Rebecca Raisin - The Little Perfume Shop Off The Champs-Élysées

I’d spent years with Nan at our perfumery organ, a semi-circle desk with tiered shelves that held all the aroma oils in neat rows and in order from top notes, heart notes, down to base notes. Our knees used to bump as we mixed essences as assiduously as if we were making love potions for strangers. Which in spirit we had been. Bespoke perfumes created for customers who wanted a fragrance unique to them.

Nan had taught me every aspect of the art of perfumery. She’d been a daydreaming avant-garde type, way ahead of her time. Days were spent creating perfume and getting lost in the world of scent, only coming up for air when Grandpop asked politely if he was to have toast for dinner again. He always said it with a rueful half-grin, knowing her other great love was perfume itself, and how could he be jealous of that? He’d shuffle off and soon the smell of buttery toast would waft back to us.

Nan was taken from me a few years ago, and nothing had been quite the same since. One day she was there, and then she wasn’t. Our time together suddenly felt as ephemeral as a spritz of perfume.

‘Thanks, Jen. I’ll remember that.’

At the memory of Nan, I gave my handbag a reassuring tap, feeling the outline of her trusty perfumery notebook: a fat and swollen tome filled with formulas, complex perfume equations, and her scribbles and drawings. It was my bible; I cherished it.

‘You’ve got this. Text us when you can, so I can tell Grandpop how it’s going. Mom and Dad say hi.’

‘Give them a hug from me will you? Tell Pop I’ll write him.’ We said our goodbyes and I hung up, feeling a twinge of guilt that I was grateful to end the call, just as Clementine returned, her lipstick smudged. ‘I need a nap!’ she announced and flung herself on the bed. I hadn’t met anyone quite as dynamic as Clementine before. She took up all the space with her big personality.

After unpacking, and eventually convincing a drowsy Clementine that half the wardrobe was in fact mine, I went downstairs and headed back to Leclére Parfumerie hoping to visit before it closed. No such luck. Instead I peeked through the window and ogled the beautiful cut glass bottles of perfumes which blinked like gems under the lights. Scent radiated through the window pane; lily, ambergris, rose, and vanilla …

With an hour until I had to dress for dinner, I continued on, eyes wide with awe at the sights and sounds before me. I came from a place the size of a postage stamp, a small lakeside village in Michigan where everyone knew everyone and nothing ever changed. A suffocating place to live when the whole village knew your business.

The main street back home would have a dozen cars parked down its length on a busy day, and maybe a handful of people window shopping, or dillydallying about which loaf of bread to buy at the bakery. Here, groups queued in ores, others had noses pressed to windows, and some rode bicycles and dodged traffic. It was like someone had turned the volume of life all the way up.

It would take some getting used to. The noise level was incredible but I couldn’t help feeling energized by the big city vibe. Paris pulsed with life! This is what I wanted, to be thrust into a big city, to live and work among so many people, opportunities galore, unlike back home.

I wandered on, delighting in the warmth of the Parisian evening. Around the corner I found a little café with bright red shutters and lots of people milling nearby. I took a table out the front and tried to decipher the French menu, counting back in my mind to when I’d eaten last and on which time zone. Not wanting to spoil my appetite for dinner, I settled on a café au lait , but promised myself I’d return for the bevvy of mouthwatering food on offer. Croque monsieur . Chouquettes . Soufflé fromage . The list went on and I shut the menu with a decisive bang, as my stomach rumbled in protest.

The café was a hive of activity but I couldn’t grab the attention of the bustling staff so I made my way inside and got to the front of the queue and ordered my coffee.

A waitress wearing a bored expression said, ‘We’ll bring it to you.’ Her voice brooked no further conversation, and any reply died on my lips, unsaid. Her attitude was wildly different to back home, where any stranger would be grilled about their lives, why they were in town and for how long, and within minutes, they’d find themselves sharing far too much information on account of the barrage.

Here I was faceless and nameless. Wasn’t that what I wanted?

Hurrying back to my table, I was lost in these thoughts when I tripped over a shopping bag. There was no time to react, instead I flew towards the back of a stranger and tried to strangle the shriek that rose from deep within me. Soaring through the air at a ridiculous speed, I tried to break my fall, by latching onto the man in front like a koala bear. We fell to the floor with a resounding thud.

Way to blend in, Del!

We were a tangle of arms and legs, as he groaned and turned from his front to his back, pinning my ankle, and I sat half-straddled atop him. Not the best position to be in; quite personal, really.

‘So, so sorry,’ I said and struggled to disentangle myself from his limbs, my face aflame. One of my legs was skewed so far to the left I wondered if I’d broken it. With that in mind, it took me a moment to recognize him. My breath hitched at the sight of those intense green eyes . Of all people! I straddled the guy who’d witnessed my near-miss on the Champs-Élysées and who I’d now taken down in front of a café full of elegant French people, some laughing behind their hands, some frowning at the disruption to their meals. But all looking square at me. Goddammit.

‘It’s not my fault,’ I said a little more haughtily. ‘I tripped.’ I jerked a thumb at the businessman at the table above us whose seemingly twenty-seven-meter-long baguette had been the cause of all this fuss. ‘Over his baguette, which clearly was not tucked away in a safe manner.’

He didn’t utter a single word. We competed in a stare-a-thon until I gave in.

‘Well?’ I said. Perhaps he didn’t speak English? ‘Would you mind moving? I can’t get up until you do.’

With a bit of effort, I managed to wrench my leg from under him, hoping the numbness wasn’t anything serious. Imagine if I had to limp from here? Or drag my dead limb behind me like some kind of peg-legged pirate. Not exactly the fast getaway I was hoping for.

Once upright I held out a hand and helped him up, when realization shone in his eyes. ‘It’s you.’ His eyes widened. ‘The girl who stepped into the path of oncoming traffic.’

Jeez. ‘Well, yes, but I was …’

‘You’re a walking disaster.’

I lifted my chin. ‘The traffic thing was an accident. And this could have happened to anyone.’

‘Are you hurt?’ He frowned.

‘No.’ Yes. My pride withered and died on the spot.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite,’ I said primly. If my leg was broken in eight places there was no way I was going to confess to him. I’d damn well walk out of here if it killed me! But his sudden concern was touching and lightened the mood. Our audience went back to their meals and their chatter grew loud once more.

His lips twitched as if he found me amusing. Did he find this funny? Why of all the millions of people in Paris did I have to make a scene in front of this guy? Twice . I wanted to slap my forehead.