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

They were often the laughing stock of Whispering Lakes, their behavior always fodder for local gossip, which was tough when you were a kid. Even now, there was still that same whispering behind hands when I walked past, laughter following me down the long road to home, and I’d wonder what they’d done this time. They lived life on their terms though and as unreliable as they were, you had to give them a grudging amount of respect for it. They didn’t care one iota what people thought about them. There was a freedom in that.

      That freedom came at a cost though. Nan and Pop raised us, Mom and Dad were more like errant siblings than parents. I gave myself a few minutes to grieve again for the woman I’d lost and the one who was left behind.

      Don’t give into it, Del. Grief was a strange thing. Even after all these years it crept up when you least expected it.

      I heard Nan’s voice, like I sometimes did: Come on, Del. Pull those shoulders back and go wow those people!

      OK, OK! I smiled at the memory as I dithered about which perfume to wear. It had to be perfect because it would set the tone for who they perceived me as. The Madagascar rose was too soft, too dreamy for a group setting. The citrus blast was a daytime fragrance. Oriental flare, maybe? It was spicy and sultry, a balmy evening scent and had enough oomph to stand out in what would be a very fragrant group. Although, I also had my special remedy cache – aromatherapy oils made for certain situations: to calm, to endear, to love, laugh – but tonight I would need to show them what I was capable of …

      I spritzed the perfume on my pulse points and grabbed my handbag on the way out. Clementine had left earlier and hadn’t returned so I locked the room and wandered down the hallway. A few doors down, a rail-thin guy wearing an ill-fitted suit swore as he tried to lock his door.

      ‘Can I help?’ I asked. His hands shook and when he turned to me I smelled the sourness of stale alcohol on his breath. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot but he smiled, making his features impish, which contrasted to his scruffy appearance that even a suit couldn’t disguise.

      ‘This blasted key won’t fit.’

      Another contestant, but who? His accent was American but with almost an English inflection. ‘Let me try,’ I said, taking the key and slipping it easily into the lock.

      ‘Must’ve needed a woman’s touch,’ he laughed. ‘I’m Lex,’ he said.

      ‘From …?’ I asked as I held out a hand to shake.

      ‘World citizen,’ he said swaying slightly on his feet. ‘But I’ve just flown in from Thailand. And you?’

      There was something amiable about the guy despite his scruffy appearance and hollowed features. With his rheumy eyes, and wrinkled brow I put him at around fifty, maybe fifty-five years old. His fragrance was marred by the stale smell of cheap wine, with the undercurrent of mint as though he’d tried to mask it.

      ‘I’m Del from America.’

      ‘Shall we, America?’ He extended an elbow so I looped my arm through, feeling strangely at ease with him, like I would an uncle or someone harmless.

      ‘So tell me,’ he continued, ‘what are they like? They’re not all chemistry nerds, are they?’ While he slurred his words slightly, he still had a sparkle in his eye that led me to believe the alcohol he’d consumed didn’t affect his thought process at all. Maybe he hated flying and had imbibed? Who was I to judge? Though a simple oil blend of basil, clary sage, palmarosa and ylang ylang could have helped alleviate his fear of flying if that was the indeed the case …

      ‘I’ve only met Clementine and Kathryn properly, and they seem …’, I grappled with words to describe the crafty duo, ‘… well studied about their opposition.’

      ‘Internet stalkers, you mean?’

      I laughed, liking that he played it down, as if it was nothing to be concerned about. ‘Pretty much. They seem to think Anastacia is the one to watch.’

      ‘Ah, it’s always the Russians who get cast as the bad girls. And how did they rate you?’

      I shrugged, not wanting to share their summation of me because I didn’t want him purposely pitting against me if he thought I was a threat. I kept reminding myself to watch what I said, and not give too much away.

      ‘They didn’t say much at all,’ I lied, smiling up at my new friend. ‘No fancy chemistry degrees for me. I was taught by my nan at home …’ So my nan had one of the best noses in the business; there was no need to share that piece of information.

      ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you are one to watch then. You home-taught perfumers always want it more for some reason. A point to prove and all that.’

      Lex had an innate skill at reading between the lines. Perhaps he was the one to watch. ‘I wish,’ I said, making my voice light. ‘I’ve never been to Paris. It’s about the experience for me.’

      He grinned as if he wasn’t going to pull me up on the lie. ‘The world of perfumery is much smaller than you think; everyone has secrets which aren’t so hard to uncover, so tread carefully, and don’t trust anyone.’

      ‘Including you?’

      He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Especially me.’

      I returned his smile but I didn’t believe a word of it. What was the worst any of them could do? Hunt for one of my formulas? Gossip about me? Big deal. It would all hinge on our perfumery skills.

      Generally speaking, perfumers were quiet, studious types who found comfort in numbers, formulas, the magic of chemistry. I doubted they’d be devious, or play unfairly. But I didn’t really know that for certain, and with the prize on offer it could potentially turn a quiet wallflower into someone else entirely, so I’d just tread carefully until I got to them know them all.

      We walked out into the starlit evening. ‘So let me guess, your nan was some kind of cloistered genius and she’s passed on her gift to you?’

      I laughed. ‘Yes, you could say that. Though she was fond of making perfume almost like an elixir.’

      ‘A cure-all? Why not!’

      I smiled. Most people never understood that. Nan believed the right scent could cure anything from heartbreak to the common cold. She was way ahead of her time. Aromatherapy was huge these days, but she’d taken it further, and decades before it was in fashion too. It was where I saw my own niche in the world of fragrance, making not just a scent, but bottling a perfume that could lift a mood, throw sunshine on cloudy days …

      ‘Is she in Paris, along for the ride?’

      ‘If only,’ I said. ‘She died a few years ago.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Don’t be. She’s here with me in spirit.’

      And she was, or at least I’d convinced myself of the fact so I could function without her. Still, I knew I’d never forget the day she died. It’d been memorable for so many reasons. We’d almost perfected a heritage rose perfume based upon the bloom of first love. I’d railed that you couldn’t bottle love – how could you? We’d been missing a key ingredient to balance the perfume but we couldn’t figure it out.

      Nan had joked it was because I hadn’t fallen in love before; I hadn’t explored the world and learned how to say the words I love you in three different languages. She was always on about that; fall in love, tell the man you love him in French, in German, in the language of love itself … whatever that meant! God, I missed my whimsical nan.

      I’d scoffed that day, rolled my eyes and gone back to trying to capture the elements we were missing but falling short.

      It was the closest we’d come to capturing something as tangible as love in a bottle. It was a concoction of rose, cashmere wood, raspberry leaf, patchouli, freesia and blackcurrant, but lacked an element, an aroma we just couldn’t pinpoint.

      That