The Little Perfume Shop Off The Champs-Élysées

Standing up, I patted myself down and straightened my skirt just as Aurelie appeared. With immaculately coiffed hair and make-up she walked surefootedly in high heels and came to greet me, smelling of Indian rose, a scent I adored. She had the posture of a dancer, and was lithe and graceful, a trait it seemed many French women shared. Was that glamour something they were all born with? Or was it something they were taught? I envied it. My newly purchased clothes suddenly seemed gauche, so obviously chain-store bought.

‘Welcome, Del.’ She smiled graciously and ushered me into a luxurious foyer, all gilt and dark wood, velvet draperies, the scent of polish and whispers from the past. It was grand and sumptuous, and I had to work hard not to stand there slack jawed with wonder.

Aurelie smiled as if she knew what I was thinking. ‘Welcome to Paris,’ she said in thickly accented English. ‘I’ll to take you to your room so you can settle in. Hopefully Seb will be along later to greet you.’

Hopefully? Sebastien had been promoted to head of Leclére Parfumerie after his father’s death, but so far I’d had no contact with him despite the myriad of calls that had gone back and forth between me and the management team in the lead up to the competition. Truth be told, I itched to meet the enigmatic man because there was so little known about him. All my internet searches had come up blank.

‘I’m looking forward to meeting him,’ I said as a yawn got the better of me. Damn! It smacked of bad manners and my nan would have told me so in no uncertain terms.

‘You must be tired from all that travel?’ Aurelie said with a smile.

‘Yes,’ I laughed. ‘I binge-watched TV shows on the flight when I probably should have tried to sleep.’ Who knew air travel was so fun? From the little bags of peanuts to the plastic flutes of champagne, I’d said yes to everything offered, delighting in it all. And now I was too wound up to feel anything other than excitement and a new level of jitters.

‘Enjoy every moment, I say. Life is for living.’

There was a real warmth in the French woman, she wasn’t the least bit standoffish like I’d presumed the Lecléres would be. They’d shunned the press for years claiming their perfumes told their own stories and they refused to muddy those with their own, so I expected her to be more contained, less friendly.

After the death of patriarch, Vincent, things were changing. It was out of character for the family to open their doors and let strangers in. Was son and heir Sebastien going to make his own mark on the world of perfumery? Were they going to expand the business? Were they secretly holding the competition to find another head perfumer? So many questions remained unanswered.

Sebastien was a master at eluding the paparazzi and after many years they’d eventually given up so it was a mystery what the man looked like. I imagined the stereotypical perfumery nerd; the typical pinched-face, thin-lipped, starved of sun type. Sad as it was I could’ve used a good dose of vitamin D myself.

‘Come this way, I want to show you something,’ she said and led me back outside.

I followed Aurelie’s brisk pace, and then came to a sudden stop. Before me stood the wondrous Leclére Parfumerie. At the sight of the legendary boutique my pulse raced. I’d dreamed of stepping into this fragrant nirvana for years! Any good perfumer revered Leclére and its heritage; it was famous the world over because Vincent had turned the art of making fragrance on its head and revolutionized scent, but the store resembled an old apothecary, and was even more breathtaking in person. ‘Oh, Aurelie, this is like something out of a dream!’

‘Our little version of Wonderland…’

The dark stone façade of the store was weather beaten and grey with age. Thick teal blue velvet ruched draperies graced the edges of the window. Inside, antique chairs in hues of royal blue sat solemnly in front of golden display cabinets. Knotty and scarred cabinetry lined the walls, and housed a range of lotions and potions. Centre stage hung a black and white portrait of the master himself, Vincent Leclére. The eccentric man with kind eyes and a secretive smile.

Perfume bottles glowed under soft spotlights. They were unique to each other, some were fringed with delicate gold beading, others had sparkling crystal stoppers. What magical scent did they contain? It was all I could do not to step inside and test them all on the soft skin on the inside of my wrist. Just as I pulled myself from the window I caught sight of a woman who looked so much like that red-haired, powerhouse singer from the UK. When that famous bawdy cackle of hers rang out I was certain it was her.

