Chapter 60

Chapter 60

Emma

Jasmine

After ensuring Betty is safely aboard a sightseeing bus, Emma takes a train to the suburb where Philippe Hanchard lives. She turns down a leafy avenue leading away from the station. Despite the heat that is visibly rising from the tarmac in the road, the air is less oppressive here than in the city. She hopes the change in atmosphere will help with the headache taking up residence just behind her eyes. She pushes hair off her clammy forehead and steps deeper into the shade.

She finds the house halfway up the street, behind a set of large green, wooden gates. She can see very little from the road, only treetops and part of a roof. Philippe Hanchard buzzes her in through a small door set into the wall. A cobbled path leads away from the door, under an arch of purple bougainvillea, and along the side of a single-storey stone building.

As she turns the corner, she realises this is the back of a summerhouse. At the front, a series of double doors open on to a rectangular swimming pool. White, wooden loungers are arranged around it, and on a round table is a pile of navy and white striped towels. The pool shimmers turquoise in the sunshine and in the corner she can see lemon hibiscus heads turning lazy circles in the water.

Reluctantly, she leaves the pool and follows the path past lawns edged with rosemary, and terraces planted with golden rudbeckia and scarlet verbena. She can hear a sprinkler going somewhere in the distance. She approaches the house through an avenue of ceramic urns planted with marguerites. It is a low, rambling building: part Baroque and part curved modern extensions of smoke-coloured wood and glass. In front of the main door, up a short flight of stone steps, stands Philippe Hanchard, his long arms open.

‘Welcome,' he says.

Emma follows Philippe across a pale, flagstone hallway into the kitchen.

‘I'm rather presuming you would like a coffee?' he says, over his shoulder, as he approaches an electric-blue coffee machine.

‘Yes please.'

‘Good, I'll make these and then we can go into my study.'

They both speak in French, and Emma feels that the language suits such an elegant setting. She watches Philippe as he works. He is a tall, thin man with short grey hair cropped close to his head. In another era he could be a beautifully ageing Hollywood star– either that, or an elegant monk. She imagines he must be nearing seventy. He is extremely well dressed, but from his hands it looks like he does his own gardening. They emerge from his crisp white cuffs, brown from the sun, his knuckles like knotted wood.

‘Your garden is beautiful,' Emma comments.

Philippe sighs contentedly. ‘Now I'm retired, I spend most of my time there. My wife prefers to make our home a beautiful space, but for me it is always the garden.' He loads a tray with their coffees and a plate of honey-coloured macaroons and directs her to his study.

The study glows the colour of rosewood– the floor, the bookshelves and the desk are pale gold warmed with a hint of red. Three tall windows are shielded by muslin blinds, softening the bright August light that floods the room.

A door to the side of the desk appears to lead into a small, modern laboratory. She catches the glint of glass test tubes and bottles within. There is also an open wooden box on Philippe's desk containing four neat rows of glass phials. He explains that the day-to-day running of the business is undertaken in the South of France and in central Paris, but that he still likes to keep his hand– or rather, his nose– in.

Philippe gestures to two chairs by a low table. He sits down and hands her a coffee, before leaning back and crossing one long leg elegantly over the other.

‘Thank you so much for meeting me,' Emma says.

‘It's my pleasure. It sounds like an intriguing project,' Philippe comments. ‘Tell me, have you found your florist on the Titanic yet?'

She puts her coffee cup down and tells Philippe about their investigation and what she has concluded, although out of shyness she stops short of mentioning her feeling of connection with Violet. Her thoughts flit to Alistair, and she glances down at her phone, before continuing. ‘I was fascinated by what you wrote about the phials of perfumes from the Titanic .' She looks around the room, smiling. ‘I'm surprised you don't have flowers in here.' She knows Philippe is a world expert on floral fragrances.

