The Summer House of Happiness: A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!

Love is in the air…

Gabbie Andrews thought that her dreams of becoming a professional perfumer at the prestigious House of Gasnier on the French Riviera were finally coming true. There’s nothing she loves more than creating the perfect fragrance for her delighted customers…

So when her boss sends her to work in a laboratory in Paris for six months, she quits on the spot! Returning to her home in Devon, she soon finds that her herbal remedies are in more demand than she ever imagined.

And when she bumps into Max, the gorgeous mechanic who works at her father’s garage, she realizes that life might just be about to change forever!

Perfect for fans of Christie Barlow, Debbie Johnson and Cathy Bramley.

Also from Daisy James

The Runaway Bridesmaid

If the Dress Fits

When Only Cupcakes Will Do

There’s Something about Cornwall

Sunshine after the Rain

Christmas at the Dancing Duck

The Summer House of Happiness

Daisy James

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Daisy James 2018

Daisy James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-828599-9

DAISY JAMES is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north-east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. She has written seven novels: The Runaway Bridesmaid, If the Dress Fits, When Only Cupcakes Will Do, There’s Something about Cornwall, Sunshine after the Rain, Christmas at the Dancing Duck and The Summer House of Happiness – all contemporary romances with a dash of humour. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must!

Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks and Instagram @booksdaisyjames

To my family, especially my mum, who inspired the story.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Author Letter

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Grasse, South of France

‘Okay, everyone!’ declared Jean-Pierre, rushing into the room, clapping his hands in excitement mingled with a little nervous trepidation. ‘Gird your loins! Monsieur Jules Gasnier, our esteemed and fragrant demigod, has just entered the building! Deep breaths, shoulders back, and plaster on those neon smiles!’

Nerves fluttered around Gabbie’s stomach as she took up her position in the welcoming committee between Fleurette and her boss, Marianne, to greet the great man himself. Jean-Pierre may have labelled Jules Gasnier a demigod but Gabbie preferred to think of the celebrated perfumer as more of a magician; an alchemist who could create not just a fragrance but an experience, a sensation, a dream. Every morning she thanked her often-elusive guardian angel for being on duty the day she was offered her dream job at the House of Gasnier – except not that particular morning, when she would rather have been hiding underneath the duvet in her attic studio, trying to shut out the world and the scorching pain that date on the calendar always brought.

‘Gabbie, darling, you could at least look like you’re enjoying yourself!’ chastised Jean-Pierre, stretching up onto his tiptoes to peer down the corridor for a sign that his hero was approaching. ‘I know this was supposed to be your day off, but who are we to question our commander-in-chief’s last-minute change of itinerary? Anyway, I don’t know what you’re worried about – you’re our star perfumer! Monsieur Gasnier is bound to select your fragrance for the summer range, especially after you won that award for best bridal perfume in Confetti! Magazine last month. Ah, what I wouldn’t give to possess a smidgeon of your creative flair!’

‘Sorry, Jean-Pierre, it’s just nerves,’ said Gabbie, stretching her lips into what she hoped was a smile but was probably more akin to a grimace. After all, it wasn’t Jean-Pierre’s fault she’d chosen not to confide in him, or Fleurette, that the real reason she’d been adamant about having the day off work was because it was the anniversary of her mother’s passing – two years and it still felt like yesterday. Yet that wasn’t the only thing playing on her mind that morning.

‘Nerves? Pah!’ snapped Marianne, every inch the sleek, elegant French woman with her glossy magenta bob and effortless style. ‘You are one of House of Gasnier’s most accomplished perfumers, Gabbie. Haven’t I told you a hundred times that you possess le nez? Were not your last three perfumes the most successful since Jules Gasnier launched his debut fragrance, Juliette, two decades ago?’

Initially, Gabbie had been a little intimidated by her boss’s stern, rather aloof personality, but Marianne had proved to be a fabulous mentor who had unselfishly shared her vast knowledge and experience of the perfume industry, quirks and all, with her enthusiastic students. Her perfectly applied Cupid’s bow of deep-burgundy lipstick gave the impression she had just taken a last languid sip of delicious red wine, extinguished her Gauloise, and strolled into work from the pavement café at the end of Rue de Bouvier.

‘Relax, Monsieur Gasnier is going to love every one of the fragrances we’ve created! And Gabbie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Smile! Like it or not, we work in the romance industry where there’s no room for anxiety, only for supreme confidence in our unassailable abilities to create liquid magic. How do you think Monsieur Gasnier made his eponymous perfume house one of the most prestigious in the whole of France? Today, we must strive to ensure that everyone – and everything – is joyeux or magnifique or incroyable!’

