Whispers of a Substitute

My name is Viola Scott, and I have spent a full eight years by Calvin Luke's side. Others envy me for living in a mansion, having a grand walk-in closet, and someone reserving afternoon tea for me, but no one knows I earned this hidden, shameful stability simply because I resemble Vivian Lincoln by seventy percent. The first time Calvin Luke took me to the fragrance room, my fingertips were still trembling. The rosewood shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, hundreds of glass jars filled with spices of every kind, mingling into a sickly sweet scent—much like the suffocating relationship he gave me. He took down a frosted glass jar from the top shelf; inside, the edges of the lavender petals had yellowed, evidence of their age. He said, "This is Vivian's favorite spice; this scent helps her sleep peacefully." That day, he taught me to discern fragrances, from citrus to woody notes; his fingertips occasionally brushed the back of my hand, cold as ice. I dared not look into his eyes, afraid that I would see not Viola Scott, but the shadow of another woman. It was only later that I realized my fear had never been unfounded. To keep him, I began to desperately imitate Vivian Lincoln. I rummaged through Calvin Luke's study for everything belonging to Vivian Lincoln: her diary recording that she took her coffee with two and a half spoons of sugar and no milk, photos showing her in knee-length skirts with naturally curled hair ends, and letters from friends describing how she smiled with pursed lips and her left mouth corner raised. I noted these details in a notebook and imitated them one by one, as if completing a mission. Every morning, I wake up half an hour early, carefully watching as I measure sugar precisely into the bone china cup. I sent all the skirts in my wardrobe that fell below my knees to be shortened. The winter's biting cold reddened and bruised my knees; I only dared to stick warm patches on them when he wasn't looking. I practiced a tight-lipped smile in the bathroom mirror until my cheeks ached and the corners of my mouth stiffened. Once, Calvin Luke told a joke, and I instinctively opened my mouth wide to laugh; he told me, "Don’t smile too big." Since then, I have never dared to laugh heartily in front of him again. Calvin Luke would occasionally take me to industry banquets, and every time before we got out of the car, he would straighten my collar. When his fingertips brushed my neck, I couldn't help but feel my heart quicken. But each time I looked up, I could see a faint, elusive distraction in his eyes—he was seeing someone else through me. Once, a new designer sneered at me: “You're just Mr. Luke’s mistress; without him, you're nothing.” I clenched my purse so tightly my nails nearly pierced the leather, yet I didn't know how to respond. Because what he said was the truth. The next day, that designer was blacklisted by Calvin Luke and never showed up in the circle again. I watched Calvin stand up for me, yet my heart felt no joy at all. I felt like nothing more than an object he protected, not someone he loved. Before the conflict in the fragrance room, I had actually sensed it for some time. Calvin came home later and later, and sometimes carried the scent of a stranger's rose perfume. That scent was neither my usual woody notes nor the lavender Vivian Lincoln preferred. I didn't dare to ask; I just quietly took his suit to the dry cleaners, spraying the collar with my cedarwood perfume. I was like a self-deluding gambler, clutching at the last thread of hope, believing that if I behaved well enough, he wouldn't leave. That afternoon, I used the purple clay pot passed down from his mother to slowly simmer mushroom soup over low heat for three hours. A thin layer of oil floated on the surface of the soup, its aroma filling the entire villa. When I carried the thermos to the fragrance room, I deliberately sprayed the lavender perfume he said 'smelled like Vivian.' The door to the fragrance room wasn't closed properly; warm yellow light spilled through the crack, accompanied by Rachel Jones's soft laughter. My steps faltered, and the thermos in my fingers grew scorching hot, burning my palm numb. Through the crack, I saw Rachel leaning against Calvin Luke's chest, holding the crescent-shaped new perfume bottle — the exclusive design he had said last year was meant for Vivian Lincoln. I had asked about it but was refused. His fingertips lightly brushed Rachel's neck, the motion so tender it seemed as if water could drip from it. Rachel Jones looked up at him, a provocative smile curving her lips, and glanced toward the doorway. The soup bucket clattered against the doorframe, the purple clay lid falling to the ground and shattering into pieces. I didn't have time to pick it up; I rushed in and grabbed Rachel Jones's wrist, my nails digging almost into her skin. It was the first time I lost control in front of him, my voice trembling as if about to break as I asked, "What are you doing?" Rachel Jones leisurely adjusted her collar, the laughter in her eyes growing deeper as she deliberately nestled closer into Calvin Luke's arms. Rachel Jones said, "I was just helping Calvin try out a new perfume." Calvin Luke came over and pulled me aside, his grip so strong that my wrist ached. He spoke as flatly as if talking about the weather, "Don't make a fuss, it's just trying perfume." I stared into his eyes and asked, "Does trying perfume require hugging her? What do you take me for?"