Fiona Schneider lives in Cambridgeshire with her German husband and three children. She graduated from Cambridge University with a degree in English, and in 2000 moved to Ireland to complete an M.Phil. in Creative Writing at Trinity College Dublin. The Paris Affair was her English-language debut.
By the same author
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For my mum, Susan, my brother, Mike, and my niece, Mia.
‘Make me a fragrance that smells like love.’
– Christian Dior
‘I want it to stop,’ Iris cried. The pain was unbearable. Outside the cell, the prison guard stood watch by the closed door. She gripped the edge of the scratchy blanket. It barely covered the bulge of her stomach.
The doctor, a kindly old man who treated the women at Melun with dignity despite their crimes, shook his head. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. This baby is coming whether you’re ready or not.’
Iris shook her head. ‘I just want this to be over,’ she moaned as a huge surge broke over her body. ‘It hurts so much.’
The doctor lifted the blanket to examine her. ‘It won’t be long now.’
Iris stared up at the ceiling. Plaster peeled in the corners where it was damp. She wanted to see the baby that had grown inside her these long, difficult months. But when the baby arrived, everything would change, and she’d never be so close to the child again.
A contraction came; her belly tightened. Deep inside, a pressure was building.
‘We’re nearly there,’ the doctor said.
‘I can’t do this,’ Iris said, teeth clenched in pain.
‘Keep your breathing steady. Picture yourself far away from here, somewhere safe where you feel at peace.’
Iris screwed up her eyes. Unbidden, an image of the perfumery at Penhallam’s floated into her mind. The bottles on the shelves, the large mahogany desk, a hint of scent in the air, the limitless possibilities offered to create a perfume from her imagination. It was like sitting down to a blank page and feeling excited to write on it. That moment, when ideas bubbled up and the perfume came into being inside her head, was the most peaceful moment she could think of.
‘In a minute, when I tell you, you’re going to push into the contraction,’ she heard the doctor say. ‘As soon as I can see the baby’s head, I’ll tell you.’
Iris opened her eyes. The baby’s head. The vision of Penhallam’s vanished. She gripped the doctor’s hand. ‘But is everything ready?’
He nodded. ‘We’ve followed your instructions to the letter.’
His words renewed Iris’s energy. She was nearing the end of this nine-month journey. In the prison, with its strict routines and endless monotony, Iris had little control. But she would ensure that her baby would have the freedom and life it deserved.
She clenched her fists. The painful contractions overpowered her. The cell disappeared. Instead, she was struggling in a stormy sea, cresting each wave, hoping it was the last, only to feel another one, larger and more forceful, crashing down on her. Far off, she heard the doctor’s voice telling her to push.
Iris bore down and emitted a howl that seemed to come from a primal source. She pushed again, and again. As her cries ebbed away, they were replaced by another sound. A baby’s cry.
Iris opened her eyes, astonished. The pain vanished, the sea was unexpectedly calm. The doctor smiled down at her. He held a baby in his arms, red and scrunched up, but perfect.
‘It’s a boy,’ he said. ‘You can hold him for a moment. There’s time.’ He cut the cord and gently wrapped the child in a blanket.
‘I can’t.’ Iris turned her head away, imagining the sweet weight of him in her arms. If she so much as reached out and touched him, if she inhaled his scent, it would make this unbearably harder.
But she couldn’t resist looking at him, his eyes sealed shut, lips pursed as if in the middle of a perplexing thought, fingers curled round in a tiny fist. She wanted to hold him more than anything, but it was impossible.
The doctor sighed. ‘All right. Sign here, then.’
Iris took the fountain pen and the document, the final piece of paperwork that could be completed only once the baby was born. She scribbled her name and stared at the ink drying on the page. There. She’d done it. Signed away the only living thing she’d ever made. But what else could she do? The child deserved the chance of a better life. A life that Iris could never offer.
‘Please, take him away,’ she said, a sob catching in her throat.
The doctor hesitated for a moment, then asked the prison guard to open the door.
Iris’s heart began to fracture. The urge to snatch the baby back, to feel him snug and safe in her arms, was almost more than she could bear. The doctor walked out of the cell carrying her child. A stab of pain tore through her. No, it was their child, Iris’s and the man she’d loved.
The door closed with a deadening bang. The baby would never know what she’d done. Never miss her. Never know his true father.
Now Iris must try to forget that the child had ever existed.
Heart Note
Jasmine
Base Note
Stella closed her eyes and silently went over the main points of her presentation. She needed to be convincing. Nerves fluttered in her stomach, but she was good at hiding them. Once she was in front of the stockists, she would hopefully exude confidence. She had to secure orders for next year or the perfumery that had been in her family for decades was going to struggle.
She tried to concentrate, but a scent wafted in through the first-floor window, distracting her thoughts. Irises. They grew outside the old perfumery on the ground floor. It was a scent used in one of Penhallam’s classics. It reminded her of that glorious evening when her father was away, and Claudine, the last perfumer at Penhallam’s, had inducted Stella into the wonders of the perfumery. She’d been ten years old, fascinated by the array of amber bottles which, when opened, unleashed magical scents on to the white-paper test strips.
That had been twenty years ago now. Since then, at her father’s insistence, she’d devoted herself to the business side of things. It had become more cost effective to shift production off site five years ago when Claudine had retired. Since then, the perfumery had stood empty, used as a makeshift storeroom. Stella went over and dragged the sash window shut with a bang. She’d closed off her sense of smell long ago.