Gabbie knew Marianne was right. She adored her career and had been surprised, and grateful, for the accolades that had come her way. She had been told she had what was known as le nez; the ability to identify the individual components of any given perfume, and also to understand which aromas would combine to create the ultimate olfactory experience. She was confident she could answer any question thrown at her by Jules Gasnier – House of Gasnier’s maestro – who had decided to grace them with his aromatic presence in order to select next summer’s eau de parfum personally.

She knew the perfume she had spent the last three months pouring her heart and soul into was unique, and because Monsieur Gasnier was renowned for being a highly-strung perfectionist, she had practised her presentation speech until it was pitch-perfect. For once, her hair had not sprouted wings, but remained in a stylish chignon, courtesy of her flatmate Jasmine’s nifty fingers. Sartorial elegance usually provided her with a boost of confidence, and her friend had loaned her a beautifully cut lemon shift dress and pair of towering heels. Except, this morning, her careful preparations weren’t working their magic to eradicate her jitters.

Gabbie loved her life in Grasse, the acknowledged capital of the perfume industry. Just being there enriched her creativity and increased her desire to design the most exquisite perfume, not to mention providing welcome distraction from her heartache. She loved the tiny apartment she shared with Jasmine, the sunshine and hustle and bustle of the attractive town, and her French was improving every day. And yet she had started to realise that, despite all the career successes, something was missing, something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on until recently. She had hoped to spend the day dissecting what it meant for her future, as well as remembering all the happy times she had spent with her beloved mother, experimenting with fragrances, before the scourge that was breast cancer had snatched her away from her family.

Monsieur Gasnier’s timing couldn’t have been any worse. It wasn’t fair, but then she knew more than most that life wasn’t. She had known how difficult the anniversary of her mother’s death was going to be; that’s why she had asked for a day off work. But there were lots of good days too, like the long weekends she got to spend with her grandparents in a small village just outside Genoa, where she could submerge herself in their stories about her mother Sofia’s childhood: her love of ballet, of her pet Pekinese, and how she had met Gabbie’s father, Jeff Andrews.

‘I’m with Gabbie,’ announced Fleurette, her long, slender fingers fluttering at the silver, heart-shaped necklace around her throat. ‘I don’t know how you can remain so calm, Marianne. Monsieur Gasnier is the most notoriously demanding perfumer in the whole of France. I haven’t been this nervous since Didier introduced me to his mother – and look how that turned out! She still hasn’t forgiven me for breaking her precious Louis XVI vase.’

‘Just as long as you don’t touch anything, Fleurette, you should be fine,’ said Marianne, barely concealing her impatience with Gabbie’s famously clumsy colleague with the spectacular, liquorice-coloured ringlets. ‘Now, is everything ready?’

‘I think so.’

‘Don’t just think so, know so!’

‘Yes, everything is ready, Marianne,’ said Gabbie, surprised to detect a tiny crack in Marianne’s legendary composure. If Marianne, famous industry-wide for her Parisian poise, was apprehensive, then the rest of them had no chance.

‘Thank you, Gabbie. We are truly blessed to have your organisational skills as well as your expertise in fragrance. Every day I send up une prière de gratitude profonde for the day you arrived here from the Institute.’

Gabbie managed a real smile when she thought of the day she had graduated from the Grasse Institute of Perfumery the previous summer, ecstatic to learn she had secured a job in the French perfume industry and had also fulfilled her mother’s dying wish that she follow what was truly in her heart, even if others insisted on a different journey.

From an early age, she had discovered that fragrance could enhance mood, and had witnessed firsthand the comfort, relief, even happiness, that her creations brought to those who used them. In her interview with Marianne, she had been relieved to hear that, as part of her training, she would not only be spending her time experimenting in the lab, but also engaging with their many customers, listening to their stories, delving into their memories for clues about the aromas that meant something to them so she could create a personalised fragrance to lift their spirits and make them smile.

That was why she had chosen to train as a perfumer in the first place: to hear their exclamations of delight when the fragrance she had designed especially for them reminded them of a long-forgotten childhood memory or much-missed relative – not to impress a snooty chief executive or fill the coffers of a multinational conglomerate. Over the last six months she had been allowed to spend a mere two weeks in the consulting rooms with House of Gasnier clients, despite her pleas to the contrary. She knew this was what lay at the root of her recent restlessness and her mother’s words urging her to follow her dreams rang sharply in her ears.

