The Perfume Collector (17 page)

‘Maybe he does.’

Eva looked up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Evidently, you’ve caught his eye.’

‘I doubt it. Actually,’ she gave Sis a look, ‘I believe he favours blondes.’ Eva scrubbed the glasses hard, running them under hot water.

‘That haircut makes you look fast. I’m only saying this as your friend. You’ve filled out, your hair’s as short as a chorus girl’s and now I’ve got grown men asking me where you are. What am I supposed to think?’

‘You’re supposed to think more of me.’

Sis frowned, bit her lower lip. ‘When are you going to come to confession again? You haven’t been for ages.’

Eva wiped down the counter. ‘I’ve nothing to confess.’

‘What about Mass?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Do you want to end up in hell?’

Eva folded up the towel. ‘Is it any different from this?’

Sis opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. She tried another tack.

‘Has he . . . I mean,’ she lowered her voice, ‘did he try to touch you? That’s happened to me. Men get grabby when they’re away from home. And they seem to think you’re included in the price of the room.’

‘He’s never laid a finger on me.’

Sis sighed, shook her head. ‘Well, he wants to see you.’

Eva took off her apron, turned off the lights. ‘Thank you.’

‘Well?’ Sis followed her out into the hallway. ‘Are you going to go?’

‘I don’t know. I’m certainly not going now.’

‘But what if he complains? What if Mrs Ronald hears about it?’

Eva stopped. ‘I don’t understand. What do you want me to do? Go or not go?’

‘I don’t know! If you don’t go you could get in trouble. But I mean, why? Why is he asking for you?’

‘How do I know? People are strange.’ Eva headed down the hall towards the back stairs. ‘Why did that old woman want you to sing her to sleep?’

Sis caught up with her up. ‘I told you he was a communist, didn’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Leave the door open. Do you hear me? Go, but make sure you leave the door open. That way, if he makes a lunge for you, you have an exit.’

‘I told you, I may not even go.’

Sis sighed heavily as they climbed up the stairs. Eva could hear the tears begin to catch in her throat. ‘You used to tell me everything.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Just like that night, huh?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Why won’t you tell me?’

Eva turned on her. ‘Because I can’t! I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘I don’t want you to make it up to me! I want you to talk to me.’ She stopped. ‘I don’t know what happened to you that night, but if you can’t even tell me then there’s a pretty good chance you shouldn’t be doing it at all!’

Sis turned on her heel and stormed back down the staircase, the door slamming again at the bottom.

Sinking down on the steps, Eva cradled her head in her hands. Suddenly a wave of nausea washed over her. She was going to be sick again.

It had begun out of nowhere. Eva woke up when the sky was still dark, her head spinning, retching for no reason. And then the sickness was gone, only to return again the next morning. And Sis was right, she had filled out. All of a sudden her breasts were painfully tender and full.

Curling into a ball, she rested her head on her arms. She needed to be still a moment. Very still. Until the nausea passed.

She hated herself.

All around her doors were closing.

Life in the grey area had become very dark indeed.

It was not permitted for staff to go through the main corridors once they were off duty. Eva’s heart pounded as she made her way down the hallway towards room 701. She walked slowly, pushing her shoulders down and her chin up. She hesitated a moment when she reached his door and then knocked.

‘Come in,’ he called.

She opened the door and stepped inside. ‘You wanted to see me.’

Mr Lambert was standing by the window with a drink in his hand. He turned. She was wearing street clothes, a dress, and carrying a handbag and a hat. Her dark hair gleamed, smooth and satiny in the glowing light of the evening sunset.

‘Where are you going?’ It had never occurred to him that she might have a life outside the hotel.

‘I’m on my way out.’ The statement was both vague and final.

He took a few steps forward. He almost didn’t recognize her. Her face looked older; a casual, knowing expression had replaced the eagerness. And with her new haircut, her features had a symmetry and boldness he’d never noticed before.

‘You wanted to see me,’ she said again.

He was staring at her. ‘Yes.’

She waited, looking him calmly in the eye.

