When Gabbie woke the next day, the birds were still busy chirping the overture of their morning chorus. Shafts of ivory light streaked through a gap in the pretty rosebud curtains to dance on the sheepskin rug at the side of her bed. She remembered the day she and her mum had chosen the material and then made the curtains using the ancient black-and-gold Singer sewing machine that had belonged to her grandmother. She smiled at her recollections of that day of creativity, at the hems that had always been lopsided, at the way the whole room screamed childhood memories, every one filled to bursting with her mother’s laughter.
She swung her feet to the floor, her toes luxuriating in the woolly rug. She picked up the silver-framed photograph on her bedside table and ran her fingertips over her mother’s features, so like her own. People often remarked on their similarities – but not so much since Sofia had passed away. That, of course, was down to Gabbie’s decision to move not just to a different town, or even the next county, but to another country entirely, where no one knew her history so couldn’t comment on the fact that she had inherited her mother’s Italian genes in the colour of her hair and eyes, or the determined tilt of her chin, or her penchant for tidiness and order. She was simply Gabriella Andrews, would-be perfume princess, lover of seafood and the occasional bellini.
At the time, it had been a relief to escape the sympathetic glances, the offers of casseroles and cheese quiches, the heartfelt words of condolence from friends and neighbours who were themselves grieving. But Jasmine’s observations had been spot-on; her move to the South of France, a mere three months after her mother had passed away, had meant she hadn’t taken the time to process her sorrow because, as she sat there, staring at her mother’s image, she could still feel the heavy block of concrete, cold and hard, lodged somewhere between her throat and her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
With a sigh, she shoved her meandering memories to one side and jumped in the shower. Yet even there she felt her mother’s presence. For as long as she could remember, they had both harboured an unshakeable obsession with toiletries, from the mundane to the exotic. Soaps, bubble bath, hand wash, shower gel, shampoos, conditioners, facial scrubs, candles… you name it, they had collected them. Her mother had adored the fancy French soaps, like the one she held in her hand that smelled of gardenias, but Gabbie had always preferred the more natural aromas such as coconut, strawberry, pineapple, lemon.
She towel-dried her hair and selected a pair of cream-linen trousers – a birthday gift from Jasmine – and a hand-knitted pink cardigan. She was about to gallop down the stairs to grab her first coffee of the day when she paused on the threshold and glanced down at her outfit. What was she doing? It wasn’t as if Jules Gasnier was going to arrive on the Andrews Autos forecourt and bawl her out for her lapse of taste. She returned to her wardrobe and pulled on a pair of jeans, her enthusiasm for the day ahead increasing in line with the comfort of her attire, not to mention the possibility of spending some time with Max… and Wil, of course.
There was a lot of work to be done, and now she was home she intended to make herself useful. On their walk back from dinner at The Pear Tree the previous night, with her arm linked through her father’s as he boasted about his latest archery win, Gabbie had made a plan – and when she stepped into the kitchen, she was pleased she had made it the first item on her to-do list. However, she intended to move swiftly into the garage, which looked as though a metal firework had gone off. She had no idea how anyone could work surrounded by such chaos.
She wondered what Max thought about the clutter but quickly quashed his reappearance in her thoughts. Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? Why had his dark, come-to-bed eyes, with those long, luscious lashes she would give her eye teeth for, invaded her dreams last night?
Locating the Jamaican coffee her father had always sworn he couldn’t start a day’s work without behind a pile of unopened Pirelli calendars from the previous year, she fixed herself a morning brew. After a few fortifying sips, she was ready to tackle the washing-up. She pulled on a pair of Marigolds, filled a bowl with hot, soapy water, found a threadbare scrubbing brush and set to work. By the time her father appeared at eight-thirty to throw open the garage doors, the kitchen was almost recognisable as the room that had wrapped her in a blanket of comfort and love as she grew up.
‘I’m sure I had a bottle of Coke in the fridge?’
‘I’ve made a fresh cafetière of your favourite coffee. Help yourself. And there’s scrambled eggs and granary toast in the oven.’