‘I keep flowers away from this room– indeed, anything that might interfere with my ability to smell the fragrances I'm studying. I shouldn't really be drinking coffee, but…' He shrugs. It is the type of shrug Parisians are famous for, but which you hardly ever see.

She draws a deep breath, unsure what to ask next, half fearing the debilitating shyness of old will resurface.

But she needn't have worried, Philippe dives into the subject that has been his lifelong passion. ‘I think from the moment we started making perfumes, flowers were vital because they were the most obvious source of natural fragrance. In ancient times, it was through fragrance people spoke to the gods. And sometimes,' Philippe smiles, ‘when I smell an exquisite floral fragrance, I believe the gods are speaking to me.'

Emma feels herself relax. ‘So you think flowers are part of sending messages?'

‘Yes– even if it is simply the message you want to convey about yourself by the perfume you wear.'

‘Do you have a favourite floral fragrance?' she asks.

Philippe gets up and walks over to a large cupboard. He pulls open the doors to reveal rows of shallow drawers. As he slides one towards him, Emma can see they are divided into sections, each one containing a perfume bottle. He selects one.

Then Philippe talks at length about his own journey through fragrance, what inspired him and how he built his business. Their conversation delves into the chemistry of perfume making, and this, and his gentle charm, puts Emma completely at her ease. It is some time later that she remembers why she came here in the first place. She puts down the perfume bottle she is holding.

‘How did you find out about the perfume phials on the Titanic ?' she asks.

‘A journalist came to me– he had heard about them being brought to the surface.'

‘What were they doing aboard in the first place?'

‘A German perfume maker, Adolph Saalfeld, was travelling to New York in the hope of making his name in the American market. The phials belonged to him.'

‘And they lay intact for all those years?'

‘Some were broken of course, but they eventually rescued three leather satchels containing, I believe, twenty phials.'

‘And you have seen them?'

Just by his smile, she knows that he has.

‘You could still actually smell the perfume?'

‘Yes, but it was so much more than just a perfume. I am not sure the journalist I was talking to really understood that. It was Adolph Saalfeld's work– the hopes this man had for the future. It was the Titanic , an era encapsulated in a scent.'

‘They say the flowers on board the Titanic filled the rooms with a fragrance so beautiful that it reminded passengers of the Riviera,' she tells him.

‘Ah, that is fascinating. Now that would really be the true fragrance of the Titanic .' His eyes gleam, and she wonders if he would like to recreate that fragrance. ‘Can you tell me more about the flowers they used?'

She takes him through the flowers she knows about and those she imagines would be on board based on the season and what was available and fashionable in 1912. He makes notes in a small black book with a slim silver pencil.

As he writes, it occurs to her that Roberto was right: people like to be asked for their help, especially– she's thinking of Alistair– when they share a common interest.

Emma looks down at the time on her phone. ‘I am so sorry, Philippe– I've kept you for hours.'

‘Not at all. It has been thoroughly enjoyable. Please, will you join me for something to eat and drink?'

Emma doesn't even try to put up a fight.

They sit under an umbrella at the poolside table, drinking white wine and sharing a goat's cheese salad. After lunch is over, Emma takes off her shoes and settles by the side of the pool with her feet dangling in the water. Philippe has been telling her about his daughter, Juliette, who now runs their family business. It is obvious he is enormously proud of her. As he speaks, she wonders if Philippe could be persuaded to join them all for her lunch under the apple trees in her garden. The picture forms once more in her mind: all the people who have helped her, gathered together in one place.

He stands up and passes her a fresh glass of wine. ‘Do you have children, Emma?'

‘No, my husband Will and I couldn't have children.' She is staring at the water, as she continues. ‘My husband died just over a year ago. It's been hard. I found out, seven months after he died, that he'd had an affair…' She doesn't know why she adds this last part. Maybe the effect of the heat and the wine? Maybe because Phillippe is a stranger, and she's far from home? She wonders if by saying it out loud, it somehow lessens the power it has over her.

