Nine
A deadline had seemed like a good idea the other day, but it turns out that when you try to apply it to life, rather than work, it makes your mind rebel. Every time Charlotte tried to think about what she was going to do, her mind skittered away into thoughts about the weather, or things she’d seen on social media, or overheard in the shops. She decided to write her thoughts down, objectively, as if preparing a report, presenting pros and cons, but she only got as far as dividing the sheet of paper into two columns when she heard a voice in her head saying, What a pleasure, tidying away emotion in neat little columns! It sounded just like her father’s amused tone, and it made her feel both silly and sad, so she tore the paper up and went out for a run.
That was early Monday morning. After that, she’d showered, changed and spent the rest of the day in the shops, distracting herself by embarking on a marathon of browsing in the old department stores of the Boulevard Haussmann. She didn’t mind shopping but only if it had a specific purpose. Buying new shoes. A new shirt. Jewellery. Make-up. Books. Her friends always joked that you’d better not arrange a day out shopping with Charlotte, unless you wanted to have it all done and dusted in under two hours. Yet there she was in Galeries Lafayette and Printemps, doing just what other people seemed to love: browsing, sauntering, idly examining racks of clothes. Except, after a while, looking wasn’t enough; her credit card started to get a proper workout, and none of it from the bargain racks: a pair of round Miu Miu sunglasses with tortoiseshell frames; a smart beige and cream Lancel slim leather belt; a set of Clarins beauty products; a Max Mara silk shirt in a superb shade of burnt orange. She’d been impulsive, and it felt good. As she sat having lunch in the Printemps Brasserie, resting her aching feet, she had the exhilarating feeling that this wasn’t just an out-of-character shopping spree; it was a sign that she was throwing caution to the wind, so she would see her way forward.
But that feeling only lasted till she looked at her phone in the Metro and saw an email from Aidan. With a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, she opened it up. But there were no issues. Mrs Browning had settled down and the team had installed the flamingo monstrosity; the woman who was replacing Shirin, their accounts manager, while she was on maternity leave, had come in and confirmed dates. And , he finished, I bumped into Elise in the café this morning. She said you were staying longer in Paris, maybe even into next week. Is that right?
If they had compared notes on the reason for her sudden departure, then they’d know she had been lying to them both. Exiting the inbox and going to Aidan’s mobile number, she texted, Got your email. Sounds like you have everything sorted. Yes, I am staying longer. Is that okay with you?
His reply came almost immediately. Of course. We’ll cope. But are you okay?
I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though .
No problem , he texted back. Take care .
He definitely seemed less stressed than last time, which was a good thing. Or was it? Was he covering up issues he didn’t dare tell her about? Were things falling apart behind the scenes? Oh, for God’s sake, Charlotte , she told herself angrily, stop it right now!
By Tuesday morning, after a restless night brought about mainly by too many glasses of red wine, she’d decided that she’d approached the deadline in the wrong way. Trying to force her mind to come up with a solution wouldn’t lead to success.
Once at a dinner party she and Tom had attended, one of the other guests, who was a successful novelist, said that he’d learned that his subconscious mind—which he had dubbed ‘Harry’—did all the heavy lifting when it came to working out what his characters would be doing next. ‘Harry’s not to be rushed, though,’ he said, grinning. ‘Any attempt by upstairs at hurrying him along leads to radio silence.’ Upstairs was what he called his waking mind. At the time it had sounded twee and unconvincing to Charlotte, but the man must have been doing something right because his novels were bestsellers. ‘Hey, Harry,’ she said aloud, now, ‘I’m desperate so I’m calling on you, okay? I won’t force or hurry you, but for God’s sake, please remember we’re on borrowed time.’ Shaking her head at her own absurdity, glad no one was around to hear, she finished her coffee and got ready to go out, heading to the Metro station to catch the train, bound for Versailles.
She hadn’t been to the extensive gardens at the Palace of Versailles for ages, but she occasionally caught the popular radio show of Alain Baraton, who’d worked in those gardens since 1981. It was on one of the show’s recent episodes that she’d heard a mention about the latest addition to the Palace gardens: le Jardin du Parfumeur , the Perfumer’s Garden, which she’d immediately earmarked as somewhere she wanted to go.
Visiting the gardens was free, unlike the palace, so she didn’t stop at the ticket office but continued around the back, past the spectacular terraces and grand fountains, down the long gravelled paths lined with neat trees, then past a garden of quiet nooks and soft green grass. Once, on a school visit, she and another student had managed to slip away from the class to find refuge here. Today, it was equally devoid of people, with birdsong in the trees and the blue sky above. Charlotte could almost imagine she was on a countryside estate as she kept on towards the grounds of the Trianon, which with its smaller buildings and gardens had once been a tranquil bolthole for the royal family, away from the intrigues of the court. It was here that the Perfumer’s Garden had been planted.
Created as a collaboration between a contemporary perfume house and the Versailles gardeners, it celebrated the importance of floral fragrances. It was said the profession of perfumer had started in Versailles, a profession that over the centuries had come to be one of the jewels in the nation’s crown. The garden had been carefully thought out, with three main sections: a ‘garden of curiosities’, filled with the unusual and the aromatic; ‘under the trees’, a walkway lined with Japanese cherry trees, and plots where fragrant bushes such as lilac and jasmine flourished; and a ‘secret garden’, a shady walled retreat where orchids, roses, laurel and giant lilies grew together.
Charlotte was particularly taken with an area featuring a selection of flowers whose scent was known as ‘mute’, because even though the living plant had a richly distinctive fragrance, it was impossible to distil an essence from it, and the perfume had to be recreated synthetically. Among others, these included violets, carnations, lilac and peonies. All those flowers were very popular, and she had placed many in people’s gardens, as well as her own. But until now she had not known their secret: a scent spreading in the air but held tightly to the living plant, a refusal to give up its essence that had driven perfumers mad over the centuries. There was something rather wonderful about that, as well as strange, almost disconcerting. A lesson for life, maybe?
Many hours later, exhausted after a long if very pleasant day walking kilometres around Versailles and then a crowded train ride where she’d had to stand a lot of the way, Charlotte finally got back to Juliette’s house.
As she let herself in, she saw that the answering machine’s light was flashing by the landline phone that Juliette insisted on keeping ‘just in case’. Thinking it might be Juliette herself, she pressed the button to listen to the recording and heard a young stranger’s pleasant voice speaking in good but slightly accented French.
Bonjour, Madame Marigny. Forgive me for calling unannounced but I am hoping you might be able to help me. My name is Emma Taylor. I am Australian and living at the moment in Paris with my grandmother, Madame Mathilde Lenoir. I was hoping you might put me in contact with your niece Charlotte, who I believe was a childhood friend of my mother, Corinne Lenoir. It would mean a great deal to me. I can be reached on —but here, Charlotte pressed the pause button, and stared at the machine, her scalp prickling. For that other escaped student on that school trip to Versailles had been Corinne Lenoir.
Rewinding the message, she listened to it again, as her mind filled with pictures of the past.