The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [78]
“Buongiorno.” A middle-aged woman appeared at her side, petite, and impeccably attired in a simple dress that Alice recognized must have cost a fortune from the way it cinched her curvaceous figure into a generous hourglass.
“I’m just looking, thank you.” Alice’s eyes drifted past the expensive shoes and jewelry, drawn to the glass vials that twinkled at her from across the shop. The woman followed her gaze, a small smile settling on her glossy rose lips.
“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