Kate Fitzroy - Perfume Of Provence

“This time we climb, mademoiselle . May I take your hand as the cobbles are so uneven and the lights few and far between and…? Well, I can’t think of any more excuses.”

So hand in hand they made their way through a heavy stone arch and into the narrow winding streets of the village. Up and up, towards the starry sky. Finally they arrived at a small entrance with a wrought-iron hanging sign announcing ‘Château Eza’. Rosie was suddenly conscious of her casual appearance and, yes, the loafers.

Jean-Michel, still holding her hand, strode into the narrow foyer and, leaning across the desk, called out, “Pierre, où es toi?”

A young man hurried into sight, his face breaking into a smile of welcome when he saw Jean-Michel. They talked rapidly in French for a minute and then Jean-Michel turned to her. “Isn’t that lucky? They have a table for two on the terrace.”

“Perfect!” Rosie laughed. She hadn’t understood much of what had been said but she knew enough about booking the best locations to know that something had just been fixed. As they walked through the small restaurant and out onto the candlelit terrace Rosie felt all eyes were fixed on them. Jean-Michel seemed completely oblivious. Stopping to give close examination to the dessert trolley and shaking hands with several people, waiters and diners, he led the way through the tables. Rosie was not a shy person and she began to enjoy the attention, smiling to herself as the waiters hurried to lay a small table on the very edge of the terrace. She recognised and knew the value of being known and liked.

It wasn’t until they had finished the main course that Rosie reminded Jean-Michel of his promise to tell her about his work.

“Do I have to? Do I really have to? I’m having such a good time…but, yes, a promise is a promise. I shall try to tell the story as quickly as possible. Are you sitting comfortably?”

“Very comfortably!” Rosie sighed as she leaned back in her chair and looked across at the wide expanse of dark sea now divided by a silvery gold path to the moon.

“Well, it’s a long family saga…a bit like a French edition of The Archers ! My family own quite a large area of greenhouses and lavender fields in the Provençal hills near Grasse. Our business is making perfume and has been since the time of Catherine de Medici. In fact, one of my ancestors reputedly scented her gloves…but that is another story and belongs to a tourist guide. I knew little of the business until last year when my parents were killed in a plane accident. It’s OK…” He hesitated as Rosie instinctively put her hand over his in sympathy. “I’m getting over it now but certainly it was a great shock. I had been educated in England and I was working in London when it happened — nothing to do with perfume. I’m a quantity surveyor.”

He smiled ruefully and looked out to sea. “Or rather I was a quantity surveyor in a big company in Hanover Square. To cut a long story short, I resigned and came back here to try to carry on the business. My grandmother is still alive and she knows a great deal about it all but somehow it’s just not working. Then a short time ago I was approached by the big boys here. They want to buy us out. My grandmother is set against it and I suppose I am too in my heart…but my head tells me differently. Today was yet another meeting and really they made me an offer I can’t refuse but…well, I did. Of course, I can always go back to them. Last time I turned them down they just offered me more money. We’ll see… The good thing is I don’t have to go and see Grandmère tomorrow and tell her she has to move. Now that really would be scary. She still lives in the old château — very much the head of the household. She rules with an iron hand in a perfumed silk glove. Everyone is scared stiff of her! Now can I have my profiteroles?” Jean-Michel looked down at the neglected mound of chocolate dessert.

Rosie smiled gently as she said, “My father always told me ‘when in doubt don’t’ — it’s always worked for me, so personally I think you did the right thing today. Why are they so keen to buy you out? Is it the land?”

“Partly — but it’s also our list of scents. We have one or two of the big names and a whole library of original perfumes just waiting to be bought by fashion houses. Any day one of them might call up with an idea, a ‘look’ or an image and we can offer three or four perfumes for them to choose from. My venerable grandmère is absolutely amazing at this. She is what is called ‘un nez’ …a nose. I know it sounds funny in English!”

“No, no…I’ve heard about it — like wine tasters or something. So she creates a scent and then what?”

“Well, if the fashion house choose one from our collection, then bingo — the contract is drawn up and we have a new client. It is all totally top secret — from the actual recipe right down to customer confidentiality. Once it’s signed up it’s good business, especially if you get a big name and a perfume that is marketed well. Then there is the side of the company that markets essential oils, both importing exotic fragrances and extracting and distilling from jasmine, mimosa, roses, lavender and herbs, of course…being Provence. We have two centuries of experience and an excellent reputation that Beauroma, that’s the big boys here in Eze, is longing to get its hands on. I’m sure they would run it all very commercially and exploit the tourist attraction with coach trips up to the Disneyed château…tour guides…a job for me there!” Jean-Michel smiled apologetically. “Isn’t this where we came in? I’m really sorry to bore you with all this but I did try to warn you.”

“It’s not boring at all. It’s a fascinating business but I can see it must be a great worry.”

“It wouldn’t be so difficult if half my life wasn’t still in London,” replied Jean-Michel.

Suddenly he reached across the table and took her hand in his. Rosie felt her stomach somersault. This was it. He was going to tell her about his wife and kids. Of course, they were in London and that was why he had said he travelled frequently to and fro. Rosie’s heart thumped painfully as Jean-Michel leaned towards her, offering her a spoonful of the profiteroles from the pyramid piled in the silver dish between them. He watched her lips as she opened her mouth and tasted the explosion of dark rich chocolate and cream on her tongue. Rosie was melting inside. Never had she been so attracted to a man. The dark side of her didn’t want to know about his wife and kids. He began to talk again and Rosie had been so far away in her own fears that she missed his first words.

“…and so I must visit my grandmother tomorrow and tell her about the latest developments. Now, let’s return to enjoying this evening. Would you like a coffee here or would you prefer to get back to Nice and we could find a café on the promenade?”

“That would be perfect,” Rosie answered automatically.

“So much perfection in one evening is good for my soul!” said Jean- Michel softly.

They walked slowly back down the cobbled street to the village square, holding hands lightly. When they reached the car park, Jean-Michel directed Rosie to an old Peugeot estate that was parked near Zara’s Jeep. Once again he opened and held the door for her as she jumped in. Rosie sighed, settling back into the old leather seats with pleasure, thinking how easily she could get used to this.

The drive back along the coast was another scene from a film. Jean-Michel’s old Peugeot estate, redolent with floral scent, rolled slowly along a road that hugged the coast. Jean-Michel drove with one arm casually along the back of Rosie’s seat and the other elbow resting on the open window. The air was warm, the moon was full, the stars bright. Jean-Michel gently turned the car into a lay-by that hung over the sea edge. Rosie burned with excitement. This was it — now he must kiss her and hold her in his arms. Jean-Michel opened his door and came round to her side of the car.