'The perfume that lasted longer than my marriage.'

It's a miracle I've almost finished this perfume.

It's not because it doesn't smell nice (it really does) or I don't love it (I do).

But it's my wedding perfume. My lovingly, carefully-selected forever scent for a marriage that lasted just 10 months.

You see why it's bittersweet?

To clarify: the relationship was longer — 12 years, in fact. Does that make it better or worse? I'm still undecided. To have the excuse that you hadn't really known someone that long, or to have truly believed you knew the person who broke every vow so easily.

It would have been easy for it to become the scent of betrayal. A reminder of him and her. Notes of rose, bergamot, and violet — blended with magnolia, cedar, and a blindsiding divorce by 30. Bitter? Oh no. I'd say more of a floral musk.

I could have boxed it up, given it away, or poured it down the sink. (Although honestly at $369 a bottle, that feels almost more criminal than the rest.) But after already losing my twenties, and so much of myself, I wasn't giving this away too.

So began an unexpected journey to reclaim and rediscover a scents sense of self. Starting with a very expensive bottle of rose petals.

***

Choosing the perfume was a special part of planning and preparing for the wedding. Since I was a teenager, I've approached perfume as a way to mark and bottle a particular milestone or moment in time. First summer of freedom post-high school. First job. Significant birthdays. Trips away. Each one has a scent. Rather than stuffed animals in a cabinet, they remain present and live in my life as I revisit them from time to time. Picking them up off my perfume shelf and transporting or transforming myself with a single spritz.

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Finding the wedding scent was even more sentimental because it was also a wedding present from my aunt and godmother, who lives in Canada. She wasn't able to travel to the wedding in Australia. We came up with the idea that my wedding perfume would be from her so she'd always be part of the fabric of the day.

***

A month out from the wedding, my sister and I headed to Mecca for a fragrance consultation. With my aunt FaceTiming from her apartment in Toronto, we searched for the scent that would be forever bound to this next big step. There were some close contenders; I loved the idea of a nod to my English home with Jo Malone and flirted with Byredo, although I've never really liked the way their fragrances sit on me. A ring on my finger hadn't changed that.

It came down to two from the same brand, Maison Francis Kurkdijan. You might recognise it as the nose behind the cult/viral scent, Baccarat Rouge. I found myself torn between A La Rose (warm, feminine, romantic) and Oud Satin (darker, sexier, moodier). Both sang to different sides of who I felt I was and wanted to be. Talk about an existential crisis…

A La Rose won. Gentle yet powerful. Pure yet passionate. A promise, a kiss, an outstretched hand to steady a shaking one. Oud Satin would be for another time, another me.

A bottle of A la rose. Image: Brittany Stewart.

Each bottle of A La Rose contains 250 roses. We had a mix of deep crimson red and hot pink roses in our flower arrangements. My makeup artist complimented me on my 'English Rose' complexion. Details, details. In love, they felt poetic. In divorce, it smells more like irony.

I wore the perfume on our wedding day. Throughout our honeymoon. On the occasional date night. And on our six-month anniversary, the only semi-milestone we ended up making it to.

Of course, it wasn't just the perfume. Around that six-month mark, I'd also bought the body lotion! And the candle! "It's a special scent!" I told myself. "I'll want to remember and smell it forever and what if they discontinue it or sell out?"

At least, for a brief period, I made it to Beauty Loop level 3.

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Over the years, so gradually it was almost imperceptible to me at the time, I had squashed and shrunk myself to fit around someone else. A person who soaked up things around them like a sponge, wringing me dry in the process.

To be loved is to be seen, not absorbed.

***

Unlike the man who promised to be, the perfume has ended up a constant during the most challenging period of my life to date. A chronological but not exhaustive recap of the last 18 months: A terminally ill parent. A blindsiding end to a 13-year relationship. Moving interstate (again). Traumatic divorce. Feeling joy. Building a life in a new city (again). A new job. Turning 30. Rediscovering who I am. Feeling lost. Trying again.

I have sprayed that perfume when I'm happy. I've worn it when I'm sad. I've chosen it for first dates, solo dates, to mark important dates. I wore it for my 30th, when my divorce came through, for family dinners, last Tuesday.

By stripping it of its power, I have given it a new one.

That perfume is still associated with a day of love. It was just the people to my side, not the person standing opposite. The family and friends who held me up, literally and figuratively. It's a connection to my aunt, who was a special part of my day from the other side of the world. It's a scent I associate with love and respect and care and romance, something I've learnt exists in many forms. That should be given in abundance, not crumbs. That doesn't need to come from someone else. In fact, I should give it to myself. It's a work in progress, but I'm getting there. This love has no expiration date.

Once this bottle is empty, I will remember it forever but never wear it again. I'm not a masochist. But like the chapter-defining scents before it, it will always remain in the scent library of my life — now a memory of what was rebuilt, rather than broken.

As for the scent of the next chapter? I'm still finding the right one.

Originally published on Beauty Island on Substack.

Brittany Stewart is a journalist and creator of award-nominated podcast, Beauty Island. She shares stories of beauty and heart on her newsletter of the same name. Find her on Instagram @brittanybeautybts.

Feature Image: Supplied/Brittany Stewart.