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Claudine made a little bow. ‘You speak French delightfully, but I beg that you will allow me to speak English. I treasure every opportunity to improve. Now, you say you have inherited this perfume company. I understand you need my help.’

  ‘Exactly. Would you please sit down?’ Tara gestured to the seat at the top of the table, where the fragrances were lined up.

  Claudine went to take her place, sitting down and looking intently at the bottles ranged before her. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, and muttered something under her breath that the sisters couldn’t hear. She looked up at the three of them as they watched her. ‘I can tell that your expectations today are very great – and rightly so. I am a master perfumer. I grew up in Grasse, the home of perfume,’ she said proudly, ‘and my father was a master perfumer before me. He worked for Givaudan and created some divine fragrances, classics, masterpieces! I’m sure you’ve heard of L’été et la Mer. A wonderful blend of citrus and aquatic. It was created in 1947.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Tara. ‘You’re going to find us woefully ignorant.’

  Claudine looked puzzled. ‘But you own a maison des parfums. How ignorant are you?’

  ‘Very,’ said Poppy. ‘I hardly ever wear perfume, except for the jasmine one Daddy made for me. I’ve got a couple of Body Shop things I quite like.’

  ‘Body Shop?’ Claudine echoed incredulously. She turned to Tara. ‘And you?’

  ‘I wear scent,’ Tara said quickly. ‘I mostly wear J’adore by Dior at the moment, although not today. I forgot to put anything on this morning.’

  Claudine’s face cleared a little. She pouted and shrugged. ‘Yes, J’adore has a been a great hit. Huge. It is on the wane, though. For me, it is a little … predictable.’ She looked at Jemima. ‘And you?’

  ‘I have to admit to a secret obsession with perfume,’ Jemima declared. ‘At the moment I’m very fond of Jo Malone’s scents. I’m utterly addicted to her Lime Basil and Mandarin.’

  Claudine nodded. ‘Yes, yes. A wonderfully innovative perfumer. Very modern and attuned to her clientele. I applaud her.’

  ‘And I also love L’Air du Temps by Nina Ricci, Joy by Jean Patou’ – Jemima was pleased that she had won in the perfume stakes, beating the other two hollow, and she gushed on – ‘and pretty much all of the Guerlain and Givenchy fragrances. Also, just last week I bought the new Marc Jacobs scent, which I adore.’

  ‘The newest one? The flower scent?’ Claudine raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely a little young for you?’

  Jemima’s mouth fell open and the other two giggled softly.

  ‘I do not mean to offend,’ Claudine put in quickly. ‘It is simply that it is aimed at the … shall we say, less sophisticated market.’

  A little mollified, Jemima said, ‘Perhaps. It’s something I would only wear on a summer’s day.’

  ‘Very wise.’

  ‘And of course, I wear Chanel NO 5 when I’m feeling old-school glamorous.’

  ‘But of course.’ Claudine sighed. ‘Chanel NO 5. We call it le monstre, you know. The monster has dominated fine fragrances for ninety years, always a bestseller. It is an extraordinary masterpiece, often imitated but never bettered. The dream of every perfumer is to create a fragrance that will topple the great NO 5.’ She smiled at the sisters. ‘And perhaps now is that time. Explain what it is you wish from me.’

  ‘Well …’ Tara leaned forward eagerly. ‘Our company is on its last legs. Sales have plummeted …’

  ‘Oh yes, I know. A pity when something that was once great loses its way.’

  ‘We know nothing at all about the perfume industry but what we do know is that, for us, the scents we have just aren’t working any more. Some are better than others but we have no idea why some are so terrible – it doesn’t even seem possible that they were ever fashionable. That’s why we need you.’

  ‘A nose,’ put in Claudine. ‘A trained, expert nose to tell you what you need to know.’

  ‘Exactly. So first of all we want you to smell these scents and give us your impressions. But the one we are most concerned about is our signature scent.’

  ‘Trevellyan’s Tea Rose.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tara pushed the bottle towards her.

  Claudine looked at it intently. ‘I have not smelt this juice for a long time. My father had a bottle in his laboratory. He told me it was one of the finest of the rose florals. The rose is the queen of flowers, the epitome of the feminine, floral scent. It speaks to all women, I believe. But one must treat the rose with the respect it deserves. Now, this is a 1912 creation, I believe, non?’

