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

He grinned as if he wasn’t going to pull me up on the lie. ‘The world of perfumery is much smaller than you think; everyone has secrets which aren’t so hard to uncover, so tread carefully, and don’t trust anyone.’

‘Including you?’

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Especially me.’

I returned his smile but I didn’t believe a word of it. What was the worst any of them could do? Hunt for one of my formulas? Gossip about me? Big deal. It would all hinge on our perfumery skills.

Generally speaking, perfumers were quiet, studious types who found comfort in numbers, formulas, the magic of chemistry. I doubted they’d be devious, or play unfairly. But I didn’t really know that for certain, and with the prize on offer it could potentially turn a quiet wallflower into someone else entirely, so I’d just tread carefully until I got to them know them all.

We walked out into the starlit evening. ‘So let me guess, your nan was some kind of cloistered genius and she’s passed on her gift to you?’

I laughed. ‘Yes, you could say that. Though she was fond of making perfume almost like an elixir.’

‘A cure-all? Why not!’

I smiled. Most people never understood that. Nan believed the right scent could cure anything from heartbreak to the common cold. She was way ahead of her time. Aromatherapy was huge these days, but she’d taken it further, and decades before it was in fashion too. It was where I saw my own niche in the world of fragrance, making not just a scent, but bottling a perfume that could lift a mood, throw sunshine on cloudy days …

‘Is she in Paris, along for the ride?’

‘If only,’ I said. ‘She died a few years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. She’s here with me in spirit.’

And she was, or at least I’d convinced myself of the fact so I could function without her. Still, I knew I’d never forget the day she died. It’d been memorable for so many reasons. We’d almost perfected a heritage rose perfume based upon the bloom of first love. I’d railed that you couldn’t bottle love – how could you? We’d been missing a key ingredient to balance the perfume but we couldn’t figure it out.

Nan had joked it was because I hadn’t fallen in love before; I hadn’t explored the world and learned how to say the words I love you in three different languages. She was always on about that; fall in love, tell the man you love him in French, in German, in the language of love itself … whatever that meant! God, I missed my whimsical nan.

I’d scoffed that day, rolled my eyes and gone back to trying to capture the elements we were missing but falling short.

It was the closest we’d come to capturing something as tangible as love in a bottle. It was a concoction of rose, cashmere wood, raspberry leaf, patchouli, freesia and blackcurrant, but lacked an element, an aroma we just couldn’t pinpoint.

That antique rose perfume remained there still, unfinished. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it without Nan.

Those early days were grey and full of the scent of rain without her.

‘Let’s meet this motley group then,’ I said, smiling and shrugging off the cloak of memory so it didn’t bring me down.

We arrived at the Lecléres and were shown to an enormous and elegant dining room by an elderly man in a suit that fit much better than Lex’s did. The chatter stopped immediately and all eyes landed on us like laser beams. Some gave us slow onceovers, others cocked heads and smiled, a few narrowed their eyes summing us up with one long stare. Contestants and the Leclére management team mingled as I tried to put faces to names from our various video calls.

A trio broke from their circle and came over to introduce themselves. Someone handed me some champagne which I guzzled to settle my nerves. My roommate sauntered over, a faux fur stole over her shoulders despite the warm weather.

‘Clementine,’ I said, relieved to see a familiar face. ‘This is Lex. Lex, this is my roommate, Clem.’

Introductions were made and more bubbles quaffed. Clementine barely let anyone get a word in, so most of us slowly edged away from her, clustering in couples making polite if not stilted conversation. Kathryn called me over and I excused myself from Lex.

‘So where is Sebastien, then?’ she asked, casting her eye around the room.

I surveyed the men present and recalled their faces from innumerable video chats, so none of them were the great man himself. He’d be tall, and wiry, and have intense eyes that darted about. Or would he be more masculine and suave, letting his famous name carry him?

‘I don’t think he’s here or surely he’d have introduced himself,’ I said with a sigh. No wonder no one could snap a picture of him, he never turned up. ‘Is he even real?’

‘Makes you wonder,’ Kathryn said. ‘Aurelie’s not here either. Some welcome party.’ She toyed with her napkin. ‘It’s all a little strange, this whole competition. Why would they suddenly open their doors to strangers, when they’ve been so reclusive?’

I’d asked myself the same question too. ‘And now they’re not here. Do you think they’re regretting it?’

She frowned. ‘I hope not.’

‘They’re probably running fashionably late to make a grand entrance once we’ve all broken the ice and got to know each other a bit.’

‘You’re probably right,’ she said. ‘I suppose we should mingle then.’

Normally I’d hang back and let people come to me, that small town reserve always just below the surface, but no one knew me here, and I could be whoever I wanted. So I made the effort to approach a tall girl who scrolled mindlessly on her phone. I’d done the same thing myself to look busy when I felt like the odd one out, so I introduced myself, only to have her nod as if dismissing me on sight. So much for feeling emboldened.

‘And you are …?’ I pressed on, not ready to give up, on pride alone.

‘Anastacia.’

‘From?’

‘Moscow.’

It was like talking to a rock. And she was the one they were worried about? Boredom shone from her half-lidded eyes, as if she couldn’t wait to get out of here.

Part of me wanted to walk away, but another part told me to persevere. Maybe Anastacia felt wildly out of place and her silence was all an act.

‘I’m from Michigan,’ I said.

Again, the brief nod.

Clementine chose that moment to wander over; she must have sensed my unease. ‘Del, come and try the canapés, they’re divine.’

At the sound of Clementine’s voice Anastacia’s head snapped up, and the pair stared each other down, a bitterness charging the air. I had the distinct impression Clementine was envious of the girl, or felt threatened by her, and that’s why she was telling anyone who listened to watch out for her.

With one last withering stare, Clementine grabbed my elbow and steered me away. ‘Isn’t she icy cold?’ she said in a stage whisper loud enough to bounce around the room.

‘She’s probably out of her comfort zone.’

‘ Non , non , don’t be fooled. You have to remember this is a competition.’

I shrugged. Clementine would have had you believe we were contestants on Survivor the way she acted, and it dawned on me that I’d have to be careful around the beautiful Parisian girl, and keep her onside so I wasn’t suddenly offside.