The Scent of You Read online

  Then the solution to fumigate Digger’s unwelcome miasma became obvious. Chanel’s Jersey had a strong note of sleep-friendly lavender, which would then melt deliciously into the musk, vanilla, rose, jasmine and other slinky elements, all very soothing.

  She reached over for the classic chunky bottle and squirted the perfume generously into the air and onto each wrist, one then the other – none of that rubbing together, which she’d learned bruised the fragrance, the friction heating it too fast on the skin – then she closed her eyes and let the heavenly aroma settle around her. There was still a whiff of Eau de Digger in the air, but using her finely honed olfactory skills, Polly was able to tune it out in favour of the glorious perfume.

  That was better.

  She turned over to look at the dog, who had his head up, sniffing.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said, rubbing the scruffy black mutt behind the ears. ‘Are you getting the second notes of grass and tonka bean? Your sense of smell is ten million times more sensitive than mine, so you could probably teach me a thing or two, eh?’

  Digger responded by releasing another of his scud missiles.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ muttered Polly, grabbing the Jersey bottle again for some more lavish spraying. ‘Now I see why David doesn’t let you up here. It’s a good job the Chanel PR gives me this stuff for nothing. Really, Digger, you have the manners of a guttersnipe, but I’m grateful for your company tonight. You’re a dear thing, in your way. Now, go to sleep, and—’

  She realised she had been about to say ‘Happy New Year’ to a dog and stopped herself. She might be in the midst of some kind of mid-life crisis, but she wasn’t ready to lose it yet.

  It was a bank holiday in the morning, a day lost to hangovers for most people – usually for her too – but this year she had a lot to do. She had a yoga class to teach, with five of her most loyal regulars coming to the house at 9 a.m., and after that she had two perfume events to prepare for.

  In the two years since she’d launched her blog, FragrantCloud had turned into something like a full-time job, and one of the events was a big deal: the first she’d been asked to do by a big department store, interviewing one of the world’s leading noses. The other was at her mother’s retirement village, and almost more terrifying.

  So with all that on, a disappeared husband, a potty mother and an empty nest, she did feel fully justified in going loopy – just not quite yet.

  Friday, 1 January

  The doorbell rang at five past eight, way before Polly had expected anyone to arrive for the nine o’clock yoga class. Even the keen ones rarely came more than fifteen minutes early. She was still in bed, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, thinking about David.

  Swearing under her breath, she grabbed her wrap and ran to answer the door.

  ‘Happy New Year, honey!’ yelled Shirlee, one of her most stalwart regulars, putting the emphasis on ‘New’ in her broad New York accent.

  ‘How great is it waking up on Jan 1 with a clear head and two hours of yoga to look forward to?’ continued Shirlee, without pausing for breath. ‘You’ll never celebrate New Year’s again, right? Now, where shall I put all this?’

  She held up two bulging canvas shopping bags.

  ‘All the girls are bringing something,’ she said to Polly’s surprised face. ‘We’re laying on a New Year brunch for you. Fun, huh? All you have to provide is the kettle and the mugs. Louise is bringing her NutriBullet.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Polly, stepping back against the wall as Shirlee bustled past, nearly filling the narrow hall with her down jacket and own considerable heft. ‘How kind of you. Happy New Year.’

  Not the greatest start, though, she thought. According to Scottish tradition it was supposed to be a dark-haired man who was first over the threshold on New Year’s Day.

  She followed Shirlee into the kitchen to find her already busily unloading her bags and stuffing things into the fridge.

  ‘Right,’ Shirlee was saying, opening random cupboards and drawers and banging them shut again. ‘I’ll lay the table. Is this your breakfast flatware?’

  Shirlee had clearly noticed Polly’s puzzled expression. ‘Morning cutlery,’ she explained, lifting the spoon up and down to her mouth like an oversized, superannuated Goldilocks with a mass of grey corkscrew curls.

  ‘That’s my only “flatware”,’ said Polly. ‘How many sets do you have?’

  ‘Three,’ said Shirlee, as though Polly were weird. ‘Mind you, my mom had two kitchens – one for meat, one for milk. The full kosher deal.’

