in a touch of ‘Pomegranate’ and a drop of ‘Lime Flower’. ‘I’m still the best. It’s a curse, really.’ He spun the glass beaker between his fingers and handed the mixture to Hughie.
‘Really?’ Hughie stood up. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it! What did you expect? A three-week gestation period?’
Hughie gingerly sniffed the beaker.
‘Try it on! You won’t be able to tell what it smells like from there.’
Hughie dipped a finger in, dabbed the scent on his wrist and inhaled.
It was the most extraordinary thing. It smelt warm, familiar; like him only more so.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in again. Instantly he was calmer, happier, more secure; a vision floated to the surface of his memory: a summer afternoon, napping in the sun, his head resting on his father’s chest and the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat lulling him to sleep …
‘Not bad, huh?’ Nick laughed. ‘Watch out! You’ll fall in love with yourself! We should call it “Narcissus”!’
‘I can’t believe it!’ Hughie said.
‘Here, give us a go.’ Jez grabbed his wrist and sniffed. ‘Fuck me, that’s good!’
Nick glowed with pride. ‘Very few people can wear “Parisian Pavement”. It has a far greater percentage of cigarette butts and bodily fluids than your average pavement. But on the right person, what a base!’
‘But I don’t get it. How can you mix all these disgusting things together and get something so, so,’ Hughie pressed his wrist to his nose again, ‘so amazing!’
Nick cocked his head to one side. ‘This I will tell you for nothing: without exception it’s always too much sweetness that kills a good perfume. There should be space between the different notes; gaps that only the imagination can fill. And just like in life, young man, it’s the shit that adds depth. Now, to the real test.’ He clapped his hands and a small King Charles spaniel came racing down the shop steps and into the room.
‘Chanel here is a female. The feminine sense of smell is the most refined. Now,’ he picked her up, ‘if the dog bites you it’s a bad brew. But if she doesn’t, we’re really on to something.’
Make Me a Willow Cabin at Your Gate
Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray paused as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He was on his way out to supper. Again. He was taking Svetlana to George’s and on to some club afterwards.
Automatically, he stopped to appraise himself in the mirror in the front hallway. How things had changed! A person might mistake me for forty-five, he thought, shaking his head so that his hair covered his bald patch, and flashing himself a strange little smile, parting the lips but keeping the upper half of the face completely immobile; a trick his mother had taught him for not getting wrinkles. (The fact that as an expression it failed to convey any warmth or good humour had escaped them both.)
Yes, in many ways, he considered, life couldn’t be better.
Business was going amazingly well. In a couple of weeks when he launched the Nemesis All-Pro Sport 2000, he was certain to rise to the very pinnacle of the sporting goods industry. He might even be nominated for the prestigious Silver Sock Award – the sporting industry’s highest honour. In addition, he hadn’t spoken to his mother in weeks. Normally she rang twice a day to vent her ill-will at him but she’d treated herself to a month-long spa break and they’d thoughtfully wired her jaw shut.
Best of all, there were no real obstacles to him seeing Svetlana. Here they were, trotting out for the third time this week. And he was guaranteed sex. (It took a couple of recreational drugs to work herself up to the task, but once high as a kite, she did a creditable impression of a sexually predatory creature possessed with lust and desire. One of the drawbacks of having been inconceivably wealthy all his life was that Arnaud was absolutely certain no one had ever slept with him for the sex alone.)
Still, a profound sense of unease stirred in the pit of his stomach.
Surely something was wrong, deeply wrong, if no one even cared where he was going or what he was doing? And he realized that the ingredient missing from this otherwise flawless existence was the presence of his beautiful, faithful, chronically unhappy wife.
Where was Olivia? Why was she no longer trailing after him in the mornings like a doomed wraith? In the almost eleven years that he’d known her, she’d never been so conspicuously absent from his life. He’d been threatening to move into one of the guest rooms every day this week – surely she should be frantic!
And, having done everything in his power to repel and degrade her for the past six months, Arnaud found himself outraged.
Was this part of some larger plan? Was she toying with him? Did she imagine he was like some schoolboy to be neglected and manipulated as she pleased?
‘Gaunt!’ he shouted, suddenly furious. ‘GAUNT!’
Gaunt appeared from below stairs. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Where is my wife?’ He spat the words out, resenting them even as they left his lips.
‘I believe, sir, she is still at the gallery. Shall I ring to confirm?’
The man was impertinent; laughing at him, he was certain.
‘No.’ Arnaud pushed his way past him, flinging the front door wide. ‘I’ll take care of it myself.’
When Arnaud arrived at the gallery, there were at least two dozen people milling about, unloading trucks, hanging canvases, repositioning video cameras, and shouting at each other. The artists were instantly recognizable as a small cluster of vagrants puffing away on cigarettes in a corner underneath the ‘No Smoking’ sign.
‘Where is my wife?’ Arnaud demanded of a scruffy young man.
‘And, like, who are you?’ the rogue challenged.
‘I am …’Arnaud stopped himself. It was degrading to have to introduce himself. He cut straight to the point.
‘Fuck off,’ he said and stamped away, aware that they were laughing at him.
Arnaud loathed art. It had never bothered him much before he was married, but after Olivia became a devoted patroness, he came to despise it. He especially hated the word ‘talent’ and the way it was thrown about, landing on any and every substandard imbecile who took his wife’s fancy. Michelangelo was talented. Leonardo da Vinci had ability. But Walter Fripp from Woking with his papier mâché mannequins dressed as sexually explicit Teletubbies had severe mental problems, not talent. He had tried on many occasions to explain this to his wife but she refused to see his point. She talked about vision and cultural references and metaphors for modern life until he wanted to shout. So he did. Educated women insisted on having ideas and opinions. His mother had enough opinions for all the women in the world. He didn’t need any from his wife.
Then he spotted her, talking to that fop, Simon Grey.
Arnaud