‘This company has been in the Penhallam family for five generations,’ her father, Richard, used to say. ‘We need to keep it that way. Your great-grandfather and his father before him were perfumers, but the rest of us have always been businessmen. That’s how we’ve kept Penhallam’s going. As my only child, you’ll need to take on the mantle when I’m gone.’
Richard had died last year after a car accident and Stella had taken on the mantle sooner than expected. She’d worked at Penhallam’s since finishing her business degree, save for a secondment to the luxury goods company GPL. It had been a bid for freedom, but then her father had died and Stella had returned to Penhallam’s as the managing director and sole owner to pick up the pieces.
In theory, it shouldn’t have been too difficult. Since her grandfather’s day, Penhallam’s had had a tried-and-tested business approach. Instead of taking a risk and creating new scents, Charles had simply commissioned the factory to produce the established scents from their old ledgers. Penhallam’s had a base of loyal customers who had been coming to Jermyn Street to buy their favourite scents for years, but as they got older their numbers were dwindling, and the cost of business rates and other expenses meant that Penhallam’s was only just breaking even.
Stella put her note cards into a pile. Fingers crossed she could convince the big London department stores to keep stocking Penhallam scents. Sales and orders had been down and today was an opportunity to change that.
There was a tap at the door and Arnold’s friendly face peered round. He’d been her father’s accountant for years and had agreed to stay on and support Stella as she took the reins. His hair was thinning, but he looked very smart
in his Savile Row suit and horn-rimmed glasses. He hadn’t changed much over the years he’d worked for the family.
‘They’re all here and having coffee,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’
Stella nodded. She’d done plenty of presentations over the years; she knew it was all about preparation. Her navyblue blazer and matching trousers, Red Berry lipstick and heels were all part of the performance. She flicked through her notes. Hopefully, she could pull this off.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ Arnold said. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, glad of his support.
The weight of the company was a lot to bear. It had been founded in 1870 by her great-great-grandfather, Felix Penhallam, who was succeeded by her great-grandfather, Alistair, in 1918. On his death, Stella’s grandfather, Charles, took over in 1937, and then passed it on to Richard, Stella’s father, in 1986 . Now here she was, the first woman in charge of Penhallam’s, and desperate not to let the company fail on her watch.
‘Promise me you’ll never let the company fall out of family hands,’ her father had said, in the final hours before he died of his injuries. Stella could only stand by while the medics tried frantically to staunch his wounds. She’d been allowed only a brief conversation with him before the operation the doctor hoped would save him, agonizingly aware that it might be their last. Stella had squeezed his hand, her eyes blurred with tears, and promised Richard that she would never let Penhallam’s go. It was the last thing she ever said to him.
Her mother, all the way over in Australia, where she’d moved with her second husband, had warned Stella that Penhallam’s was a burden too great to bear. ‘That business
ruined our marriage. It took everything out of him and left no time for anything else. I don’t want to see that happen to you,’ she’d said. But Stella was determined not to let her father down.
Now she walked into the meeting room, anxious not to give any hint of the troubles Penhallam’s was facing.
‘Good morning, everyone, thank you for coming today,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. She’d kept this presentation to only the key buyers from the top London stores. The idea was to make the event feel intimate and exclusive, as though they were the only people in the world to be offered another piece of Penhallam’s history. ‘As you know, at Penhallam’s we believe in the heritage scents that my great-great-grandfather and great-grandfather, both expert perfumers, created. But we know that customers today want to buy a product that looks “of the moment”.’
She gestured to the samples of new packaging that were already on display on the table. ‘We have listened to customer feedback and used the services of a design company to repackage our much-loved perfumes for the modern day.’
There was no need to tell them that Arnold had brokered an investment loan from a lending institution to commission the feedback and redesign work at great expense. As she observed the faces of the buyers, Stella hoped it had been worth it.
‘Together with a new-look counter and shelf display, we intend to relaunch these fragrances next year and bring the classic Penhallam scents to a new customer base. You can see by the design that we’re aiming to appeal to a younger audience with the vibrant colours. I think you’ll agree, this radically overhauls our somewhat out-of-date image and attracts the eye with a more up-to-date look.’
Stella scanned the room. It was hard to tell what the buyers were thinking. One woman jotted notes on her pad. Stella handed out the new packaging. Personally, the lime and red patterns and angular perfume bottles weren’t to her taste, but the branding expert recommended by her boyfriend, James, had been very convincing. Stella had met James while she was at GPL on her secondment. He still worked there now, overseeing the US market. She wouldn’t exactly say their relationship was anything serious – he was away a lot of the time – but it was handy having someone in the business to talk to about it all.
‘So, to summarize,’ Stella said, hoping she’d done enough to turn things around, ‘Penhallam’s has a solid product portfolio with decades of history, but its exquisite perfumes now have a new setting. We hope you will consider placing orders for next year.’
From the back of the room, Arnold gave her the thumbsup. Other than James, he was the only one who knew about the dire financial situation she faced.
‘Any questions?’ Stella said.
‘Are there any new scents in the pipeline?’ the buyer from Liberty asked.
Stella cleared her throat. ‘As you know, the unique selling point of Penhallam’s is that the lineage of each scent can be traced back for years. Our back catalogue is our main asset.’
‘Ah,’ the woman said. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’
A bald man cleared his throat. He was from House of Fraser; they’d stocked Penhallam’s for years.
‘Forgive me, but isn’t the lack of new scents your problem?’ he said. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done with the new bottles and boxes, but it isn’t enough.’