In her uniform, she was his servant. But now, even in the simple black dress she’d made from one of Madam Zed’s curious cast-off tunics, she was suddenly his equal. She could feel him taking her in, adjusting himself to this new reality of her.

‘You’re very quiet,’ she said, after a while. ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten what it was that you needed to say.’ She had her hand on the doorknob. ‘Good evening, Mr Lambert.’

‘Stay.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Stay.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘A request. Please.’ He pulled out a chair.

She hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the seat.

He poured her a drink.

She took it, holding it, untouched, on her lap.

He sat down across from her. ‘I, umm . . . I wanted to talk you about . . .’

She crossed her legs, her stockings gleaming in the light, and suddenly he was unable to concentrate clearly.

‘Yes?’ she prompted.

‘Well, it seems to me,’ he tried again, ‘that we used to have a pretty good time playing cards.’

‘Yes, Mr Lambert.’

‘And that you had a great deal of talent. A talent one wouldn’t normally expect from a young . . .’ (he was going to say ‘girl’ but changed his mind) ‘a young woman. And well . . . there’s quite a number of ways to enterprise on a talent like that . . .’

She tilted her head to one side. ‘Are there?’

He felt his stomach tighten and his pulse quicken; he hadn’t anticipated this at all. Only a short time ago if he’d so much as looked in her direction, she blushed. Now she seemed almost bored by him.

‘Yes.’ He took another drink. ‘I know how to make the most of those skills.’

The darkness gathered softly around them.

‘Not many people can do what you do,’ he continued.

‘Can you, Mr Lambert?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Can you do what I can do?’

He blinked. The distance between them seemed to have shrunk though neither of them had moved.

‘No,’ he admitted, finally. ‘No, I can’t. I’ve met people who could count cards, who were fast and clever. But I’ve never met anyone who could see the game the way you do in your head.’

‘So,’ she put her drink down, ‘how can I help you?’

Just like that the entire conversation turned.

‘You don’t understand,’ he laughed awkwardly, ‘I know how to help you.’

‘I’m not sure I need help, Mr Lambert.’ She got up. ‘But thank you all the same.’

He stood too, cutting her off before she reached the door. ‘I’m offering you a chance out of here!’

‘Are you?’ She looked up at him with those strangely feline eyes. ‘As what?’

His face hardened. How did she get to be so unflappable? ‘Don’t play me, kid!’

‘Then don’t play me,’ she countered smoothly. ‘And I’m not a kid.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No. Not any more.’

He grabbed her by the wrist. She winced but didn’t pull away. He turned her arm over; there were three burn marks across her forearm, seared holes in the flesh, red raw, evenly spaced. He looked at her in horror. ‘What happened to you?’

‘What happens to everyone.’

‘Does it hurt?’

Her mouth softened into the ghost of a smile. ‘Only when you touch it.’

He let go.

She was right; she wasn’t a kid any more. Someone had stolen the last vestiges of innocence from her and replaced them with this unnerving self-possession instead.

‘If you want something, Mr Lambert, say it.’

He took a step closer. She smelled both coolly reserved and somehow earthy and narcotic. ‘Come with me.’

He saw her lips part slightly, her cheeks flush. ‘Why?’

‘I can teach you.’

She said nothing, leaned back against the door frame.

He came closer still. He could feel the warmth of her, the heat of her gently curving body; smell the musky sweetness of her hair. ‘We can make a lot of money.’

She laughed.

And suddenly he realized that he’d been ambushed, overthrown by this odd little creature with the thrilling mind, green eyes and shape-shifting body. She had an effect on him he’d never suspected; it was in motion, already under way, a dangerous, teasing undertow.

‘Come with me. So that I can finish teaching you what I began. So that we can make a great deal of money in beautiful cities all around the world. But most of all,’ he ran his finger along her cheek, ‘because I hate to drink alone.’

Paris, Spring, 1955

Madame Zed reached again for her glass of cognac but it was empty. Grace pushed the bottle across to her.

‘So Eva went with him? This Mr Lambert?’

She nodded.

