ii

When his adoptive parents video-call, he's more than happy to have me chat with them while he sprints to take the kettle off the stove. When his sister calls, he leaves the room before the conversation gets too unintelligibly peppered with Azeri Turkish.

When I ask who the mysterious woman who always leaves her fragrance behind in his flat is—and if he intends to introduce us soon—he leaves the bed to fish out the little box from deep inside his wardrobe. He hands me the perfume bottle and tells me it's his mother's. That it's the only thing of hers he owns, and that the perfume; sixteen-years-old and weathered, still smells exactly like her.

Four months into our relationship he shows me her picture. He retrieves a sepia-toned photo fitted for a passport from the same box, and a larger, more up-to-date photograph of him, his mother, and his sister—taken mere days after their arrival to a snow-blanketed Sweden. There's something striking about the woman. Something that deepens my understanding of a mother to also encompass her genetic contribution. Where I've always been told I resembled my father and took it as fact, Yashar is his mother down to the way her face falls. The same droopy eyes, the same forehead and eyebrows and lips.

His sister is younger than him by two years. In the picture, she's dressed in cerise coloured overalls reminiscent of an 80s ski-trip advert. Her dark hair is chopped short, and I can tell from her sly, toothy grin, and the limited times I've overheard her heated voice on the other end of the phone, that she would occupy Foy's position in Foy and I's relationship if she and Yashar shared anything like our sibling dynamic.

Later, when I search her up on Facebook, I inadvertently stumble on his father. If Yashar rarely talks about his mother, he talks about his father even less. I come to find out after some considerable translating that the music he regularly shares on social media is not his favourite artists', but his own. He doesn't live in Iran, rather in Malmö, but checks into Tehran so often that I could've easily made the mistake. The only other photograph not of himself and his daughter is with another woman. She's wearing a black hijab. They're standing side by side so it's hard to derive anything from it—his wife, a work colleague?—Google Translate isn't much help in deciphering the caption. It's also the picture where I notice that one side of his jaw is scarred by burns. Not small ones either.

I've never been good with making judgments about people's features, but I've watched enough Disney to know who society would cast as the villain. There's something about Hussain Alizadeh that's particularly Disney-villainy. The way he seems allergic to smiling, his moustache, his length and width, the narcissism so clearly displayed in his posts. His condemnation of same-sex marriage, and his approval of the religious leadership of Khamenei. Why couldn't we bond over this? As sorry as I feel for Yashar for having a less than stellar Dad, I can't help but feel more connected to him. I could see my father in Hussain's overzealous posts to Yashar's sister, Nasrin. They were scattered all over his page, and the uncanny part was that they could be about the smallest thing. It was like how my father was with Billie and Foy.

It isn't until some months later, well past the half-year mark of our relationship, that I actually hear his father's music for the first time.  I walk into the living room, to Yashar doing his usual deep-tissue massages on the foam roller, whilst the most resonant, wind instrument plays overhead. I still remember how I came to a halt in the hallway as the ney filled every valve and chamber of my heart.

His father is the flautist in an ensemble that primarily makes worship music. Sufi worship music. When Yashar tells me this, his voice is a whisper, almost like he's daydreaming. As I realise he isn't going to share any more details, my assumptions about Hussain Alizadeh are replaced by a deeper realisation. I thought our fathers were the same but they're not. I thought they did things mediocrely. Lived mediocrely, loved mediocrely. But that isn't who his father is. Hearing his music I knew I'd been wrong and prejudiced. His father was capable of love. He'd once loved something so deeply that his only release had been to record its wailing sound to the world as his witness.

I look at Yashar and I'm disoriented. Who hurt who? Who shunned who? If there's mutual longing, as is evident, why have they stopped communicating? How could a father capable of making such heart-warming, humane music not extend the same humanity to his son?

I could understand my father. He wasn't shit, so shitty behaviour came naturally to him. But this betrayal, a father with ten thousand monthly Spotify listeners—someone revered, someone who touched people's hearts on the daily, not knowing the well-being of yours? Not caring?

I'd thought us the same, but I understood then that we weren't the same at all, and I've had this feeling ever since that I'm only glimpsing the iceberg. That deep under, there's a formation of trauma more expansive than I'll ever know. A deceased mother. A negligent father. An angry younger sister. And then the adoptive parents: Björn and Karin.