Stella gripped her notes. ‘As you know, my father, Richard Penhallam, was adamant that quality will always prevail over novelty where the actual contents of the bottle are concerned,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s our heritage that people look for . . .’
The man from House of Fraser replied, ‘I’m sorry, Stella. We’re exploring new lines for next summer as the older scents aren’t selling through as strongly any more. Our customers are looking for something new, more modern. You can assert your heritage all you like, but it’s innovative scents that keep customers coming back for more. Your father never did understand that. I’d hoped you might usher in a new era at Penhallam’s.’
The room went quiet. A siren blared a few streets away. Stella swallowed. He’d put her on the spot.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. House of Fraser has always been a valued client,’ she said, her throat dry. She had to think of something. Thoughts scrambled in her head. She plucked one out. ‘We do have some ideas in the early stages of development, but nothing I could share with you today. Perhaps I could be in touch, if you can keep that window open for us just a little longer?’
The man nodded. ‘We place our Christmas orders at the start of September, as you know. That gives you three months to come up with something convincing.’
His words signalled the end of the meeting. Stella was collapsing inside, but she put on a brave face, shaking hands and promising to send samples of a new perfume in a couple of months. Everyone was very polite, but she could sense their attention waning, and they soon left.
Stella closed the door and slumped down into one of the chairs. ‘That was awful.’
Arnold came and sat next to her. ‘It could have been worse. You managed to salvage something there at the end.’
‘But I don’t have any new scents. I panicked and made it up.’
‘You used your instincts. A new line is exactly what Penhallam’s needs.’
‘Of course it is, but we don’t have the money to hire a perfumer or develop new perfumes from scratch. Besides, there still has to be some link back to our past, or what’s the point of our brand at all?’
Arnold sighed. ‘Have you thought about what James said?’
James had hinted that GPL would be prepared to buy out Penhallam’s. Stella shook her head. ‘It will never happen,’ she said. ‘I won’t be the one to lose Penhallam’s. When I worked at GPL, I only met the CEO, Andrea, once, but she struck me as formidable. I have great respect for what she’s done at GPL, acquiring failing luxury goods companies and turning them around, but I couldn’t think of a worse fate for Penhallam’s.’
‘But if you don’t consider some kind of help and sales remain stagnant or drop even further, you may have to look at selling Penhallam’s anyway.’
Stella sat up straight and flicked her hair back. ‘I will never do that,’ she said firmly. ‘It would be a betrayal of everything this family has stood for. I know things are difficult. I’ve discounted stock as much as I can and taken a massive cut in wages myself. There’s not much left I can do. But I’m determined to think of something.’
Arnold took off his glasses and wiped them on his tie. ‘Well, you need to think of it quickly. We can’t take the loss
of a big client like House of Fraser. It’ll be the final straw. Penhallam’s is running on fumes as it is.’
‘I know.’ Stella stood up. ‘I’m meeting James for a drink tomorrow. He’s over from New York, so I’ll pick his brain for suggestions. Whatever happens, I’m not giving up.’
Arnold smiled. ‘Your father would be proud of you.’
‘Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without your support.’
Stella returned to the office. Her father’s portrait hung on the wall. Next to it was her grandfather Charles’s portrait. Their eyes looked concerned. For better or for worse, this company was in her blood. She had to find a way to turn its fortunes around or Penhallam’s would be lost.
Iris Penhallam gripped her satchel in one hand, and her gas mask in the other and crossed the road at Grosvenor Place. The trees abutting the high wall around Buckingham Palace Gardens glowed green in the afternoon sunshine. Before she turned on to Hyde Park Corner, Iris glanced back at St James’s Secretarial College. At last, she was finished. Never again would she have to set foot inside, except to collect her certificates. Bookkeeping. Correspondence typing. Note-taking. She was done with them all. She’d also kept up her language skills, at her brother Charles’s insistence, perfecting her French and Italian so that she was nearly fluent. Charles would have to make good his promise now, and appoint her as the first apprentice perfumer at Penhallam’s. A surge of elation put a spring in her step as she headed towards Jermyn Street.
It was impossible to stay happy for long, however. Along Piccadilly, newspaper sellers called out the headlines. The papers were full of the news that Neville Chamberlain had reaffirmed his support for Poland. It was clear that Britain would intervene on Poland’s behalf if Germany continued its expansion across Europe.
Iris hurried along the pavement. Outside the Ritz, sandbags were piled up against the windows. London had been preparing for hostilities for months. Anderson shelters had
been distributed. Blackout material purchased. War was all anyone talked about; a shadow on the horizon, creeping closer and closer.
She turned into Jermyn Street. The sight of the cobbled narrow road was comforting. The rest of London seemed to be holding its breath, but here the flower sellers were out as usual by the railings of St James’s Church. Number 79 Jermyn Street came into view. The five-storey building housed the Penhallam perfumery and was also Iris’s home. She’d lived here since she was born. Following the sudden death of her father, Alistair, two years ago from a heart attack, the perfumery had been managed by her brother, Charles, twelve years her senior. A new perfumer, Marcel, had been employed to take on her father’s role.
Iris sighed. The large windowpanes of the shopfront shone back her reflection. She and Charles had never been close. He’d seemed to resent her bond with their father, the long hours she’d spent with him in the perfumery concocting scents and discussing ingredients. Charles had always been distant, disdain hovering in his eyes.
