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

cameras slung around necks, and maps held aloft, ice creams melting down hands. Cars zoomed up and down and a world of accents bounced towards me. It was so damn hectic!

      A commotion rang out down the hall, and I turned to the sound, straining to make out what was being said.

      A loud French voice carried, along with the rolling of a suitcase or two.

      ‘Excusez-moi, out of the way, please. Ooh la la, these are heavy.’

      I could smell the woman before I could see her. Her perfume was an intense mélange of sultry fig bursting with the intense sweetness that comes with ripe fruit.

      ‘Bonjour, bonjour, coming through.’ It sounded like she was barreling people out of the way as she stomped noisily down the hall looking for her room, our room. I held my breath for a moment. Did she always make such a loud entrance?

      A few moments later the door flew open and there she stood.

      ‘Del!’ she said, launching at me, hugging me to her as if we were long lost friends, squishing the breath from my lungs. ‘I’m Clementine, and I’ve ’eard all about you. The American girl with the best nose in the business.’ When she freed me, I gulped for air, before taking in my roommate. She was exquisite with her voluptuous figure, form-fitting dress and heavily rouged cheeks. Next to her curvaceous body, I felt suddenly boyish with my straight up-and-down physique.

      My mousy brown waves and more naturally made-up face were no match for her cascading blonde curls, bright blue doe eyes, and bee stung scarlet lips. Her style was quite incredible, almost burlesque in its extravagance. I was no slouch in the fashion department, I followed trends just like the next girl, but Clementine was something else. It took guts to dress so outrageously, and pull it off.

      ‘Bonjour! I love your outfit,’ I said, giving her a wide smile.

      She paid no heed to the compliment, instead shaking her head and sighing theatrically. ‘This?’ She pointed to her hourglass figure, swathed in ruby red velvet. ‘I have a little…’ow you say, addiction to the cherry clafoutis. Nothing can cure me of it except another bite of the sweetness itself.’ She tutted. ‘French women don’t get fat…? That’s what is said, non? Pah! French women can do whatever the ’ell they like! Fat, skinny, square, triangle, I don’t care! No one shall dictate to me! You know my maman?’

      Of course I didn’t, but that had no bearing on the story as she continued: ‘Well, she says I’ll never get married if I eat the way I do. Says I’m not a real Parisian with my appetites! I should show restraint.’ She reeled back as if it was a dirty word. ‘But why? Why should I deny myself pleasure? A man will surely love all of me, if he’s the right man.’ She patted the soft swell of her belly. ‘And until then I’ll eat whatever I please, whenever I please.’

      Another girl, with vivid red hair straightened to a shine sashayed past, stopping to lean on the door jamb. ‘It’s not a matter of depriving oneself, Clementine, it’s simply a matter of balance.’ The redhead conveyed in one long look that she thought Clementine was on a slippery slope to imbalance. The pair obviously knew each other, but the girl had an English accent.

      ‘Pah,’ Clementine said. ‘That’s why these girls are always so misérable.’ She waved her French polished nails at the redhead. ‘They’re hungry.’

      My mind had to work overtime to make sense of Clementine’s hastily delivered, emphatic and heavily accented monologue – and to keep my laughter in check. She was so dramatic and more overt than the Parisian women I’d come into contact with so far.

      The English girl rolled her eyes and stuck out her hand to me. ‘I’m Kathryn, from London. You’ll get used to Clementine, she behaves as if all the world is a stage, that’s all.’

      I laughed, liking both women on sight. ‘How do you two know each other?’

      Clementine gave an airy shrug. ‘Kathryn lived in Paris when she took a perfumery class here a million years ago. Back then she ate the cherry clafoutis and she was a lot ’appier, I can tell you that.’

      ‘I studied here a few years back, but Clem would have you believe I’m in my twilight years or something. I might have imbibed more back then but people mature, they grow up. Well some of us do.’ She gave Clementine a pointed stare.

      You could sense their comradery even though they mocked one another, something that was more for my benefit.

      ‘I’m Del, from Michigan, America.’ Not Del ’n’ Jen. Jen ’n’ Del. Gosh, that felt weird.

      ‘We know,’ Kathryn said, her eyes twinkling. ‘And rumor has it, you’re one to watch out for.’

      I cocked my head, debating how to answer. ‘I don’t know about that.’ Better to downplay any skills they thought I had. I didn’t want them ganging up against me when the challenges began.

      Kathryn folded her arms. ‘Don’t be so modest,’ she said, and flicked her hair. ‘We know all about you, your beloved nan taught you perfumery…’ The sentence was left hanging.

      How did they know about me and Nan? We came from nowheresville…

      ‘Who told you?’

      ‘It’s not hard to find out information if you know where to look,’ Kathryn said. ‘Social media is a marvellous thing.’

      ‘Oui,’ Clementine cut in. ‘And so what if you ’ave ambition for eyeballs and a nose that could rival Anais Laurent…’

      I laughed at her transparent attempt to get me to admit I was one of the main contenders. No chance I’d be that easily fooled. While it was clear they’d done some digging, they really didn’t know much in the scheme of things.

      ‘I think comparing me to Anais Laurent is stretching it a little.’ Anais Laurent had paved the way for female perfumers in what was once a man’s world. Her nose was legendary, and her perfumes still sold well despite being designed half a century ago. Every perfumer desired a formula so popular it lived on long after you’d left this mortal coil, just like Anais.

      Clementine narrowed her heavily made-up eyes. ‘There’s no room for humble ’ere, Del. Better that you admit you’re in contention for the prize and then we can all play fair, non?’

      Straight shooting Clementine fascinated me but I kept my game face on. ‘Of course! And I hope we can all be the best of friends.’

      ‘We already are.’ Clementine tossed her bag on the double bed closest to the balcony, the bed I’d already laid claim to. ‘So tell us,’ she said. ‘How did you find the selection process? Wasn’t it intense?’

      I laughed. ‘You can say that again! Towards the end I didn’t think I’d make the cut. There were so many tests! And taking them on the fly on a video call…’

      She rolled her eyes. ‘Right? My ’ands shook so bad on those video calls, it was lucky I didn’t drop my parfum and smash it to a million pieces but look, we’re here! What made you enter, Del?’

      I folded my arms, considering. ‘So many reasons, meeting the mysterious Lecléres, adventure, wanderlust…’ And the desire to win. ‘Perfumery has always been my happy place.’ Without Nan, I’d struggled to find the joy in creating, struggled to find the joy in anything, and Jen figured this competition might help me find my way back… Or had she orchestrated this so I’d be out of the way?

      ‘I see,’ said Clementine, drawing me back. ‘From what we ’eard you had plans to open a perfumery boutique in New York, but your sister got cold feet. That must have been tough for you, especially as you’re so close. And she gave it all up for the love of a man…?’

      I stood there dumbstruck, wondering how she could know such a thing. I wasn’t one to overshare, and I most certainly didn’t pour my sorrows out over social media. ‘How could you possibly