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Authors: Jenny Oliver
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bottle of champagne that they drank on Boxing Day. Her dad usually posted her a paperback. And her gran would declare that she was sending a donation to the RSPB or something similar in Rachel’s name—
Birds, darling, I much prefer birds to humans
. Then there was little Tommy from her class; he always gave her something. Last year it was a santa made out of a loo roll, painted red with a cotton wool beard. She’d left it up all year round.
Philippe paused next to a stall selling herbs and baskets of lavender and she watched as he scooped some dried oregano up and smelt it.
‘This is my favourite. I adore it. Here, smell.’ He held the little silver scoop out for her to have a sniff.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No, it’s his stall, you can’t just smell things.’
‘Why, of course you can. It is what it is here for. I think you worry too much about what all these people you don’t know think. You are a chef? Why do you not smell?’
Rachel caught the eye of the stall-holder, who nodded as if he couldn’t care less what she smelt, and leant forward for a quick sniff. ‘Very nice.’
‘Ah,
oui
. And this.’ He picked up another, crushed rosemary.
‘Again very nice.’ She did a quick embarrassed smell as he went on to sniff the lavender and the nutmeg and the big bags of ground cinnamon. ‘Do you smell everything?’
‘Everything,’ he said, very seriously, and asked the stall-holder to bag up some cinnamon for him. ‘For the
vin chaud
,’ he said to Rachel.
After paying they strolled on and Philippe turned to her and said, ‘Do you smell nothing?’
‘Well, yeah, I smell some stuff but not in the street.’
‘I think you are mad. The smell, it is the most sensual of all the senses. Here…’ They paused at a fruit and veg shop. ‘What about this?’ He picked up a fig and held it to his nose. ‘It is divine. It is much better than the taste.’
She peered forward, checked the shopkeeper wasn’t looking and had a smell of the fig. ‘It is very lovely. It reminds me of my holidays in Greece when I was little.’
‘
Pas oui
, of course, it is the best memory of them all. It reminds me of the tree we had in our garden. Henri would make me climb up it to get the biggest figs at the top. One day the branch break and I fall to the floor. And Henri he laugh and that makes me laugh, not cry. I was only six. All that from a fig.’
Rachel thought of her dough and her soft, sweet-smelling Mighty White loaf. She was about to say something about how it could sometimes be too powerful, the memory too overwhelming, but she stopped herself and laughed instead, saying, ‘You’re a crazy smeller.’
‘Yes, that is the case. I am. Look at my nose—it is built for the smelling.’
‘Mine too.’ She laughed, pointing at her own long straight nose that had been the bane of her life.
‘I think you have a very nice nose,’ he said, looking down at her face.
‘I think
you
have a very nice nose.’ She laughed.
And then they both looked away, as if they were both equally unsure what to say next.
‘I will buy the figs,’ Philippe said and disappeared inside as Rachel looked out into the street, at all the stalls selling gifts and trinkets and delicious delicacies, unable to hold in a smile to herself that he’d said he liked her nose.
Philippe came out with three bags and handed two of them to her. ‘A gift to say thank you for shopping with me.’
‘Oh, thanks, you shouldn’t have,’ she said, surprised, taking the scrunched brown bags from him and peeking inside. The first glistened like rubies—a bag of hundreds of tiny dried cranberries. The second was bursting with thin strips of candied orange thickly coated with crystals of sugar. They felt like the most perfect presents she’d ever been given. ‘These are lovely. Perfect. Thank you.’ She glanced up at him but he was looking away distractedly, staring ahead at the snow-covered canopies of the stalls.
‘They might be good for
Birds, darling, I much prefer birds to humans
. Then there was little Tommy from her class; he always gave her something. Last year it was a santa made out of a loo roll, painted red with a cotton wool beard. She’d left it up all year round.
Philippe paused next to a stall selling herbs and baskets of lavender and she watched as he scooped some dried oregano up and smelt it.
‘This is my favourite. I adore it. Here, smell.’ He held the little silver scoop out for her to have a sniff.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No, it’s his stall, you can’t just smell things.’
‘Why, of course you can. It is what it is here for. I think you worry too much about what all these people you don’t know think. You are a chef? Why do you not smell?’
Rachel caught the eye of the stall-holder, who nodded as if he couldn’t care less what she smelt, and leant forward for a quick sniff. ‘Very nice.’
‘Ah,
oui
. And this.’ He picked up another, crushed rosemary.
‘Again very nice.’ She did a quick embarrassed smell as he went on to sniff the lavender and the nutmeg and the big bags of ground cinnamon. ‘Do you smell everything?’
‘Everything,’ he said, very seriously, and asked the stall-holder to bag up some cinnamon for him. ‘For the
vin chaud
,’ he said to Rachel.
After paying they strolled on and Philippe turned to her and said, ‘Do you smell nothing?’
‘Well, yeah, I smell some stuff but not in the street.’
‘I think you are mad. The smell, it is the most sensual of all the senses. Here…’ They paused at a fruit and veg shop. ‘What about this?’ He picked up a fig and held it to his nose. ‘It is divine. It is much better than the taste.’
She peered forward, checked the shopkeeper wasn’t looking and had a smell of the fig. ‘It is very lovely. It reminds me of my holidays in Greece when I was little.’
‘
Pas oui
, of course, it is the best memory of them all. It reminds me of the tree we had in our garden. Henri would make me climb up it to get the biggest figs at the top. One day the branch break and I fall to the floor. And Henri he laugh and that makes me laugh, not cry. I was only six. All that from a fig.’
Rachel thought of her dough and her soft, sweet-smelling Mighty White loaf. She was about to say something about how it could sometimes be too powerful, the memory too overwhelming, but she stopped herself and laughed instead, saying, ‘You’re a crazy smeller.’
‘Yes, that is the case. I am. Look at my nose—it is built for the smelling.’
‘Mine too.’ She laughed, pointing at her own long straight nose that had been the bane of her life.
‘I think you have a very nice nose,’ he said, looking down at her face.
‘I think
you
have a very nice nose.’ She laughed.
And then they both looked away, as if they were both equally unsure what to say next.
‘I will buy the figs,’ Philippe said and disappeared inside as Rachel looked out into the street, at all the stalls selling gifts and trinkets and delicious delicacies, unable to hold in a smile to herself that he’d said he liked her nose.
Philippe came out with three bags and handed two of them to her. ‘A gift to say thank you for shopping with me.’
‘Oh, thanks, you shouldn’t have,’ she said, surprised, taking the scrunched brown bags from him and peeking inside. The first glistened like rubies—a bag of hundreds of tiny dried cranberries. The second was bursting with thin strips of candied orange thickly coated with crystals of sugar. They felt like the most perfect presents she’d ever been given. ‘These are lovely. Perfect. Thank you.’ She glanced up at him but he was looking away distractedly, staring ahead at the snow-covered canopies of the stalls.
‘They might be good for
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