  She carried on ransacking the place. ‘Where are your cereal bowls? We’ll need them for Annie’s oat-milk bircher.’

  Polly went over to the dresser. ‘How many for?’ she asked, hoping it wouldn’t be more than the five regulars she was expecting.

  ‘With you, there’ll be ten of us,’ said Shirlee.

  Polly was glad she had her back to Shirlee. Nine pupils. That would be a tight squeeze in her so-called studio, which was just the former dining room of her Edwardian house. It wasn’t what she’d had in mind for a serene New Year’s Day class.

  ‘Do you have a toast rack?’ asked Shirlee, pulling open more cupboard doors. ‘I’ve brought one of my quinoa loaves and it’s soooo good toasted.’

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘We don’t really go in for that sort of stuff,’ she said, an image of David’s face coming into her head, with the expression it would be wearing at the very notion of breakfast flatware and toast racks.

  Unimpressed didn’t go near it. David thought material objects, apart from what was needed for basic survival, were ‘the devil’s chattels’: an expression she remembered had impressed her deeply when she was twenty-two and made the mistake of expressing her admiration for an Alessi lemon squeezer.

  But she didn’t want to think about David now. It wasn’t an allotted moment for David-thinking, past, present or future.

  ‘Will you be OK for a minute, while I go and get dressed?’ she said. ‘Rummage around to find what you need – if we’ve got it – and make yourself some tea, or maybe just hot water and lemon would be better, before class . . .’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shirlee, practically throwing plates at the table, like they were Frisbees.

  Polly ran up the stairs, working out she just had time to shower and dress, then ten minutes to stretch and meditate herself into a place of stillness before the rest of the group started arriving—

  Not. The doorbell rang just as she was stepping into the shower.

  Grabbing a towel, she ran to the top of the stairs and called down. ‘Shirlee! Would you mind getting that? I’ll be down as soon as I can.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ replied Shirlee, opening the door to what must have been a group of them, judging by the volume of shrieked greetings.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ she could hear Shirlee practically yodel.

  A chorus of felicitations came back in kind and Polly could hear the hubbub as they trampled along the bare floorboards to the kitchen, with stray words such as ‘spelt muffins’ and ‘cocoa nibs’ floating up to her.

  Despite the hectic start, the cramped conditions and the fact that Polly didn’t know all of the people there, the class went well. She could tell they were all truly zoned out during the meditation at the end. They were much slower to move than usual when she rang her little temple cymbals.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Shirlee, getting up from her mat. ‘I was out. Did I snore?’

  The whole class laughed.

  ‘No,’ said Annie, another of Polly’s most regular attendees, ‘but you rolled over and told me you loved me.’

  ‘You weren’t asleep,’ said Polly.

  ‘How can you tell?’ said Shirlee, rolling up her mat and bending from the hip with a perfectly straight back. Despite her ample mid-section she was one of Polly’s most able pupils.

  ‘The quality of the breathing. The brainwaves are different when you meditate.’

  ‘Theta waves,’ said a small, wiry woma
n with short-cropped hair and deep wrinkles on her brown face. She was one of the four in the class who Polly hadn’t met before. ‘Maxine,’ she added, holding out her hand.

  Polly shook it, smiling back. Maxine looked like a pretty little monkey and Polly decided she liked her immediately.

  ‘I wonder if anyone’s called their child Theta yet,’ said Shirlee, laughing heartily at her own joke as she headed out of the door. ‘“Hey, Theta, bring me my smokes.”’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my showing up unannounced like this,’ said Maxine, handing Polly two folded bank notes. ‘Twenty – is that right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Polly, taking the cash, ‘and you’re very welcome. Normally I would’ve asked you about injuries and all that before the class, but it was a bit hectic this morning and you were clearly fine.’

  ‘I’ve done yoga on and off for years,’ said Maxine. ‘You’re a very good teacher. I can see why Shirlee is so devoted to your sessions. I hope you’ll be able to fit me into some of your regular classes.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Polly. ‘Just text me to book a place. Do you live nearby?

  ‘Belsize Park,’ said Maxine, ‘so pretty handy.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great,’ said Polly.

