He reaches for me, pulling me towards him, snuggling me into the crook of his arm. ‘I beg to differ, Asha. Nothing could ever be better than that.’
* * *
Her fingers stroke the geranium petal reflexively. It’s a gesture born of idle thought, not intent, and yet my eyes latch onto the repetitive motion and my body stirs. Light breaks across Paris, golden and warm, and Asha shifts a little, her eyes moving to mine, her irises such a rich shade of green, like the ocean, or the leaves of the geranium.
‘You’re awake.’ Her smile is like sunshine after the storm. But what storm? With Asha, it’s always sunshine. My body is in a permanent state of nirvana. I am alive with sensual heat, rock-hard with desire, heavy with satiation. It’s revolutionary to me to experience something like this. Maybe I’ve been wrong all these years, preferring to hook up with women for a night or two at most. The ongoingness of this, without any emotional complication, gives me the best of all worlds.
We know each other intimately and with that knowledge comes the kind of pleasure you don’t get from a one-night stand. I’m going to miss this. And her.
The realisation is like a lightning bolt in my mind, briefly slashing through the warm pleasure of my thoughts. Because I can’t miss her. It’s not allowed, it’s not what we’ve agreed. Sex is sex and once Asha’s out of my life I’ll find someone else to have sex with, someone who’ll agree to these exact same terms. Even when I don’t want to? That thought doesn’t bear examination. We have a plan and I have no intention of breaking it, even when there’s something moving through me, something selfish and hungry that just wants more of this, always.
I know, even as I reach for the geranium in her fingertips, that there is no one like Asha. I might find someone different, someone who fits with me in other ways, but Asha is unique.
‘Where did this come from?’
‘The windowsill.’ She smiles, more sunshine.
‘Have you been up for long?’
She makes a noise of assent. ‘Jet lag.’ The word is said with a smile but there’s a depth to her tone that has me studying her face thoughtfully. ‘I was thinking about my grand-mère too.’ Her eyes shift down, shielding her thoughts from me.
Curiosity flexes inside of me. ‘When did you lose her?’
‘A long time ago.’ She lifts the geranium to her nostrils, inhaling its scent, a wistful smile changing her expression now. ‘She loved geraniums. All flowers, really. When she was a little girl, they didn’t have a lot of money. She used to tell me about her life in the Loire Valley, filled with abundant beauty and a permanently empty belly.’ She lifts her eyes to mine and my breath rushes out of me at the sparkling depth in her irises. ‘My great-grandfather was in the War and when he came back he would collect flowers for my great-grandmother every morning. “I never thought I should see colours like this again. I never thought I would smell their intoxicating fragrance”.’
Her expression assumes a faraway look.
‘He was a chemist by training, so it wasn’t a big step for him to move into perfume production. He distilled several flowers, over months, years, blending their essences until he created the exact fragrance he wanted, the scent that had kept him going while he was away. It reminded him of my great-grandmother and life in the little village they called home.’
She smells the geranium again and I am struck by how elemental she is, how like the stunning geranium—strong and vibrant, beautiful.
‘And that’s how the company was born?’
‘Mmm.’ She smiles. ‘He called it Fleurs Sauvages. Our name—Sauvages—means ‘wild’, and while he was at war he used to say that was just how he felt. Wild and untamed, feral, surviving on instinct alone. But, coming home, he saw beauty in the wildness, beauty in the flowers that grew through the cracks in the village walls, little escapees seeking only sunshine and water.’
Her laugh is a soft pealing bell. ‘I spent a lot of time at his knee, listening to his stories. Can you tell?’
‘And he liked to talk?’
?
??Oh, towards the end, yes, he lived for these memories. They’re a part of our company ethos now, a part of our institutional memory. He’s eternal because of the business.’
‘How did he start selling the perfume?’
‘He was an ambitious man. War had made him hungry too, and he had a daughter to feed. He was very clever, associating the brand with wealth and aspiration from the beginning, so Fleurs Sauvages was the only perfume anyone wanted to wear.’
I stroke her arm and she smiles at me, so unguarded and relaxed, my chest expands. I like making her smile.
‘I used to love coming here.’
‘To this shrine to colour?’ I tease.
Her smile is wistful and a rueful expression touches her features as she looks around the room. ‘To France. I grew up in America but France is so much a part of me. I hear their voices in my head while I work, my grandparents, my great-grandparents.’ Her smile is reminiscent now.
‘Did you come to stay with your grandmother after your ex died?’
The smile slips. ‘For a time.’ She moves in the bed, turning back to face me. She is naked, just how I like her. I reach for her, drawing her closer to me, wanting to kiss the smile back into place.