Perfume Of Provence

Ten minutes later they were chugging up the steep road that wound its way up to the village. Rosie hung onto the roll bar as she looked down at the steep drop to the sea. This place was all vertical roads.

“How on earth will Zara get home?” she asked, although it was one of the minor questions that she had in the long list forming in her head.

“Oh, Zara will get a lift — she knows everyone here. The place will be buzzing until three or four in the morning. She was born here like me.”

Well, that crossed another question off her list. “How amazing to be born in such a spectacular place.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Apart from the Mediterranean at your feet, the ruined château and the white penitents’ chapel it’s just like any other ordinary old mediaeval village.” Jean-Michel laughed.

“Not forgetting the Chemin Nietzsche,” added Rosie. “And the perfumery and the pine trees on the beach and…”

“Do you want a job as a tour guide?” Jean-Michel asked, raising his dark eyebrows. “Anyway, you haven’t seen anything yet. This is ‘be glad of your sensible shoe time’ again.” He slung the Jeep into the square, turned off the engine and then slipped the car key behind the sun visor.

“Will it be OK to leave it like that?” Rosie asked in surprise.

“Goodness, yes. Everyone around knows Zara and not a soul would dare take it without her permission. You must have noticed she is one terrifying woman!” Jean-Michel laughed and then came round to open her door. Rosie couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that for her before. She supposed she should feel some sort of feminist rebellion but instead she felt enchanted.

“This time we climb, mademoiselle. May I take your hand as the cobbles are so uneven and the lights few and far between and…? Well, I can’t think of any more excuses.”

So hand in hand they made their way through a heavy stone arch and into the narrow winding streets of the village. Up and up, towards the starry sky. Finally they arrived at a small entrance with a wrought-iron hanging sign announcing ‘Château Eza’. Rosie was suddenly conscious of her casual appearance and, yes, the loafers.

Jean-Michel, still holding her hand, strode into the narrow foyer and, leaning across the desk, called out, “Pierre, où es toi?”

A young man hurried into sight, his face breaking into a smile of welcome when he saw Jean-Michel. They talked rapidly in French for a minute and then Jean-Michel turned to her. “Isn’t that lucky? They have a table for two on the terrace.”

“Perfect!” Rosie laughed. She hadn’t understood much of what had been said but she knew enough about booking the best locations to know that something had just been fixed. As they walked through the small restaurant and out onto the candlelit terrace Rosie felt all eyes were fixed on them. Jean-Michel seemed completely oblivious. Stopping to give close examination to the dessert trolley and shaking hands with several people, waiters and diners, he led the way through the tables. Rosie was not a shy person and she began to enjoy the attention, smiling to herself as the waiters hurried to lay a small table on the very edge of the terrace. She recognised and knew the value of being known and liked.

It wasn’t until they had finished the main course that Rosie reminded Jean-Michel of his promise to tell her about his work.

“Do I have to? Do I really have to? I’m having such a good time…but, yes, a promise is a promise. I shall try to tell the story as quickly as possible. Are you sitting comfortably?”

“Very comfortably!” Rosie sighed as she leaned back in her chair and looked across at the wide expanse of dark sea now divided by a silvery gold path to the moon.

“Well, it’s a long family saga…a bit like a French edition of The Archers! My family own quite a large area of greenhouses and lavender fields in the Provençal hills near Grasse. Our business is making perfume and has been since the time of Catherine de Medici. In fact, one of my ancestors reputedly scented her gloves…but that is another story and belongs to a tourist guide. I knew little of the business until last year when my parents were killed in a plane accident. It’s OK…” He hesitated as Rosie instinctively put her hand over his in sympathy. “I’m getting over it now but certainly it was a great shock. I had been educated in England and I was working in London when it happened — nothing to do with perfume. I’m a quantity surveyor.”

