Flourish

The boardroom stilled when I entered wearing Flourish. By lunch, the CEO's assistant discreetly asked for the name and said it smelled like "success distilled." Twelve hours later, my Uber driver sighed, "Madam, your perfume makes Mumbai's chaos beautiful."

I applied Flourish before my gallery opening. Guests followed the sillage like breadcrumbs. A curator compared it to "O'Keeffe's flowers made audible." The jasmine deepened as champagne flowed, becoming something feral by midnight.

At my daughter's wedding, Flourish blended with her bouquet. Now, when I spritz it, I'm back under those marigold arches where her laughter tangles with tuberose. Even my husband, who never notices scents, says it smells like "hope."

Three separate strangers stopped me at Harrods. A perfumer's apprentice begged to study its drydown. My Pilates instructor claimed it "motivates better than espresso." The kicker? My ex texted after two years: "Still your scent in my curtains."

Chronic hives made me fragrance-free for a decade. Flourish's vegan formula? No rash. Just my students asking why chemistry class suddenly smells like "a billionaire's garden." Turns out, organic chemistry can be romantic.

Wore it to close the merger. The client's last words? "We'll sign, but only if you share your perfumer's contact." Flourish outlasted the negotiations. Fourteen hours later, my pillow still hummed with midnight jasmine. Take that, Tom Ford.

After Mum passed, her garden roses wilted. Flourish's tuberose carries her essence, pristine, stubborn, defiantly alive. My brother hugged me yesterday and froze: "Christ, it's like she's right here." We cried. Then planted new roses.

Ran into my perfume-snob neighbor at dawn's dog walk. She trailed me for blocks, finally blurting, "What witchcraft is this? It's like Chanel No. 5 mated with a monsoon." Sent her the link. We're now cocktail friends.

First date applied Flourish sparingly. By dessert, he leaned close: "You smell like my childhood garden in Kerala, but as if fairies tended it." Married him. Still wear it. Still hear "fairy garden" every anniversary.

Sprayed Flourish before a red-eye to Dubai. Woke up to the flight attendant sighing, "Madam, you've made Economy smell like a private oasis." Even immigration officers smiled. Thirteen hours airborne-scent intact.

Wore it to court. The opposing attorney kept losing his train of thought. During recess, he muttered, "Is that perhaps gardenias? No, something hungrier." Won the case. The judge later asked for the notes. Truth? I think it was the creeper's bite.

At 62, I'm invisible. Or was. Now? Strangers compliment Flourish daily. The barista calls it "mature champagne." My grandson says, "Nani, you smell expensive." Little do they know. It's my secret youth serum.