  Tara and Poppy looked blank. ‘Yes,’ said Jemima. ‘You’re quite right. I’ve been reading through all the company files this week and discovered quite a lot. It was first launched in 1912, with instant success.’

  ‘May I have une touche please?’ Claudine gestured for a tester slip. Poppy passed it to her. Claudine took up the bottle and sprayed some liquid on to the paper. Then she held it under her nose as the sisters watched her anxiously. Closing her eyes, Claudine took a long sniff of the tester, then put her head back, seemingly lost in thought.

  ‘Well …?’ interrupted Tara, after some minutes had passed. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘In a word – une calamité. This is truly hideous.’ Jemima and Tara looked at each other, dismayed.

  ‘How can a classic scent like this be hideous?’ Poppy asked, worried.

  ‘Simple.’ Claudine made a face. ‘Your ingredients are appalling. I cannot believe that this is the scent my father admired so much; it’s terrible. The dominance of a cheap rose essence makes me feel ill, I’m not joking.’ She shuddered. ‘Really, it’s an insult to my skill. Why have you brought me here to smell this?’

  ‘We’re as surprised as you are!’ exclaimed Tara. ‘What do you mean, cheap rose essence?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. There is one simple question I must ask you, Madame,’ said Claudine. Her face was cold and her voice tight with disapproval. ‘Where do you buy your ingredients?’

  Tara opened a file and scanned it quickly. ‘According to our information, the fragrance ingredients come from Maison Georges Montand in Grasse.’

  Claudine leapt to her feet. ‘That is enough!’ she cried. Her face was flushed and she was clearly furious. ‘Georges is a dear friend of mine. His essences and absolutes are of the highest quality. His rose and jasmine fields are second to none. I‘ve known fragrance houses attempt to buy his entire stock in order to stop their rivals getting their hands on his wonderful stuff. His jasmine sells at $12,000 a kilo! Do not insult me! Do not insult my friend, my colleague. Georges is like me – he is an artist. He would never supply you with the ingredients that are in this … travesty! There is a word for your perfume. Merde!’ She tossed her head in the air and began to walk away.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ cried Tara, also jumping up. ‘Please, Mademoiselle. There must be some mistake, some confusion. All we wish to do is discover where it is going wrong. I beg you to stay and help us.’

  Claudine made a dismissive noise and continued for the door. Jemima got up and rushed forward to meet her before she got there. She put a hand on the French woman’s arm and said quickly, ‘S’il vous plaît Mademoiselle – nous avons besoin de vous et votre nez magnifique. Je vous implore de restez ici.’

  Claudine stopped and looked at Jemima. Her eyes settled on the pretty dusky pink top for a moment and somehow it seemed to reassure her. She murmured, ‘Dior. You cannot be all bad.’ There was a pause. ‘Will you please admit that Georges cannot possibly have sent you the ingredients for Tea Rose?’

  ‘Certainly. We wish to do all in our power to correct this frightful error. There is obviously a mistake in our information. Please forgive us. Remember we are new to this.’ Jemima smiled, using all her charm to calm the other woman’s anger.

  ‘Mademoiselle, I think I may have an answer.’ It was Poppy. She pointed to a large crystal bottle of scent sitting on the table in front of her. It was an antique, with a pink silk-covered bulb
pressed to spray the scent inside. It was half full of a golden liquid. ‘This is my mother’s Tea Rose. I would like you to smell it.

  Claudine narrowed her eyes. ‘You want me to submit my precious nose to that stuff again? I don’t think so. I’ll need at least a day to recover from the last experience.’

  ‘Please.’ Poppy smiled her most winsome smile. ‘You may be surprised.’

  The French woman looked at her hard. She made a moue and then smiled, though still coolly. ‘Very well. I have come a long way. I will give this perfume one more chance. You evidently have your reasons for asking me.’ She walked over to Poppy and sat down in the seat next to her. ‘Une touche, s’il vous plaît.’

  Poppy passed her a paper slip.

