Daisy James - The Summer House of Happiness - A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!

‘Yes?’

‘Smile! Like it or not, we work in the romance industry where there’s no room for anxiety, only for supreme confidence in our unassailable abilities to create liquid magic. How do you think Monsieur Gasnier made his eponymous perfume house one of the most prestigious in the whole of France? Today, we must strive to ensure that everyone – and everything – is joyeux or magnifique or incroyable !’

Gabbie knew Marianne was right. She adored her career and had been surprised, and grateful, for the accolades that had come her way. She had been told she had what was known as le nez ; the ability to identify the individual components of any given perfume, and also to understand which aromas would combine to create the ultimate olfactory experience. She was confident she could answer any question thrown at her by Jules Gasnier – House of Gasnier’s maestro – who had decided to grace them with his aromatic presence in order to select next summer’s eau de parfum personally.

She knew the perfume she had spent the last three months pouring her heart and soul into was unique, and because Monsieur Gasnier was renowned for being a highly-strung perfectionist, she had practised her presentation speech until it was pitch-perfect. For once, her hair had not sprouted wings, but remained in a stylish chignon, courtesy of her flatmate Jasmine’s nifty fingers. Sartorial elegance usually provided her with a boost of confidence, and her friend had loaned her a beautifully cut lemon shift dress and pair of towering heels. Except, this morning, her careful preparations weren’t working their magic to eradicate her jitters.

Gabbie loved her life in Grasse, the acknowledged capital of the perfume industry. Just being there enriched her creativity and increased her desire to design the most exquisite perfume, not to mention providing welcome distraction from her heartache. She loved the tiny apartment she shared with Jasmine, the sunshine and hustle and bustle of the attractive town, and her French was improving every day. And yet she had started to realise that, despite all the career successes, something was missing, something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on until recently. She had hoped to spend the day dissecting what it meant for her future, as well as remembering all the happy times she had spent with her beloved mother, experimenting with fragrances, before the scourge that was breast cancer had snatched her away from her family.

Monsieur Gasnier’s timing couldn’t have been any worse. It wasn’t fair, but then she knew more than most that life wasn’t. She had known how difficult the anniversary of her mother’s death was going to be; that’s why she had asked for a day off work. But there were lots of good days too, like the long weekends she got to spend with her grandparents in a small village just outside Genoa, where she could submerge herself in their stories about her mother Sofia’s childhood: her love of ballet, of her pet Pekinese, and how she had met Gabbie’s father, Jeff Andrews.

‘I’m with Gabbie,’ announced Fleurette, her long, slender fingers fluttering at the silver, heart-shaped necklace around her throat. ‘I don’t know how you can remain so calm, Marianne. Monsieur Gasnier is the most notoriously demanding perfumer in the whole of France. I haven’t been this nervous since Didier introduced me to his mother – and look how that turned out! She still hasn’t forgiven me for breaking her precious Louis XVI vase.’

‘Just as long as you don’t touch anything, Fleurette, you should be fine,’ said Marianne, barely concealing her impatience with Gabbie’s famously clumsy colleague with the spectacular, liquorice-coloured ringlets. ‘Now, is everything ready?’

‘I think so.’

‘Don’t just think so, know so!’

‘Yes, everything is ready, Marianne,’ said Gabbie, surprised to detect a tiny crack in Marianne’s legendary composure. If Marianne, famous industry-wide for her Parisian poise, was apprehensive, then the rest of them had no chance.

‘Thank you, Gabbie. We are truly blessed to have your organisational skills as well as your expertise in fragrance. Every day I send up une prière de gratitude profonde for the day you arrived here from the Institute.’

Gabbie managed a real smile when she thought of the day she had graduated from the Grasse Institute of Perfumery the previous summer, ecstatic to learn she had secured a job in the French perfume industry and had also fulfilled her mother’s dying wish that she follow what was truly in her heart, even if others insisted on a different journey.

From an early age, she had discovered that fragrance could enhance mood, and had witnessed firsthand the comfort, relief, even happiness, that her creations brought to those who used them. In her interview with Marianne, she had been relieved to hear that, as part of her training, she would not only be spending her time experimenting in the lab, but also engaging with their many customers, listening to their stories, delving into their memories for clues about the aromas that meant something to them so she could create a personalised fragrance to lift their spirits and make them smile.

That was why she had chosen to train as a perfumer in the first place: to hear their exclamations of delight when the fragrance she had designed especially for them reminded them of a long-forgotten childhood memory or much-missed relative – not to impress a snooty chief executive or fill the coffers of a multinational conglomerate. Over the last six months she had been allowed to spend a mere two weeks in the consulting rooms with House of Gasnier clients, despite her pleas to the contrary. She knew this was what lay at the root of her recent restlessness and her mother’s words urging her to follow her dreams rang sharply in her ears.

‘Oh, mon Dieu , here he comes!’ gasped Jean-Pierre, flapping his hand over his heat-infused cheeks. ‘Pass the smelling salts, I think I’m going to…’

‘Get a grip, Jean-Pierre!’ growled Marianne.

The clickety-clack of stacked heels on marble flooring echoed into the room. The group exchanged final, terror-filled glances, pinned on wide smiles and prepared themselves for the arrival of the great perfume virtuoso.

‘Ah, Monsieur Gasnier! Welcome!’ beamed Marianne, stepping forward to plant kisses on his cheeks. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey?’

‘ Non! I did not! The traffic was appalling. Why everyone and their dog must descend on the Riviera in August is beyond me. All those people just swarming along the roads and pavements… ergh …’

Jules Gasnier screwed up his nose and curled his lips in disgust at being forced to mingle with the hoi polloi, even if it was from the comfort of his chauffeur-driven, air-conditioned Mercedes.

Gabbie took the opportunity to scrutinise her boss. She had met him only once before when he’d presented her with the Confetti! Magazine prize he’d insisted on collecting from the glitzy, star-studded ceremony himself. At a little over five foot three, the office gossip-vine constantly speculated that the reason his shoes were hand-stitched was so the Italian designers could incorporate an additional two inches of lift in the heel. Nevertheless, his choice of footwear did not detract from his overall appearance and Jules Gasnier clearly made up for his lack of stature with a forceful personality that sent the meek-minded scuttling for cover.

Not only was he immaculately attired in the latest Parisian haute couture , but, unsurprisingly, he was surrounded by a cloud of the most delicious cologne – crafted from a secret recipe he refused to share with anyone other than his mother, with whom he lived in splendour in the fifth arrondissement in Paris. Jean-Pierre had spent many a late night in the lab trying to replicate the signature scent for his own personal use, but he hadn’t yet managed it. Gabbie thought he needed to add a drop of star anise and maybe a dash of bergamot, but she wouldn’t dream of muscling in on Jean-Pierre’s alchemy.