He smiled ruefully and looked out to sea. “Or rather I was a quantity surveyor in a big company in Hanover Square. To cut a long story short, I resigned and came back here to try to carry on the business. My grandmother is still alive and she knows a great deal about it all but somehow it’s just not working. Then a short time ago I was approached by the big boys here. They want to buy us out. My grandmother is set against it and I suppose I am too in my heart…but my head tells me differently. Today was yet another meeting and really they made me an offer I can’t refuse but…well, I did. Of course, I can always go back to them. Last time I turned them down they just offered me more money. We’ll see… The good thing is I don’t have to go and see Grandmère tomorrow and tell her she has to move. Now that really would be scary. She still lives in the old château — very much the head of the household. She rules with an iron hand in a perfumed silk glove. Everyone is scared stiff of her! Now can I have my profiteroles?” Jean-Michel looked down at the neglected mound of chocolate dessert.

Rosie smiled gently as she said, “My father always told me ‘when in doubt don’t’ — it’s always worked for me, so personally I think you did the right thing today. Why are they so keen to buy you out? Is it the land?”

“Partly — but it’s also our list of scents. We have one or two of the big names and a whole library of original perfumes just waiting to be bought by fashion houses. Any day one of them might call up with an idea, a ‘look’ or an image and we can offer three or four perfumes for them to choose from. My venerable grandmère is absolutely amazing at this. She is what is called ‘un nez’…a nose. I know it sounds funny in English!”

“No, no…I’ve heard about it — like wine tasters or something. So she creates a scent and then what?”

“Well, if the fashion house choose one from our collection, then bingo — the contract is drawn up and we have a new client. It is all totally top secret — from the actual recipe right down to customer confidentiality. Once it’s signed up it’s good business, especially if you get a big name and a perfume that is marketed well. Then there is the side of the company that markets essential oils, both importing exotic fragrances and extracting and distilling from jasmine, mimosa, roses, lavender and herbs, of course…being Provence. We have two centuries of experience and an excellent reputation that Beauroma, that’s the big boys here in Eze, is longing to get its hands on. I’m sure they would run it all very commercially and exploit the tourist attraction with coach trips up to the Disneyed château…tour guides…a job for me there!” Jean-Michel smiled apologetically. “Isn’t this where we came in? I’m really sorry to bore you with all this but I did try to warn you.”

“It’s not boring at all. It’s a fascinating business but I can see it must be a great worry.”

“It wouldn’t be so difficult if half my life wasn’t still in London,” replied Jean-Michel.

Suddenly he reached across the table and took her hand in his. Rosie felt her stomach somersault. This was it. He was going to tell her about his wife and kids. Of course, they were in London and that was why he had said he travelled frequently to and fro. Rosie’s heart thumped painfully as Jean-Michel leaned towards her, offering her a spoonful of the profiteroles from the pyramid piled in the silver dish between them. He watched her lips as she opened her mouth and tasted the explosion of dark rich chocolate and cream on her tongue. Rosie was melting inside. Never had she been so attracted to a man. The dark side of her didn’t want to know about his wife and kids. He began to talk again and Rosie had been so far away in her own fears that she missed his first words.

“…and so I must visit my grandmother tomorrow and tell her about the latest developments. Now, let’s return to enjoying this evening. Would you like a coffee here or would you prefer to get back to Nice and we could find a café on the promenade?”

“That would be perfect,” Rosie answered automatically.

“So much perfection in one evening is good for my soul!” said Jean- Michel softly.

They walked slowly back down the cobbled street to the village square, holding hands lightly. When they reached the car park, Jean-Michel directed Rosie to an old Peugeot estate that was parked near Zara’s Jeep. Once again he opened and held the door for her as she jumped in. Rosie sighed, settling back into the old leather seats with pleasure, thinking how easily she could get used to this.

The drive back along the coast was another scene from a film. Jean-Michel’s old Peugeot estate, redolent with floral scent, rolled slowly along a road that hugged the coast. Jean-Michel drove with one arm casually along the back of Rosie’s seat and the other elbow resting on the open window. The air was warm, the moon was full, the stars bright. Jean-Michel gently turned the car into a lay-by that hung over the sea edge. Rosie burned with excitement. This was it — now he must kiss her and hold her in his arms. Jean-Michel opened his door and came round to her side of the car.