She took a deep breath. Well, she’d done what Charles had asked: two years at secretarial college. It hadn’t been easy. If her father had still been alive, she was sure he’d have taken her on as his apprentice perfumer when she turned eighteen. But Charles had been adamant. ‘You need to learn the business side and be useful,’ he’d said. ‘We’ve got Marcel, so we don’t really need an apprentice. But I promise, if you get your qualifications, I’ll seriously consider you to be Penhallam’s first one.’ Hoping to appease him, to glean some recognition from him, Iris had agreed.
She pushed open the door and walked into the perfume
shop. Glass-fronted cabinets purchased by her grandfather glittered with mirrors and perfume bottles. A delicious waft of scents set her nostrils tingling. A long wooden counter stood on the left-hand side. Marcel was there, counting up the takings.
A kindly man in his early sixties, Marcel had a bushy grey beard and sympathetic brown eyes. From the moment he’d arrived at Penhallam’s, Marcel had seemed to understand Iris’s yearning to create scents. When she had time free from her studies and Charles was out at his club, Marcel had been willing to teach her. It wasn’t anything like what she’d learn as an apprentice, but his patience and kindness had ensured she’d kept up her natural talent for making perfumes.
Iris lifted her bag and gas mask on to the counter, glad to be free of their weight.
‘Good afternoon, Marcel,’ she said, noticing the notes and coins on the counter. Takings had been steadily decreasing all year. The prospect of war had turned perfume into a luxury that not many could afford. ‘That doesn’t look good.’
Marcel shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t.’ He scooped the coins into a bag. ‘Charles was at the bank this morning and, judging by his mood when he returned, it didn’t go well. He cancelled lunch with Jane, saying he didn’t have time to meet his fiancée on a day like this. Henri is up there now. You’d better prepare yourself, my dear.’
Ah, Henri Levèque. Charles and Henri had been best friends at Eton, where Charles had got a scholarship and Henri had been sent to broaden his connections and improve his English. Henri had joined the Penhallams every year at their house in Mougins in the south of France.
Iris had hopelessly adored him from afar in her early teenage years. Any conversations had been brief, full of stuttering and blushes on her side and detached amusement on Henri’s. But lately something had changed. Iris couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was as if he saw her as a woman now, rather than a child. The change was unnerving. She always felt a flutter of anticipation when he visited: his admiring gaze and flirtatious tone made her nervous.
Henri came over from Paris regularly to see Charles, but she hadn’t realized he was coming this week.
‘Why do I need to be prepared?’ Iris asked.
‘I know what today means for you,’ Marcel said, concern etched on his brow, ‘but you have to consider the current circumstances. I fear the apprenticeship might not go ahead, Iris.’
‘What do you mean?’
Iris reached into her pocket and clamped her hand around a tiny perfume bottle. It was the scent she’d been secretly working on over the last few months. The glass was cool against her palm. Working in the perfumery was the only way to stave off the grief of losing her father. Without it, she wasn’t sure she could keep going.
‘You’d better head up and see him yourself,’ Marcel said.
Iris picked up her bag and ran up the stairs from the shop to Charles’s office on the first floor. Her heart felt like it was going to explode. The apprenticeship had to go ahead. Just before she reached his door, she slowed her pace. Her brother hated outbursts of emotion. Reason was the only thing that Charles understood.
Iris smoothed down her skirt. Besides, Henri would be there. She wanted to keep her composure in front of
him. She took a deep breath and rapped her knuckles on the door.
‘Come in,’ Charles said.
Iris opened the door and entered the study. The window was ajar and a soft breeze ruffled the papers on Charles’s vast mahogany desk. The stern face of her grandfather stared down from the walls. A new portrait of her beloved father was underway.
Charles sat at his desk. His hair was grey at the temples; a frown etched his forehead. Henri sat in one of the leather chairs by Charles’s desk.
Henri smiled at Iris, his gaze sweeping down her body. ‘You’re looking beautiful today, Iris. I’m glad to see you again.’
‘Thank you.’ Iris’s heart beat a little faster. Whatever she had to say, she would have to say it in front of Henri. ‘Charles, Marcel says the apprenticeship might be in doubt, but I hope he’s mistaken. I’ve just had my last day at secretarial college, doing the course you asked me to undertake. You can’t go back on your word.’
Charles linked his fingers together. ‘I only promised to consider it, Iris.’
His tone was irritatingly superior. It reminded her of countless moments when, as her older brother, he’d held the upper hand.
‘But I’ve been talking about the apprenticeship for years,’ Iris said. ‘You know how much it means to me. Out of respect for you, I was willing to learn the other aspects of the business, but being a perfumer at Penhallam’s is all I’ve ever wanted.’
Charles motioned for her to sit. She sat down in the leather chair next to Henri’s.
‘I’m sorry, Iris, the apprenticeship isn’t going ahead now. I’ve looked at the matter from every angle and decided this is what’s best for the perfumery,’ Charles said with a helpless shrug.
Henri folded his arms, clearly not wanting to get involved. But he gave Iris a sympathetic smile.
‘But Marcel will need a successor one day,’ Iris said. ‘Who better to take over from him than me?’
Charles fiddled with his fountain pen.
‘There’s no question of your talent,’ Charles said. ‘I remember when you were only seven years old and had wandered into the perfumery. Mother was frantic with worry, but she found you sitting with Father, sampling ingredients, and describing them with such precision that Father was astounded.’