  She walked into the kitchen to find people bustling about and the table laden with food. Another woman Shirlee had brought along was taking pictures of it all with her phone. Polly would have introduced herself but conversation was impossible over the ear-splitting volume of a machine into which one of her regulars, Louise, was feeding large quantities of dark green leaves.

  ‘Can you turn that goddamn thing off a minute?’ yelled Shirlee, who was making mugs of tea and passing them over to the table at her usual high speed.

  ‘OK,’ she was saying, ‘here’s another two matcha teas. Agave syrup is on the table. What do you want to drink, Polly?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have builder’s,’ she said. ‘It’s in that red canister by the kettle there.’

  The room went quiet.

  ‘Builder’s?’ said Shirlee, as though Polly had asked for a cup of bleach.

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly, laughing. ‘That’s what I like in the morning after yoga. With milk. From cows. Full fat.’

  ‘You can make that yourself,’ said Shirlee.

  ‘Good,’ said Polly, walking over to grab the kettle and bumping Shirlee with her hip as she passed. ‘No one else makes it right.’

  ‘Am I good to go?’ asked Louise, finger poised on her machine.

  ‘Hit it,’ said Shirlee, ‘and can you put extra ginger in mine? Some like it hot.’ She tossed her curls like a diva and everyone laughed.

  Relishing her first mouthful of life-giving English breakfast, Polly sat down at the table between Shirlee and Annie and considered the spread before her.

  Her stomach rumbled and her heart sank. Most of it was beige.

  There were plates of various unidentifiable brown nurdles and a stack of small round discs, which looked like Plasticine when all the colours have been mixed together by dirty little fingers. There were jam jars holding some kind of grey gloop, and a couple of loaves of very dense bread-like substance, one of which Polly reckoned must be Shirlee’s quinoa loaf. A bowl of yoghurt and another of blueberries were the only instantly recognisable foodstuffs.

  ‘Are these organic?’ asked Annie, pointing at the berries.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maxine. ‘I bought them in Whole Foods.’

  ‘What would you like?’ Shirlee asked Polly, her face bright with anticipation as she piled her own plate high with – whatever it was. ‘Can I pass you something?’

  A bacon sandwich? thought Polly.

  ‘Gosh, what do you suggest?’ she said out loud. ‘There’s, er, so much . . .’

  ‘Well,’ said Shirlee, ‘Louise’s amazing mix is in that jug – what’s in it, Lou?’

  ‘Kale, courgette, sprout tops, celery and ginger,’ said Louise proudly, pouring some into a glass and passing it to Polly.

  She took a sniff. Dirty pond, with a sweet top note of compost heap and a tiny hint of ginger. She pretended to take a sip and gave Louise a thumbs-up.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ said Shirlee, taking an enthusiastic pull on her own glass. ‘It’s not like juice – you get all the fibre too. But you might want to stay near a bathroom. It can have an explosive effect.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Polly. ‘So what are all these other lovely things?’

  ‘Annie’s brought her chia-seed porridge,’ said Shirlee, ‘which is super-delish. And those are date-and-acai muesli bars. That’s coconut yoghurt in the bowl, obvs, and that’s my quinoa loaf – I toast it and then spread it with almond butter and sugar-free goji-berry jam, it’s so good . . .’

  ‘What’s the other loaf?’ asked Polly, pointing at a particularly sinister-looking object.

  ‘Oh, that’s Chiara’s new banana bread. She wants us to test it for her site. She’s a blogger like you, Poll – well, maybe not quite at your level, but Chiara’s clean-food blog is great. That’s how we met, isn’t it, Chia? I stalked her in the comments.’

  Chiara was the woman who’d been taking pictures. She was smiling shyly, but with a keen look in her eye.

  ‘That’s so sweet of you, Shirlee,’ she said. ‘It would be really great if you could all give me some feedback – you know, post some comments on the blog?’

  ‘What’s it called?’ asked Polly.

  ‘CleanChia-ra,’ she said, proudly. ‘I hyphenate my name, Chia-ra. Chia seed – get it?’

  ‘Great,’ said Polly, ‘I’ll have a look.’ She was all geared up to start a blogger conversation – what platform do you use? How often do you post? Do you take your own pictures? The usual stuff – but Chiara spoke first.

