minutes at the counter, I’m feeling even more bewildered. There’s so much choice. I sniff at L’Homme Prada, and Luna Rossa, and Marienbad. Then I go back to L’Homme Prada—and a nice salesman called Erik starts spraying samples on card strips for me to smell.
But by the time I’ve got eight strips lined up in front of me, I’ve lost track. Erik keeps talking about amber notes and hints of leather, and I keep saying, “Oh yes,” but truthfully it all just smells like aftershave.
“Could you spray this one again?” I say, gesturing at Desert Serenade. “In fact, could you spray them all again? And is there one that’s a bit like Babylon but not quite so…” I wave my hands vaguely.
“Excuse me.” A deep voice interrupts me, and I turn to see a guy in a gray coat and blue scarf frowning at me impatiently. “Are you going to take all day?”
“I’m buying aftershave for my husband,” I explain, as Erik starts spraying all my strips again.
“Well, could you please just hurry up and buy it?”
“No, I couldn’t ‘just hurry up and buy it’!” I retort, nettled by his tone. “I need to choose the right one.” I sniff Desert Serenade again and wince. “No. Definitely not.”
“Oh, you’re one of those,” says the man with a dismissive eye roll, and I glare at him indignantly.
“What do you mean, ‘one of those’?”
“Girls who insist on choosing new aftershaves for their blokes for Christmas.”
“My husband asked me to buy him aftershave for Christmas, actually,” I say coldly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Maybe he did,” replies the man, unmoved. “But he meant, ‘Buy me the aftershave I always wear.’ ”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“You don’t even know my husband!” I glower at him.
“I don’t need to. No one in the history of mankind has ever successfully chosen a scent for another person. L’Homme Prada Intense, please, one hundred ml,” he adds to Erik. “I’ll pay over there.”
Erik hands him the glossy box and the guy walks off, saying, “Have a good Christmas,” over his shoulder.
Hmph. People are so rude. I turn my attention back to Erik and smile at him. He understands me, at least.
“I’ve narrowed it down,” I say, waving three strips of card at Erik. “These are my options.”
“Great!” enthuses Erik. “Good choices! I’m sure he’ll love them!” He looks at the strips of card, then adds helpfully, “So you should really try them out on his skin? Because it’s all about body chemistry?”
Oh for God’s sake. Now he says this? What if they all smell totally vile on Luke’s skin and make him gag? Or make me gag?
I hate to admit it, but Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf has a point. Giving aftershave isn’t the easy option after all. It’s the impossible option. Either you buy an old favorite, which requires no effort and is really lame. Or you go out on a limb and choose something new, which he probably hates but has to say he likes. And your whole life you don’t know if he was just being polite, until on his deathbed he suddenly croaks, “I always hated Prada L’Homme!” and conks out.
(You know. Worst-case scenario.)
“Did you want to make a purchase?” Erik interrupts my thoughts, and I blink at him. I don’t want to buy an expensive mistake, but I don’t want to give up either.
At that moment, Annoying Mr. Blue Scarf walks past, toward the exit, and shoots me a sardonic grin.
“Still at it?” he says. “You should have a coffee break.”
“Some people are happy to go the extra mile for their husband’s Christmas present,” I reply frostily.
He raises his eyebrows, looking amused, and heads out the door. I watch him go, feeling a bit ruffled—but the exchange has only fueled my determination. I can blow Luke away with a perfect new aftershave. I just need to be scientific.
“So, I was wondering,” I say, flashing my most charming smile at Erik. “Do you have any little sample bottles?”
* * *
—
As I let myself into our house three hours later, I feel a quiet pride. No one can say I wasn’t thorough. I smelled every single aftershave in that bloody place, and now my Letherby Hall Gift Shop tote contains thirty-one sample bottles of aftershave, which I must hide from Luke. I must also hide the big glossy Selfridges shopping bag slung over my—
Oh. Too late. Here he is.
“How did you do?” he says, coming forward with a sympathetic smile. “You look