Kate Fitzroy - Perfume Of Provence

“And why not, mademoiselle ?” Celine answered coldly and left the room, closing the door a little too firmly.

Yes, well, she had asked for that. Not a good start but she had no time to worry about it now. She needed to apply herself to a quick Cinderella act without the aid of a godmother’s fairy wand. Rosie peeled off the enormous leather trousers, leaving them in a pile on the floor. She picked up her bag, a Prada bowling bag that she relied on for hand luggage, and tipped the entire contents into the middle of the small, high double bed. Her make-up bag, a large hairbrush, a small jewellery case, a camera, a battery pack, a wallet, a pale turquoise pleated silk Issey Miyake dress and a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals of exactly the same colour — a successful impulse buy in the January sales. Yes, this was definitely the moment to abandon the loafers.

Rosie quickly shook out the dress and draped it over the end of the wroughtiron bed. She looked round the shadowy room and saw a door on the far side. She opened it and, voilà — the bathroom. An immense bathroom, in fact, of flaking gilt and pink marble. There was a small fizz of electricity in the switch as she turned on the crystal chandelier high above her head. It gave out an uncertain dark glow for a brief moment, flickered and then went out. The room was so dim that Rosie could hardly see her reflection in the dark glass of the antique mirror that hung above the mantelpiece. She turned on the taps and waited whilst some rusty water spluttered and then ran clear and cold. She splashed her face and neck and washed her hands with the luxurious soap. The scent was as elusive as it was heavenly. This family certainly knew about perfume even if the plumbing and wiring was last century.

She went back into the bedroom and across to the heavily shuttered windows where thin shafts of sunlight splintered the gloom. She wrestled with the metal handle, trying to open them, but they were sealed firm with the paint and rust of ages. Not worth breaking a fingernail over. She tipped out the contents of her make-up bag. Thank goodness she had packed her old magnifying mirror. She looked at it fondly, seeing for a moment her childhood reflected in its glass. It had been her father’s shaving mirror — the one he had always packed in his case whenever he went away. And he had certainly done that often enough throughout her childhood… Maybe that was why the marriage had fallen apart. When he had finally gone, never to return, he had left the mirror behind.

She sighed, feeling a pang of sadness as she remembered her father’s wide smile, so like her own. But Cinderella had no time to behave like Alice through the looking glass. Rosie smiled determinedly at herself in the mirror and, kneeling under the window in a beam of sunshine, she began to carefully apply the lightest of make-up. She angled the mirror from side to side until she was satisfied that the look was totally natural. Jewellery — she needed just something. She unzipped her jewellery case and selected a favourite pair of pale jade earrings that she had bought in India. Finally she scooped everything except her camera back into the bowling bag and carefully closed it. She stepped into the silk dress and sandals and stood for a moment quite still. Yes, she decided, now Cinderella shall go to the ball.

She left the room and made her way back down the long corridor towards the stairs. This time she took more notice of the paintings and furniture. The de Fleurenne family was hardly impoverished. The heavy planked floor was covered in long runners of beautiful oriental design, worn but still glowing with silky colour. The wide staircase, divided in two by a curved landing, swept down to the hall under the gaze of several family portraits. Rosie could feel the ancestral eyes following her. She hoped they approved of her transformation. In her heart she knew she looked good. Her freshly washed hair was shiny with health and a quick spray of shine. Her skin glowed with yesterday’s sun and Estée Lauder. The dress was always a perfect travelling companion, a sheath of silk that caressed her body and swished around her bare knees as she descended the marble stairs, her sandals clicking expensively. Most of all, she walked clad in the magic radiance of love. How could such a young woman suspect that she walked towards anything other than happiness?

CHAPTER SIX

Jean-Michel jumped to his feet and came to meet her as she walked out onto the terrace. Her transformation was not wasted on him.

“Rosie…stunning! You look as though you have walked off a magazine page.”

“Funnily enough, that’s what I thought about you when I first saw you!” Rosie replied.

“You’re joking…” Jean-Michel looked down at his white T-shirt and brushed some dry red earth from his jeans. She realised he was quite disconcerted. It was unusual to find such a good-looking man unaware of or embarrassed by his own charisma. It made him even more attractive to her and she watched him with a throb of desire and some amusement as he quickly changed the subject.

“Actually I thought you’d be much longer than you were. I don’t know if I shall ever get used to how good you are at rushing around.”

His eyes met hers for a long moment and she read the subdued passion burning in him too. He continued huskily, “Anyway, I went for a quick walk through the fields. We’re coming up to harvest time. I told you it was like The Archers up here. Come and sit down in the shade — the midday heat is building up now.”

He took her hand and squeezed it and then drew it to his lips. Her eyes smiled into his before she answered.

“The warmth feels wonderful on my skin but I mustn’t burn. I’m so pale and I swam and lazed a while on the beach yesterday so that’s my quota for a while.”

“That was before your life went haywire — before you met me — when you actually had a life of your own.”

He smiled but looked at her anxiously.

“I hope you don’t mind spending a day up here?”

“Mind! How could I possibly mind? It’s like being invited to lunch in heaven — just look out there!”

They walked to the edge of the terrace and surveyed the wide panorama spread in front of them. Field after field of lavender stretched away to a horizon of hazy blue hills. The sun burnt down on the shimmering mauve flowers and silver green leaves. She breathed the scented air deeply and stood very still for a moment, holding Jean-Michel’s hand lightly in her own. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, as though to share the moment, and then they turned together and walked the length of the stone-flagged terrace to where Grandmère sat, cool and elegant, under the shade of a fig tree. Beside her was a small wrought-iron table laid with a cream lace cloth, a dish of shiny olives, three crystal glasses and an ice bucket with a tall bottle of wine.

“Sit down, both of you, where I can see you. I must say you look very well together. Rosie, you look absolutely wonderful. Quite a metamorphosis from the waif in leathers! Jean-Michel has told me all about you — or rather all that he feels for you, as surely he can know very little about you in such a short time.”

“You must think we’re very impetuous,” said Rosie cautiously.

“Yes, I think that is what I like best about the story. Just because I am ancient you mustn’t assume that I am a prude. I find that the older one gets, the more shock-proof one becomes. I don’t think I have ever told Jean-Michel that I married his grandpère just three weeks after we met. Un vrai coup de foudre! Indeed…we eloped! Our parents would never have given consent. It was quite the Romeo and Juliet affair of the time — with a happier ending, I’m pleased to say. We were perfectly devoted to each other. Sadly he died ten years ago and I have to live on without him. But why some marriages work and some don’t is a complete mystery to me.”