Story of a scent

Grazia (UK) - - Contents - BY CELIA WALDEN

God I miss teen heartbreak. You’re ly­ing there, sob­bing out The Cure’s Just Like Heaven with a mouth that tastes like one of those wall-mounted public ash­trays out­side ma­jor train sta­tions, and it would all be quite des­per­ate if you weren’t se­cretly rel­ish­ing ev­ery sec­ond. But once you’ve worked your way through your des­o­la­tion discog­ra­phy, fin­ished the fags and pic­tured for the nth time how grat­i­fy­ingly shocked he would be by your ex­treme weight loss, it’s quite hard to keep up the mis­ery mo­men­tum.

That’s where per­fume comes in. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what the folk at Dior were go­ing for when they came up with the heartbreak ac­cel­er­ant and gen­eral ro­man­tic nos­tal­gia prompter that is Eau Sauvage. My first real love (a Parisian model who looked like he’d ac­tu­ally stepped out of a per­fume ad) wouldn’t just wear it but bathe in it, and when we split up, he was care­ful to leave a metic­u­lously spritzed jumper of his be­hind as a pin­ing aid (some­thing I’ve al­ways done with men since).

When the smell and the heartache started to fade, I bought my­self a bot­tle of Eau Sauvage and, later, en­cour­aged by some­thing Is­abella Ros­sellini had told me when I’d in­ter­viewed her about how sexy men’s scents could be on a woman, I started to wear it my­self. It smells dif­fer­ent on my skin but, still now if I walk past a man wear­ing Eau Sauvage, I can’t be re­spon­si­ble for my ac­tions. Dior Eau Sauvage, £52


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