The Little Perfume Shop Off The Champs-Élysées. Rebecca Raisin
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brisk efficiency he exited the car and opened my door, took my bag, and led me to the grand entrance.
‘Do you need anything else?’ he asked in heavily accented English.
I shook my head and smiled. ‘No, I’m all right. Thanks for the lift.’ I waved him goodbye as he sped off, blasting his horn at unsuspecting pedestrians. From what I’d seen so far, the French drove like they were competing in Le Mans, hair-raisingly fast, beeping and cornering like they had someplace special to be.
I checked my watch and glanced up. A second story curtain shivered as if someone stood just behind it. Aurelie? I clutched my small suitcase close and waited while doubt grabbed a stranglehold.
What if I was out of my depth here? What if the other contestants all knew more than me with their formal training and chemistry degrees? What if … I gave myself a stern talking to – no more what ifs. I was just as good as anyone else, if not better! So I’d struggled a little without Nan when it came to composing new formulas; I was sure it was just a stage and I’d soon be back to my best with my secret weapon, Nan’s trusty perfumery bible. And I had passion, enthusiasm, and the desire to win.
Honestly, it could have been Mars and I’d have been happy to escape the gossipy confines of aptly named Whispering Lakes and everything I’d left behind.
The application process for the Leclére Parfumerie competition had been interminable, with rigorous testing in every facet of perfumery. I’d made videos, sent perfume samples, been grilled by the Leclére management team over Skype about perfume regions, produce, blending, extraction techniques, ageing, and marketing strategies. They’d frowned at first when I explained I used perfumery almost like a tonic for all that ails, so I soon stopped mentioning that and focused on wowing them with secret formulas I’d developed with Nan. Thankfully, she’d left me them as a legacy, but I knew I needed to step out from the shadows and make my own again soon. It felt so wrong without her, that’s all. Like part of me was missing.
It had taken months to get to the last round of the application process; so many times I thought I’d bomb out, so when I got The Call I felt like I’d earned my place. And the timing couldn’t have been better. This was my chance to escape small town living, and take my perfumery to the next level.
The grand prize was an impressive amount of money, and the chance to design a perfume range which would open a lot of doors in the notoriously cliquey world of fragrance.
So here I was, in the most romantic of cities. The Leclére Parfumerie store was just down the street; I couldn’t quite make it out but the alluring scents of jasmine, cedar, and French vanilla drifted into the summer day, beckoning to me like some kind of fragrant Pied Piper. Could I resist the urge to follow my nose? The mélange of aromas was intoxicating and warranted further investigation …
As I dithered about taking a quick peek, my scarf disentangled itself and flew across the street, the delicate silk undulating in the wind. Without thinking I stepped off the curb to grab it, just as a car whooshed past perilously close, sending me sprawling backwards to the pavement. With an oomph I landed hard, hurting both my derrière and my pride.
Taking a shuddery breath, I caught the eye of an attractive stranger across the road. His face was etched with concern, his deep green eyes clouded with worry. Red-faced, I shrugged in apology to the man, the witness of my near miss. Our gazes locked for fraction of a second. Time stopped and my lonely heart skipped a beat. That feeling was quickly replaced by mortification, so I closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to steady my heart. When I looked up again, he gave me a brief nod and continued on, striding down the Champs-Élysées, hands in his jean pockets, black hair ruffled and windswept.
Whew! I reminded myself I wasn’t in Whispering Lakes anymore and couldn’t just blithely step out on the road like I could back home. I took some comfort in the man whose concern had given me pause. And a little zap of longing too.
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 their 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 what the man looked like was a mystery. 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. A black and white portrait of the master himself, Vincent Leclére, hung centre stage. The eccentric man with kind eyes and a secretive smile.
Perfume bottles glowed under soft spotlights.