  ‘Merci. Now we will see.’ She squirted the slip with the liquid inside the decanter. Closing her eyes, she lifted it up under her nose and inhaled. Then she frowned and inhaled again. There was a long pause and then she inhaled again. At last she opened her eyes. They held an expression of confusion. ‘But this is most strange. This juice is not the same as the one over there.’ She pointed across the table to the small glass bottle of Tea Rose. ‘This is quite different. It has structure, complexity … it was built quite differently to the other. The flower accord is pure tea rose: it is rich, real, velvety. And underneath I can find several other accords. There’s jasmine. There are aldehydes, most definitely, which give it its sophistication. The other juice’ – she grimaced – ‘is cheap, nasty. It is rough. It has no tenacity. It will never last on the skin, let alone develop into a finer, true fragrance. But this is genuine.’

  There was a silence as everybody absorbed this information. Then Tara said slowly, ‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Deroulier, but I want to be quite clear that I’ve understood what you’re saying. The Tea Rose in this bottle is not the same as the one that we are currently selling?’

  ‘Absolutely. It is beyond a doubt,’ declared Claudine. ‘I would stake my reputation on it very happily. It is the difference between cashmere and acrylic.’ She suddenly smiled openly at them. ‘Quite a mystery, ladies.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Tara. She looked grim. ‘Quite a mystery.’

  22

  POPPY STOPPED BY the garden in the middle of her square. Like many old-fashioned squares in London, the centre was a stretch of green bordered by trees and shrubs, fenced off with iron railings, copies of the key to the gate only available to the residents of the houses that surrounded it. It was a lovely spring evening, still light and the sky a gentle blue, pinking gently in the west. The grass was a vivid green and she could smell the leaves of the trees and the white blossom on the cherry trees.

  She would go in, she decided. A few quiet minutes wouldn’t hurt and she felt the need to gather herself. Besides, what else did she have to look forward to? Another quiet evening in on her own?

  Friends were leaving her to herself at the moment, she noticed. No doubt they were trying to be respectful of the fact that her mother had died and assuming she needed time on her own and not to be bothered with frivolous invitations to dinners and parties.

  She found the key to the garden gate in her vintage Kelly bag and opened it. Stepping inside, she felt herself relax a little. She walked over to one of the weathered wooden benches and sat down, looking out into the garden. It was hard to believe she was in the centre of London: the trees and hedges shut out the road almost completely and muffled the sounds of the traffic, not that there was much in this square. Tiredness bent her shoulders and she sighed.

  I’ve never worked this hard in my life, she thought. And it’s not even been two weeks!

  Even at college she hadn’t been required to arrive at nine o’clock and stay for the entire day. It was a new experience, and she couldn’t work out if she liked it or not.

  But I’m not myself, she thought. I know that. The others don’t seem to have noticed. I feel as though I’ve been through so much. Losing Mother. She felt herself slump a little at the thought. Jemima’s hatred for their mother was so overpowering that it seemed to infect Poppy and Tara as well. Poppy felt as though somehow she wasn’t allowed to say that, actually, she had loved her mother, in her way. Yolanda Trevellyan had not been a very loveable woman, but she had tried to show affection in the only way she knew. And at the crisis in Poppy’s young life, when she had fallen so ill with meningitis that the doctors had warned she would not survive, her mother had been there, spending every minute at her daughter’s bedside. Then she had bequeathed her everything she owned – Loxton and everything inside it.

  But we’re going to lose that too, Poppy thought. Why did the idea fill her with such despair? After all, she hadn’t wanted it. In fact, she’d dreaded being given it. But knowing now that it would be taken away, along with so much else, depressed her. Then there was all the administration that would have to be dealt with. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs were in the process of assessing her mother’s estate for taxation. Probate had already been applied for, and soon Poppy would be receiving the kind of bill that most people only read about in the business pages of the newspapers. It was terrifying.

  That’s why Loxton has to go, I suppose. There’s no way we could keep it.

  She picked at a piece of lichen on the arm of the wooden bench, admiring its silvery grey colour. Tara could keep it for us, if she wanted. She’s got the money and so has Gerald. But she won’t. Why not? She felt angry for a moment, then was astonished at herself. I sound like Jemima! I’m the one who’s wanted to get rid of my money all these years. And now I can. Now I can really begin to work, and I have a proper goal. To save Trevellyan.

