Perfume Of Provence

A summer at the chateau

Leaving her cheating ex-boyfriend behind Rosie Fielding heads away from London to spend a blissful – and boy-free - summer basking in the Cote d’Azur sunshine. Surely the Mediterranean sea breeze will soften memories of the disastrous anniversary dinner-than-never-was?!

During a chance visit to a nearby perfumery Rosie meets the owner, Jean-Michel de Fleurenne, who’s distillery is in desperate need of her PR expertise. Everyone knows you should never mix business with pleasure…but in Provence the rules seem almost impossible to stick to…

Rosie has fallen instantly in love with the Provencąl landscape. The rich citrus aromas of the fruit trees, and scent of the wild lavender are blissfully intoxicating and have done wonders in banishing any and all memories of her ex and the tall, blonde Other Woman! However, they say French is the language of love – and thoughts of a certain, impossibly handsome, French Perfumier are becoming harder and harder to ignore…

Also by Kate Fitzroy

Dreams of Tuscany

Perfume of Provence

Kate Fitzroy

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Kate Fitzroy 2014

Kate Fitzroy 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 © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472095220

Version date: 2018-07-23

KATE FITZROY

has two lives. One in a flinty Victorian cottage in Newmarket, where she awakes early each morning to the clip clop of the strings of racehorses passing under the window. Kate’s other life is played out in a Napoleonic manor set in a sleepy village amongst the vineyards of the Loire Valley, France.

Her life has not always been so blissful. Widowed at the age of twenty-two, already with two children to love and protect, she fought her way up as hard and steep a path as any of her romantic heroines. Determined to turn adversity to advantage, Kate and her two children left England behind and drove off to the South of France. By teaching English and renovating ruined properties in France and then Italy, Kate more than survived.

Now happily married to a thoroughly English man and surrounded by a large, loving family, Kate enjoys every moment of every day… CARPE DIEM because TEMPUS FUGIT!

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

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

Endpages

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Rosie sighed as she flicked impatiently through the pages of a magazine. A half-hour delay to the departure of her flight to Nice had just been announced. The two precious days that she had snatched from the jaws of her over-demanding work were already shrinking into a bad idea. After fighting her way through Friday-afternoon traffic to get to the airport on time, she now had to sit and wait. Why hadn’t she just gone home and tried to relax?

Rosie blinked away tears as she imagined being back at her flat alone. Alone and miserable after her break-up with Luke. How could he? The words swam around in her head unanswered. She knew she had been working too hard lately to give enough time to their relationship. But, how could he? They had been together a year and last night had been the anniversary of their meeting. She had been looking forward to their planned dinner date. In her lunch hour she had decided to rush out and buy a new dress to surprise him. That was when she saw him with another woman. Rosie closed her eyes now, as she sat waiting in the departure lounge. In her mind’s eye, Technicolored in every detail, she saw Luke and the tall, beautiful blonde girl in a café. Not just sitting close, but wrapped in each other’s arms, Luke nuzzling the girl’s long neck and stroking her hair. Rosie shuddered and her eyes flashed open. Once again she was back in the airport. Waiting, hurting, but determined not to cry.

She shifted angrily in her seat, her foot tapping nervously. This is not happening, she thought to herself as a wave of stress welled up inside her.

“Probably only a short delay,” a quiet male voice said into her right ear.

“This is definitely not happening!” Rosie muttered to herself. The last thing she needed was some departure lounge lizard trying to pick her up when all she longed for was some quality time alone. If she wasn’t totally dismissive she knew she would find him sitting next to her on the plane…if and when they ever took off. She buried her head in the magazine but the lizard continued, his voice soft and low.

“Just waiting for the next slot, I should think.”

This was intolerable. She sighed again. It was the resigned sigh of a beautiful woman accustomed to rebuffing unwanted advances. She half turned towards the voice, shooting a disdainful glare as sharp as a dagger through the silky curtain of her hair.

“Doubtless!” She snapped the word out as rudely as one word could possibly sound and hastily returned to her magazine. The pages now blurred in front of her. He was divine, completely divine, perfect manhood in the flesh — well, in a dark grey T-shirt and black jeans — and, oh, the flesh…lightly tanned, olive and glistening smooth. He could have been a celeb that had walked straight out of her magazine. Rosie gulped; her heart pounded in her chest sending the blood rushing to her cheeks. Should she, could she try to reopen the conversation? Could she, should she resist the huge temptation of his smouldering dark eyes? Absolutely not! She closed the magazine smartly and threw it on the empty seat at her left. Slowly, very slowly, she turned to her right, bracing herself for a second look at the departure-lounge lizard who had suddenly become a frog-prince. And she hadn’t even kissed him — not yet!