Something inside Grace’s chest flared; a deep sense of indignation. ‘But she was just a child! You do realize that, don’t you? Whoever this man is, this Lambert, what he did was a crime.’

Madame merely looked at her, head tilted thoughtfully to one side. ‘One is never sure, in the end, of who seduces whom. A young woman on the cusp of her sexual awakening is a powerful creature. She’s often unused to, even unaware of, the tremendous power she holds and is easily intoxicated by it.’

Grace couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Are you defending him?’

Madame Zed shrugged. ‘I’m not defending anyone. Or condemning anyone.’ She looked at Grace thoughtfully. ‘Are you a prude, Mrs Munroe?’

‘A prude? Well, no. I don’t think so,’ Grace fumbled, offended.

‘I only ask because this is not a fairy tale, my dear.’ Taking out a long black cigarette holder, Madame Zed fitted a cigarette into it and lit it. She looked across at Grace, staring at her from beneath her heavily lidded dark eyes. ‘You came to me. You wanted to know more. But I can’t change the story to put you at ease.’

‘No. I don’t want you to do that,’ Grace relented. ‘I just suppose it’s a bit shocking that she would go off with a . . . a grown man like Lambert.’

Madame exhaled. ‘Lambert took her to Europe, introduced her into society, gave her an education of sorts. Some of us, no matter how hard we try, aren’t meant to lead ordinary lives. Fate finds us. Gives us a shove.’ She drew the holder to her lips and inhaled slowly. ‘Fate has given you a little push, hasn’t it?’

‘Me?’

Madame nodded. ‘Here you are, in a foreign city, with a strange legacy.’ She exhaled through her nose. ‘Perhaps, Madam Munroe, you weren’t meant for a mundane life either. Perhaps you’re considerably more exciting than you realize.’

‘Me? Oh no, I’m as dull as ditchwater.’

‘Really?’ Madame tilted her head to one side. ‘Tell me, where did you grow up again?’

‘In Oxfordshire. A small village called West Challow.’

‘And you lost your family in the war?’

‘My mother died in the Blitz. But my father died before the war, of a heart attack.’

‘Yes, I remember now,’ she nodded to herself. ‘You told me that. And what was she like, your mother?’

‘My mother?’ Grace frowned, laughing a little. She hadn’t expected to be the topic of conversation between them. ‘Well, let’s see . . .’ She tried to concentrate. ‘She was small, very energetic and had that kind of deep auburn hair I’ve always wanted myself but wasn’t lucky enough to inherit.’ She smiled to herself. ‘She seemed very beautiful and charming to me. She was also the author of several rather badly written romantic novels published under the pen name Irene Worthing.’

‘Really?’ Madame seemed fascinated. ‘How extraordinary. Have you read them?’

‘Of course. A thousand times.’

‘What about your father?’

‘It’s difficult for me to remember him at all, to be honest. He was a botanist. He came back a hero from the Great War . . . he was quite deaf from all the shelling and had suffered terribly from mustard gas poisoning. He was unable to be comfortable for any period of time.’

‘Do you miss them?’

Grace looked across at her. It was an odd thing to ask.

‘It’s been so long,’ she said after while. ‘At least, I think I miss the idea of them. I have to admit that I’ve forgotten almost everything about them or it’s been distorted. For example, my mother used to smell a certain way – of rose-water perhaps, or of soap, I can’t remember which. I don’t know if she smelled like that all the time or just once.’ She paused. ‘We lived on my mother’s family estate. But we didn’t live in the Great Hall – we had a smaller, separate house on the grounds where my father could work on his research as a botanist. He was always brooding, distracted. He didn’t speak much because of his hearing. I think he was actually extremely shy. He drew a lot, took notes. He preferred to make things.’

Madame inhaled slowly. ‘Like what?’

‘He made a three-storey house for the hens that was heated by a row of light bulbs under a wire mesh floor in the winter and that was always perfectly snug.’

‘How funny!’

‘Yes,’ Grace smiled. ‘And he built my mother a series of rotating pantry shelves and a wringer for the laundry that was operated by using a pedal on the floor rather than a handle so her arms wouldn’t grow tired.’