  ‘Are you a clean eater, Polly?’ she inquired, picking up one of the jam jars of sludge and licking the tiniest bit off the end of a teaspoon, while looking at Polly intently. ‘As part of your yoga practice?’

  ‘Um . . .’ began Polly, bemused. She certainly avoided processed food and bought organic whenever it was possible without having to spend silly money, but to claim she was a ‘clean eater’ seemed a bit of a stretch. What did it even mean?

  ‘Well, I don’t eat Greggs sausage rolls, much as I love them, ha ha, and I try to avoid sugar, except when strictly medically necessary, of course . . .’

  Chiara didn’t look very impressed and Polly noticed some of the other women giving her rather disappointed looks. She couldn’t help feeling as though she was letting them down in some way.

  ‘I don’t eat much meat,’ she added, hoping to make it up to them. ‘My daughter has been vegetarian since she was fourteen and it was often easier just to feed the whole family the same thing.’

  And cook a couple of chops for my son as a side dish.

  Chiara was nodding enthusiastically now. ‘That’s great about not eating meat,’ she said. ‘It’s so toxic. How can dead tissue nourish a living being? I’ve been eating clean for a year now and it’s really transformed my energy.’

  Polly didn’t think she looked very energetic. She was slim and lithe-looking, certainly, and only in her early thirties Polly reckoned, but she’d struggled to get her leg up into bow pose. And she had a large spot on her chin.

  ‘So who’s going to try the banana bread?’ asked Shirlee, clearly keen to get going on it herself. She’d already polished off several slices of her own loaf and a couple of the pancakes, which she’d told Polly were made from sweet potato and rice flour.

  ‘I’ll have some,’ said Polly. ‘I love banana bread.’

  ‘Put some almond butter on it,’ said Chiara, beaming, ‘and the goji jam, like Shirlee said.’

  Polly could feel Chiara’s eyes following her every move as she cut the loaf – she had to saw at it with the bread knife – and layered the suggested spreads on it. They did, in fact, make it look quite appealing. Polly lifted it to her mouth with enthusiasm, but after two chews, she had to struggle to control her fac
ial expression.

  Had her repulsion been obvious? She hoped not, and carried on chewing. How the hell was she going to swallow it? She felt like she was doing a bushtucker trial.

  Dry, lumpy, gritty, with an overwhelming amount of cinnamon, which was burning the roof of her mouth. That gave her an idea for a get-out.

  She put her hand in front of her mouth and looked at Chiara, who was staring at her with slightly wild eyes, her spoon still in mid-air.

  ‘Has this got cinnamon in it?’ asked Polly, as best she could with a full mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ said Chiara, smiling broadly. ‘It boosts the metabolism.’

  ‘Sorry!’ said Polly, standing up and running to the bin, where she spat the repulsive clod out of her mouth. ‘I can’t eat cinnamon. I’m allergic to it.’

  She wasn’t, but thought anyone probably would be, if they ate it in that volume.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ said Chiara. ‘I should have warned you. I didn’t know you had allergies.’

  ‘Well, just that one, really,’ said Polly, rinsing her mouth out with water. As of now. ‘I’m sure it’s delicious, if you can tolerate cinnamon. There is quite a lot in there . . . You must really love it.’

  ‘I’m not that keen, actually,’ said Chiara. ‘In fact, I don’t like it at all. I put it in for the metabolic boost, not the taste.’

  Polly was really puzzled now.

  ‘If you don’t like cinnamon, isn’t it hard for you to gauge how much to use in the recipe? It can’t be much fun testing your own creations if they have stuff in them you don’t like.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t taste them,’ said Chiara, finally licking the tiny smudge of porridge, or frog spawn, or whatever it was, off the teaspoon. ‘That’s what the comments are for, on the blog.’

  ‘OK,’ said Polly, nodding and looking round the table to see if anyone else thought this was a little unusual. None of them seemed to have reacted. Shirlee was cutting herself another slice of her quinoa bread.

  ‘So will you write a comment for me?’ said Chiara, dipping the point of the spoon in the jam jar again. ‘You could say you loved it, but you made it with cumin and . . . turmeric . . . instead of cinnamon, because of your allergies.’