Kate Fitzroy - Perfume Of Provence

“Come and meet Grandmère!”

Rosie got off the motorbike, her legs feeling distinctly wobbly. She unclipped the large leather jacket that Jean-Michel had insisted she wear over her sweater. The lower half of her body was clad in the equally enormous pair of matching trousers and, emerging out of the bottom, looking ridiculously small, were the famous loafers. “Well, my appearance should certainly impress Grandmère anyway!” said Rosie, mostly to herself, as she followed Jean-Michel up the steps.

“Bonjour, Grandmère!” said Jean-Michel, kissing the tall, elegant woman three times.

“J’ai le grand plaisir de te présenter, Rosie Fielding — ma fiancée! Rosie, je te présente, Madame de Fleurenne — ma grandmère.”

The two women shook hands politely. Rosie had the absurd feeling that she should bob a curtsey, an idea made even more ridiculous when she thought of how she must look in the huge motorbike leathers.

“Enchantée.” Madame de Fleurenne smiled courteously and then turned back to Jean-Michel, continuing in fluent English, “Really, Jean-Michel, you are quite extraordinary! First you telephone to say that you are bringing your future wife to meet me and then you bring her all the way from Nice -— in this heat — on the back of your monstrous bike.” She turned with a sweet smile to Rosie.

“My dear girl, you must be exhausted. Come inside and recover from such a ridiculous journey. Really, Jean-Michel is quite impossible.”

She placed a cool hand under Rosie’s chin and then kissed her lightly on both cheeks. Her smile changed from sweet to impish as she inhaled, her nostrils quivering.

“Hmm, Jean-Michel’s favourite soap — verveine — and is that an overtone of your own perfume?” She sniffed the air like a bloodhound, her long Roman nose held high. “Yes, definitely 24, Faubourg by Hermès! An interesting choice for one so young.”

Rosie stood still on the spot, dumbfounded, her eyes wide. Before she could say anything, Grandmère was continuing.

“You must forgive me, my dear, terrible manners, of course, and only a party trick. I meet so few new people these days, especially with a fine taste in perfume. Now, you will want to freshen up, yes? Then you must tell me all about this sudden news. Jean-Michel is a wicked boy to telephone on a quiet Sunday to tell me he is bringing his fiancée to meet me — just comme ça !” She waved a delicate, beringed hand in the air and moved slowly through the front door ahead of them.

Rosie glanced at Jean-Michel and whispered, “I don’t need to tell her that you are a bad boy — she knows it already.”

As she moved ahead of Jean-Michel he slipped his hand down the back of the loose waistband of the leather trousers and lightly pinched her bottom. Rosie suppressed a yelp and a dreadful desire to burst into helpless giggles. But Madame de Fleurenne was speaking again.

“Jean-Michel, do go and find Celine — she is probably in the kitchen. She will show Mademoiselle Rosie to the guest rooms.”

“No need to disturb Celine, Grandmère, I’ll take Rosie upstairs and—”

Madame de Fleurenne interrupted. “Jean-Michel, please do as I ask.”

“Oh, and, Jean-Michel, could you fetch my bag from the back of the bike?” added Rosie in as arrogant a voice as she could manage without bursting into laughter.

Jean-Michel sighed and raised his hands in the air. The two women looked at each other in satisfaction.

“You speak wonderful English, madame ,” said Rosie. “I wish my French was as good.”

“I lived in London for two years when my husband was alive. We both adored London — and nowadays it is essential to speak English, or maybe I should say American! Who needs to speak French any more?”

“But it’s the most beautiful language,” said Rosie, adding, “And your château…it’s simply incredible!”

“I may agree with you about the French language but my poor old château… It was beautiful once upon a time like a fairy tale but now…now it is sadly neglected.”

“But I don’t think that deflects from its beauty.” Rosie spoke sincerely as she looked round the cool, lofty hall.

“Thank you, my dear, you are too kind. I adore it, of course, but it is like me — an ageing relic.”

“But like you, madame , it also has perfect bone structure.”

Madame raised a hand and laid her fingers on her high cheekbone. “Someone said that to me once before — an age ago. I was so young that I really didn’t understand. I’m not sure I do now — but thank you anyway. Tell me, do you have this perfect bone structure?” She laughed, her dark eyes sparkling with humour.

“Probably not!” Rosie said, smiling. “But now I can see where Jean-Michel gets his dark brown eyes from too.”

“Do you think so? My goodness, I’ve never thought about that either! I shall have to take a good look at him if he ever returns to us.”

They both laughed and at that moment Jean-Michel came back into the hall carrying Rosie’s bag. As he drew near Madame de Fleurenne rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me take a good look at you, Jean-Michel!”

She peered into his eyes and then turned to Rosie.

“I do believe you’re right!” They both laughed again and Jean-Michel turned from one to the other.

“Is this some sort of ‘female bonding togetherness’ joke or can I be included?”

“Yes and no!” The two women spoke as one and this made them laugh even more.

“Well, I’m pleased you two seem to be getting on so well!” Jean-Michel raised his hands in the air again — half laughing now. “Here comes Celine — and here is your bag, Rosie. Have I carried out both your commands successfully, mesdames ?” he added with an exaggerated flourish and a low bow.

Madame de Fleurenne smiled sweetly and took Jean-Michel by the arm.

“ Mais oui , you can be a good boy if only you try… Now perhaps you would accompany me to the terrace, if you don’t think it will be too frightfully hot. We can sit in the shade and await your beautiful fiancée to join us.”

Celine moved forward and almost snatched the bag from Jean-Michel, then, turning her back on Rosie, she muttered over her shoulder, “Suivez-moi!”

Rosie raised her eyebrows at Jean-Michel and then flashed a wide smile to show she was happy to ignore the rudeness. She followed Celine up the staircase, smiling to herself. It was easy to imagine that Celine’s attitude was down to jealousy. Jean-Michel obviously held a special place in her heart and now this foreigner had come along and stolen it. Rosie regarded the firmly set shoulders and rigid neck muscles of the small woman in front of her — there was an almost visible violent green aura. Yes, well, she didn’t have the language skills to win her over — not yet. Rosie had already been planning a crash course in French the minute she hit London.

She drew in her breath sharply as her mind raced ahead — could it really be possible that she would be back at her desk tomorrow afternoon? It seemed a world away from the peace of this elegant old mansion, languishing in the hot Provençal sunshine. Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Celine flung open a door at the end of the long corridor and held it open for Rosie. Celine dropped the bag down on a chair and spoke so rapidly in French that Rosie didn’t understand a word. She decided to smile anyway, guessing that Celine had asked if she could find her own way back. “ Merci bien , Celine — thank you. I’ll find my own way back!”

“Very well, mademoiselle .” The reply came back in heavily accented English.

“You speak English!” said Rosie in surprise.