The Secret Ways of Perfume (30 page)

•   •   •

Avignon was exactly
as Elena remembered it: full of charm, understated and refined. The high-walled Papal Palace still took her breath away with the grandeur of its battlements and pointed towers.

Cail drove Elena to the gardens. Flowers, plants and swans—an incredible number of swans gliding peacefully along the streams that ran among the fragrant greenery. They took a long walk, had lunch on a restaurant terrace, then headed back to the airport.

While they were waiting, Elena called Monique. She couldn't wait to tell her about the screen and the possibility that it might reveal part of the formula. Her ancestor had been very imaginative in handing down the Perfect Perfume. She spoke to Monique for a few minutes, giving her a brief update, then she turned to Cail and said, “Do you want to go out for dinner? Monie's just been promoted, and she's taking us to the Lido de Paris to celebrate.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Have they made her vice president or something?”

Elena laughed. “Hah! So we'll go?”

“Aren't you too tired?”

“Did you hear what I said? The Lido de Paris on the Champs-Élysées!” she repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully.

“
Oui, ma belle
,” Cail replied.

“We're coming!” she almost shrieked. And the two women went on talking for a while. By the end of the call Elena was feeling decidedly
happy. “Monie says hi,” she told Cail, who was still reading through the various leaflets he'd picked up in Lourmarin.

“How is she?”

“Same as usual. That Jacques . . . Well, it's probably better if I don't say anything,” she decided. “Anyway, she says she can't wait to hear all about our trip. You know, when we were little we were always speculating about Beatrice and her Perfect Perfume. It almost doesn't seem real that the formula could be so simple. At least the top notes. I can't speak for the rest yet.”

“And what if it's the second screen that holds the secret?”

Y
LANG-YLANG:
expression. Warm and feminine, tropical and sweet.

The fragrance enables us to overcome disappointment and offense.

Releases hidden feelings and helps us to express the poetry in our souls.

T
he Lido de Paris. Monique had decided tonight would be different. She was sick of staying at home; that kind of life wasn't for her.
Merde!
She almost didn't recognize herself.

While she was getting dressed, she listened to Apocalyptica's first version of “Hope.” Yes, she could certainly use some of that. She started to dance in her bare feet, letting the sound of hard rock penetrate to her core, and a moment later, when it was suddenly replaced by a sweet melody, she thought she actually felt better. Soaring, violent chords echoed in her heart and became a slow, harmonious melody, moving her to tears. Wasn't that what life was like?

No, lately hers wasn't.

She felt a familiar knot, one that had been crushing her throat for a while now, sometimes even preventing her from breathing. But she refused to give in to the unpleasant sensation.

“You don't like it? Then stop whining and do something about it,” Jasmine had told her in no uncertain terms, the last time she'd visited Grasse. Her mother was a very pragmatic woman. And she was completely right! Monie knew she should change the things she didn't like. Jacques hated her going out without him. In reality, especially recently, all they did was stay at home, in bed. Their relationship had been reduced to sex, nothing more. It was good—no, it was fantastic, amazing. But that was it. Every time they tried to discuss anything, they ended up arguing, so they'd gradually stopped talking and met in the only place they actually seemed to understand each other. But afterward . . . afterward she felt sad, so full of resentment. And she'd had enough.

Tonight she was going out as a single girl, while her friends were now a couple. True, it wasn't the perfect time for Elena to be getting involved in a relationship, but the pregnancy was quite far along now. The wait was coming to an end. Soon Monique would become an honorary aunt, Elena a mom—and who knew how Cail would act? She sincerely hoped that for once, things would turn out a little bit like they do in fairy tales.

That night, Monique wore an indecently short, sparkling black Dolce & Gabbana dress. Just two silk straps, a scrap of material and an enormous number of glimmering beads. High heels, curled hair, and a touch of her new perfume. Le Notre was excited about this creation. She couldn't take all the credit, of course. Ilya Rudenski, the new
maître parfumeur
, had come up with the fragrance, while she had simply guided the variation of the perfume toward simpler, more popular tastes.

It had been very interesting working with Ilya. The man was a genius: the perfume was impressive, and almost entirely synthetic. It had to be, to give it that intensity and durability. The imagination, the
vision that Ilya had shown, had convinced everyone. The perfume was completed by a few natural essences, which gave it body and a retro charm.

