The Little Perfume Shop Off The Champs-Élysées. Rebecca RaisinЧитать онлайн книгу.
Chapter Six
Brilliant sunlight broke through fluffy clouds while I waited impatiently for the day to begin. Challenge one was here, and I was raring to go, albeit with a slight headache. Still, no one seemed any the wiser that I’d crept in past curfew. My secret was safe and I vowed never to do it again.
I showered and dressed as quietly as possible as not to wake Clementine who slept like she lived, loudly, her snores and random burst of sleep talking punctuating the space.
‘Del, stop with that thing you are doing. It’s driving me crazy!’ she said and held a pillow tight to her face.
‘What thing?’ I said, as I sat quietly on the edge of my bed, waiting for the right time to go down to breakfast. I’d already flicked through my nan’s perfume bible and re-made up my face, going from matte red lipstick to nude in an effort to appear barely made up and carefree.
I’d googled the best way to tie scarves (French women are born knowing such a skill and I didn’t want any more roadside scares while I chased an errant piece of fabric!). I’d also settled on wearing a beret for all of three minutes until I realized I was trying too hard. Being a morning person had its fallbacks. And I was not under any circumstances thinking of the guy the universe had flung in my path three times, because I wasn’t here for love. Those deep unfathomable green eyes of his though…
‘Stop that clink, clink, clink!’
‘What clink?’
‘Your bracelets!’
Oh! ‘Sorry. Nervous habit. Well you’re awake now, it’s time to rise and shine, Clem.’
‘I’m not awake!’ she hollered. It was evident Clementine only had one volume, loud.
‘Clem. We have to go soon.’ It wasn’t my place to babysit her, but I didn’t want her to miss the first day.
I opened the curtains and sunshine brightened the room. She tunneled further under the blanket, swearing at me in French.
‘Non, non, non! Shut them!’
‘OK, fine,’ I said, breezily. ‘I’ll be the first one at breakfast and I’m sure I can find out what the challenge is today. I’ll be one step ahead! I’ll probably win this week…’ I let the words hang in the air as she sat bolt upright, her once heat-styled curls a bird’s nest atop her head, smudges of mascara in panda rings around her eyes.
Raking her fingers through her hair and wincing, she said, ‘Argh. You’re right. Give me an hour.’
‘An hour? It’s already seven-thirty. We’re supposed to be at breakfast by eight and be assembled out front of Leclére Parfumerie at nine.’
‘Mon dieu, OK, thirty minutes!’ With a groan she dragged herself from bed and surveyed herself in the mirror, gasping at the sight of her semi-dreadlocked tresses. I shuddered to think how much time Clementine spent on her morning toilette: intensive hair dressing, the over the top outfits, make-up application including dramatic fake lashes, and color coordinated nail polish.
I let out a long sigh, more for effect than anything. ‘Don’t fuss with your hair, just put it in a ponytail.’
She reeled back as if I’d suggested she go running through the streets naked. ‘I don’t think so, ma cherie. Run the iron over my pink dress.’ She hopped into the shower, steam filtering out the open door and filling up the small space.
‘No, Clementine!’ I yelled over the hissing water. ‘I’m not your parlor maid! Just wear something casual.’ Still, I flicked through Clementine’s clothes out of curiosity, each of her dresses more outlandish than the last, but stunning in their extravagance. I envied her confidence, to wear such fabulous clothing.
‘Pah! I don’t do casual, Del! Did you see a pair of jeans or a sweater in my collection? Non, because I am French and…’
Before she could start on one of her monologues, I pulled the pink dress from its hanger, and laid it on her bed. ‘All right, relax, it doesn’t need ironing. Just hurry up.’ Honestly, she acted as though she was used to having hired help at her beck and call.
Miraculously she showered in under five minutes and, wrapped in a towel, sauntered back into the room, bare faced and beautiful. Without all the make-up and the thick ebony eyelash extensions she was lovely, like something out of a Botticelli painting.
‘Merci, Del,’ she said quietly. ‘Without you, I might have missed the first morning.’ She gave me a grateful smile.
As she pulled the curling iron through her hair, she sung softly to herself. There was no sign of the previous evening’s abundance of vin rouge and lack of sleep, and she looked every inch the bright-eyed sunny Parisian once more. Life was so unfair. If I didn’t sleep well, the next day I resembled the walking dead no matter how much make-up I applied, and today was no better. My eyes resembled a puffer fish in protect mode that no amount of concealer could fix. But I reasoned the French probably grew up quaffing wine so it had no adverse effects on their complexions.
‘We’re roommates so we have to stick together, right?’ I said, knowing I had to be careful of Clementine and keep friendly.
She broke off her song. ‘Oui. You’re mon amie, and I am yours.’
Friends? Perhaps we would be. Once the shutters came down and Clementine wasn’t on show she was calmer, more real. In front of others she was a caricature, a big, bold woman of the world. Was it a ploy, that drama, to get noticed in the competition, to stand out in the group of perfumers? Hard to tell at this early stage.
Outside, birds chirped, their mellifluous musical chatter drifted in, as they gossiped among themselves and we joined in too. Clementine gave me the low-down on everyone in her overzealous way. She thought Lex was too old to be a threat (he wasn’t that old, and he most certainly was a contender) and Lila was too timid. And Clementine believed that Anastacia was the danger. She’d studied under some formidable perfumers and didn’t give much away about technique or skillset, so she thought we should freeze her out.
‘Freeze her out? Clem, that’s school yard behavior.’
She frowned. ‘Oh, Del, you’ll never get anywhere with an attitude like that! Don’t come crying to me when she wins, then.’
I shook my head. She was clearly put out that I wouldn’t consider such a thing.
‘Trust me, I won’t.’
Thirty-four minutes later we were downstairs and ready to greet the day.
Breakfast was a noisy affair. We ate slowly and had long enough to down a couple of strong black coffees and munch on some fresh flaky croissants before assembling out front as instructed. The mood was ebullient, we all wore wide smiles, and fidgeted and jittered in anticipation. What would the day bring?
Lex wandered over, his face grey in the light of morning as if he hadn’t slept well, but his lopsided smile firmly in place. What kind of perfume would fix that malady, that sleeplessness that plagued him? Maybe a lavender and bergamot blend?
‘Hey, America. Ready to battle it out for the lead?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ I said. The air was electric with the unknown and I couldn’t wait to get started.
Maybe Lex would be an ally? The chat with Clementine and the whole freeze-her-out conversation left me a little dubious about her motivations. There seemed to be two sides to Clementine. I told myself to be careful, and not trust so easily. It was a game, after all, and the desire to win hung heavy in the air, though we all tried to downplay it. But with affable Lex, I felt as though he had the potential to be a real friend, and that I wouldn’t have to pretend around him.
‘What about you?’ I asked.
‘I