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Detective Inspector Jasper Sinclair always wore vanilla cologne.
Miranda smelled it the first time she met him, when he flicked his eyes appraisingly over her and welcomed her to the Wandsworth force. The sweetness caught her attention, started her brain on a quest to work out what it was. It didn’t take long; a memory of baking with her mam on a rare good day soon clued her in.
The smell of vanilla lingered on her for the rest of the day. It burrowed into her clothes, lasted long enough to go home with her. She didn’t mind, though; her flat seemed so much nicer with the pleasant scent. She went out and bought some vanilla room spray.
Sinclair’s cologne turned out to be a staple of the office’s ‘vibe’. You could always tell where he was; the smell of vanilla followed him everywhere, just as the jokes about him being “hands-on” followed him too. Miranda didn’t understand this. Sure, he could be a little tactile, but he was never anything less than respectful. Her colleagues didn’t seem bothered by the apparent touchiness, either.
She assumed it must just be some sort of office joke she’d been left out of. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He spent a lot of time by her desk, the familiar vanilla scent hanging in the air as he helped talk her through leads and paperwork. She was twenty-seven, and nearing three years on the force; he was forty, with a lot more experience under his belt. Miranda couldn’t be more grateful for his insight and expertise.
Her coworkers complained about him. Complained about their jobs. Complained about the station smelling like a bakery whenever he was around. But really, Miranda thought, it could’ve been so much worse.
And then one day, it was.
It was a slow Thursday. She and Sinclair were in the car together, on a stakeout with no clear purpose. Suddenly he was touching her. And he smelled of vanilla.
The car doors were locked. She couldn’t get out, couldn’t get away. Fighting him would be useless; he’d easily overpower her. And anyway, she was frozen. Frozen to the seat as his hands groped her body. Frozen in time, trying desperately to block it out.
All she could smell was vanilla.
In his car. On his skin. On her clothes. Sickly-sweet vanilla, potent and overwhelming. Invading her senses, churning her stomach. Forcing her attention to the present, every tiny detail committing itself to her memories without her consent.
Everything he said and did. Every unwanted touch. Every sensory input, every panicked thought that flew through her head.
The smell of vanilla.
Minutes passed — hours — an eternity; she wasn’t sure which. A relief team came to take over surveillance; she and Sinclair went back to the station. Miranda made use of the showers there, scrubbing and scrubbing at her body. But it didn’t work. She couldn’t feel clean.
The vanilla cologne lingered.
She followed a trail of the scent to her desk. Tried to talk paperwork with Sinclair as if nothing had happened. He gave her advice on filling out a form. His hand stroked her thigh. A haze of vanilla surrounded them.
Miranda rushed out of the station as soon as her shift was over. She got home. Her flat smelled of vanilla.
She threw up in the kitchen sink.