“Do you fly to Nice often?” It was bad enough that her voice sounded like an adolescent boy’s but surely her melting brain could have come up with something…anything…a little less banal? The silly opening phrase echoed inside her head. It was worse than corny.

“Yes, quite often…and you?” He replied courteously, but she detected a spark of humour in the shine of his brown eyes — dark, dark brown with flecks of hazel and, oh, wow, how they crinkled in the corners…and such soot-dark lashes. Irresistible!

“Actually I’ve never been to Nice in my life. I just picked a last-minute flight for a weekend break.” Her voice had recovered its usual mid-scale timbre and she resisted the nervous desire to run her fingers through her long auburn hair…or his short jet-black hair.

“I’m sure you’ll love it — it’s a great seaside city and the weather is forecast to be perfect for June.” He smiled a toothpaste advertisement. “There’s no better month on the Côte d’Azur.”

The way he rolled that final ‘r’ gave him away. Although he spoke perfect English he must surely be French. Rosie smiled too and was just about to attempt an intelligent reply when the flight departure was announced. He stood up quickly.

“There, I thought it wouldn’t take them long to get us out of here. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I must make a quick phone call before we board. Excuse me. Enjoy your weekend!”

He strode away from the queue that was beginning to form at the desk and across to the large window overlooking the bleak stretches of tarmac. Rosie watched his dark silhouette as he pulled a phone from his pocket and began to talk animatedly, his free hand waving in the air. Yes, definitely French, decidedly desirable and bound to be married with two point four impeccable enfants and a silky spaniel. Doubtless he was telling the paragon wife about the delay and she would deftly turn down the coq au vin to simmer to perfection for his late arrival home. Their home? Certain to be a chic Niçois apartment…high-moulded ceilings, polished parquet floors, cut flowers in tall vases…

Rosie shook herself angrily. This just wouldn’t do. Her emotions were jangled and she was bouncing out of control. She took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. She was suffering typical rebound emotion and she was clever enough to know it. She stood up, smoothing her hair, and shrugging her jacket into place. She walked calmly to join the tail-end of the queue that was now moving slowly towards the glass doors. Finally she handed in her boarding card and, against all her baser but better instincts, walked towards the plane without a backward glance.

CHAPTER TWO

The hotel lobby was a relief after the hot, hectic drive from the airport. A cool, marble hall, uncrowded and quietly elegant with the glimpse of a jungly garden around a small pool. Rosie followed the porter to the lift and up to her room, which was a further pleasant surprise. She tipped the boy generously for carrying her bag and, as soon as he had left, she threw open the shutters and went out onto the small balcony.

She sat on one of a pair of wrought-iron chairs and regarded the empty one beside her. Suddenly a deep loneliness engulfed her. The peaceful solitude she had been yearning for dissolved into the silence, replaced by some vague fear of the future. Suddenly, she realised it wasn’t that she missed her current — no, ex — boyfriend, Luke. He would have splintered the sunny space, photographing her and everything that came into view. He was one of life’s huge enthusiasts. Rosie had only recently realised how exhausting it was to follow in his eager footsteps.

Her own leisure life had been totally submerged in his interests. At first, this had seemed so exciting. She had jumped into the relationship with two feet. Her wardrobe showed the evidence: new snow shoes, ski boots, flippers, roller-blades, tennis shoes, golf shoes and far too many impossible stilettos. Now, as she quickly unpacked her small bag she smiled fondly at her familiar old Gucci loafers. So here she was— escaping from the fallout. Once again the unanswered question throbbed in her head. How could he?

Only recently they had talked around the idea of marriage. It was true that Rosie’s work had been more demanding than ever in the last few months. Her career had catapulted from talented copywriter to most-wanted PR woman in the fashion world. The more successful she became, the more was asked of her. Big-name clients with even bigger egos demanded her personal attention. There were always deadlines to beat, glamorous venues to locate, presentations to organise, photo shoots, prestigious functions, press interviews…all of vital importance for a moment in time.

She loved the work and thrived on the pressure but it just didn’t fit a private life with Luke. He wanted all her attention too. So obviously he had found consolation in that elegant blonde. Once again Rosie felt the shock rush through her. The answer to the repeated question in her head was quite simply that he could and had. Rosie closed her eyes but the scene in the café played on. Should she have rushed into the café and confronted Luke? Maybe. In fact, she had just quickly turned away and run back to her office. She had made phone calls, batted emails and finished her work. Finally, she had made her way back to her flat, carrying the special dress she had bought for their anniversary dinner date. A slow cold determination had taken over her. She decided to keep their dinner date.