Elena would have been horrified by the composition. But Monique wasn't interested in the backstory of a perfume. She was only ever interested in the final scent, not what went into it. She loved to change her scent, depending on her mood. For her, perfume was like a dress: one today, another tomorrow.

Thinking about clothes, she decided to take something with her. She would happily bet that Elena didn't have anything to wear. That woman was hopeless when it came to fashion.

She finished getting ready: a dash of lipstick, a light jacket and one last look in the mirror.

“Too bad, Jacques!” she said. “When you get back from London I'm going to tell you just how much fun I had.”

•   •   •

Elena unpacked, watered
the plants and had a little chat with them. Then she started to panic. There was nothing in her wardrobe that could possibly be suitable for an elegant night at a place like the Lido. Once she'd rejected every single dress she owned, she phoned Monique.

“I can't come. I've got nothing to wear!”

“I'm on my way. And I'm bringing a couple of things for you. So take a deep breath, have a long hot shower and put your hair up. I'll take care of everything. OK?” She hung up immediately, before Elena could object. She was going out tonight, whatever it took.

Elena scowled at her mobile. Then muttering something about how stick insects would never understand whales in a million years, she took a long bath, tied her hair back in a low bun, leaving a couple of loose strands on either side of her face, and put on mascara and a lick of eyeliner.

“Come up,” she yelled as soon as she heard Monique's voice calling her from downstairs.

Monique handed over a coat hanger with a couple of dresses on it. Elena was in a filthy mood, and the banana-yellow dressing gown she was wearing wasn't making things any better.

“See if you like one of these dresses. They're floaty, and blue is so slimming.” Monique looked her friend up and down. “You look really well,
chérie
—this holiday's taken years off you. So, what's new?” she asked, giving her a wink.

Elena pointed at her protruding stomach. “Well, I've put on two pounds for starters. But the real news is that we've probably found out where Beatrice stayed during her months in France—
and
who the man was who broke her heart!”

Monique was dying to ask her more about the discovery, but it was clear Elena was ready to explode.

“I'm so huge,” she moaned. “I don't even know if I can get these on.”

“Don't worry,” Monique said soothingly. “I'm sure you'll surprise yourself. Have you got a pair of high heels?”

Elena took the dresses, retreated into the bathroom and half-closed the door.

“Yes,” she called. “All the ones you brought me. How you manage to walk in those damn things I will never know.”

“Remember this moment when it's my turn and I make you want to strangle me,” Monie muttered to herself.

A couple of minutes later, Elena emerged from the bathroom.

“Wow! You look great!” From the bag she had brought with her, Monique produced a matching clutch and handed it to Elena.

Just then, Cail joined them. He went over to Elena and spun her around. “You look wonderful,” he whispered, before kissing her on the lips.

“If you two have quite finished smooching, it's time we got going. And don't think I've got any intention of playing gooseberry. I want to know all the details of what you found out.”

In the taxi on the way to dinner, the couple gave Monique the low-down. The knight, most likely, was Charles I of Blanchefort. With the help of Beatrice's perfume, Charles had acquired everything he ever wanted, from his bride to his valuable possessions—including the dukedom.

“How could a simple perfume have so much power?” Monique wondered.

“In general, in those days, perfumes masked bad smells,” Elena reminded them. “Poor hygiene was rife. Think of the difference a slight scent of roses, neroli, or citrus and iris would have made. The middle notes are quite clear, but there's no indication of the base notes at all. Beatrice left the mixture to mature for three months—I think she used alcohol and water—and I'm afraid the final fixative is some kind of animal musk. I can't come up with anything else that would explain the effect it had on the young lady of Lourmarin.”

“Ambergris?” Monique suggested.

“I don't know . . . It could be. As soon as I get back to Florence, I want to take a good look at the screen—you know, the one in the workshop.”

“You mean that's where Beatrice wrote the formula?”

Elena shrugged her shoulders. “I'm not sure, but there's a good chance.”

“God, this is huge! When are we leaving?” Monique asked. “Because, I mean—imagine if it's true. An ancient perfume formula from the seventeenth century illustrated on a screen. It would be a massive hit, and I don't mean the perfume, I mean the story.”