  She could see that Tara didn’t want Loxton and there was no reason why she should have to spend millions of her own money just to keep it for Poppy. Besides, if they wanted to save the company and make a go of it, the house had to be sold. It was as simple as that.

  Life had turned so quickly into something full of loss and uncertainty. How could they save the company from ruin? It was obvious that none of them knew the first thing about their family business. Five minutes with Mademoiselle Deroulier had been enough to show them all the vast gap in their knowledge. When Tara had asked how much it would cost to launch a new scent, the woman had looked at them and said, ‘You mean a new fragrance to challenge the great perfumes on the market? To rival the big houses?’

  Tara had said yes, and Mademoiselle Deroulier had snorted and said briefly, ‘Millions! Millions.’

  There was just no way they could do it. The money simply wasn’t there.

  ‘Hello,’ said a warm voice. ‘Looks like we’ve had the same idea.’

  Poppy looked up, startled, and saw the young man she had met in the hall a week or so ago. He was standing by the bench, wearing dark trousers and an open-necked checked shirt and a green jumper. Under one arm he had a book. He was smiling in a friendly way and she was struck by how boyish he looked, with his soft brown hair falling over one eye and his open expression.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Hello.’

  ‘Do you remember me? I’m George. I’m living downstairs from you in my aunt’s flat.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. How are you?’ She wished he would go away and leave her alone. After all, she’d come here for some peace and quiet, not for social chit-chat.

  ‘Fine. Lovely evening, isn’t it? Do you mind if I join you?’

  Poppy forced a smile. ‘Of course not. You’re very welcome.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sat down on the bench next to her. Taking the book out from under his arm, he showed it to her. ‘Bit of light reading. It’s the latest Booker Prize winner.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy glanced at it, not recognising the name of the author. ‘You must be very clever.’

  George looked amused. ‘No, no. Not really. It’s work, I suppose. I work in a bookshop near the British Museum, a really charming place. Our customers are rather heavyweight, keen on poetry, politics and the latest literary fiction. So I need to be able to talk intelligently about whatever’s new.’ He
looked at her a little more closely. ‘Hey, are you all right?’

  ‘No,’ Poppy said in a shaky voice. ‘No, I’m not.’ And she burst into tears.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about that,’ Poppy said, handing George a cup of tea. She felt very embarrassed, even though he’d been unfalteringly kind and understanding as he’d comforted her. ‘I really don’t go about sobbing my eyes out all the time.’

  George took the mug she was offering. ‘Thanks. Please, don’t worry. I didn’t mind – in fact, I rather liked it. Apart from the fact that you’re obviously unhappy,’ he added quickly. ‘Your mother’s just died. It’s no wonder you’re feeling miserable.’

  ‘I suppose I am. I’m not used to it. I’m such a happy soul usually, you see, and very self-reliant.’ It had felt unforgivably girly to be crying in front of a stranger, especially when he’d pulled her into his chest and hugged her – even more so because she’d actually enjoyed being hugged by him. His warmth and sweet masculine smell had enveloped her and comforted her, and yet, it had made her cry even harder.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said, putting down his mug of tea. ‘Why don’t we go out tonight and you can tell me all about it?’

  ‘Well … I don’t know.’ She was doubtful. She’d already planned her quiet evening alone, recovering from all the emotions that were engulfing her days. The last thing she wanted to do was go out on the town.

  ‘Have you got something else to do?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘Nor have I. And I saw that a little Italian place has opened not far from my work. It looks great. Let’s go there together and have a bite to eat.’

  Poppy thought for a moment. Why the hell not? George was charming, and so easy to talk to. ‘All right, let’s.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Perfect. I’ll finish my tea and then leave you to it. I’ll call for you at eight.’

  Poppy smiled back. ‘It’s a deal.’

  George was as good as his word. At eight o’clock precisely there was a knock on the door, and he was standing outside. He’d changed his shirt and put on a brown moleskin jacket, and run a comb through his hair, but otherwise he looked exactly the same: ordinary but comfortable and cheerful.