Iris remembered that day too. The amber bottles, each containing a different scent, were like notes of music. She could look at them and imagine a symphony in her head. It was the first time she’d been allowed to compose, and she’d loved every minute of it. It was then that her father had given her the perfumer’s notebook that she kept with her always, jotting ideas and formulas down on the pages.
‘But that’s why I need this apprenticeship,’ Iris said, sitting up in the chair. ‘I have the perfumery in my blood. It’s been my obsession all my life.’
Henri raised his eyebrows. ‘That is true, Charles. Iris and that old perfumer from Paris, Raffaele di Fiore, were inseparable every summer in Mougins.’
Raffaele di Fiore was a renowned Italian perfumer who had relocated to Paris in the 1920s. He’d become a good friend of Iris’s father and hired a cottage in Mougins next door to the Penhallams’ house every summer. Raffaele
and Alistair spent the evenings talking about perfume, Iris hanging on their every word. Sometimes, Raffaele’s sister, Francesca, had come to visit from Venice with her little boy, Jacopo. A talented perfumer in her own right, Francesca had been patient with Iris’s many questions about blends and ingredients. Over the years, the two families had got to know each other very well. Now Raffaele was in his late sixties. He had been very upset about Alistair’s sudden death.
‘Raffaele’s in London this week,’ Iris said. ‘He’s making a speech at the Perfumers’ Convention. I was hoping to be able to tell him the good news. He knows how much Father wanted me to do this.’
Charles shook his head. ‘It was a mistake for Father and Raffaele to encourage you. It wasn’t an appropriate way to prepare you for the world. Look at how you fared at school,’ he said. ‘If you hadn’t been so obsessed with fragrances, you might have fitted in better.’
Iris rubbed her forehead. She didn’t like to think of those days.
‘It wasn’t the perfume-making that made me different,’ she said. ‘It was having a father who they scorned for owning a shop, the fact that I loved science. There were a hundred reasons why the girls at school didn’t like me. Making perfume was a refuge from all that, not the cause. Perhaps if Mother hadn’t died when I was so young, things might have been different.’ She reached into her pocket and took out the little bottle. ‘Just smell this, Charles. Tell me it isn’t good.’
Charles shook his head.
‘Oh, go on, Charles, one sniff is hardly going to kill you,’ Henri said. Henri lifted the bottle out of Iris’s hands and inhaled the scent. ‘Actually, that really is good.’
Iris flicked through her perfume notebook, encouraged. She opened the pages to the middle of the book, showing Charles. ‘Look, you can see the ingredients. I’m trying for something different. The old scents in the ledgers are very heavy and floral. We could pioneer something new. Maybe even take it to the Perfumers’ Convention.’
‘It’s worth listening to what she says,’ Henri said.
‘Let me handle this, Henri,’ Charles said, waving away the bottle.
Henri gave it back to Iris with a shrug.
Charles reached for his cigar box, took one out and lit it. Smoke filled the air. The earthy, woody scent combined with a slightly sweet note hinted at leather and spices. It reminded Iris of her father. She gripped her notebook. She wished he was here now to fight her corner.
‘I’m sorry, Iris, but the apprenticeship cannot go ahead,’ Charles said. ‘Penhallam’s doesn’t have the money to pay you. With war looming, we need to shore up our liquid assets. The cost of ingredients from Europe and the Far East has risen exponentially. Put simply, we can’t afford an apprentice.’
Iris flung up her hands. ‘But Charles, that’s no obstacle at all. I’m family. I wouldn’t want to be paid. All I ask is that you let me devote all my time to being taught by Marcel.’
Henri nodded. ‘That’s a good point.’
Charles scowled at him. ‘There are other reasons,’ he said. ‘I don’t think perfumery is a suitable occupation for Iris to pursue. It’s time she settled down and got married. Marrying well is the best way to honour Father’s memory.’
Henri nodded. ‘Also, a very good point.’
The air was suddenly too smoky. Iris went over to the window and wrenched it open, gulping in the fresh air. Her stomach felt sick. Charles had no right to decide her life or
make her feel that she would be dishonouring her father if she went against his wishes.
‘Charles, please,’ she said, turning to face him, ‘I’ve done everything you asked for.’
Charles shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Iris. Ultimately, the decision is beyond my control. War is coming. I’ve decided to enlist. Father did the same thing during the Great War. Marcel will keep things going here as much as possible. Jane is going up to her parents in Scotland and I want you to go with her. That way you’ll be safe and out of the way.’
‘Scotland?’ She couldn’t leave London. Jane was a nice, straightforward girl and Iris had been delighted when Charles got engaged to her, but sit out the war with her up in Scotland? Impossible. ‘Please, let me stay in London and help Marcel. I’ll be more use here.’
‘No, it’s decided,’ Charles said. ‘With the way things are, we’ve all had to adjust our plans. You are no exception.’
Iris opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. What could she say? Charles was going to do his duty and enlist. Her plight was nothing compared to what was happening in Europe, with thousands of people already displaced from Austria and Czechoslovakia. And if Hitler continued his expansion, things would only get worse. That’s what war did. It blighted the future of everyone who was swept into its path.
Charles tapped the cigar against the ashtray. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Henri and I have got more important matters to discuss.’ He picked up his papers, his mind elsewhere.
Iris nodded. All at once, she was ten years old again, an annoying little sister just getting in the way. She put her notebook and the bottle back in her bag. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
Henri rose and walked her to the door. ‘Let things settle,’ he whispered. ‘He’s got a lot on his shoulders, right now. The finances aren’t good. The news from Europe is, frankly, terrifying. I’ll help as much as I can, but he’s not in the mood for compromises today.’