Cail frowned. “After the baby's born, we'll all go together. OK?
Look, we're nearly there.” He pointed at the brightly lit area with people milling around on the pavement.

There was no way of continuing the conversation right now; they got out of the taxi and went up to the doors. The Lido de Paris was busy that night; the show always drew a huge crowd of tourists. Monique had been there often. At the beginning of their relationship, Jacques had taken her there all the time. She loved the place—she really enjoyed the shows and the atmosphere. The dancers were quite extraordinary.

While Monique went to collect the tickets, Cail had to go back and find Elena, who was still standing there, staring at everything like a little girl. If the outside of the building was luxurious and fascinating, the inside looked like a film set. Blue and gold were the dominant colors: a grand arcade led to the dining rooms.

Cail helped Elena take off her coat and took it to the cloakroom. Monique was about to rejoin her friends, who had gone on ahead, when she accidentally bumped into someone.

“Oops—sorry!” she said pleasantly.

“Watch where you're going, will you!” the woman snarled, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress.

Monique looked up and met the furious gaze of a very young, very pretty girl. “Actually, it's
you
who should watch out for
me
. It's not as if you have the right of way,” she replied frostily. Then she recognized the girl, and her heart skipped a beat.

“What's going on?”

It was bound to happen sooner or later. That was all Monique could think as Jacques walked over to join his fiancée.

“This clumsy idiot walked into me and made me drop my bag,” the girl whined. For a second, Monique toyed with the idea of raising her hand and teaching the little cow a lesson. Meanwhile, Jacques stood, frozen, between the two women.

Monique was seething with rage. So many lies! “Unavoidable commitments relating to the management of the new Narcissus headquarters.” What a bastard. She would have liked to give each of them a slap.

Jacques picked up the handbag from the floor and passed it to the girl, who continued to insult Monique. No greeting, not even a glance. When Monique realized he was pretending not to know her, she felt the blood drain out of her body, taking with it all the warmth, happiness and good humor she'd been feeling just seconds before.

In the background, the tempo of the music had increased. Jacques's fiancée was still whining and he was trying to stem the tide of words.

Monique felt sick. Sickened by herself and by that silly little girl who thought she was Queen of the World. But wasn't that how she felt about herself, too, when she and Jacques were together? Queen of a lie, an illusion; queen of a handful of dust that slipped through her fingers as soon as she opened her fist.

Finally, Jacques looked at her. He was pale, his expression impenetrable. “We're leaving,” he said tersely to the girl. “I've had enough of your tantrums.”

Monique watched the couple until they disappeared from view. Then she looked for Elena and Cail. They were about fifteen feet away, standing quite still, watching. She noticed that they were holding hands, Cail towering over Elena, as if he wanted to protect her.

That was the way it was supposed to be, Monique thought. And it wasn't the knowledge that they'd witnessed the ugly encounter that made her decide to leave; it was the deep compassion on their faces. For a moment she saw things through their eyes, and she felt a profound shame.

When Elena took a step forward, Monique shook her head and hastened out into the night, clutching a tiny handbag; at that moment it seemed as if it was all that remained of her life.

•   •   •

I'm not home,
leave a message and I'll call you back.

Elena listened to Monique's voice mail message for the umpteenth time and waited for the beep before saying, “Call me or I swear I'll come over there. Actually, no—I'll phone your mom and tell her everything. I mean it!”

She put down the receiver, slamming it with more force than was really necessary. Aurore, who was arranging a pyramid of perfumed soaps, cast her a puzzled glance then quickly got back to work. Elena had decided to take the girl on for a few hours a week. Since that night at the Lido, Monique had all but disappeared, not answering the telephone other than to say she was OK. Those two syllables were all Elena could get out of her. She missed her friend desperately; she was worried about her and also felt very lonely without her.

During the day, Cail was out at work. He'd moved some of his plants to a greenhouse outside the city, so they could grow in the best possible conditions. There wasn't enough space left on the terrace in the Marais. The Bagatelle competition was coming up, and everything had to be perfect for it. In the evening, when he got home, he was so tired he often fell asleep on the sofa while they were talking. When he did so, Elena would cover him with a blanket before she went downstairs to bed. The baby was very active these days, kicking with an enthusiasm that sometimes made her feel quite uneasy.