The Little Perfume Shop Off The Champs-Élysées. Rebecca Raisin

Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Chapter Twenty-Six

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

       Chapter Thirty

       Acknowledgements

       Excerpt

       Letter from the Author

       Endpages

Chapter One

      Sunlight blistered the window of the car, shooting in bright prisms of light as I unfurled, shaking the grogginess of travel fatigue. The chauffeur came to a slow stop at the entrance of an apartment just off the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Goggle-eyed, I stared at my new lodgings awed at the grandeur, from the wrought iron balconies to the elaborate stone work surrounding the windows whose white shutters were thrown open to receive the breeze. Planter boxes housed a riot of red flowers which spilled over in search of the sun.

      I was going to live here? A place so wildly different from the family ranch in Michigan, it may as well have been on another planet. I thanked my lucky stars once more.

      ‘Mademoiselle,’ the driver said smoothly. ‘Aurelie will meet you at the entrance.’

      ‘Thank you, Monsieur.’ With brisk efficiency he exited the car and opened my door, took my bag, and led me to the grand entrance.

      ‘Do you need anything else?’ he asked in heavily accented English.

      I shook my head and smiled. ‘No, I’m all right. Thanks for the lift.’ I waved him goodbye as he sped off, blasting his horn at unsuspecting pedestrians. From what I’d seen so far, the French drove like they were competing in Le Mans, hair-raisingly fast, beeping and cornering like they had some place special to be.

      I checked my watch and glanced up. A second story curtain shivered as if someone stood just behind it. Aurelie? I clutched my small suitcase close and waited while doubt grabbed a stranglehold.

      What if I was out of my depth here? What if the other contestants all knew more than me with their formal training and chemistry degrees? What if… I gave myself a stern talking to – no more what ifs. I was just as good as anyone else, if not better! So I’d struggled a little without Nan when it came to composing new formulas; I was sure it was just a stage and I’d soon be back to my best with my secret weapon, Nan’s trusty perfumery bible. And I had passion, enthusiasm, and the desire to win.

      Honestly, it could have been Mars and I’d have been happy to escape the gossipy confines of aptly named Whispering Lakes and everything I’d left behind.

      The application process for the Leclére Parfumerie competition had been interminable with rigorous testing in every facet of perfumery. I’d made videos, sent perfume samples, been grilled by the Leclére management team over Skype about perfume regions, produce, blending, extraction techniques, ageing, and marketing strategies. They’d frowned at first when I explained I used perfumery almost like a tonic for all that ails, so I soon stopped mentioning that and focused on wowing them with secret formulas I’d developed with Nan. Thankfully, she’d left me them as a legacy, but I knew I needed to step out from the shadows and make my own again soon. It felt so wrong without her, that’s all. Like part of me was missing.

      It had taken months to get to the last round of the application process; so many times I thought I’d bomb out, so when I got The Call I felt like I’d earned my place. And the timing couldn’t have been better. This was my chance to escape small town living, and take my perfumery to the next level.

      The grand prize was an impressive amount of money, and the chance to design a perfume range which would open a lot of doors in the notoriously cliquey world of fragrance.

      So here I was, in the most romantic of cities. The Leclére Parfumerie store was just down the street; I couldn’t quite make it out but the alluring scents of jasmine, cedar, and French vanilla drifted into the summer day, beckoning to me like some kind of fragrant Pied Piper. Could I resist the urge to follow my nose? The mélange of aromas was intoxicating and warranted further investigation…

      As I dithered about taking a quick peek, my scarf disentangled itself and flew across the street, the delicate silk undulating in the wind. Without thinking I stepped off the curb to grab it just as a car whooshed past perilously close, sending me sprawling backwards to the pavement. With an oomph I landed hard, hurting both my derrière and my pride.

      Taking a shuddery breath, I caught the eye of an attractive stranger across the road. His face was etched with concern, his deep green eyes clouded with worry. Red-faced, I shrugged in apology to the man, the witness of my near-miss. Our gazes locked for fraction of a second. Time stopped and my lonely heart skipped a beat. That feeling was quickly replaced by mortification, so I closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to steady my heart. When I looked up again, he gave me a brief nod and continued on, striding down the Champs-Élysées, hands in his jeans pockets, black hair ruffled and windswept.

      Whew! I reminded myself I wasn’t in Whispering Lakes anymore and couldn’t just blithely step out on the road like I could back home. I took some comfort in the man whose concern had given me pause. And a little zap of longing too.

      Standing up, I patted myself down and straightened my skirt just as Aurelie appeared. With immaculately coiffed hair and make-up she walked surefootedly in high heels and came to greet me, smelling of Indian rose, a scent I adored. She had the posture of a dancer, and was lithe and graceful, a trait it seemed many French women shared. Was that glamour something they were all born with? Or was it something they were taught? I envied it. My newly purchased clothes suddenly seemed gauche, so obviously chain-store bought.

      ‘Welcome, Del.’ She smiled graciously and ushered me into a luxurious foyer, all gilt and dark wood, velvet draperies, the scent of polish