Jen, I’m safe for another week, but only just. It was so close even the judges deliberated over it until finally sending Kathryn home. I’m thankful, but I feel like I have to work a lot harder than I have been. I have to think differently and push myself to try alternative techniques. It’s like I’ve got this block and I just can’t seem to work out how to go around it. Guess that’s all part of this adventure! I’m off to Provence for the next challenge – can you believe that? Lavender fields, sunshine and fresh air… Will call as soon as I can. Del xxx
I hit send and settled back into the seat. Before long my phone pinged with a message.
What aren’t you telling me? I’m reading between the lines there’s something else…what is it? Why can’t you talk now? Jen xxx
Pesky twin intuition. My twin sister had the unique ability to often guess how I was feeling.
I’m in the car with Sebastien…Not sure what the challenge entails, so it might not be today. I’m fine, really, just sometimes it’s all a bit lonely without you. And it was a pressure cooker of a week.
P.S I kissed Sebastien, accidentally. More of a peck than a kiss. A light brush of lips. Very minor. And then he gave me the face-to-face Dear John talk… I could die from embarrassment, and guess what, he’s my mentor so I have a week alone with him. Kill me!
Love you xxx
We left the bustling streets of Paris and were soon speeding down a motorway. Soft sunlight shot filmy spirals through the tinted windows.
My phone beeped, like I knew it would.
Oh, Del, I hardly think anyone would give you the Dear John talk! Are you sure you’re reading the situation right?
I’d expected some kind of jokey reply. Some over the top missive about the city of love, best man speeches, and pregnancy cankles not that, what was that?
I’m sure. And the elimination was so close, I really have to knuckle down. Feel all at once like crying and laughing. Whew, what an experience.
My desire to get ahead, my ambition, all of it stemmed from fear, fear that I’d turn into my mother and dance through my days in some kind of daze. Let responsibility slip through my fingers and bray to the moon, just like she did living in an alternate universe. I didn’t want that for myself. Like Sebastien wanted out of the world of perfumery, I wanted in. But we were the same in that we wanted to step out from the shadows of our parents, and live life on our own terms. If I let my guard down I’d be eliminated, I knew that for sure. So there was no question it was time to switch on and put anything else out of my mind.
Follow your heart. Call me when you can. xxx
I am following my heart – and it’s going to lead me all the way to 5th Avenue. I’ll call you later. xxx
The driver made eye contact in the rear-view mirror. ‘We have a long drive ahead, so please let me know if you need anything. You’ll find some champagne in the ice box. We’ll stop halfway for lunch.’
Champagne in the ice box! The French, they celebrated everything, even long drives.
An hour later and our silence sat heavily in the air. Sebastien fielded phone calls, and spoke in rapid French. They were all business related from the words I’d picked up. How one little store was so busy amazed me, but their clients paid top dollar for their lotions, potions and perfumes and couldn’t seem to get enough of them.
I opened the window and settled back to read a guidebook about Provence on my Kindle app, figuring a little research into the area couldn’t hurt, and the more I read the more excited I was to arrive. One of the books described the abundant lavender fields, colloquially known as ‘blue gold’ because of the amount of uses it had, and what it meant for the economy.
It was used in perfumes and bathing products and strangely enough even in bistros dotted around the countryside who used the fragrant flower in crème brûlée and ice cream.
And as for vin, rosé was the wine of choice in Provence, and the region was famous for it. Wine was huge in France, taken with most meals, with much less pomp and ceremony than back home.
When it came to cuisine the Provençal Bouillabaisse, a rich fish stew, was lauded as a must-try. There were also the UNESCO heritage listed Pont Du Gard aqueducts that crossed the Gordon River. Amphitheaters, arches, and ruins were thick and wide across the region, and while we wouldn’t have time to see them, they spanned a huge section of the area, it was still nice to know I’d be in the vicinity of such historical importance.
Much later we arrived in Provence. The driver negotiated some hairy turns until we came to a villa surrounded by olive trees and fields of lavender. I jumped out of the car, glad to be free of the confined space. Zapped from the long drive, I yawned and stretched. I took in my surroundings, the light was different here, filmy, and luminescent. All at once I understood why Sebastien loved it here. It was worlds away from the chaos of Paris, and if you were a solitude seeker, it would be perfect.
The driver shook our hands and said, ‘I’ll be in the cabin out back if you need me. Enjoy.’
‘Merci,’ Sebastien said. In the fading Provençal sunlight Sebastien’s face was paler than usual, as if the long drive had sapped him. He’d had barely a moment away from his phone, and when he wasn’t speaking he was checking emails and replying. Was it a ploy to avoid talking to me? Any conversation was stilted, awkward.
It occurred to me we’d be alone inside the villa for an entire week. If it was going to be this awkward I didn’t know how I’d stand it. Why, oh, why had I kissed him like that? Truthfully, it meant more to me than a simple swipe of the lips, accidental or not. ‘Is everything OK?’ I asked. His harried expression said otherwise.
‘Yes, just work issues. Come inside, Del.’
He ushered me inside the stone villa, which was more like a cozy little cabin, less grand than the Parisian apartment. While the place was spotless it also had a lived in, homely feel, from the weathered and crazed leather sofa, to the scarred wooden bookshelves, filled with haphazardly stacked novels. It was the kind of space you could relax, be yourself.
‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get us some coffee.’
While he did that I wandered around the room, stopping at the mantle. There was a grainy black and white picture of Sebastien with his father Vincent, their heads bowed close as if they were discussing the secrets of the universe. Was it taken here?
‘That’s one of the only photos I have with him,’ Sebastien said softly, handing me a mug of steaming hot coffee.
‘It’s lovely. Looks like you’re plotting something magical.’
He gave me a half smile. ‘He’d asked me to make a perfume about love, but I failed miserably.’
‘Why?’ It was eerily similar to what Nan had asked of me. Maybe it was a perfumery test we all took.
With a shrug he said, ‘According to Papa all he could smell was cynicism.’
Before I could ask more his phone rang again. ‘Sorry,’ he said, sighing. I waved him away, and sipped my coffee, itching to find out what was going on.
‘What is it?’ I asked when he ended the call.
‘One of our formulas has been copied, and sold in a well-established perfume house. We’re trying to get them to pull it from their shelves.’
‘Does this happen often?’
As much as you could guard your formulas in this day and age it was easy to break down the ingredients in a perfume and copy it.
‘Every now and then,’ he said, a touch of anger in his tone. ‘But for a respected perfumery, it’s unforgivable.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Oui.’
My eyes went wide wondering who they were. ‘And will they pull it from their shelves now that you know?’
‘I think so, but then we have all the legal ramifications to deal with. Why can’t they just design their own? It’s embarrassing for them. They’re trying to save face by saying it’s “inspired by”.’ He made air quotes with his fingers. ‘But, of course, it’s a replica of the real thing.’
‘They don’t deserve to be in business!’
‘No, and the headache it creates…’
‘I can imagine. So do you need to head back?’
‘No, but let’s get to work, if you’re up for it after the drive?’
‘Of course.’
Sebastien carried those business burdens so heavily on his shoulders. He stood, his green eyes dark with worry. I felt like I was another distraction for him, another concern. It became clear, the difference between being a perfumer and running a company, just how committed you’d have to be. Naively, I hadn’t banked on that for my perfumery boutique. I’d only imagined the fun part, blending perfumes for happy people. Not the messy side of things, when problems cropped up. That was to be Jen’s domain; without her, could I cope alone in my own dream business?
Sebastien sat opposite me and spoke almost robotically as if he just wanted to get it over and done with. ‘Challenge two is all about region. About raw materials used in perfumery, and where they’re sourced. Provence is famous for the abundance of lavender fields. Your challenge is to make the humble purple flower shine.’
If anyone could make lavender shine it was me!
According to the guidebook I’d read on the way down, we were at the beginning of the lavender season, and I noted from the drive there were beautiful purple fields as far as the eye could see. I imagined walking through paths of lavender, arms outstretched fingertips fanning the heavily scented flowers as I passed.
Lavender perfume, though. It was such a strong, distinctive scent. The memories came thick and fast, Nan placing silky sacks of dried lavender in her lingerie drawers. Lavender misting spray she used on her pillow to help her sleep. I had to take it farther than its humble origins, I had to reinvent it.
But how… I took a notepad from my bag and grabbed a pen. Once again, I was grateful for my stay of execution and fired up with this challenge.
‘Tomorrow we’ll take a walk around town so you can get a feel of the place and see if you can’t think of a concept around Provence,’ he said.
His phone trilled again, and he sighed. ‘Sorry, I have to get that.’
‘Go for it.’
Darkness had fallen while we’d been here but I desperately wanted to see what was outside the villa. In the utility room I found a torch and headed outside, amazed at the hush and the span of night sky. Perhaps Paris had become part of me now, I was used to that noise, the lack of space and could now enjoy this solitude for what it was. In the distance there was a field of lavender, the scent shimmied on the wind. An olive grove stood somberly nearby, tree trunks gray white under the moonlight.
Gravel crunched underfoot as I made my way around the property until I came to a little log cabin. A perfume studio? Fragrance leached from every fibrous pore of wood. I tried the door, which I found unlocked. Inside, I groped the wall until I found a switch and flicked it on. In pride of place sat a perfume organ, similar to my nan’s but slightly bigger. They were hard to come by these days, antiques that they were, and it was a beauty all right.
If I closed my eyes, I could picture Sebastien and his father, as they were in the picture I’d seen inside. What magic had they made side by side, heads bent conspiratorially? What an honor it would be to sit and work where they had. This was Sebastien’s quiet place, his refuge when Paris wore him down.
I sat at the perfume organ, each shelf with every kind of essence you could imagine, scrawled French handwriting on each label. Edging closer, I attempted to translate the words, running a finger along the bottles. Lavande was lavender, lis was lily…
Feeling altogether silly, I sent a silent prayer up to Vincent and asked him to help me. Help me learn to work without my nan. Help me grow and be brave with my perfumery. Keep me safe in the competition for as long as possible. Help his son find his passion once more…
The studio had a fireplace set with wood, ready to be lit. In front of it were a couple of wingback leather chairs wrinkled with age, the slight impressions of someone’s shape. It was a comforting little spot so markedly different from the sterile lab in Paris and it felt more like me, more like home.