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

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.

      ‘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