If rumours were true, Leclére perfumed the biggest names in show business, but of course the family never uttered a word about their famous clients. ‘Is that…?’ Today was no different, Aurelie gave me the ghost of a smile and just lifted a brow.

Aurelie pointed out this and that of special significance through the window – a pretty pink high back chair that had once belonged to a princess long gone from this world, and was gifted to Vincent, along with her antique dressing table where customers now sat and stared at their reflections. Did the princess visit the store late at night, the mirror a portal from another world? As farfetched as the idea was, the perfumery gave you that kind of impression, that it was a place where magic abounded.

And it was so French, I felt as though I’d stepped into a vintage postcard. Even though Jen wasn’t here, I could hear her voice. Would you look at that, she’d say, or aren’t you a lucky thing getting to visit Paris? If only my twin sister Jennifer could see the perfumery! She’d be clutching my arm and exclaiming at everything like a child.

There was a dull ache in my heart when I thought of her, a quiet thump that reminded me we were under different patches of sky for the first time ever. She was the girl who mirrored my movements, finished my sentences and was identical to me in every way except she was born with no sense of smell. Incredible really, when I lived, breathed and dreamed fragrance. Still, we had planned on opening our own business. The perfumery boutique we envisaged, our empire, the thing that would take us from small town Michigan and catapult us into the stratosphere, was on hold. Indefinitely. It still smarted, to be honest, the way she just gave up on me. Never in a million years did I see that coming, not from my twin, the girl who wanted the same things as me. Or so I’d thought.

But I was here now, fresh start and all that.

‘You’ll have more time to explore the perfumery,’ Aurelie said, bringing me back to the present. ‘But for now, let me show you to your home for the next little while.’

Back at the apartment, Aurelie glided noiselessly upstairs while I clomped behind her, hefting my suitcase trying not to huff and puff like I was out of shape. The space was rich with the scent of French cooking; buttery garlic, white wine, fresh thyme, and something delectable slowly simmering, its intoxicating flavors wafting through the walls.

‘Down the hall to the left is a sitting room and there’s a shared kitchen and dining room just past. If you want anything in particular, let me know. You have a mini kitchenette in your room, but any proper cooking will have to be done in the shared kitchen. I trust you’ll enjoy it here.’

I nodded my thanks.

‘This is where you’ll stay with your roommate, our Parisian entrant Clementine. If you need me there’s an information pack on the bedside table with my contact details. The afternoon is yours, though there’s not much left of it. Dinner is at eight o’clock at our apartment. Sebastien will be there to welcome you.’

‘Merci, Aurelie,’ I said mustering a smile. There’d be plenty of time to size up the other contestants at dinner, to find out where they were from and most importantly about their perfumery. I was eager to make friends, with people who didn’t know every last detail about me the way they did back home.

Here I’d just be me, not Jen’s twin, not the daughter of wandering hippies. It could be a reinvention, of sorts. Alone, I would learn about myself, in a way I hadn’t before. Out of the fishbowl, and into one of the most beautiful cities in the world, who would I be?

Chapter Two (#ulink_415b300d-fc66-5c28-8253-f0af1660d933)

Inside my new abode, I slung my handbag on one of the beds and gazed around. While it was economically sized, it was immaculate. Two double beds took up the majority of the space and were dressed in fine white linen with plump European pillows. The room was light and bright and utterly Parisian with little touches here and there to make it homely. A vase of fresh peony blooms sat on a chest of antique drawers and perfumed the space. There was a small bathroom with plush white towels, and by the balcony was the kitchenette, which was really only an island bench with coffee and tea supplies and underneath a small bar fridge. I resisted the urge to call my sister, as I’d normally have done. I had to prove I could live without her, I didn’t need to check in every five minutes anymore. Did I?