I try not to think about any of it. Not his mother's blank expression in the passport photo. Not the feel of the perfume bottle that first time and contrast it with the last time I held it, in the car, driving to Mayfair with Claes. I try not to think about Karin's sauna-red face in the small square of the screen, her upbeat yodelling Swedish and Yashar's laughter from the kitchen, and all the things I don't understand. Because I don't understand, and maybe this is a mistake. Maybe stealing his mother's perfume wasn't the best choice of action. Maybe it'll only end up driving him further into his shell, never able to trust me with anything ever again.

Fuck.

I try not to think about anything, but London's traffic is the ninth circle of hell, specifically tailored to trap me in guilt. The guilt of driving in an already overcrowded and over-priced city. The guilt of never feeling good enough for my boyfriend. The guilt of having stolen his most prized possession and tinkered with it, perhaps to the point of no return.

Fuck.

What's the guarantee? Had there ever been one, other than trusting Claes?

Don't think about it.

***

When Foy turns fourteen we drive to The Astor&Johnson Perfume Gallery on Berry Row to pick up her and Mum's personalised fragrances. They'd made them together over afternoon tea with a scent stylist. Mum said she was there to make sure that the scent was appropriate for our Catholic school, but she's more excited than Foy as we drive down from sleepy Thundridge to the crowded streets of Westminster.

The soundtrack in the car is Elton John's Philadelphia Freedom and Foy is pretending she's too old to sing along with us. The winding roads feel like an adventure. Mum's got the windows rolled down and she's making silly faces at Foy in the backseat, her arms like two slithering snakes, poking me to nudge my pubescent voice higher along with the chorus. I'm thirteen and only ever known London as the mistress that stole Dad from us. I have no perception of driving. Most of the bones in my body have yet to be squashed broken by a two-tonne truck and I don't want, at any given second, to get as far away from this soul-sucking city as possible. In fact, my little pea brain decides then and there that one day I'll chase after Dad. Track him down in one of those pristine skyscraper offices.

It's this memory that keeps me afloat until I reach the Mayfair boutique, perhaps because it's just bittersweet enough to offset the pain of what's about to unfold.

A younger me would've certainly gawked at the posh interior and museum-like displays of the place, might've even equated the value of a fluid ounce bottle to their costly prices, but I'm older now and can see that the store itself is a trap. The kind of boutique that tends to attract, not the people with the means to regularly splurge, not even people looking to buy a fragrance necessarily, but people who're attracted to the idle lifestyle that the interior promises. It's the same reason Foy had bugged Mum for ages to get a tailored scent when she wouldn't even have known of Astor&Johnson if it weren't for Edith Poulett and the other posh girls in her year.

Inside, they've got Arabesque no.1 plinking from a pair of concealed speakers like the fucking clichés that they are and I want to walk out as soon as I walk in, but I can't. I'm in a matador jacket and somehow that would look even more suspicious than remaining in the store like a goop with no actual game plan. Actually, I do have one, but it involves speaking with someone and there's no one here. Probably some cheap marketing ploy at play to correlate scarcity with value. Thankfully, I don't loiter for long before I hear the sounds of another person.

"Sorry, just sorting some packages in the back," the saleswoman starts by explaining, closing the door to the backroom. "How can I help you this afternoon?" She's wearing the same tightly-fitted lab coat as last time I was here with Claes.

"I have an appointment with Giselle. Is she in by any chance?"

"Erm, no." She eyes my outfit. "She's...em...she's not usually here?" It sounds like a question.

"Not in the shop?"

"No."

"I'm going to have to ask you to ring her or get in contact with her somehow. It's urgent."

"Okay, who—I'm sorry, you said you had an appointment?"

"Yes, concerning a cancellation," my voice falters, "some month ago."

"Oh, okay." Her brain is doing mental gymnastics trying to figure me out. "I'll see what I can do. Giselle rarely comes in unless Paul phones her, and he's out for lunch at the moment."

She turns to me halfway to the front desk. "Is she aware of this appointment by any chance? Have you scheduled it by phone or email or..."

