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

smiled as if she knew what I was thinking. ‘Welcome to Paris,’ she said in thickly accented English. ‘I’ll to take you to your room so you can settle in. Hopefully Seb will be along later to greet you.’

      Hopefully? Sebastien had been promoted to head of Leclére Parfumerie after his father’s death, but so far I’d had no contact with him despite the myriad of calls that had gone back and forth between me and the management team in the lead up to the competition. Truth be told, I itched to meet the enigmatic man because there was so little known about him. All my internet searches had come up blank.

      ‘I’m looking forward to meeting him,’ I said as a yawn got the better of me. Damn! It smacked of bad manners and my nan would have told me so in no uncertain terms.

      ‘You must be tired from all that travel?’ Aurelie said with a smile.

      ‘Yes,’ I laughed. ‘I binge-watched TV shows on the flight when I probably should have tried to sleep.’ Who knew air travel was so fun? From the little bags of peanuts to the plastic flutes of champagne, I’d said yes to everything offered, delighting in it all. And now I was too wound up to feel anything other than excitement and a new level of jitters.

      ‘Enjoy every moment, I say. Life is for living.’

      There was a real warmth in the French woman, she wasn’t the least bit standoffish like I’d presumed the Lecléres would be. They’d shunned the press for years claiming their perfumes told their own stories and they refused to muddy those with their own, so I expected her to be more contained, less friendly.

      After the death of patriarch, Vincent, things were changing. It was out of character for the family to open their doors and let strangers in. Was son and heir Sebastien going to make his own mark on the world of perfumery? Were they going to expand the business? Were they secretly holding the competition to find another head perfumer? So many questions remained unanswered.

      Sebastien was a master at eluding the paparazzi and after many years they’d eventually given up so it was a mystery what the man looked like. I imagined the stereotypical perfumery nerd; the typical pinched-face, thin-lipped, starved of sun type. Sad as it was I could’ve used a good dose of vitamin D myself.

      ‘Come this way, I want to show you something,’ she said and led me back outside.

      I followed Aurelie’s brisk pace, and then came to a sudden stop. Before me stood the wondrous Leclére Parfumerie. At the sight of the legendary boutique my pulse raced. I’d dreamed of stepping into this fragrant nirvana for years! Any good perfumer revered Leclére and its heritage; it was famous the world over because Vincent had turned the art of making fragrance on its head and revolutionized scent, but the store resembled an old apothecary, and was even more breathtaking in person. ‘Oh, Aurelie, this is like something out of a dream!’

      ‘Our little version of Wonderland…’

      The dark stone façade of the store was weather beaten and grey with age. Thick teal blue velvet ruched draperies graced the edges of the window. Inside, antique chairs in hues of royal blue sat solemnly in front of golden display cabinets. Knotty and scarred cabinetry lined the walls, and housed a range of lotions and potions. Centre stage hung a black and white portrait of the master himself, Vincent Leclére. The eccentric man with kind eyes and a secretive smile.

      Perfume bottles glowed under soft spotlights. They were unique to each other, some were fringed with delicate gold beading, others had sparkling crystal stoppers. What magical scent did they contain? It was all I could do not to step inside and test them all on the soft skin on the inside of my wrist. Just as I pulled myself from the window I caught sight of a woman who looked so much like that red-haired, powerhouse singer from the UK. When that famous bawdy cackle of hers rang out I was certain it was her.

      If rumours were true, Leclére perfumed the biggest names in show business, but of course the family never uttered a word about their famous clients. ‘Is that…?’ Today was no different, Aurelie gave me the ghost of a smile and just lifted a brow.

      Aurelie pointed out this and that of special significance through the window – a pretty pink high back chair that had once belonged to a princess long gone from this world, and was gifted to Vincent, along with her antique dressing table where customers now sat and stared at their reflections. Did the princess visit the store late at night, the mirror a portal from another world? As farfetched as the idea was, the perfumery gave you that kind of impression, that it was a place where magic abounded.

      And it was so French, I felt as though I’d stepped into a vintage postcard. Even though Jen wasn’t here, I could hear her voice. Would you look at that, she’d say, or aren’t you a lucky thing getting to visit Paris? If only my twin sister Jennifer could see the perfumery! She’d be clutching my arm and exclaiming at everything like a child.

      There was a dull ache in my heart when I thought of her, a quiet thump that reminded me we were under different patches of sky for the first time ever. She was the girl who mirrored my movements, finished my sentences and was identical to me in every way except she was born with no sense of smell. Incredible really, when I lived, breathed and dreamed fragrance. Still, we had planned on opening our own business. The perfumery boutique we envisaged, our empire, the thing that would take us from small town Michigan and catapult us into the stratosphere, was on hold. Indefinitely. It still smarted, to be honest, the way she just gave up on me. Never in a million years did I see that coming, not from my twin, the girl who wanted the same things as me. Or so I’d thought.

      But I was here now, fresh start and all that.

      ‘You’ll have more time to explore the perfumery,’ Aurelie said, bringing me back to the present. ‘But for now, let me show you to your home for the next little while.’

      Back at the apartment, Aurelie glided noiselessly upstairs while I clomped behind her, hefting my suitcase trying not to huff and puff like I was out of shape. The space was rich with the scent of French cooking; buttery garlic, white wine, fresh thyme, and something delectable slowly simmering, its intoxicating flavors wafting through the walls.

      ‘Down the hall to the left is a sitting room and there’s a shared kitchen and dining room just past. If you want anything in particular, let me know. You have a mini kitchenette in your room, but any proper cooking will have to be done in the shared kitchen. I trust you’ll enjoy it here.’

      I nodded my thanks.

      ‘This is where you’ll stay with your roommate, our Parisian entrant Clementine. If you need me there’s an information pack on the bedside table with my contact details. The afternoon is yours, though there’s not much left of it. Dinner is at eight o’clock at our apartment. Sebastien will be there to welcome you.’

      ‘Merci, Aurelie,’ I said mustering a smile. There’d be plenty of time to size up the other contestants at dinner, to find out where they were from and most importantly about their perfumery. I was eager to make friends, with people who didn’t know every last detail about me the way they did back home.

      Here I’d just be me, not Jen’s twin, not the daughter of wandering hippies. It could be a reinvention, of sorts. Alone, I would learn about myself, in a way I hadn’t before. Out of the fishbowl, and into one of the most beautiful cities in the world, who would I be?

Chapter Two

      Inside my new abode, I slung my handbag on one of the beds and gazed around. While it was economically sized, it was immaculate. Two double beds took up the majority of the space and were dressed in fine white linen with plump European pillows. The room was light and bright and utterly Parisian with little touches here and there to make it homely. A vase of fresh peony blooms sat on a chest of antique drawers and perfumed the space. There was a small bathroom with plush white towels, and by the balcony was the kitchenette, which was really only an island bench with coffee and tea supplies and underneath a small bar fridge. I resisted the urge to call my sister, as I’d normally have done. I had to prove I could