The Liberation of Alice Love(51)
Author: Abby McDonald

“A new perfume, perhaps?”

Without another word, she swept Alice toward the display. Up close, Alice could see long glass stems reaching inside the bottles, each topped with a curved glass stopper and tiny labels of elegant script marking the mysterious vials.

“Oh, no thank you,” she protested halfheartedly. “I never wear it.” An old flatmate had been strictly intolerant of scent of any kind, and Alice still purchased perfume-free moisturizers and gels, remembering her stern lectures about invading other people’s olfactory space.

The woman fixed her with a disapproving stare.

“Except rose, sometimes.” Alice gazed wistfully at the rows of delicate glass and faint, amber liquid. “Just a subtle note…”

Assessing Alice in one swift look, the woman gave a superior smile. “Rosa? No, that will not do for you.” Then, before Alice could react, she moved nearer, so that her face brushed the skin at Alice’s throat. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. “Yes,” she said, stepping back and looking at Alice anew. “Jasmine, perhaps, and cherry blossom.”

Alice stood, fascinated, as the woman set about fetching vials down, muttering quietly to herself in Italian. When the small polished tabletop was covered, she took out a tiny china bowl and began to mix, adding droplets from one bottle, a silver spoonful from another, sniffing delicately at it as she went.

“You are single, no?” she glanced up, questioning. “Alone?”

“Well, yes.” Alice felt as if she was witnessing an alchemist at work. “But…” She trailed off, watching the woman take a small box from a drawer and scoop a tiny pinch of green powder into the liquid. The dust settled for a moment on the surface of the bowl and then dissolved, turning the perfume a clear jade hue. “But I don’t see—”

“Is ready.” The woman was unconcerned with Alice’s confusion. She breathed in the mixture one final time, gave a firm nod and then dipped one of the glass stems into the liquid. Rounding the table, she advanced on Alice. “With this, you are unforgettable.” She solemnly touched the glass to Alice’s wrists and neck as if she was anointing her.

Alice inhaled the deep, rich fragrance, and the woman’s sweeping claim was proven right, because in an instant, Alice remembered the last time she’d smelled such a scent, as vivid as if she was reliving the moment as a child again, hovering by her mother’s heavy vanity as she dressed for another night away.

“Can I help?” Alice had stared at the strange array of bottles and lotions strewn on the dresser as if surveying a foreign land. Natasha usually shooed her out, but that night, she must have been struck by a rare flush of maternal impulse, for she patted the seat next to her and invited the young Alice to stay and watch. And watch Alice did, because dressing, to her mother, was an art. First, the lingerie, with hooks and clasps and layers of silk that still bewildered a cotton-clad Alice. Then came makeup, sitting on the piano stool, the extravagant lilac upholstery of which had caused a three-day war between her parents. Then, finally, came the perfume.

“Which do you think?” Her mother asked, surveying the selection. Alice’s heart rose with the importance of her task. She studied the bottles, discarding a few unattractive options, and finally reached for a small, heavy glass bottle. She’d picked it for the neatness of the plain, square shape, but as she unscrewed the cap and sniffed deeply, her mother made a sigh.

“Oh.” Natasha closed her eyes for a moment as she breathed the deep, luxurious scent. Alice watched a rapturous expression drift across her face, then she blinked, looking at Alice with a new softness. “Yes,” she told her. “This one’s just right. It’s for special occasions.” Natasha held the bottle almost reverently. “For only the most important people.”

She never smelled her mother wearing that perfume again, but it didn’t strike Alice until she was older that whatever those wonderful occasions, and whoever the important people were, they did not include her. From the way the bottle sat, untouched, on the dressing table until the day Natasha packed her things for good, Alice guessed that no other day in Sussex lived up to the precious contents either. But to Alice, it didn’t matter. That scent was a moment they’d shared—something she had chosen just right—and just the faint aroma made her feel the way she had in the bedroom that day: teetering on the edge of glamour and adventure and other impossibly adult pursuits.

“Signora? You like?”

The woman’s thickly accented voice brought Alice back to the present and the gleaming little shop in the center of Rome. She blinked.

“The perfume? Oh, yes.” She breathed again, the faint echo of jasmine and dark spices drifting around her in a cloud of luxury. “This is perfect.”

The woman gave a satisfied smile. “I know it.”

She poured the mixture into a fresh vial, screwing a gold cap on tightly and laying it gently with the stopper in a slim box, surrounded by wafts of tissue paper and padding. The box itself, she wrapped with more paper, and fastened with a thick velvet ribbon before presenting it, ceremoniously, to Alice. She didn’t look at the price as she scribbled her signature on the debit slip; nor, she decided, would she gasp at it later, when it appeared on her statement. Striding out of the shop with a lightness in her gait and a contented smile on her face, Alice breathed in and remembered.

Chapter Eighteen

The lobby was deserted when she returned to the hotel, so Alice delayed her plans for investigation and rested instead, drifting into a light sleep with the balcony doors thrown wide and a cool breeze slipping over her naked body. It might have been the satin-soft touch of the linens, or the intoxicating breath of perfume, but for some reason, her dreams were shockingly erotic, and when Alice woke, possibility was thick in her veins.

She felt different.

Older, somehow, but freer too. She studied her reflection in the mirror as if seeing someone else. Her body seemed lush and vivid, backlit by the burn of sunset, framed by dark, rich fabrics. And, Alice thought for the first time, perfect.

She dressed slowly, in the delicate lace lingerie that had only that month begun to fill her wardrobe—following the example of Ella’s receipts. Spritzing her bare wrists and neck with another light cloud of scent, Alice carefully applied her makeup, leaning over the mirror with the windows still wide, and the drapes drawn fully back. Somebody could easily see her, from another building across the courtyard or even the street beyond, but Alice found that she didn’t care. She slicked on a layer of lipstick, arching her back as she met her own gaze, deliberate in the polished glass.