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

‘Monsieur Gasnier, you have met Gabriella Andrews and Jean-Pierre Bertrand,’ said Marianne, gesturing to them to greet their employer.

Starstruck, Jean-Pierre hesitated, so Gabbie stepped forward and stuck out her hand. To her surprise, Jules Gasnier’s handshake was unusually limp, barely a touch, and accompanied by a look of distaste. She had the distinct impression that, had manners permitted, her employer would have liked nothing more than to whip out a bottle of antibacterial hand cleanser.

‘Could I introduce you to our newest perfumer, Fleurette Deniel?’

Fleurette swallowed down on her nerves and whispered, ‘Monsieur Gasnier, it is an honour to meet you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is. Marianne, would it be too much to ask for us to move on to the business part of our meeting, s’il vous plaît ?’

Without waiting for a response, he marched over to the white marble bench where four glass phials were lined up ready for his attention. Every precious tube represented months of labour-intensive work and thousands of euros of raw materials. Even after all this time, it still amazed Gabbie that five tonnes of rose petals produced a meagre kilogram of pure rose oil – no wonder it was so expensive. Consequently, she always treated each ingredient with the utmost care and respect; many of the oils she worked with were worth more than their weight in gold.

‘Certainly, Monsieur Gasnier. If you would like to start with this fragrance?’ said Marianne, maintaining her cool façade as she handed over the first of the phials of precious golden liquid, her lips tightening slightly at the corners.

The previous day, Gabbie, Fleurette and Jean-Pierre had spent hours discussing the fragrances they intended to submit to Jules Gasnier for evaluation. Then, they had gone on to argue over the order of presentation, having to resort to drawing lots in the end or else they might have succumbed to verbal blows.

‘Mmm,’ mused Jules, his eyes closed as he inhaled for a second time. ‘Passable. Next.’

Gabbie saw Marianne wince. Phial number one had been her fragrance. Twelve weeks of aromatic toil and it was back to the drawing board – but after twenty years at the House of Gasnier, Marianne was accustomed to Monsieur Gasnier’s rejections, always delivered without consideration for their effect on the recipient. He might be a genius when it came to creating liquid magic, but it was a well-documented fact that he possessed an indiscriminate sadistic streak that he liked to dish out to the unsuspecting at increasingly frequent intervals. Those unfortunate enough to be singled out for attention either slunk from the room in shame or stormed out muttering words such as ‘unhinged’ or ‘crazy’. Marianne had recently confided in Gabbie that she was becoming genuinely worried about their CEO’s mental health as he approached his seventieth birthday, and she had been shocked to overhear a whispered conversation containing references to dementia.

Gabbie offered Marianne a sympathetic smile, yet she crossed her fingers that Monsieur Gasnier was saving his effusive praise for the perfume in phial number four, the one she had sweated blood and tears over – literally. Her offering was a blend of jasmine, mandarin, green leaves and linen fragrances, melded together to suggest that ‘just out of the shower’ freshness for the summer months.

The next perfume was Jean-Pierre’s masterpiece. Gabbie mouthed ‘good luck’, but Jean-Pierre’s dark gaze remained glued to Jules’s facial expression as he inhaled a deep breath, taking the aroma deep into his lungs. As they all waited with bated breath, blades of golden midday sunshine sliced through the skylights overhead, but not one person was interested in anything other than the imminent pronouncement. Gabbie’s heart pounded so hard against her ribcage that she thought Monsieur Gasnier would hear it and send her out of the room with a vicious reprimand for disturbing the creative process.

‘Do I detect pink peppercorn?’

Jean-Pierre flicked a quick glance at Marianne before stepping forward from the line, his eyes widening with excitement. ‘ Oui, Monsieur …’

‘And narcissus?’

‘ Oui, Monsieur ,’ repeated Jean-Pierre, his voice climbing an octave. Unfortunately, Monsieur Gasnier was clearly immune to the electricity of hope that sparkled from every pore in Jean-Pierre’s gym-honed body.

‘I thought so. This concoction of swamp water is nothing more than a poor imitation of last year’s L’Amour Antique , do you not think? It would be commercial suicide to replicate something that already forms part of our range. Please remove this from my presence! Next!’

Heat flooded Jean-Pierre’s cheeks as he grabbed the glass phial and ran from the room to nurse his shattered dreams. The third perfume belonged to Fleurette. By this time, Gabbie felt as though her chest had been invaded by a gang of marauding monkeys and she struggled to control a sudden bout of trembling.

‘Mmm, this one is interesting… very interesting. Humour me. Did I ask for snow-topped mountains and cosy log cabins as the inspiration for our summer fragrance? Anyone? Non! Do any of my employees actually listen to me? Eh? ’

Monsieur Gasnier threw up his hands before eyeing the final glass tube with disdain. Gabbie tried to quash her rampaging emotions but found her throat was dry and constricted. Her breathing had become shallow and she began to feel lightheaded, as if she was about to spontaneously combust. She watched him lift her precious fragrance to his nose – the nose she knew was insured for over two million euros – before closing his eyes and puckering his lips in avid contemplation.

‘Who is the creator of this parfum ?’

‘I am, Monsieur.’

‘Fetch me a bottle of frangipani oil!’

Gabbie stared at her boss, shocked at his abrupt tone of voice and the way he tapped his foot impatiently on the marble floor, palm outstretched as he rolled his eyes at the time she was taking to respond to his order.

‘Go on! What are you waiting for? Chip chip! ’

Fortunately, Marianne defused the burgeoning tension by handed Jules Gasnier the oil he had demanded and the three women stood silently, watching as he added two drops of the precious liquid to Gabbie’s phial, then inhaled a second time.

‘ Ahh , l’arme d’été. C’est presque parfait! ’

Gabbie’s stomach performed a somersault of excitement. Was this her chance? Would she now be permitted to introduce her summer fragrance to House of Gasnier’s customers, to reconnect with the people she made her perfumes for, to reignite the passion that had been waning over the last few months while she had been confined to the lab? She managed to find her voice but when she spoke it was as though someone else was talking. ‘ Merci , Monsieur Gasnier, I…’

‘I said almost perfect. There is still a great deal of work to be done before this parfum can take its place alongside its peers. However, I am prepared to allow you the opportunity to work on its enhancement, mademoiselle . You will present yourself at nine a.m. on Monday morning at our headquarters on Rue de Rivoli.’

‘Rue de Rivoli? In Paris?’

‘ Oui , à Paris! ’ Monsieur Gasnier tutted and rolled his eyes at Marianne. ‘I anticipate your relocation will be for an initial period of three months, during which time you will be working in our on-site laboratory as part of our award-winning perfume development team.’

Gabbie knew she should be feeling euphoric. Jules Gasnier had chosen her perfume for the summer collection! Wasn’t that what she had wanted? Why she had temporarily crammed her most fervent wish to spend more time with their customers into the box labelled ‘To be dealt with later’? She could see the delight written across Marianne’s face, and the broad, excited smile on Fleurette’s lips needed no translation, but she shared neither of those emotions.