Philippe looks thoughtfully at her for a moment. ‘Stay there,' he says, before disappearing towards the house. He reappears five minutes later carrying coffee cups balanced on top of the wooden box of phials Emma saw on his desk earlier.

‘Did you know,' he says, as he unloads the coffee, ‘that our sense of smell is the only sense that has a direct connection to the two areas of the brain most strongly associated with memory and emotion, the hippocampus and amygdala? That is why, when we come across familiar smells, we are transported back to the place we smelt them and how we felt.'

She nods, thinking of how the metallic scent of rain takes her back to that December day in the garden, seven months after Will died.

‘Come up here,' Philippe beckons, putting the box aside and handing a towel to Emma. ‘We are going to use fragrances as a way to consider the painful memories you carry. It is something my daughter and I have done together occasionally.' For a moment, a cloud passes over his face. ‘There was a time when we did not speak for almost a year.'

He waits until Emma is settled and has her coffee in front of her, then asks, ‘Is there a fragrance you particularly associate with your husband?'

Emma immediately answers, ‘Sandalwood,' and he draws a phial from the box and hands it to her.

She opens the stopper and a spicy aroma drifts into the warm air. A memory threads its way towards her, as if summoned by the scent. She looks at Philippe trying to articulate her feelings. ‘The first time I sat down beside him…' She passes a hand over her eyes. ‘It was an old-fashioned smell for someone of our age and I remember thinking that was sweet, unexpected. But it was also unnerving.'

‘How long were you together?' Philippe asks.

‘We would have been married ten years last month.'

‘I'm not going to ask you about his infidelity Emma– that would not be fair. But have you been able to forgive him?'

Emma so wants to say she has, but she shakes her head.

‘It takes time,' Philippe says. It was a statement of fact. ‘It took my wife two years and two weeks to forgive me.'

She looks sharply at Philippe.

‘It took my daughter longer,' he adds.

Emma lets out a long breath.

‘Were you unhappy with your wife?' She has to ask.

‘No.'

Emma stares at him helplessly. ‘Then, why ?'

It is a long time before Philippe answers. ‘Some people have affairs as a matter of course. Some believe they have connected with someone new in a profound way– that may or may not be true, of course. I had an affair for fun. Therein lies the depth of my vanity and my stupidity.' Philippe holds her eye for a second then frowns and turns away.

Emma watches the hibiscus flowers twirling slowly in the shimmering water at the side of the pool. ‘Will wasn't the sort of man who had affairs. And I thought we were connected … but I wonder now if we had lost sight of each other.' She glances back at Philippe. ‘He wasn't a vain man, but when he turned forty, maybe he felt something had changed. I don't think I got it, because he was very fit for his age. But maybe that was it– "for his age".'

She has been over this so many times in her mind since talking to Betty. Had Will been restless? Slightly distracted? Had he known at some subliminal level that there was something wrong, that the body he had always been able to rely upon was going to let him down? It is a knot she cannot undo.

‘Loss and betrayal are a powerful combination to overcome.' Philippe turns back to her. ‘Tell me Emma, can you think of a time when you have been really happy, on your own– without Will?'

She smiles crookedly at Philippe. ‘Do I have to?'

‘You know you do.'

Emma tears herself away from Will and the scent of sandalwood and searches for a memory. Her eyes start to gleam with a smile, before she is even aware of it.

‘Tell me,' Philippe prompts, immediately noticing the change.

‘I am in the Flower Cabin– that's the flower shop I work in. The people there with me are all helping search for The Florist on the Titanic .' She can picture Les sitting on an upturned dustbin, Betty beside him, Tamas leaning on the counter. ‘I'm telling them about my research.'

‘Close your eyes and tell me what you can smell in this Flower Cabin of yours.'

Emma holds her face up to the sun, and for a moment she thinks of Clem and the scent of her shop– do all flower shops smell the same?

