I walked over to the wall as the two of them continued with their work and I stood with my hand against the wooden post, my dear friend. I tried to slow down my breathing, inhaling deeply and counting the seconds between breaths.

‘It’s a wonderful place,’ said the agent, her eyes following the photographer as he went about his work. ‘It’s so spacious and airy and the younger set go crazy for lofts. We’ll focus on the urban professional market, all those young doctors and lawyers wanting a low-maintenance lifestyle property.’

‘Won’t they be paying off their student loans?’ I asked.

‘Oh, their parents usually come to the table. Homes like this are great investments, they keep their value.’

I closed my eyes and tried to block out the sound of her voice. I felt the wood against my hand, its familiar scent like a soft fug of wool. I caught my breath as a sob rose in my throat.

‘Don’t bring your diffuser,’ I said. ‘If you bring it here I’ll throw it out of the window.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You heard me. If you bring a diffuser, I’ll throw it out of the window and then I’ll hire another agent to take over the sale. You. Do. Not. Bring. A. Diffuser. Here. Understand?’

‘But it creates ambience,’ she said. ‘It’s French.’

‘I don’t care. You’re not bringing it here.’

The agent and the photographer exchanged glances and went back to their work.

I stroked the rough timber and it seemed to exhale with relief. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I promise I’ll do my best to protect you. You’ll be okay.’ I could feel my legs tremble and without intending to I sank to the ground and sat with my arms curled around my knees, staring ahead, as the agent and photographer looked on in horror and incomprehension.

My thoughts kept circling back to Richard Taylor and the grand Māori perfume. I’d gone back to the museum to read the rest of his journals because I’d grown curious about his background, his travels and, most of all, his personality. I’d warmed to the missionary and my only regret was that Archer wasn’t around to talk to. Despite Taylor’s attention to nature, none of the journals in the museum suggested he was particularly interested in smell. Since I hadn’t found any descriptions of perfume as such in his writing, the recipe lacked the context I sought. And I hadn’t even noticed any mention of the plants identified in the grand Māori perfume. Had he ever smelt it and, if so, why didn’t he describe the scent?

Having finished the journals I decided to head for the city library to look at the notebook with Taylor’s recipe. There was another reason for going. The real estate agent was true to her word, arriving daily to show people through my apartment, and I needed to get away from the continual intrusion on my space. I felt anxious every time she phoned me, and although she suggested that all I had to do was pop out for coffee for half an hour while she rushed potential buyers through, I ended up fretting about what was being said or planned for my home during my absence.