Master suppression technique number one: make them feel like they've misspelled their own name. I make a great show of repressing a sigh. "I didn't use snail-mail if that's what you're getting at. I phoned. And she said she would be in by noon."

"Oh. Okay. Your order number, please."

I open my phone and hand over the email confirming my order of a stylised perfume has been cancelled. She types in something on the computer, frowns, clears her throat, looks up at me and then down at her screen again.

"I see your order here, but let me..." Her voice trails off as she absorbs the information. "Looks like there's been a mistake. I cannot see a cancellation." She stares at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to explain the situation to her and not the other way around.

"So, where's my order?" I ask.

Her gaze returns to the computer. After a beat she asks, "Is this a personalised scent you've requested?"

"Yes."

She types some more, her frown only deepening. "I'm sorry. I'll have to contact my colleague, Paul. He's our senior stylist. He knows the system better than I do. Don't worry, from the looks of it, your order—" she glances at the screen, "placed February the third hasn't been cancelled."

"I'll also be needing the original fragrance back."

"Pardon?"

"You see, this is why I need to speak to Giselle." I lean in, adding another layer of condescension to my voice. "This order—it's not the typical DIY stuff you usually work with. It's been put together by my good friend Giselle Astor-Johnson, that's why I need to speak to her."

"That might be true, but it would be handled like any other product. I would be able to see it in the system."

Master suppression technique number two: show preferential treatment to establish hierarchy. "Yet for some reason, you're unable to, correct?"

"At the moment—"

"Okay. I'm going to need to speak to Paul. This is clearly above your pay grade."

God, I'm such a cunt.

"Sure," she drags out the vowels in obvious annoyance. "I'll phone him. He should be here any second, but just in case." She turns to dial her smartphone and I fix my gaze on the big board announcing their new oud scented collection.

The softly plinking piano overhead has changed melody. They must be playing some sort of Debussy record I note because now it's Clair de Lune.

Not even five minutes later the saleswoman returns to the front desk and flashes me the same tight-lipped professional smile; all red lipstick and no trace of real emotion.

"No word of Paul?" My question is still lingering in the air when the entrance is pushed open and a man steps inside, carrying with him a gust of the chilly weather. I met Paul—met the saleswoman too—that day in February when Claes and I had gone in together, but unlike the woman, Paul's entire face lights up with recognition as soon as he spots me.

"So, it's you!" he exclaims, completely disregarding the splattering raindrops from his umbrella as he pulls off his coat. "You? Causing such mayhem with our sweet Jenny."

"Paul." I don't recognise the relief in my voice. Techniques of master suppression be damned, I'm genuinely happy to see the old man, as evident through our vigorous handshake. "Frans Dahl. I came in with Mr Michaels to place a request in your care, do you remember?"

"It's been a good two–three months, but indeed, I do. I remember you both. Just—" he motions for his coat and umbrella, "give me a sec, will you?"

Something in my chest noticeably loosens when he returns. Something about the man's Santa-like appearance for sure, because no stylist in a lab coat should've made me feel more at ease in their care than I do at the doctor's.

"I got a notification that the order's been cancelled. And, well, as you can imagine, I'm a bit concerned."

"The Guerlain perfume?" He looks a bit puzzled. "I procured it myself so I should know."

"Yes."

"That was ages ago, that."

"What was?"

"Since that—and I hope you don't mind me saying—that old Etonian fella, that mister...—"

"Mr Michaels?"

"The very one. He came in and talked to the missus, didn't he? They had a bit of a chat in her office, and that sorted the thing. I was very touched when I heard the story myself, actually. I couldn't pass it up when it landed on my desk—the sentimentality. My mum died young as well."

I rub my forehead. "Wait, are you saying Claes...did what exactly? I'm not following."

"Listen, I'm sorry about the confusion, but my guess is," he says, enunciating his Aussie-accented words. "You must've gotten the first letter but not the second. We sent out the first, telling your contact, this fella, that we couldn't make the fragrance in-house. There are laws preventing these things, you know. We can take inspiration from a scent, but to be honest, they rarely turn out the way the customers imagine they will. I'm guessing something like that must've happened—therefore the cancellation."

"And the second letter. The one I didn't get?"

"That would've been after your friend came in, talked to the missus, and we'd procured a bottle from the original manufacturer. Not—"

"Excuse me what?" My heart slams into my throat so fast, I have to fight the instinct to cough it up.