‘There are the lilies. They are the first to greet you when you open the door– they are big, pushy flowers, and their scent is heady and rich, full of importance.' She smiles, eyes still closed. ‘Then when you step in, there is the sweet, powdery scent from the stock.' She pictures the dark-green enamel buckets filled with their plump, frilly heads– magenta, white, and peach. ‘As you get closer, that's when you catch the scent from the more modest flowers. The roses are there: some cream, some pale lemon and a vase of tall roses the pink of cherry blossom. Their fragrance is subtle and understated, but if you lean your face close to theirs, you can catch the scent of an English garden in the summer.'

In her mind, she is now standing in front of the banks of flowers, searching for other fragrances– there is the smell of the wooden floor, and what else? She turns towards the counter.

‘If we are lucky, we have some sweet peas in. We put them by the till, and usually the first people to see them buy them. No one can resist their scent.' She opens her eyes and looks at Philippe. ‘And behind the smell of the flowers, there is a greenness, I don't really know how to describe it, but it's an important part of it all. Maybe it … balances it?' She half laughs. ‘I'm not really sure what I'm talking about.'

‘You're doing splendidly,' Philippe assures her, turning to his box and busily searching through the phials. Eventually, he selects four and opens them. With his gardener's hands, he wafts the scent towards her.

‘Oh yes,' Emma says. ‘That's the beginning of it, for sure. That's how it smells when you first open the door.' With the fragrance comes the thought of Les, Betty and Tamas waiting for her behind the half-open door. She smiles, wondering if her perfect fragrance should have the smell of fresh coffee mixed in with it, too.

Philippe frowns slightly. ‘I can tell this is a complex fragrance. It will be the middle notes that will speak to the heart of you. I wish we had more time…' He glances back to the house, and Emma can't help feeling he would like to be in his laboratory, experimenting.

‘Jasmine,' Emma hears herself say suddenly.

‘And what does Jasmine make you think of?'

‘My father.' Emma can feel something shift within her. ‘He died ten years ago. Four months after we got married.'

Philippe returns to the wooden box, then hands her a phial.

‘Oh, that's my dad,' she says, opening it. ‘Definitely. In his shed, which was really an old-fashioned greenhouse– part potting shed. On the wall at the back, he grew jasmine. I think it reminded him of Spain.'

She pictures the green wooden door with its peeling paint, sticking slightly as she pushes it open. She hears the door scraping on stone and then, then, the warm air is filled with the scent of jasmine. Sunlight falls through ancient glass, and in that mottled brightness, her father looks up and smiles at her.

She breathes in the scent from the phial once more. ‘He loved his garden like you do– your hands are a bit like his.' Emma looks down at her own hands. It is so hard to describe her father; he is more of a feeling than a place or occasion. ‘He didn't always say much, but it was the certainty of him… It was like having a hand in the small of your back that you can barely feel, but you know the hand will not let you fall.'

She inhales the jasmine and closes her eyes, fighting the tears. ‘I never got to say goodbye.'

‘Did he die suddenly?' Philippe asks, taking the phial gently out of her hand.

‘Yes and no– he'd just started cancer treatment. We knew it wasn't good news. I'd been there at the weekend and was due back the following week, but he suddenly went downhill.'

Philippe stands up. Taking a pristine linen handkerchief from his pocket, he hands it to Emma, holding her hand for a moment as he does so. He glances towards the house and then nods as if reaching a decision.

‘I am going to make you a perfume, English Emma. It is going to have deep within it a foundation of sandalwood blended with jasmine. But that will not be at the very heart of it. The heart will be the modest flowers that sit waiting for you in the flower shop, the flowers that tell a tale of an English garden. The top notes…' Philippe looks towards the house once more. ‘I do not yet know what the top notes will be, but they will add a balance, a greenness to your perfume.' He smiles. ‘I can tell you this though, Emma– it will be a perfume for your future.'