Kate Fitzroy - Perfume Of Provence

“This is like a film set!” she said, her voice filled with wonder as she took in the small cove curving away into the gold of the setting sun.

“Now, don’t get any ideas of bringing a film crew here. Work is work but you are on holiday, right?” He looked down at her. There were those dark, spiky lashes that she had seen in her daydreams earlier that very day. Close enough to touch, to kiss, to lick. Rosie held her hands tightly behind her back in case she should be unable to resist reaching out and brushing his cheek with her hand. How his skin gleamed to bronze in the last rays of the day’s sun.

“Would you like a drink…a sundowner?” Jean-Michel asked. Had he said it once or twice? Rosie pulled herself back from the brink of somewhere she yearned to be.

“Yes, a drink would be great. Is there anywhere down here?”

“Oh, yes, there’s a bar called ‘Zara Zazou’ — it should be just opening up for the evening. Thank goodness you’re not wearing silly shoes. It’s just over there on the beach.”

Again it was obvious that Jean-Michel was well-known. First the barman kissed him on both cheeks and then a truly stunning girl rushed out from the kitchen and threw herself at him. “Jean-Michel, mon amour, pourquoi tu ne viens plus me trouver?”

Rosie knew that Frenchmen kissed each other but she could do without this voluptuous bombshell calling Jean-Michel ‘mon amour’ . Her school French was more than adequate to get the gist of that. Jean-Michel turned to Rosie.

“This is Zara!” he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace. “ Suffis, Zara, suffis, laisse moi tranquille. Put me down!”

Zara gave Jean-Michel a light cuff around the back of his head and called across to Rosie. “Don’t mind me, ma chère , I kiss all the beautiful boys — it makes my job more interesting! I live for my work! But this one — he is an old favourite of mine!” Her accent was superbly exaggerated. She slapped Jean-Michel lightly on both cheeks. “And that is for not visiting us for so long. I no love you no more — is finished, you unnerstand?”

She spun around and came over to the table where Rosie was sitting. She was even more beautiful in close-up. Beautiful and powerful. Dark olive skin and blonde hair, lustrous violet eyes under dark eyebrows and the reddest of red lips that pouted and exaggerated her words as she spoke. “Are you with ’im, ma chère ? Be careful, he is a very good boy. He does nothing but the work, work, work. He is not the good fun. I was at school with ’im — always the same — workin’ and workin’. Such a good boy — pah!” She pulled a scornful face and threw her hands in the air in disgust as she swung her way over to the ancientjukebox. Leaning against it, with one hand on her impressive hip, she gave it a resounding kick with one pink-booted foot and it sprang into life. The plaintive electro-synthetic sound of ‘Rage in Eden’ filled the café with heady nostalgia.

“They’re playing our song, darleeng, you remember?” she drawled in fake American and returned to the kitchen, making a magnificent exit.

Jean-Michel came over to the table carrying two tall glasses of pink wine. “Phew! That’s my punishment over. I’m sorry about all that — she’s always larger than life!” He glanced at Rosie anxiously. Rosie burst into laughter.

“She’s great, simply fantastic.”

Jean-Michel laughed too, his dark eyes sparkling with vitality as he set the drinks on the table.

“Do you like Kir? It’s the only way to drink the cheap wine here.”

“Kir is perfect and so is this place.” Rosie had a really brilliant smile but this time she smiled as she had never smiled before.

“And so are you,” Jean-Michel said quietly as he looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Let’s drink to perfection.”

“To perfection!” said Rosie, sipping the cool, blackcurrant-flavoured wine and reflecting that this was what eye contact was really all about. And the evening was perfect — so perfect that Rosie felt she had floated into a dreamlike world. The only cloud looming on the entire horizon was her absolute certainty that he must be married. She kept pushing the doubt to the back of her mind, enjoying the moment and avoiding any questions about his private life. It wasn’t difficult. Jean-Michel was an excellent listener. She found herself telling him more about her work. Finally she drew to a halt.

“Now it’s really your turn,” she said. “You must tell me your long, boring story and why the perfume house are trying to buy you. Was it the buyers that you were seeing into the stretch limo?”

“You’re very observant. Was it that obvious I was trying to send them on their way?” Jean-Michel smiled but his eyes were serious. “If you really want to know then I have to insist we have dinner together — somewhere more comfortable.”

Rosie dreaded that he would make some crass comment about going back to his flat. Was his wife away perhaps?

“There’s a restaurant perched on the very edge of the village with a superb view. Can I tempt you?”

Rosie gave another of her wide smiles. “That sounds perfect. But how ever are we going to make our way back up that path in the dark?” she asked doubtfully.

“ Mais non — you have sensible shoes but you’re not a goat. Did I mention on the way down that it was a goat-path?”

Rosie laughed. “No, but I’m not at all surprised.”

“Definitely the most famous goat-path in France or maybe the whole world — and, as your personal tour guide, I must now tell you that it is known as the Chemin Nietszche because the great man was walking along it when inspired to write — zut , I can’t remember — something about what Zarathoustra said to someone or other… Anyway, it was extremely philosophical and also explains how Zara came to be called Zara. But I’m afraid I can’t recall the detail. Ah, well, perhaps I won’t make a tour guide when I lose my job in the perfume industry. Now for the next instalment we must bypass Nietzsche and borrow Zara’s Jeep… Excuse me, I’ll just go and tell her. If I don’t return immediately it will be because she has hugged me to death.”

Ten minutes later they were chugging up the steep road that wound its way up to the village. Rosie hung onto the roll bar as she looked down at the steep drop to the sea. This place was all vertical roads.

“How on earth will Zara get home?” she asked, although it was one of the minor questions that she had in the long list forming in her head.

“Oh, Zara will get a lift — she knows everyone here. The place will be buzzing until three or four in the morning. She was born here like me.”

Well, that crossed another question off her list. “How amazing to be born in such a spectacular place.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Apart from the Mediterranean at your feet, the ruined château and the white penitents’ chapel it’s just like any other ordinary old mediaeval village.” Jean-Michel laughed.

“Not forgetting the Chemin Nietzsche,” added Rosie. “And the perfumery and the pine trees on the beach and…”

“Do you want a job as a tour guide?” Jean-Michel asked, raising his dark eyebrows. “Anyway, you haven’t seen anything yet. This is ‘be glad of your sensible shoe time’ again.” He slung the Jeep into the square, turned off the engine and then slipped the car key behind the sun visor.

“Will it be OK to leave it like that?” Rosie asked in surprise.

“Goodness, yes. Everyone around knows Zara and not a soul would dare take it without her permission. You must have noticed she is one terrifying woman!” Jean-Michel laughed and then came round to open her door. Rosie couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that for her before. She supposed she should feel some sort of feminist rebellion but instead she felt enchanted.