‘Wow! You didn’t have to do that, Gabbie.’
‘The Coke thing? Is that a new twist on what you and Mum always used to tell me was the most important meal of the day?’
Jeff had the grace to blush. ‘Sorry, darling. It’s just such a hassle cooking for one. All I need in a morning is a quick injection of caffeine and I’m ready to go.’
Gabbie rolled her eyes but enjoyed the delight on her father’s face as he settled down to devour his breakfast with gusto and drain the cafetière.
‘The kitchen looks amazing! Thank you for clearing up – I was actually going to get round to it today. So, now you’ve completed the household chores, you definitely deserve to take some time out for yourself. Give Clara a call. I know she’ll be pleased to hear you’re back.’
‘I think I’ll give it a couple of days,’ Gabbie hedged, suddenly unsure about subjecting herself to Clara’s famously razor-sharp enquiries that always got to the crux of anything that festered beneath the surface. There were no secrets when Clara was around and while she was keen to share what had happened in Grasse, she also wanted to be able to present her friend with a well-researched strategy for what she was going to do next – and she didn’t have one.
‘Okay. Right, sitting here won’t get Gordon Fielding’s MOT sorted out. I’m going into town this afternoon – do you want to come along?’
‘No, thanks. I thought I’d sort out the garden.’
‘I told you, you don’t have to do any of that stuff – you’re on holiday. Relax, read, do whatever you do when you have downtime in France. Perhaps you could… No, never mind. Catch you later, sweetheart. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Dad.’
Gabbie hugged her father, breathing in the lemony body wash he used in the shower that still clung to his skin at the end of the day despite the onslaught of exhaust fumes. As he opened the door between the kitchen and the garage, she noticed there was a discernible spring in his step, as though his hearty breakfast had delivered a surge of energy with which to tackle the day ahead.
As she finished the washing-up and returned the crockery to its rightful place, she knew what he had been about to suggest and why he had pulled back from pursuing it when he’d seen the fear in her eyes.
Even now, two years on, it was the one place she could never go, the place she had to avoid at all costs in order to keep her sanity intact – and she certainly had no intention of going there the morning after she had arrived.
In fact, she could see the pitch of the summerhouse roof beneath the cherry tree from where she stood, elbow-deep in suds, so she studiously averted her eyes to focus on the garden, and the grass that was so overgrown she wouldn’t have been surprised to find Doctor Livingstone lurking about in there. After she had mowed the lawn, she would take a stroll to the village shop to see Martha and ask for her suggestions for a healthy supper.
She slotted her feet into an old pair of flower-bedecked wellies and spent the next few hours communing with nature, taking care to keep her back firmly towards the summerhouse. When her neck and shoulders began to object to the unfamiliar physical exertion, she made a plate of salad sandwiches, but when she checked her watch she realised her father would have left for town already. She fingered the phone in her pocket, battling the urge to call Jean-Pierre or Fleurette for an update on life at House of Gasnier, but she knew that whatever they said would upset her, so she tossed it on the kitchen table and sauntered into the garage.
That morning there were three vehicles in the workshop, two jacked up for easy access to the chassis and the third, the lipstick-red E-Type Jag Max had been working on the previous day, parked in the far corner. On closer inspection, the iconic car might have seen better days as far as the paintwork was concerned, but the leather seats had been replaced and the chrome metalwork shone under the overhead lights.
A radio tinkled a cheerful tune in the background, providing the cadence for the day, and Gabbie inhaled a lungful of that special scent that caused her senses to sparkle. If she had confessed her love of Castrol GTX to her colleagues back in Grasse they would have looked at her askance. But that’s what some aromas did to people – sent their memories zooming back to happier times, whether it was freshly mown grass, warm buttered toast, newly laundered sheets, or the waft of wax furniture polish.
‘Don’t just stand there! Pass me the wrench! And this time, don’t drop it on my hand!’
Gabbie bristled. While she had no objection to being a mechanic’s mate, and would welcome the diversion if she were honest, she did object to being ordered around, even if Max had acquired the badge of her father’s new right-hand man.