‘I can see that,’ Iris said, with a brief smile.
Henri lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. ‘That scent you’ve created is truly outstanding. If you need anything,’ he said, ‘anything at all, I’m here for you.’
He stared intently. Warmth rippled across Iris’s skin. She had always longed for him to look at her this way. She’d seen him charm women before at dinner parties, but here he was, casting his spotlight on her. Thank goodness she knew not to take him too seriously.
‘Come on, Henri. I need your eye on this contract,’ Charles called.
Henri smiled and closed the door.
Iris went downstairs. So many thoughts swirled inside. The hopes of that morning had evaporated. War was imminent. Like many others, she had been overjoyed when Chamberlain had come back from Munich last year waving the agreement with Hitler in the air. And yet, just six months later, the Germans had invaded the Sudetenland. Iris could no longer hide from the reality of what was happening. She shivered. The shadow of war was almost upon them. Her plans, and the plans of so many others, were about to be torn apart.
Stella woke up in the flat on the second floor of 79 Jermyn Street. Light seeped in through the thin curtains, illuminating the packing boxes that stood around her camp bed. When her father died and Arnold had revealed the extent of Penhallam’s financial woes, Stella had decided to give up her apartment and move into the empty flat above the shop to save money.
She flung back the covers. She should really sort her stuff out, but there was no time for anything any more. Penhallam’s absorbed her every thought, night and day.
Yesterday afternoon, she’d gone for a walk along Bond Street to clear her head and wandered past Fenwick’s. There was a striking perfume display in the window. On one side, CK One by Calvin Klein was displayed in an understated way with its plain bottle and unisex appeal. On the other, Angel by Thierry Mugler, sparkling and vibrant in a blue-glass star-shaped container. Stella had wandered in and sprayed a sample of each on her wrists.
Now, as she got dressed, she smelled the fading perfumes on her skin. Penhallam’s had nothing to compete with iconic scents like this. CK One had a fresh aquatic scent of musk, bergamot and violet. Angel, by contrast, combined patchouli with notes of chocolate, honey and
cotton candy to create a new category all of its own: ‘gourmand’. Penhallam’s lacked aquatic and gourmand scents and desperately needed something that made it stand out from the crowd but didn’t compromise its historic past. Stella had lain awake for hours trying to think of how to solve this conundrum but had got nowhere.
The doorbell rang downstairs. She knew it couldn’t be Amy, the shop assistant; she didn’t start for another hour. Stella tucked her shirt into her work trousers, popped on a black blazer and hurried downstairs. It would be Bruno. She opened the door and there he was, standing in the street, two coffee cups in his hand.
‘Buongiorno, Stella,’ Bruno said, handing her one of the cups.
‘You really don’t have to do this every day,’ Stella said. The coffee smelled delicious though. She took a sip. Bruno came into the shop, and she closed the door. It wouldn’t be opening time for a couple of hours, but Bruno was an early riser, just like her.
‘I know, but the instant coffee you have here is terrible,’ he said, his chestnut-brown eyes twinkling.
Bruno was about Stella’s age, with olive skin, a dusting of stubble on his face and dark brown wavy hair falling over his eyes. He’d arrived from the University of Venice two weeks ago to do some research in the Penhallam archives. He was writing a book about the development of perfume in the 1930s and 1940s.
‘The basement is looking so much more organized, by the way,’ Stella said. ‘Even Arnold remarked on it.’
‘Well, you said I could look for material for my book so long as I catalogued everything and organized the archives. Also, this makes them less of a fire hazard and more of a
resource.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve been working hard too. We both deserve a good coffee.’
Stella smiled. She should stop staring at him, but it was hard not to be drawn in by his presence. His faded jeans, worn T-shirt and cardigan radiated ease. Stella straightened her blazer.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’d better let you get on.’
‘Do you have any time free later on?’ Bruno said. ‘I’ve found a couple of things you might be interested in.’
Stella shook her head, though it was tempting to think of spending time in Bruno’s company. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment. There’s lots of things to sort out. Maybe tomorrow.’
Bruno nodded. ‘Of course, you’re the first to open up and the last to leave. It must be hard to live and work here every day,’ he said.
Unsettled by his perceptive remarks, Stella shrugged. ‘Oh, I’m used to it.’
He raised his eyebrows, clearly not convinced. ‘Well, enjoy your coffee. I’ll leave you in peace.’
Bruno headed to the door that led to the basement stairs. A scent lingered in the room. Stella wondered what aftershave he’d been wearing. Lime. Ambergris. Earthy but fresh. It reminded her of creating scents in the perfumery all those years ago. Mixing ingredients and trying to find the right combinations to re-create a feeling or a moment had been intoxicating.
Stella took another sip of coffee. The caffeine woke her up. She wandered to the back of the shop until she came to the door that led to the perfumery. It had been abandoned for the last five years and was piled high with stock.
She opened the door a little and peeped through the gap. There in the perfumery were the wooden cabinets, the old desk and, beyond, the perfumer’s organ, displaying bottles of ingredients. It was sad that the perfumery was no longer in use. Her father had deemed it a waste of money and said that creating bespoke scents was no longer profitable. When Claudine left, they’d saved money by not replacing her and by outsourcing production. It was tantalizing to think what new scents could have been created in this very room. But there was no point lingering here now. Stella closed the door. She needed her business mind to find her way out of this; she wouldn’t find the answer in idle dreams.
