The Little Perfume Shop Off The Champs-Élysées. Rebecca Raisin
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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 rumors were true, Leclére perfumed the biggest names in showbusiness, 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 and 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 that. 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?
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 a small bar fridge underneath. 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,’