“You must see the view of Nice from here — it’s really stunning. Your taxi probably took the Moyenne Corniche, high above the coast, but this little road is just as direct and ends up in the port. Look, you can see the boats in the harbour from here.”

“Yes!” she murmured, not thinking about what she was saying but every fibre of her body tingling in anticipation. “I’m sure you’re right — it was certainly high up above the sea. I felt quite giddy when I arrived in Eze!”

Not as giddy as I feel now, she thought to herself. They were standing so close she could feel the heat from his body on her bare arm. She obediently looked down at the large bay. It was certainly impressive. Large liners, private launches and a thousand lights reflected in the still dark water. She sighed as she felt him move behind her and, with his arms around her waist, pull her firmly towards him. The words fell from her lips.

“But what about your wife?” She pulled quickly away from him and, turning, saw his handsome face filled with anguish.

“Wife?” Jean-Michel repeated the short single word and it hung in the air above them.

CHAPTER FOUR (#u6031938c-b76e-58d9-ab6e-5ed21ea966c5)

“Yes, your wife in London…” Rosie was almost in tears as she felt the perfect evening crashing around her. Never had she felt such desire, never had all her emotions been so aroused and yet she felt like hitting him as she watched his face struggle with emotion.

Finally he spoke. “I don’t have a wife! Whatever made you think that I did?”

Rosie, reeling in shock, turned back to stare at the view, blurred now by the tears that had sprung to her eyes. She felt his arms move tentatively back around her waist as he gently kissed the back of her neck. She spoke again, her voice choked with a sob. “Jean-Michel, are you sure?”

This was so ridiculous that suddenly they were both laughing and kissing at the same time. Then he broke away from her and said, “What about you? You’re not married, are you?” He was smiling but his eyes were anxious.

“No, not at all!” She opened her eyes wide.

“Rosie, Rosie, you are so beautiful…si belle! Please don’t open your eyes any wider or I shall drown in them.” Jean-Michel began to kiss her ardently. His arms ran down her back as he pulled her hard against his body, engulfing her in himself. He was breathing faster, murmuring her name over and over. “Rosie, Rosie — I have found you at last.”

A great peace suddenly settled into her and she raised her arms, arching away from him as she gently cupped his face in her hands. “And I have found you, Jean-Michel. I knew it when I first saw you.” She ran her fingers through his strong dark hair and her mind flashed back to that moment at the airport when she had longed to do just that.

Somehow they drove on to Nice. He parked in a small street in the old town and there was no question between them that she was going to spend the night with him. He took her hand and led her into a dark, marble entrance hall and up endless flights of stairs to a small oak door on the top landing. He slid an enormous key into the lock and threw the door wide. “Welcome to my home!”

He went ahead of her, turning on light after light, illuminating the vast attic flat. Finally, he pressed one last switch and a large blind slowly rose revealing a panorama of the old town of Nice against the backdrop of the moonlit Mediterranean.

“It’s magical!” She gasped, running over to the balcony, and then he was behind her again, his arms encircling her, his head buried in her hair as he nibbled her neck. She turned to him and began to unbutton his shirt. Suddenly they were pulling at each other’s clothes, panting and gasping as finally their bare skin made contact. Jean-Michel dropped to his knees on the soft wool rug, pulling her on top of him. Rosie moaned with pleasure as his kisses covered her body. Her fingers dug into his back as desire flooded through her. Never had she felt such longing. Nothing in the world existed apart from him. She was empty without him.

He slipped his arm under her and carried her across to the large bed. The whole night stretched ahead of them. At dawn their love-making reached a new height of passion as, exhausted and still excited, they clung close to each other, unable to move apart. When sleep finally overcame them they fell into a light sleep, closely entwined.

The first rays of sunlight fell across the pillows and they awoke simultaneously and looked into each other’s eyes. Jean-Michel spoke first, his voice husky with sleep.

“Rosie, will you marry me as I’m sure that I’m not married and you’re not married at all?”