That evening, Stella went to meet James. She’d spent the day on the phone to the utility companies, trying to negotiate better rates. It hadn’t amounted to much of a saving, but it was better than nothing. She’d also looked into cutting down on production, but it felt like a step too far. She’d only consider it if she really had to.
James had been in London for two days on a business trip to the UK headquarters of GPL and this was the first opportunity Stella had had to meet him.
The flags above the entrance to Claridge’s fluttered in the evening breeze. Stella hurried up the marble stairs, smiling to the doorman as he opened the heavy brass and glass doors. Her heels clattered on the floor and she took a breath, slowing her pace. She didn’t want to look flustered.
James was already at the bar, chatting to the bartender and looking very smart in his dark blue suit. He’d been a kind shoulder to cry on since her father had died and somehow the relationship had progressed from work colleagues to something more.
‘There you are,’ he said. He cupped her face and kissed her cheeks. ‘Would you like a negroni? They do a great one here.’
‘All right. Thank you,’ Stella said.
He nodded at the bartender. Stella perched on the stool. The drinks came and Stella took a sip. ‘It’s felt like ages since I’ve seen you,’ she said.
‘I know. Me too. Work has been really busy lately. I’ve been doing everything I can to stay on top of things.’
‘How come?’
James took a gulp of his drink. ‘There’s a drive to ramp up profits and they’re looking to make some acquisitions.’
Stella stirred her drink with the straw. ‘Don’t start on about selling Penhallam’s again.’
‘Why not? It could be good for the company, and for you too. It’s been a millstone round your neck since you had to go back there.’
Stella frowned. ‘I know you mean well, but I’m not abandoning the company my family worked their whole lives to build.’
James held up his hand. ‘All right, I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.’
‘But there is something I’d like to ask your advice about.’
James laughed nervously. ‘I thought we were done talking shop.’
‘It’s never bothered you before.’
‘No, it’s just . . .’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about too.’
That sounded ominous. Come to think of it, James didn’t look quite his usual ebullient self. His eyes were dusted with shadow and his suit jacket was creased. Perhaps it was the jet lag.
‘What’s going on?’
James took another swig of his drink. ‘No, you go first. Tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘Okay,’ Stella said, still concerned about what he had to tell her. ‘Well, I took out that loan from the lending company you recommended. I’ve used it to try and find a solution, but Penhallam’s profits have continued to decline. To make matters worse, one of our biggest clients has hinted that they might not renew their order for the next season.’
James sat back and gave a low whistle. ‘Wow, it’s worse than I thought. Which client?’
‘House of Fraser. It would be a major blow.’ Stella twisted her glass in her hand. ‘I’m really worried. I can’t repay the loan right now, and I need to borrow some more money to find a sustainable solution for Penhallam’s future.’
‘What kind of solution, then, if you don’t want to sell?’
‘I need something big and innovative to excite the clients again,’ she said. ‘But I’m struggling to work out which direction to go in. I don’t want to contradict the heritage of Penhallam’s that Dad wanted so desperately to protect.’
James swirled the ice around in his glass. ‘From what I’ve seen, small perfumers are delving into their past and finding discontinued scents that capture the imagination of a modern-day customer. If there’s a story or history attached to them, so much the better. GPL are impressed with some of the ideas that your competitors have in that direction.’
‘Really?’ Stella said.
‘There are all sorts of deals going on, and, as you know, GPL are interested in taking on more artisan perfumers,’ he said. ‘The next big trend is reviving a forgotten vintage line of scents and giving them a new twist.’
Stella sighed. ‘All our vintage scents are already on the market. We need something undiscovered.’
‘Why not have a look in the Penhallam archives? You might be surprised by what you find down there.’
The word ‘archives’ made Stella think of Bruno, his mussed-up hair and sun-kissed skin, the scent left in the room when he’d gone. The image was incongruous, sitting opposite the immaculately groomed James, but somehow it caught her breath. Bruno. Whatever he was doing down in the archives, it was unlikely that he’d find something to save Penhallam’s. But maybe she needed to get more involved in the research.
James rattled the ice in his nearly empty glass. Stella’s mind circled back to what he’d said earlier. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’
James rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Stella. It’s been great this past year. I’ve loved spending time with you. But I need us to cool off for a while.’
Stella stared at him. ‘That’s a bit out of the blue. I mean, I know there’s nothing serious between us, but I thought we were both fine with that.’
James reached for her hand. ‘Of course, and I wish it could continue but, between you and me, there’s talk of me moving back permanently to London and working on the perfume portfolio. Andrea has said I could really make something of the role and advance my position, but I need to keep my nose clean.’
Andrea was often profiled in magazines as a dynamic and inspiring CEO. There was a time when Stella had certainly looked up to her. If Andrea had said this to James, it was something he had to take seriously.
Stella sat back. ‘Ah, I see.’
‘I don’t want to jeopardize my chances by blurring the boundaries. It would be seen as a conflict of interest, you see, if I carried on our relationship.’
‘And when you worked in menswear it was all above board?’ Stella said, raising her eyebrows.
James ducked his head. ‘I know we talked a lot about your business and my work, but it was all just chat. There’s a real chance I could become a director. Andrea has warned me that I need to get things in order. Otherwise . . . well, I need to maintain my credibility with the perfume industry going forward.’
Stella sighed. It wasn’t like this was going to break her heart, but something sounded off in his reasoning. ‘But this industry is riddled with relationships that criss-cross the boundaries. I’m not sure why you need to be so careful.’