‘Oh, mon Dieu, here he comes!’ gasped Jean-Pierre, flapping his hand over his heat-infused cheeks. ‘Pass the smelling salts, I think I’m going to…’

‘Get a grip, Jean-Pierre!’ growled Marianne.

The clickety-clack of stacked heels on marble flooring echoed into the room. The group exchanged final, terror-filled glances, pinned on wide smiles and prepared themselves for the arrival of the great perfume virtuoso.

‘Ah, Monsieur Gasnier! Welcome!’ beamed Marianne, stepping forward to plant kisses on his cheeks. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey?’

‘Non! I did not! The traffic was appalling. Why everyone and their dog must descend on the Riviera in August is beyond me. All those people just swarming along the roads and pavements… ergh…’

Jules Gasnier screwed up his nose and curled his lips in disgust at being forced to mingle with the hoi polloi, even if it was from the comfort of his chauffeur-driven, air-conditioned Mercedes.

Gabbie took the opportunity to scrutinise her boss. She had met him only once before when he’d presented her with the Confetti! Magazine prize he’d insisted on collecting from the glitzy, star-studded ceremony himself. At a little over five foot three, the office gossip-vine constantly speculated that the reason his shoes were hand-stitched was so the Italian designers could incorporate an additional two inches of lift in the heel. Nevertheless, his choice of footwear did not detract from his overall appearance and Jules Gasnier clearly made up for his lack of stature with a forceful personality that sent the meek-minded scuttling for cover.

Not only was he immaculately attired in the latest Parisian haute couture, but, unsurprisingly, he was surrounded by a cloud of the most delicious cologne – crafted from a secret recipe he refused to share with anyone other than his mother, with whom he lived in splendour in the fifth arrondissement in Paris. Jean-Pierre had spent many a late night in the lab trying to replicate the signature scent for his own personal use, but he hadn’t yet managed it. Gabbie thought he needed to add a drop of star anise and maybe a dash of bergamot, but she wouldn’t dream of muscling in on Jean-Pierre’s alchemy.

‘Monsieur Gasnier, you have met Gabriella Andrews and Jean-Pierre Bertrand,’ said Marianne, gesturing to them to greet their employer.

Starstruck, Jean-Pierre hesitated, so Gabbie stepped forward and stuck out her hand. To her surprise, Jules Gasnier’s handshake was unusually limp, barely a touch, and accompanied by a look of distaste. She had the distinct impression that, had manners permitted, her employer would have liked nothing more than to whip out a bottle of antibacterial hand cleanser.

‘Could I introduce you to our newest perfumer, Fleurette Deniel?’

Fleurette swallowed down on her nerves and whispered, ‘Monsieur Gasnier, it is an honour to meet you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is. Marianne, would it be too much to ask for us to move on to the business part of our meeting, s’il vous plaît?’

Without waiting for a response, he marched over to the white marble bench where four glass phials were lined up ready for his attention. Every precious tube represented months of labour-intensive work and thousands of euros of raw materials. Even after all this time, it still amazed Gabbie that five tonnes of rose petals produced a meagre kilogram of pure rose oil – no wonder it was so expensive. Consequently, she always treated each ingredient with the utmost care and respect; many of the oils she worked with were worth more than their weight in gold.

‘Certainly, Monsieur Gasnier. If you would like to start with this fragrance?’ said Marianne, maintaining her cool façade as she handed over the first of the phials of precious golden liquid, her lips tightening slightly at the corners.

The previous day, Gabbie, Fleurette and Jean-Pierre had spent hours discussing the fragrances they intended to submit to Jules Gasnier for evaluation. Then, they had gone on to argue over the order of presentation, having to resort to drawing lots in the end or else they might have succumbed to verbal blows.

‘Mmm,’ mused Jules, his eyes closed as he inhaled for a second time. ‘Passable. Next.’

Gabbie saw Marianne wince. Phial number one had been her fragrance. Twelve weeks of aromatic toil and it was back to the drawing board – but after twenty years at the House of Gasnier, Marianne was accustomed to Monsieur Gasnier’s rejections, always delivered without consideration for their effect on the recipient. He might be a genius when it came to creating liquid magic, but it was a well-documented fact that he possessed an indiscriminate sadistic streak that he liked to dish out to the unsuspecting at increasingly frequent intervals. Those unfortunate enough to be singled out for attention either slunk from the room in shame or stormed out muttering words such as ‘unhinged’ or ‘crazy’. Marianne had recently confided in Gabbie that she was becoming genuinely worried about their CEO’s mental health as he approached his seventieth birthday, and she had been shocked to overhear a whispered conversation containing references to dementia.