‘Wil! Did you hear me?’
Max slid out from under the Jag, his face covered in random splatters of dirt and oil, the top of his overalls rolled down to reveal his taut abs and impressive biceps beneath a tight black T-shirt. Despite her irritation, Gabbie couldn’t prevent a gasp of appreciation from escaping her lips. Wow! She felt like she was an extra in a remake of Grease!
‘Oh, sorry. I thought you were Wil. He promised he was going to get the first-aid box, but it looks like he’s decided to disappear instead. I really don’t know how your dad managed to run this place with Wil in tow. He’s a complete liability!’
Max pushed himself up to standing and inspected his arm where a two-inch-long gash oozed blood. He lowered his lips and sucked the blood away, a gesture that caused an uncomfortable feeling in Gabbie’s lower abdomen.
‘What happened?’
‘Wil thought he’d imitate his favourite cocktail waiter while he waited for his next set of instructions. Circus clown, more like. Anyway, the wrench slipped out of his hand and I have this trophy to show for it.’
‘Whose is the Jag?’
Max raised his eyebrows and those tiny dimples appeared again. ‘Like it?’
‘I love it.’
‘Really? I thought you’d prefer some little French number, like a Citroen 2CV or maybe an Alpha Romeo for driving at speed along the Corniche.’
‘Well, that just shows how little you know about me, doesn’t it?’ Gabbie retorted, for some reason annoyed by the continual unfavourable assumptions Max seemed to make about her. ‘Have you forgotten I’m the daughter of a car obsessive? I grew up listening to bedtime stories from car-maintenance manuals and hearing about the workings of the internal combustion engine. As with people, when it comes to cars, it’s not what’s on the outside that matters, but what’s underneath the bonnet.’
Max looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners and a smirk playing around his mouth. Once again, she was shocked at the strength of her body’s reaction to his proximity. Okay, Max was attractive, there was no denying that. She’d even go as far as to say he could give Danny Zuko a run for his money! But she was no stranger to handsome men. She had dated several in France – Rafael, for instance, with his Spanish heritage, was no slouch in the charisma stakes. So what was it? Could it be the slight tang of clean engine oil – not every girl’s cup of tea – that enhanced his allure?
‘Well, in that case, if you appreciate quality engineering, you’ll be impressed by this little beauty.’ Gabbie watched Max’s eyes light up with excitement as he released the catch on the bonnet and displayed his handiwork. ‘There’s just the final paint job and it’ll be ready to go.’
‘So who is the lucky owner?’ Gabbie asked, smoothing her hand over the chrome wing mirror and along the graceful curve of the vehicle’s side panels.
‘None other than Yours Truly.’
‘What? This car belongs to you?’
‘It does.’
‘But…’
‘I know what you’re thinking – how do my meagre wages stretch to something like this?’
‘No, I…’
Again, Gabbie felt a surge of heat invade her face because Max was right.
‘I was left this car by my uncle when he passed away a couple of years ago and I’ve been restoring it ever since, bit by bit, when I can afford it. I’ve always loved classic cars, but for me the E-Type is the epitome of elegance and style. And you don’t have to take my word for that – Enzo Ferrari said it was the most beautiful car ever made, or words to that effect.’
Max’s eyes caressed the vehicle in front of him like an art critic would the Mona Lisa. When he saw Gabbie was watching him, his cheeks reddened.
‘Sorry, I can get quite evangelical when I talk about cars.’
‘You don’t have to apologise – I love them too! In fact, this workshop and the garage forecourt were my playground from the time I could lift a spanner! Dad and I would spend hours dismantling, cleaning, oiling and reassembling engine parts like other parents do jigsaws with their children. I loved it!’
‘I know exactly what you mean. My uncle also had an Austin Healey Sprite and an old clapped-out Rover P6 that he let me work on. My obsession with engines is what kept me out of trouble all through my teenage years. And I’m still learning something new every day from your dad – he’s an amazing mechanic, not just on the technical side, but he seems to have this affinity with an engine, an instinctive ability to understand what’s wrong and how to fix it.’
