.”

“Definitely the most famous goat-path in France or maybe the whole world — and, as your personal tour guide, I must now tell you that it is known as the Chemin Nietszche because the great man was walking along it when inspired to write — zut, I can’t remember — something about what Zarathoustra said to someone or other… Anyway, it was extremely philosophical and also explains how Zara came to be called Zara. But I’m afraid I can’t recall the detail. Ah, well, perhaps I won’t make a tour guide when I lose my job in the perfume industry. Now for the next instalment we must bypass Nietzsche and borrow Zara’s Jeep… Excuse me, I’ll just go and tell her. If I don’t return immediately it will be because she has hugged me to death.”