The French Perfumer Extract
Paris, April 1956
My first day in France! I surely must have known that the French drive on the wrong side of the road, nevertheless it took me completely by surprise. It is only by sheer good luck that I have even survived my first day. Paris may be romantic arm-in-arm with your lover but for a woman alone and disorientated, it is nothing short of terrifying. My schoolgirl French turns out to be hopeless. I might as well be surrounded by people speaking in chemical formulae or algebra equations.
Throughout the miserable grey drizzle of the channel crossing to Calais, I was dizzy with nerves and a sort of horrified fascination at my daring. By the time I stepped off the train at Gare du Nord in Paris my anxiety had billowed into blind terror. I had been given directions to a hotel booked on my behalf, not far from the station, and spent a good part of the journey poring over the map obsessively.
Exiting the station, I was ambushed by a beggar thrusting her filthy hand at me and gabbling wildly. I would have happily given her something as I have been furnished with some French francs for incidentals (although it was impressed upon me that every centime must be accounted for) but daren’t reach for my purse lest she snatch it. So, ditching all dignity, I sidestepped and scuttled off with my suitcase clasped to my chest. What a blessing that the map was seared into my mind – proof that anxiety can sometimes be good preparation.
Now, ensconced in a tiny hotel room, Paris life seethes all around me but I’m too nervous to leave my room. Whatever made me think I could do something like this? Thankfully I packed some sandwiches and a thermos of tea to keep me going; that will be my supper tonight. Paris is all behind me now. Leaving the hotel in the blur of dawn, the taxi thudding over cobblestones and careening down narrow streets, I was fearful I’d be lost deep in that city, never to be found. I made a feeble attempt with the driver but apparently my pronunciation of Gare de Lyon was not to his liking as he snarled, ‘Garrrrderrrrleeoon! ’ On reflection, I may actually have said guerre which I am almost certain means war, not railway station – my first diplomatic blunder.
~~~
I am now on the train travelling through flat, rural landscapes comfortingly reminiscent of the home counties. It is quite a journey down the length of France to Cannes but I have my book – Miss Christie’s latest – should I get bored. I had hoped to refresh my thermos with tea at the hotel but that proved well beyond my language capability. Really, did we learn a single practical phrase in Mrs Barker’s French class? You would expect being able to order tea would be the highest priority.
Initially it seemed I might have the first-class compartment to myself, which would have been ideal as I barely slept a wink last night. But as the train pulled out of the station, a handsome young man burst into the compartment and flung himself into the corner next to the window. He exuded the pleasant yeasty smell of decadence and was dressed in the style of the Romantic poets: emerald-green velvet jacket over a white voluminous shirt. No luggage. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and was asleep in trice.
Praise for The French Perfumer
‘The French Perfumer is thoroughly enjoyable. Against the background of the post WWII period in France, Hampson has created a vivid world and colourful characters including the immensely likeable Iris, who tells the tale with verve, sharp observations and humour.’
Sarah Turnball, author Almost French
‘A delightful, witty gem of a book that will keep you guessing right to the end.’
Susan Duncan, author of Salvation Creek
‘The beauty of Amanda Hampson’s literature lies with her ability to observe and describe in such detail that all senses are ignited…. Hampson’s witty observations of the eccentric characters vividly depict post-war France and form a paradoxical world that lies in the past yet seems almost graspable.’
In Review
‘This is a book that allows you to immerse yourself in the story and finishes in an unexpected way. It has the warmth of loyalty and the chill of greed and deception within its pages and would make an excellent gift for anyone who enjoys a novel that traverses their emotions.’
Glam Adelaide
‘Historical fiction lovers will be sure to appreciate this release from Amanda Hampson. The French Perfumer is a novel that looks at the after effects of war and the experiences that shape who people become, following such a life changing event. It offers poignant insight into life in the post world war II period, in a location that was heavily touched by war. The overlay of perfume production gives this book another beautiful layer to explore and enjoy.’
Mrs B’s Book Reviews
‘The French Perfumer hides a mystery buried beneath the facade of this rich and unusual cast of characters. The eventual unfolding brings an entirely new and interesting layer to the enigma behind the actual French Perfumer and made for a highly satisfying conclusion, as though a pleasant form of justice had been served and brought a delightful conclusion for our avid record-keeper, Iris.’
Starts at 60
‘You won’t be able to put this down!’
Woman’s Day
‘This novel is more subtle and less predictable than most such stories, and the much-worked figure of the English innocent abroad in decadent Europe is treated here with humour and skill, as Iris gradually finds her way among these strangers. The dark shadow of World War II hangs over the characters and the story, and wartime skulduggery proves to be an intrinsic element of the plot.’
Sydney Morning Herald
