The escaping perfume

Thrilled with the bottle of expensive French perfume he brought me, I abandoned the scent I had been using. From a fashion magazine, I learned a woman should commit to one fragrance and associate it with her mystique. A little on the wrists, behind the knees and in the lining of a coat made it subtly detectable at all times. Proud of my new plum boucle jacket, I followed these instructions to the letter.

None of this helped the romance, which wasn’t going well, even though my scent was only one of many things I jettisoned for his sake. When he added gambling to being drunk and unemployed, I jumped at a chance to run away, accepting a temporary job in Hong Kong, in spite of his disapproval.

“You can get a job while I’m away,” I thought, but didn’t dare say out loud.

Hong Kong was exciting but the culture shock was harsh. I was lonely. To avoid brooding over my failing romance, I hooked up with a group of Cathay Pacific stewardesses-in-training who were staying in the hotel. Together we went up the cable car at Victoria, to the beach at Stanley, the night market at Mong Kok, and the floating seafood restaurants at Aberdeen. In Kowloon, I bought silk clothing, pearls and, with the help of a Chinese friend of one of the girls, bargained for a state-of-the-art Nikon camera.

The two months of my contract flew by. Enroute home, I bought a bottle of Madame, my new Rochas scent, in the duty-free shop.

He didn’t meet me; I had to take a taxi home. Further dismay when I unpacked. As I reverently unwrapped my new bottle of Madame, I saw that the level of perfume in the thick glass had already dropped by one third. Thinking it must have come loose, I tried to tighten the lid. It came off in my hand. The bottle had broken off cleanly and invisibly at the neck. Setting it on the dresser, I placed the lid back carefully, hoping I could figure out a way to save the perfume.

He arrived late that night, drunk and swearing. He stood on the front porch while I stood firm in the doorway. I had been long enough away from his influence to him for what he was. Standing firm so he couldn’t enter, I finally found the strength to tell him to go.

Though he had a black belt in karate, he tried to hit me then. I saw the rage in his cold black eyes and knew he had it in him to kill me. My heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear myself speak, but I forced myself to repeat my request for him to leave, hoping I sounded calm and determined. Then with icy hands I closed the door, put on my coat over my pyjamas, slipped out the back door and ran to the carport. My big brother Randy lived a few blocks away, and I prayed that he would be home. He was, and he agreed to come back with me. I’d half expected to see the house burning, but when we arrived, everything seemed normal. My tormentor had done nothing, left nothing. Apparently, he was gone.

For the next few nights, Randy slept on the couch and picked up my phone whenever it rang. In the first couple of days, several calls came in. Each time, Randy said, “Sorry, she’s not here. Can I take a message?”

“I’ll cook dinner for you every night if you’ll stay a few days,” I said.

Randy is so easygoing. “Sure,” he said. “No problem, Sis.”

So every day after work, he’d come to my place and we’d have supper together. I wouldn’t let him sleep at his own place for a couple of weeks.  Finally I managed to latch onto an out-of-town gig. I found a friend of a friend to house sit and left my car with another friend. I didn’t want it sitting in the open carport.

I was away for three months. The day after I arrived home, he called and asked if I could see him just once, help him find a job. “No,” I said, and hung up. Took a deep breath, thankful that I had finally learned my limits. I knew he wouldn’t call again.

Putting down the phone, I went into the bedroom to finish unpacking. The ordeal I had mistaken for love was over. On the dresser stood the broken-necked bottle I had placed there the night I came from Hong Kong. Every drop of perfume had evaporated. I shuddered, said a quick prayer of thanks as I tossed it out..

I unpacked my case, went to the kitchen and made some tea. I sat on the couch with my cup beside me and dialed my brother’s number. It was Saturday, so he should be home, I thought.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m back.”

Randy asked how things had gone and I told him about my trip. He didn’t bring up the subject of my ex-boyfriend.  Finally I said, “He called this morning.” Randy waited. “He asked me to help him find a job and I said no. Just that one word. Then I hung up.” Again Randy waited in silence, until I said, “He’s not going to call again. I can feel it in my bones.”

There was a pause, then Randy laughed briefly. “That’s good, Laura,” he said. “Hey are you cooking tonight?”

It was my turn to laugh. “I’m too jet lagged tonight,” I said. “But if you suggested we go to Nick’s for some spaghetti I wouldn’t say no.”

“Right,” he said. “Five suit you?”

“Five suits me just fine,” I said. I put down the phone and stretched. My tea had gone cold, and I took my cup into the kitchen and put it in the sink, looking out at my little back garden where the pear tree was in bloom. The house felt cosy and safe, and I felt happy. My life awaited.