"Yes. Not an easy task that, but Giselle was very adamant that it happen. I reached out to contacts all over the world. India, China, you name it. Thankfully, I got my hands on one just in time."

"Claes made that happen? Claes came in... when? And what? Just asked you to ship the original fragrance from overseas?"

"I think there was more than just asking involved, but yeah, more or less."

"Fuck"

He looks at me as if he's just noticing that something's not right. That my posture's been too rigid and my voice barely able to contain my frustration because after letting the swearword hang between us for a beat too long, he asks, "Didn't this notice reach you months ago? At least two months ago? What on earth brings you in?"

"I told you already—an email you sent telling me the perfume I wanted tailored was cancelled."

Claes's been planning this behind my back for how long? Fucking—

"But that happened two months ago, right?"

I snort. I can't help it. The absurdity of it all is doing my head in.

Claes. Fucking Claes. He really did that.

"So, Mr Dahl, what happened?" Paul chuckles. "Poor communication?"

"I was going to fight you, you know. I'm this jacket and I treated Jenny like a total knobhead because Art of War and master suppression and all that. I promised myself coming in, I wasn't going to take no for an answer. That I was getting the order reconfirmed or get dragged out cussing. And I swear to God if this is a joke... Is this a joke? Is the perfume really here?"

I'm waiting. Just waiting for him to let me down. My lungs are too inflated, too inflated for so much as another gulp, and he's laughing—Jenny's laughing—and they're wearing these stupid grins that's making me feel the oncoming hysteria claw its way up my throat.

Paul's hand comes to rest on my back, calmingly. "Jenny, won't you put him out of his misery and fetch the packet on shelf A—A2." Knocking me into him, he says, "Don't worry, it's all been sorted. That friend of yours, bloody smart, isn't he? I could tell. Giselle rarely takes non-scheduled meetings like that, but he certainly manoeuvred her."

"So he just came waltzing in and ordered her to find the original?"

"More or less. He came in a week or so after the two of you made the request to get the scent replicated."

"Before the cancellation?"

"Not sure. But most likely, yeah. He didn't strike me as the kind of fella that would clap for a replica if you know what I mean. I'm actually not all that surprised he made us work our arses off. Tell me something though, any truth to that story? The girl's mother dying and all that."

"Girl?" My confusion must have burst some bubble because he swears under his breath, bores his eyes into mine before he tsks.

"So it's a bluff, is it?"

"W-wait, girl?"

"The girl whose mother passed away in a fire when their house burnt down."

"Oh!" I'm equally horrified as I am relieved, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's—yeah. She's...she's my girlfriend actually, yeah. Crazy."

"Goodness, I would've," he squeezes my shoulder. "I don't know what I would've done. My mum? God bless her, same thing. Yeah, it really shapes you, that sort of thing."

All I can think is fucking Claes, as I nod along. And I'm sure I would've blurted out even more egregious lies to cover up the first one, had Jenny not entered my peripheral vision just then.

"Do you want me to open it or?" She asks, carrying the beautifully wrapped box to the checkout counter.

"Open it so he sees for himself, Jen."

She does just so, untying the bow and lifting the lid. The perfume bottle, silo-like in its shape and filled with golden liquid, is fitted into a velvety cut-out.

"Can I smell it?" I don't know why I ask for permission seeing as my hands are already reaching to excavate it from its little nest. It's one of those fancy bottles with a silicone cork, and I'm unsure how to proceed until Paul gently grabs it out of my hands, unties the seal from around its neck, and opens it for me to smell.

"Not bad, right?" He asks, clearly proud of his work.

"Not bad at all," I say, a bit dazed. Still struggling to grasp how this all fell into my lap as easily as it did.

"But where's the original bottle?"

Paul looks to Jenny, who just stares back with burgeoning alarm.

"The one you were supposed to replicate?" I remind them.

"Yeah...about that, we made the collective decision—since the other fella paid for our services—that we'd return it to him. Although we might've—"

"Wait, Claes paid?"

Paul looks almost relieved at the interruption, "Oh, yes. It's basically yours for the taking." He chuckles nervously. "But going back to the original fragrance, since you and he came in together, and his name was on the order confirmation, and he ended up paying for it, we can't legally hold the item hostage.