Gabbie offered Marianne a sympathetic smile, yet she crossed her fingers that Monsieur Gasnier was saving his effusive praise for the perfume in phial number four, the one she had sweated blood and tears over – literally. Her offering was a blend of jasmine, mandarin, green leaves and linen fragrances, melded together to suggest that ‘just out of the shower’ freshness for the summer months.

The next perfume was Jean-Pierre’s masterpiece. Gabbie mouthed ‘good luck’, but Jean-Pierre’s dark gaze remained glued to Jules’s facial expression as he inhaled a deep breath, taking the aroma deep into his lungs. As they all waited with bated breath, blades of golden midday sunshine sliced through the skylights overhead, but not one person was interested in anything other than the imminent pronouncement. Gabbie’s heart pounded so hard against her ribcage that she thought Monsieur Gasnier would hear it and send her out of the room with a vicious reprimand for disturbing the creative process.

‘Do I detect pink peppercorn?’

Jean-Pierre flicked a quick glance at Marianne before stepping forward from the line, his eyes widening with excitement. ‘Oui, Monsieur…’

‘And narcissus?’

‘Oui, Monsieur,’ repeated Jean-Pierre, his voice climbing an octave. Unfortunately, Monsieur Gasnier was clearly immune to the electricity of hope that sparkled from every pore in Jean-Pierre’s gym-honed body.

‘I thought so. This concoction of swamp water is nothing more than a poor imitation of last year’s L’Amour Antique, do you not think? It would be commercial suicide to replicate something that already forms part of our range. Please remove this from my presence! Next!’

Heat flooded Jean-Pierre’s cheeks as he grabbed the glass phial and ran from the room to nurse his shattered dreams. The third perfume belonged to Fleurette. By this time, Gabbie felt as though her chest had been invaded by a gang of marauding monkeys and she struggled to control a sudden bout of trembling.

‘Mmm, this one is interesting… very interesting. Humour me. Did I ask for snow-topped mountains and cosy log cabins as the inspiration for our summer fragrance? Anyone? Non! Do any of my employees actually listen to me? Eh?’

Monsieur Gasnier threw up his hands before eyeing the final glass tube with disdain. Gabbie tried to quash her rampaging emotions but found her throat was dry and constricted. Her breathing had become shallow and she began to feel lightheaded, as if she was about to spontaneously combust. She watched him lift her precious fragrance to his nose – the nose she knew was insured for over two million euros – before closing his eyes and puckering his lips in avid contemplation.

‘Who is the creator of this parfum?’

‘I am, Monsieur.’

‘Fetch me a bottle of frangipani oil!’

Gabbie stared at her boss, shocked at his abrupt tone of voice and the way he tapped his foot impatiently on the marble floor, palm outstretched as he rolled his eyes at the time she was taking to respond to his order.

‘Go on! What are you waiting for? Chip chip!’

Fortunately, Marianne defused the burgeoning tension by handed Jules Gasnier the oil he had demanded and the three women stood silently, watching as he added two drops of the precious liquid to Gabbie’s phial, then inhaled a second time.

‘Ahh, l’arme d’été. C’est presque parfait!’

Gabbie’s stomach performed a somersault of excitement. Was this her chance? Would she now be permitted to introduce her summer fragrance to House of Gasnier’s customers, to reconnect with the people she made her perfumes for, to reignite the passion that had been waning over the last few months while she had been confined to the lab? She managed to find her voice but when she spoke it was as though someone else was talking. ‘Merci, Monsieur Gasnier, I…’

‘I said almost perfect. There is still a great deal of work to be done before this parfum can take its place alongside its peers. However, I am prepared to allow you the opportunity to work on its enhancement, mademoiselle. You will present yourself at nine a.m. on Monday morning at our headquarters on Rue de Rivoli.’

‘Rue de Rivoli? In Paris?’

‘Oui, à Paris!’ Monsieur Gasnier tutted and rolled his eyes at Marianne. ‘I anticipate your relocation will be for an initial period of three months, during which time you will be working in our on-site laboratory as part of our award-winning perfume development team.’