Wearing the new little black dress from Joseph, she taxied to the Chelsea Harbour restaurant. She was carefully ten minutes late. He was waiting for her at the table, their table, looking moody. He stood up as she entered but didn’t seem to notice that she turned her head away from him as he gave her a brief kiss. He held the back of her chair for her, waiting impatiently for her to sit down. Then she looked him in the eye and told him it was over. Quietly and simply, the words fell from her lips easily. He looked startled and then confused. For a very brief moment she felt slightly sorry for him as he stood there, like an overgrown schoolboy, wondering what he had done wrong. So she told him she had seen him at lunch. His face changed from baffled to dark with guilt. Before he could reply she turned quickly on her heel and left the restaurant.

Breathing in the cool air on the riverside, she began to tremble. She quickly hailed a taxi waiting in a rank outside the harbour. She climbed in and sank back with relief as the driver made a tight turning circle. Just as he was drawing away she saw Luke emerge from the glass doors. He searched the area quickly and then spotted Rosie in the taxi and began to run after her. She shrank back from the window but not before she had seen he was waving a small, beautifully wrapped box. A box that looked very likely to hold a ring. The taxi gained speed but Rosie did not look back. She began to cry, long, dry sobs that felt as though they would never cease.

Now, sitting in the late-afternoon Niçois sun, she cried again. She cried for what might have been. But her tears ended quickly and left her feeling tired, sad and strangely relieved.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning when Rosie awoke she sensed it was late. She focused sleepy eyes on the small face of her watch and was amazed to find she had slept soundly for more than ten hours. She crossed the dark room and slowly opened one of the shutters a few inches. Rubbing her eyes against the brightness of the day, she squinted into the distance.

It took her a moment to realise that she was looking at the sea — an impossibly blue horizontal strip behind the fronds of palm trees in the garden below. The Mediterranean. How could she have missed it yesterday? She must have been too tired to take anything in properly. Rosie sighed with pleasure, feeling her shoulders relax as she stood quietly enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin. She reached out lazily and ran her fingers through the bright green leaves that reached up to the balcony rail. To her delight she realised the branch was laden with oranges. She gave a slow and careful inspection to the glowing fruits and then plucked the perfect one. Its tangy, citric aroma filled the air as she pushed her thumbnail into the thick skin. This was a good day to be alive — to be happy, alone or not — and a perfect day to wear loafers.

An hour later Rosie was swinging briskly along the Promenade des Anglais following the signs to the flower market. The hotel concierge had given her an excellent map of the city and some suggestions as to how to spend her first day in Nice. The sea sparkled before her in vibrant turquoise and navy-blue stripes. She glanced down at the beach restaurants and picked out one for lunch. Yes, definitely that one with the yellow umbrellas and cushioned sun-loungers spread out on a wooden deck that ran down to the gently lapping waves. She carried on towards the hillside that overhung the end of the bay and turned under a stone arch into the market place. She stopped in amazement. It was so much bigger than she had imagined. The air was full of voices, both French and Italian. Clasping her bag in front of her, she wended her way through the colourful market stalls towards a café in the shade. She was about to sit down at a table when, looking up to admire again the backdrop of the steep cliff that soared up into the deep blue sky, she caught sight of a splendid cascade of water tumbling down over the rocks.

“Absolutely fantastic!” Rosie had the dreadful feeling that she had said the words aloud. Just one day on her own and she was going mad already. She decided to give up on exploring the city and head straight for the haven of a yellow umbrella.

By four in the afternoon Rosie had finished her book. A book that she had been trying to find time to read over the last year. Stretched out on a comfortable sun-bed, served with drinks and pizza, a few lazy swims, daydreaming and dozing, she had contentedly drifted through the afternoon. A couple of attempts to chat had been made by local lads in black Armani swimwear and Rolex-or-not watches but she had remained polite, cool and made no eye contact. Why was it that most of her daydreaming had been about that guy at the airport? She didn’t even know his name and never would. Somehow his face kept reappearing as an imprint on the retinas of her eyes. He was reflected in her sunglasses, blurring the lines of her book — when she closed her eyes she could see the way he had looked at her — the way his eyelashes were spiky dark against his olive skin.

Rosie sighed with exasperation. This relaxation stuff was dangerous for one’s mental health. It must be that she just didn’t have anything else to think about. How could she be so ridiculous? Surely she couldn’t fall in love with a man she didn’t even know and who was certainly happily married anyway? She flicked up her towel and folded it neatly, ignoring the male eyes that followed her every movement…not that dismissing the crème de la crème of Nice’s male beach society made any sense either.