"Okay."

"Okay?" He looks surprised at that.

"Yeah."

"Brilliant. We only thought it was right, and...it is right"

"Don't worry about it. He's—" I scoff, "he might be the best fucking mate I have. This is," I gesture wildly at the box. "This is absolute insanity."

Fucking Claes, man. Giving me a heart attack and a hard-on at the same time.

I'm grinning like a fool the whole time Jenny packs up the perfume. Resisting to give in to that silly temptation of pinching myself in the arm.

"If he's paid for it, why hasn't he picked it up?" I hear myself asking Jenny. She only shrugs. I look to Paul, who's too busy basking in the relief of not having his ears chewed off to have heard what I said.

You sneaky American bastard.

"You don't happen to have this Claes fella's business card or the like, do you?" Paul asks when I'm all packed up and ready to leave.

It's the way he asks that makes me stop in my tracks. Frown. "Maybe, why?"

He shrugs with the corners of his mouth, bobs his head nonchalantly. "Just good to have contacts in these times." The thinly veiled desperation is there once again.

I nod, "Yeah, sure. His gallery isn't far off from here actually. I could jot down the address quick."

Relief. "Yeah, let me grab a pen and paper." Jenny conveniently hands him both, and he leans over the counter. I do the same but on the other side. Taking my time, I describe in rough detail where Claes's gallery is located. Mayfair. Old Bond Street. A stone's throw's distance from the underground station.

"The rest you can easily find on Google. There's something I forgot to mention though," I lean in, partly for its effect and partly to prevent Jenny from overhearing my next couple of words. "That story? The one he told you about the mother dying in a fire. It's not true. The perfume's actually for my boyfriend. I know—" I hold up my hand to intercept the thoughts written on his face. "it's nothing to be ashamed of and I shouldn't have pretended he was a girl. It's 2018. I get it. It's just... It's not even for my benefit, you know. It's for you. Not to make you feel uncomfortable—so there, he's a bloke and he's my boyfriend. Let's get that over with.

"Now, it is true that his mother died when he was young, and yes, the perfume did belong to her, but no, she didn't die in a fire. I'm telling you this because I just want you to sit on that for a bit. The man whose information you've just written," I nod to the pad between us, "is the kind of person who, after he lies to you about something as horrible as that, drives off in his vintage Rolls Royce to take the piss out of you with his friends. Now, if I were you, sir, I would proceed with extreme caution. He can be incredibly charming as I'm sure you've already witnessed. A very common trait in psychopaths."

Of course, I don't actually mean half of what I say, and I don't know if Claes knows something I don't, but I doubt it. In truth, I do it for the drama. I do it because I'm dressed in a fucking matador jacket, and I'm leaving with the perfume I only ever hoped to get an order on, but is now nestled in my hands. Hands that didn't lift so much as a finger, let alone fight a jolly Australian Santa. I do it because I'm channelling Yashar, and it's such a Yashar thing to do. To sashay away after having left someone speechless—and I only leave Paul speechless to dissuade him from ever contacting Claes. Claes, my friend, my mentor, and now, my secret sugar daddy.

The fucking lunatic. God, I could kiss him.

I'm skipping—no, gliding as I make my way two streets over to where the Volvo is parked. I don't realise I've been gripping my phone until I notice the white-going-on-red square indentations on my palm. My fingers are shaking with excess nerves and I consider sending a wall of heart emojis to Yashar, just to redirect that energy towards something, but my brain overrides that decision and I open the Gmail app instead. Claes, the baby boomer that he is, replies faster by mail than he does by text.

I title the subject: perfume emergency and begin composing.

Went into A&J—the perfumery. I cannot believe your fucking gall.

I delete the last sentence and continue.

Went into A&J—the perfumery, dressed up by Yashar in a matador jacket (if you can believe it) ready to throw hands. Beyond grateful for no altercation, but going to need the original fragrance back xx

p.s. How much do I owe you?

pp.s. Why did you tell that ridiculous story?

ppp.s. Want me to attach a pic of the jacket? Offer stands till 4.

I hit send already imaging the answer to two of those questions and struggling to keep a straight face as I reverse out of parking.