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

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      With a bit of effort, I managed to wrench my leg from under him, hoping the numbness wasn’t anything serious. Imagine if I had to limp from here? Or drag my dead limb behind me like some kind of peg-legged pirate. Not exactly the fast getaway I was hoping for.

      Once upright I held out a hand and helped him up, when realization shone in his eyes. ‘It’s you.’ His eyes widened. ‘The girl who stepped into the path of oncoming traffic.’

      Jeez. ‘Well, yes, but I was …’

      ‘You’re a walking disaster.’

      I lifted my chin. ‘The traffic thing was an accident. And this could have happened to anyone.’

      ‘Are you hurt?’ He frowned.

      ‘No.’ Yes. My pride withered and died on the spot.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Quite,’ I said primly. If my leg was broken in eight places there was no way I was going to confess to him. I’d damn well walk out of here if it killed me! But his sudden concern was touching and lightened the mood. Our audience went back to their meals and their chatter grew loud once more.

      His lips twitched as if he found me amusing. Did he find this funny? Why of all the millions of people in Paris did I have to make a scene in front of this guy? Twice. I wanted to slap my forehead.

      ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ he said, his green eyes unfathomable in the dim light of the bistro.

      ‘Perhaps.’ I walked away, heart hammering.

      ***

      After a quick shower, I read some texts that Jen had sent. It was hard to break the habit of a lifetime, or maybe guilt was driving her. We’d only spoken on the phone an hour ago! I didn’t want to feel as though I was relying on her here. If she could live this shiny new life, then, damn it, so could I.

      In my reply to her I left out all the whole falling-for-the-Frenchman thing or she’d start planning the wedding. And it wasn’t like I was falling for him, more like, on him. Instead I told her more about Clementine, and her sidekick Kathryn, who’d both been scheming when I’d returned.

      A reply beeped back instantly.

       Oh, they sound like fun girls! What’s a little competition between friends, hey?

      I shook my head. I could’ve told Jen the girls made me stand on my head for five minutes and she would have said, ‘Aww look at you making friends!’

      Nan would have told me to keep my guard up, but be open to any possibilities, so I kept that thought in my heart.

      I replied: Fun, maybe, but I wouldn’t call them friends just yet. What’s up with you?

      In truth I wanted to say, are you missing me, have you changed your mind about moving to New York? Are you joining me in Paris? Any of those things … But I didn’t.

      She replied: Mom has chanting group here (how long will this last?!) and Dad is busy in the shed (whittling) and me and Pops are making popcorn and about to watch a French film in honor of your adventure. He says hi and wants you to get off that dang piece of machinery and enjoy yourself. Gotta love him. xxx

      I smiled picturing my grandpop admonishing me from afar. He was always on about that dang piece of machinery we used to communicate. To him, cell phones were the devil, no matter how much easier they made our lives, especially now I was so far away. When I showed him I could read a book on my cell phone he almost keeled over. But why, he’d cried, when there’s plenty of books right here? And any mindless games, forget it, he was actually offended by them.

       Tell him I love him and I’m putting the dang thing away for the night. Xxx

      We sent a few more texts before I shut off the phone, shaking my head at Mom’s latest pastime. She saw no reason to live in the real world, and instead spent her time on the periphery. Dad was much the same, and it often struck me how normal Jen and I were, considering. I could have announced I was going to live my life naked in a commune that worshipped sunflowers and they would have applauded us for following our dreams. They had good hearts, but were just that little bit too away with the fairies …

      Growing up hadn’t been easy when they were M.I.A. for yet another school play, or at exam time when we needed some semblance of stability. 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 СКАЧАТЬ