The Name’s Bond

She waltzed down the aisle, all shiny fur and shiny hair, a twittering entourage and more glamour than usually seen on a Thursday in Hartford’s Bushnell Theater. But she didn’t get past me. “What is your fragrance?” Surprised, she turned. “It’s fabulous,” I reassured her. Not like any I had smelled before, puffy, light and ethereal, but for all the delicate femininity, hinting at mischief. I liked it.

She registered my benign intent. “You know, I don’t know. I got it from a friend. I stayed at her house and she left me a sample.” But wait, she dug through her purse. Normally you’d get some details on the pocketbook, but tonight it was all about perfume. “Maybe...oh, here it is! Let’s see. Bond No. 9.”

“That’s good,” I encouraged her, “Bond No. 9 is the manufacturer; can you see the fragrance name?” “No, no,” she inspected the small glass vial as the houselights went down, “That’s it. Bond’s the name.” Oh, well, maybe Bond had its own house scent, something I hadn’t heard about. Then the incident slipped my mind.

Months later, I stopped into the lovely Madison Avenue shop for Bond No. 9. A gorgeous young Russian woman standing behind a display of well over thirty bottles (my estimate) greeted me warmly. I told her I was looking for a fragrance called Bond No. 9. She gently explained that all of the fragrances are Bond No. 9, exactly as I knew and feared to be the case. She and another salesperson who had joined the conversation giggled, but without a hint of condescension. Then he admitted “We have a problem.”

Undeterred, she asked me what it smelled like. I began to speak, but didn’t get far before she reached for a bottle and sprayed it on a round paper blotter. Handing it to me, she asked: “Is this it?” “Yes!” Nuits de Noho. She and I had landed a plane wearing blindfolds. The language of scent. Very handy.

Bond No. 9 flagship store pictured here.