Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

She was right, of course.

But Valmont was quite unwilling to hide his annoyance for anyone who couldn’t immediately appreciate his talent. And if he were honest, his arrogance was nothing more than a defence against the inevitable rejection he felt certain was coming his way. It was easier, if considerably less profitable, to reject clients as being too stupid to comprehend his vision. But in truth, he was terrified. He couldn’t seem to find his place in this rarefied world of fashion, style and, most of all, money.

And now he was here, alone. In perhaps the most famous, shallowest pool in all the world.

The bellhop carried his bag over to the front desk and Valmont followed, overwhelmed and irritated by the noise of the cavernous marble lobby. He’d been up well into the early hours of the morning, debating whether to come or not. Although it was not a long journey, he was tired now and eager to get to his room.

He could feel the stares of the other hotel guests burning into his back as he made his way across the lobby. The cut of his suit was dated; the fabric had gone shiny in places from too much pressing and his suitcase was inexpensive and battered. Worse, he could smell the perfumes of his rivals wafting up from the pillow-strewn settees in a noxious cacophony of odours – the orange blossom of L’Heure Bleue battling next to the hesperidic top notes and deep jasmine heart of Coty’s Chypre ; both of them drowning in a sickening mixture of Arpège ’s twisted adelphic cocktail clashing against the lush overstated orientalism of Mitsouko . To him, it was as discordant as four orchestras sitting side by side, playing warring symphonies.

It never ceased to amaze him that anyone would be so pedestrian as to wear the same scent as someone else. They might as well be appearing in public in an identical dress. And yet women did it all the time. It also baffled him that they would happily wear the same perfume every day; it was like eating the same meal, day in and day out, for breakfast, luncheon and dinner.

These creatures were idiots! He should turn round, head back to the train station now.

‘May I help you?’ The receptionist regarded him coolly.

‘Yes. I’m Andre Valmont. I’ve booked with you for a fortnight.’

‘Really.’ He glanced at the register in front of him. ‘Oh, yes, here it is. One of the smaller rooms. Without a sea view.’

Valmont’s eyes narrowed. He was on the verge of saying something but just managed to hold his tongue.

‘I’ll be a moment while I see if your room is ready yet.’

The man left and Valmont sank into despondence, staring blankly into the middle distance. Already he was receding into the familiar, private world of his imagination.

Across the lobby, the lift doors opened and a young woman walked out. Without being entirely conscious of it, Valmont found himself staring at her. At the easy, languid way in which she crossed the floor; of the taut perfection of her figure, which, without being conspicuously on show beneath the soft folds of her white summer dress, was not entirely hidden by it either. It struck him as a calculated statement; both ambiguous and provocative without being obvious. This subtlety pleased him. Although finely boned and petite, she possessed bearing and composure; a certain reckless enjoyment of her own body. And her face was equally striking, with large feline eyes and full lips, poised on the verge of a smile, as if she were recalling a private joke. Her hair was black. It was brushed back from her face and arranged like a soft dusky halo round her head. A little straw handbag dangled from her wrist and she frowned slightly as she made her way up to the front desk.

The receptionist’s face lit up when he saw her. ‘Mademoiselle, how may I help?

‘Please tell me it’s going to rain today, François.’

‘Ah!’ he smiled. (This was obviously familiar territory.) ‘I regret to inform you that the forecast calls for nothing but sunshine.’

‘ Relentless sunshine,’ she corrected him.

‘Yes, mademoiselle, relentless sunshine.’

She leaned forward and for the first time, Valmont caught a trace of her scent; a distinctive, unique formulation that blended with the natural earthiness of her skin to create an aura of musky, acrid warmth. There was a refinement to it that literally made his mouth water.

‘François, I’m longing for it to rain.’

‘Yes, mademoiselle.’

‘Well, who do I have to speak to about it?’

He thought a moment. ‘God, mademoiselle?’

‘Oh dear.’ She sighed. ‘God and I are not on speaking terms.’

‘Mademoiselle, every day you ask me the forecast. Every day you want it to rain. Why?’

‘Because all this sunshine is uncivilized, François. Great conversations cannot be had by a poolside. I long for the roll of thunder, the darkening sky, the sudden eruption of a cold refreshing shower!’

She sighed again.

‘You have a unique view,’ François pointed out.

‘Also,’ she added, ‘there is nothing more morbid than being unhappy while the sun shines down on you.’ She opened her handbag and took out a pair of sunglasses. ‘I require rain, François. Please see what you can do.’

And with that she turned and walked away.

Both Valmont and François watched as she strolled past the doorman and out of the main entrance.

‘Who is that young woman?’ Valmont asked.

‘Mademoiselle Dorsey.’ François leaned his chin in his palm. ‘She’s travelling with an Englishman named Lamb. From London. I believe they have a lot of rain in London.’

‘Yes. Yes, they do.’

The receptionist returned, handing a key to the porter. ‘Sir, Marcel will take you to your room.’

Valmont followed the porter to the lift.

There was something familiar about Mademoiselle Dorsey. Something in her voice, in her scent.

Valmont began to wonder if it was possible to make a perfume that smelled like a warm summer pavement after a sudden rain shower; both coolly damp and heat-soaked at the same time. It was an interesting proposition. He liked the idea of two opposing temperatures; two contrasting emotional states, rubbing up against one another, pulling in different directions.

They stepped inside the lift and the doors closed, sealing off the din of the lobby.

And suddenly Valmont didn’t feel quite as irritable or tired any more. His imagination was engaged, whirring on various combinations and possibilities. Without ever speaking to him directly, the girl in the lobby had posed an interesting question – one he was determined to answer.

It was three days later when he saw her again, after dinner.

Valmont stood a moment at the entrance to the ballroom, observing.

She was sitting at a table with half a dozen other people. The ballroom was crowded. A band was playing, couples were dancing, waiters scrambled to provide a constant supply of champagne and large platters of fresh iced oysters and caviar. She was wearing a simple silver sheath cut within an inch of indecency, curving round her slender shoulders and then falling away to expose the smooth white skin of her back and just a hint of the soft round curve of her breasts. She had on no jewellery, only a pale wash of lipstick, and again the black halo of hair was arranged so that it looked almost wind tossed. Yet her dark tresses shone, framing her face with a soft, unearthly light. Next to the other women at the table, with their diamonds, heavy strands of pearls, and meticulously groomed faces and hair, she seemed feral and bewitching. The impact of her beauty lay in her confidence and her utter lack of self-awareness. In contrast, others appeared to be trying too hard, careful and staid.

She was laughing, speaking in French and English at the same time; making party hats out of the dinner napkins for the French Secretary of the Interior and his wife. A few seats over, a handsome older gentleman watched as she launched into an impromptu rendition of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ which was soon echoed by the tables around them and then accompanied by the band. Valmont concluded it must be the French Secretary’s birthday – at least he hoped it was.