The year is 1990, and I’m tucked up in my mum’s bed reading my beloved Just So Stories book. The pages smell faintly musty in the way that well-thumbed books always do, but the scent is soon replaced by the cloud of expensive skincare surrounding my mum as she emerges from the bathroom.
Her penchant for luxury meant that she always smelled expensive, and whenever she would go out I’d stealthily sneak a peek at her collection. Sisley. Chanel. Annick Goutal. Estée Lauder. Lancôme. It was a veritable treasure trove, and I vowed that as a grown up I too would waft around in the finest France had to offer.