James leaned over and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. ‘Taking a break from you isn’t something I want to do, Stella,’ he said. ‘In fact, it’s the opposite of what I want to do, but the powers above have hinted that it might be best if I don’t mix business with pleasure. For now, at least.’
‘I see, and then I suppose, when you feel like it, you’ll give me a call and we’ll pick up where we left off?’ she said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
Not that there was much to pick up on. Meeting in fancy hotels and having what felt like a one-night stand every few weeks wasn’t exactly what Stella would call an intimate relationship.
‘Don’t be like that,’ James said.
Stella finished her negroni. ‘Look, it’s fine. I understand that business comes first. To be honest, I need to devote all my energy to Penhallam’s right now. If anything, you’re
making the right call for us both.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Just promise me you’ll keep what I’ve told you tonight to yourself.’
She didn’t want word getting out that Penhallam’s was in difficulties, and maybe James wouldn’t feel the need to be so loyal if they were no longer together.
‘Of course. I really do hope we can see each other again, down the line.’
‘Maybe.’ Stella stood up and straightened her skirt. Part of her longed for a soulmate. But she’d never really thought of James like that. ‘Anyway, no hard feelings. I hope you make a success out of whatever GPL has in store for you.’
She kissed him briefly on the cheek and picked up her bag. Maybe it was for the best things were over. Now she could focus on the only thing that mattered in her life. Saving Penhallam’s.
The next evening, Iris sat in front of her dressing table and got ready for the Perfumers’ Convention, which was to be held at Claridge’s. The tabletop was littered with perfume bottles and objects collected from her trips to France. The most recent letter she’d had from Raffaele lay in front of her, expressing his delight in coming to London and seeing Iris again.
Iris took a string of pearls from her jewellery box and fastened them around her neck. In their correspondence, she had shared her hopes and dreams with Raffaele. She knew he would be disappointed for her about the apprenticeship, and she wanted his advice.
But as she glanced down at his letter, Iris knew that Raffaele had more worrying things on his mind.
I’ve been trying to arrange for Francesca and Jacopo to come and live with me in Paris, but the authorities don’t look kindly on immigrants from Italy at the moment, especially Jewish ones. I’d hoped the fact that I took on French citizenship a year ago might help, but unfortunately it hasn’t. Not that Francesca is willing to leave Venice. You know how stubborn she is. But things are getting very difficult there for her and Jacopo.
Since February, a new bill limiting Jews from owning real estate and conducting commercial activities has meant she can no longer
operate the perfumery. She is having to teach Jacopo at home as Jewish children are banned from going to school. I fear I’ve left it too late to get them out. I’m haunted every day by what might happen to them.
Iris studied her reflection. The pale blue dress was beautiful and complemented her blue eyes and blonde hair. But somehow, her appearance didn’t give her any satisfaction. The world felt very vulnerable. As if everyone was teetering on the brink of hell, and some people were already there.
Jacopo must be eleven years old by now. She couldn’t bear to think of him suffering. He was a bright, lively boy who should’ve been at school with his friends, a promising future ahead of him. Instead, he was being denied all this because he was Jewish.
Iris picked up the smooth grey pebble daubed in pink and red hearts that she kept in pride of place on the dressing table. She and Jacopo had spent hours collecting pebbles on the beach in Nice during that last visit in 1937 when her father was still alive. They’d decorated the stones in the kitchen at Mougins. At the end of the holiday, Jacopo had gifted her this one.
‘Don’t forget me, will you?’ he’d said, wrapping his arms around her. He’d smelled of lavender soap and pain au chocolat, which they’d had for breakfast in the garden. ‘Of course I won’t,’ Iris had replied, holding him tightly.
Iris placed the pebble down and sighed. That was the last time she’d seen him. Raffaele had begged his sister to remain in France and not return to Venice. But Francesca was adamant that she wanted to stay put in the city that was her home.
‘I’ll fight for our freedom if I have to,’ she’d said as they
parted at the train station. Raffaele had shaken his head. ‘That’s what worries me, my dear.’
Now it seemed that his worst fears had come true. Iris had read with horror of the imposition of anti-Jewish laws in Germany and the lands it now occupied. Italy had signed the Pact of Steel with Germany in May, and now Raffaele’s homeland was imposing the same laws. No wonder he was terrified for Francesca and Jacopo.
The taxicab dropped Iris and Marcel off at Claridge’s at eight o’clock. Even this illustrious hotel was preparing for war. The kerb had been painted white in case of blackouts and the lower windows were boarded up.
Charles had declined to attend as planned, saying he had too much work to do. Henri had gone back to Paris. In some ways, it was a relief to be here independently. That way she could have a proper talk with Raffaele.
Iris climbed the steps, carrying her gas mask and her evening bag, weighed down by her perfume notebook and the bottle of perfume. She hoped to consult Raffaele about it. Her heels click-clacked on the marble and the beads on her dress shimmered as she walked past the doorman. Marcel followed her to the French Salon, turning left down a wide corridor with black-and-white marbled tiles on the floor. Mirrors glimmered in the lamplight and neatly dressed waiters hurried past with glasses of champagne.
‘Who’s paying for this convention?’ Iris asked.
‘Mostly the French perfumers,’ Marcel said, ‘but they consider it worthwhile. The aim is to foster a spirit of cooperation among the artisan perfumers. With war looming, the committee decided to bring the date forward. It’s a chance for people to show their latest products and discuss