‘Yes, that’s my dad!’ Gabbie smiled with affection for her father.
‘You know, it’s my dream to own my own garage one day, too. But I want to specialise in restoring classic and iconic cars. What better way to spend the day than bringing these magnificent vehicles back to their former glory so they can grace our roads for years to come?’
Max ran his hand over the bonnet of the Jag as a Casanova would his lover. It was abundantly clear to Gabbie that her father had selected his deputy wisely, for she recognised some of his personality quirks in Max. She was beginning to understand what had drawn her so powerfully to Max Fitzgerald, and if there was one thing she could appreciate it was how important it was to have passion as the driving force behind your ambitions.
‘I know exactly how you feel. I feel the same about creating perfumes.’
Gabbie saw Max scrunch up his nose and laughed. It was a typical reaction from people who knew nothing about her industry. Perfumers didn’t just produce the liquid itself; they created a dream, a style, a statement, a mood. But she wasn’t sure it was the perfect moment to regale Max with her sales pitch.
‘I guess I won’t be bending your ear about my obsession, then?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s okay,’ she laughed. ‘So when do you think you’ll have your project finished?’
‘Depends how much spare time I get. I only work on her during my lunch hour, or if I come in early in the morning. Your dad’s been great – he’s even opened up the garage on the occasional Sunday so I can get stuck in. I need to have everything done by the end of October, though, because I promised my aunt I’d take her to my cousin’s wedding in it. Can’t let her down, can I?’
Max extracted a dirty cloth from his pocket and polished away an invisible speck of dust from the headlamp, pride in his achievement glowing on his handsome face. Gabbie recognised that expression as one she wore more frequently than she would care to admit; the fervent desire to spend every spare second with the non-human objects of her affection.
Max had taken several steps towards her, causing her heart to perform a flip-flop when she felt the whisper of his breath on her cheek. He might dismiss the perfume business, but he clearly enjoyed the benefits of its products. She inhaled slowly so as not to alert him to her scrutiny of his choice of cologne – a habit Jasmine constantly chastised her about.
Mmm, frangipani with monoi and a nip of galbanum. Delicious. She realised too late that she had closed her eyes briefly, her nostrils lifted in the air in an almost snooty fashion as she savoured the intoxicating aroma. She quickly averted her gaze and changed the subject to more mundane matters.
‘Dad says the garage has got plenty of work on. Is that true?’
‘Yes, in fact we’re too busy – winter services, MOTs, repairs after the long drives over summer. We’ve had to start turning customers away, which isn’t something Jeff likes to do.’
Gabbie wondered if her father had confided in Max about the problems he had mentioned the previous day but brushed off as issues of ‘turnover and whatnot’ when she had queried them. She didn’t want to breach any confidences in relation to the business so she didn’t ask the question that had formed on her lips – if they had so such work on, and an extra pair of hands since Max had arrived, why were there concerns? It didn’t make any sense.
She made a mental note to ask her father about it, and if he refused to discuss it with her, as he had yesterday, she would take a look at the accounts and work it out for herself. She had often helped her mother with the filing and entering the invoices and receipts in the old-fashioned ledgers, so she knew what to look out for. In fact, there was no time like the present.
‘Well, I can’t stand here chatting all day,’ announced Max, striding over to a VW Beetle that looked like it had just driven off the set of a Barbie film, its sugar-pink paintwork dotted with huge white daisies.
As Max leaned over the engine, Gabbie found her eyes drawn to the taut curve of his buttocks. However, she also recognised that her attraction to Max was caused by more than simple physical desire. For one thing, they had a great deal in common; she sensed, too, that beneath the brooding exterior something much more vulnerable lurked and she was keen to find out what.
As she made her way towards the office, another ripple of interest swept through her, and she was flustered by the strength of her reaction to someone she barely knew. Jasmine was right. It really was time she got back on the dating horse.