She returned to the coolness of the hotel. The friendly concierge gave her the room key and wished her, ‘Bonne soirée.’

Rosie muttered a polite, ‘Merci,’ in reply, thinking that her soirée was unlikely to be as bonne as he was imagining. He probably thought she would be out clubbing and generally painting the town rouge until late, late, late. Once in her room, however, she found she had seriously underestimated the efficiency of the concierge. Arranged on the bureau was a selection of brochures detailing restaurants and places to visit. On top was a list entitled, ‘Loisirs pour la femme qui voyage seule’. Rosie’s school French just about covered that. A list of leisure activities for the woman who travels alone. Was it that obvious? Smiling ruefully, she glanced without much interest at the brochures until one caught her eye.

‘Visitez la Parfumerie Beauroma à Eze’. She flicked through the description of the tour of the perfume distillery and mediaeval village perched above the Mediterranean. Why not? Well, probably because it closed at seven p.m.? She looked at her watch. Five p.m. already! She could do it if she hurried. Suddenly it seemed to be the most important thing to do. She threw off her beach clothes and dashed into the shower. It was so relaxing to be in a hurry and hopefully a bit of stress would hold off further bouts of going totally out of it.

Fifteen minutes later she walked briskly into the lobby and asked the concierge to call her a taxi immediately. She waved the brochure at him and thanked him. “Mademoiselle, relax — you ’ave plenty of time. The sun is not even down yet and Eze village is just up the coast. Remember, this is the South of France and you are on the holidays, yes?”

“Yes, you’re right!” Rosie smiled. “But I’m so good at rushing!”

“Rushing — what is this? I not know this word,” he replied, turning his lips down in disparagement and shaking his head.

“It’s like hurrying…” Rosie searched for a word from her school vocabulary without success. “Believe me, you really don’t want to know about it!”

She smiled at him brilliantly and ran out to the taxi that had drawn up outside. And the concierge was quite right — Eze village was just up the coast. The journey was as short as it was breathtaking and ‘up’ seemed definitely to be the key word. The taxi driver drove with alarming contempt bred from his obvious familiarity with the road that careered crazily out of Nice and in the general direction of the sky.

It was called the Moyenne Corniche, he informed her, turning completely around to face her in the back seat as he drove recklessly onward, one hand casually on the steering wheel. Whatever, thought Rosie, nodding quickly in agreement as she was swung from side to side as the car swerved round one hairpin bend after another. Moments later he turned round again and pointed up to the sky. Was he really trying to tell her that there was another road higher up called the Grande Corniche? She closed her eyes and rested her head back in a foolish pretence of sleep. She heard him sigh heavily and hoped he had given up on her feeble command of the French language.

The next moment her eyes blinked wide open as the sound of deafening music filled the car. He had turned to the radio for company but he had not quite given up on her. Turning around again, he smiled enthusiastically as he shouted, “Musique!” and thumped the steering wheel in time to the beat. Rosie smiled weakly back and nodded again in agreement, holding her breath as he turned once more and leant out of his window. He pointed down vigorously, shouting, “La mer…zee sea!”

Rosie made the mistake of looking and there, sure enough, was the sea…a mile or more below the car as they veered round the very edge of the steep hillside. Rosie firmly closed her eyes again as the sea and sky tilted madly around in her head. She tried to concentrate on which old James Bond film she felt she was taking part in…or had it been The Italian Job or that great film with Robert de Niro? Thus absorbed she realised with relief that the taxi was actually slowing down. Opening one eye cautiously, she saw they were entering the village of Eze.

Rosie’s head swam as she stepped from the taxi onto the smooth cobbles. Maybe that was why, when she turned to the entrance of the perfumery, she was so unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. For there he was…object of desire, subject of the day’s dreams…yes, the airport Prince Charming. He was standing by a dark blue limousine, one hand waving wildly in the air, the other holding the handle of the open door as he talked earnestly to two besuited men.

Rosie smiled and whispered, “Yes, yes, yes!” Fortunately he hadn’t seen or heard her. Rosie fought to recover her equilibrium although her knees were weak with excitement. This was the moment to employ all her social skills and arts of manipulation. Not the time to avoid eye contact. As she tried to think of a way to casually bump into him he turned towards her and looked straight into her eyes. Immediately he recognised her and raised a hand in a friendly wave. Just as immediately her best intentions to play it cool and calm completely deserted her. She found herself idiotically flapping her hand in reply as he turned back towards the car.