[Wattys 2021 Shortlisted] In the ancient French perfume capital of Grasse, lives bohemian recluse Cassandra Ducasse, the last remaining member of a legendary family of perfumers. Trapped by her past, Cassandra is unwilling to take up the reins of h...
''Didn't you bring a hat?'' asked Cassandra, standing on the stone threshold of the Maison Guipard.
She hated to admit it, but Vince looked even better out of a suit than he did in one. He had arrived wearing fine, loose fitting linen trousers and a deep navy polo shirt that hugged his upper chest and biceps. He looked relaxed, but still smart and elegant, and Cassandra looked down at her own print gypsy skirt and Tunisian cotton blouse with less enthusiasm than she had felt on selecting them this morning.
''Good morning to you too,'' he replied, sidling his way past her into the passage and taking another slug from the take-away paper cup he was nursing. ''Coffee?'' He held out a second cup towards her, but she shook her head.
''If I didn't brew it, I don't drink it,'' she replied, closing the door and heading for the salon. ''I have a way of making it just the way I like it.''
''Great. All the more for me.'' He finally removed his dark glasses as they made their way through to the heart of the house.
Cassandra stopped at the foot of the stairs and assessed him. ''Hmmm. Yes. You do look as if you could use it. Had a rough night last night?'' She willfully repressed the memory of Vince in his hotel room the night before, his shirt slung over the arm of the sofa, his scent clean and predatory. It wasn't hard for her to imagine that things might have gotten rather rough indeed after his dinner guest arrived.
''Hhrmmmp,'' was all Vince answered from the brim of his coffee cup. She was right of course. He hadn't slept last night, but it had been without the assistance of Ms. Flauvert.
After Cassandra had left, he had lost all desire to meet with Sylvie. He was hyped up with plans and problems and ideas for the new fragrance and after cancelling his dinner he had sat up reviewing his notes on Imogen and going over and over his dossier on Cassandra. More than ever now it was imperative he keep her on his side. He had already sent an email to Imogen's office informing her that Guipard was on board. The star wouldn't take kindly to that promise falling through.
Cassandra took a hat from the hall stand and handed it to Vince. With the palm of his hand, he crushed it in half then let go, allowing it to spring immediately back to its original form. Genuine Panama.
''It was my grandfather's,'' said Cassandra quietly as Vince slipped the hat on his head. The bleached straw looked stark and flattering against the darkness of his hair. He tipped the brim at her with the cockiness of a cowboy.
''Well then I'm honored Ma'am,'' he said.
Cassandra smiled. She recalled her grandfather sitting on the terrace, his cane in one hand, a glass of vermouth in the other. The hat had been so much a part of him she could hardly imagine him without it on. But no one had worn it now for over ten years.
She wasn't sure why, but she was glad she had offered it to Vince. There was something wonderful to her about it being used again, as if it were coming to life once more and with it the spirit of her grandfather. It intrigued her that Vince, of all people, seemed to do it justice.
''We'd better be going,'' she said, taking a set of keys from the hallstand. ''We've got quite far to travel.''
Great, thought Vince. More time wasted. He had to keep reminding himself that this fragrance for Imogen was the company's top priority. There may be ten other jobs clamoring for his attention back in New York, but if he left Grasse now, this one – the big money spinner - would spiral out of control.
So, he had decided to go along for her little field trip, check that everything was going according to plan, and then make his exit. He would send some junior lackey down here to babysit Cassandra Ducasse while she mixed her perfume, and he could get on with business back in the real world.
Cassandra led him down a paved pathway alongside the ivy-covered garden wall. At the bottom of the property were what had once been stone stables, converted into an extensive set of garages. Where there was place for at least six cars, now they housed only one: a 1963 Porsche Speedster convertible.
Once upon a time these garages had been full. Her grandfather had loved his cars, but piece by piece the Alphas and the Jaguars had been sold off to cover the family debt, leaving only his favorite. It wasn't in the best condition. Over the years it had been patched and fiddled, the genuine parts slowly replaced with counterfeits.
A scrape over the front bumper and a dented side door further ensured that it would not fetch top dollar if she had to sell, but it was worth a thousand times more in memories to Cassandra and so she allowed herself to keep it. It was an indulgence as everything else of value was whittled away.
A low whistle escaped from the Vince's lips when he saw the car. He liked to drive, loved it in fact. But it was a rare luxury these days. He was always too busy and needed to enlist the services of a chauffeur.
He stroked his hand along the car's polished silver haunches and crouched down to admire the gleaming wheels. He could feel his pulse quickening at the mere thought of how such a classic beauty would take the corners. Maybe today wouldn't be such a waste after all, he thought.
Cassandra eyed him with some amusement. His desire to drive the car was palpable, she could not deprive him. Dangling the keys towards him on the end of one finger she grinned. "Well,'' she said. ''Let's hit the road.''
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