Outside from the balcony, I caught a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe standing elegantly as it had done for hundreds of years. The Avenue des Champs-Élysées was abuzz with tourists, cameras slung around necks, and maps held aloft, ice creams melting down hands. Cars zoomed up and down and a world of accents bounced towards me. It was so damn hectic!

A commotion rang out down the hall, and I turned to the sound, straining to make out what was being said.

A loud French voice carried, along with the rolling of a suitcase or two.

‘Excusez-moi, out of the way, please. Ooh la la, these are heavy.’

I could smell the woman before I could see her. Her perfume was an intense mélange of sultry fig bursting with the intense sweetness that comes with ripe fruit.

‘Bonjour, bonjour, coming through.’ It sounded like she was barreling people out of the way as she stomped noisily down the hall looking for her room, our room. I held my breath for a moment. Did she always make such a loud entrance?

A few moments later the door flew open and there she stood.

‘Del!’ she said, launching at me, hugging me to her as if we were long lost friends, squishing the breath from my lungs. ‘I’m Clementine, and I’ve ’eard all about you. The American girl with the best nose in the business.’ When she freed me, I gulped for air, before taking in my roommate. She was exquisite with her voluptuous figure, form-fitting dress and heavily rouged cheeks. Next to her curvaceous body, I felt suddenly boyish with my straight up-and-down physique.

My mousy brown waves and more naturally made-up face were no match for her cascading blonde curls, bright blue doe eyes, and bee stung scarlet lips. Her style was quite incredible, almost burlesque in its extravagance. I was no slouch in the fashion department, I followed trends just like the next girl, but Clementine was something else. It took guts to dress so outrageously, and pull it off.

‘Bonjour! I love your outfit,’ I said, giving her a wide smile.

She paid no heed to the compliment, instead shaking her head and sighing theatrically. ‘This?’ She pointed to her hourglass figure, swathed in ruby red velvet. ‘I have a little…’ow you say, addiction to the cherry clafoutis. Nothing can cure me of it except another bite of the sweetness itself.’ She tutted. ‘French women don’t get fat…? That’s what is said, non? Pah! French women can do whatever the ’ell they like! Fat, skinny, square, triangle, I don’t care! No one shall dictate to me! You know my maman?’

Of course I didn’t, but that had no bearing on the story as she continued: ‘Well, she says I’ll never get married if I eat the way I do. Says I’m not a real Parisian with my appetites! I should show restraint.’ She reeled back as if it was a dirty word. ‘But why? Why should I deny myself pleasure? A man will surely love all of me, if he’s the right man.’ She patted the soft swell of her belly. ‘And until then I’ll eat whatever I please, whenever I please.’

Another girl, with vivid red hair straightened to a shine sashayed past, stopping to lean on the door jamb. ‘It’s not a matter of depriving oneself, Clementine, it’s simply a matter of balance.’ The redhead conveyed in one long look that she thought Clementine was on a slippery slope to imbalance. The pair obviously knew each other, but the girl had an English accent.

‘Pah,’ Clementine said. ‘That’s why these girls are always so misérable.’ She waved her French polished nails at the redhead. ‘They’re hungry.’

My mind had to work overtime to make sense of Clementine’s hastily delivered, emphatic and heavily accented monologue – and to keep my laughter in check. She was so dramatic and more overt than the Parisian women I’d come into contact with so far.

The English girl rolled her eyes and stuck out her hand to me. ‘I’m Kathryn, from London. You’ll get used to Clementine, she behaves as if all the world is a stage, that’s all.’

I laughed, liking both women on sight. ‘How do you two know each other?’

Clementine gave an airy shrug. ‘Kathryn lived in Paris when she took a perfumery class here a million years ago. Back then she ate the cherry clafoutis and she was a lot ’appier, I can tell you that.’

‘I studied here a few years back, but Clem would have you believe I’m in my twilight years or something. I might have imbibed more back then but people mature, they grow up. Well some of us do.’ She gave Clementine a pointed stare.

You could sense their comradery even though they mocked one another, something that was more for my benefit.