‘Did she like that?’

‘Well, she wasn’t very domestic – not much of a cook. She was more involved with her writing. Besides, we always had help for the housekeeping duties. They must have liked his inventions. But my father liked solving problems, I think, and my mother let him. I don’t think . . . I’m sorry.’ Suddenly Grace found it hard to concentrate on what she was trying to say. ‘I think something’s burning, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Have you got something in the oven? Your supper? I think it must be burning.’

‘Oh,
merde
! Not again!’ Crushing her cigarette into the ashtray, Madame got up and hurried to the kitchen. Grace could hear her muttering and cursing, the banging of pots and pans, the sound of running water.

When she didn’t return after a few minutes, Grace ventured into the hallway. The smell of charred pastry crust filled the corridor. ‘Can you save it?’ she asked, doubtfully.

‘It’s nothing.’ Madame opened the kitchen window to clear the smoke out. ‘Nothing that can’t be made again another time. I have always abhorred cooking. But every once in a while I try.’

‘I’m a dreadful cook. Far too easily distracted. I suppose I get that from my mother.’

Madame gave her a curious look. ‘Perhaps you do. But you must forgive me,’ she began ushering Grace towards the door, ‘it’s late. And as you can see, I have some cleaning to do.’ She held the door open for her. ‘Come again. Maybe tomorrow. And we will talk some more.’

Grace lit a cigarette on the pavement outside the deserted perfume shop on Rue Christine and began walking back to her hotel through the quiet, dimly lit streets, recounting Madame’s words. One sentence echoed in her mind, replaying itself over and over.

‘A young woman on the cusp of her sexual awakening is a powerful creature.’

She took a deep drag. Here in this strange city, the net of her memory loosened. She too had been intoxicated by her awakening sexuality.

It had happened just as Madame had noted; early on; after her mother’s death when she was thirteen or so. She’d only recently gone to live with her uncle in Oxford. He had no experience with children; suddenly she found she had the run of the house. He was always working and she was left more and more to her own devices, treated as an adult rather than a child. Grace remembered feeling such a tangle of opposing emotions – the aching loss of her mother, fear, and at the same time a new confidence and terrible, thrilling freedom. But underneath all that, there was an unfamiliar, overwhelming desire to be touched. Her body had grown languid, easily aroused. And overnight it had transformed from the narrow shapeless body of a child to that of a young woman, with a slimmer waist, swelling breasts, curving hips.

She began attracting attention. Clandestine looks and mysterious tensions suddenly corseted her days; unspoken invitations tugged at her awareness. Her uncle, always on the periphery, receded even further, maintaining a respectful distance from her transformation. But his colleagues gazed upon her with new eyes and suddenly she too had moved a little slower, a little more deliberately, teasing out their interest without knowing why; simply because all of a sudden she could.

She was fascinated and repulsed in equal measures by the sudden increase in male attention. She learned to cover her desire with a steely surface of indifference, playing the tensions off one another.

It had been an effective strategy, surprisingly sophisticated for one so young.

Near the banks of the Seine, tucked beneath bridges, in the shadows, Grace glimpsed the outlines of couples, bodies entwined, stealing embraces.

She crossed over the river, the black water rushing beneath her like a sheet of moving glass, the lights from the shore reflected in its smooth surface.

There had been a student of her uncle’s, a young man in his early twenties named Theo Lund; lanky, serious, with large, round blue eyes. He was shy, studious, socially awkward. From a modest background, he didn’t mix much, but was instead dedicated to earning his degree.

He came to the house every week, while working on his thesis, for private tutorials.

And she made a point of being the one to answer the door, showing him into her uncle’s study. She took care with her dress, her hair; lingering, allowing him to make conversation with her. And her answers to his questions were always evasive, teasing. Week after week, she felt his interest and admiration grow.

In private, she dreamed of his hands on her skin; of the pressure of his mouth on hers. She yearned for a physical pleasure she couldn’t quite imagine, didn’t understand.

Then she’d offered to show him the garden one late spring evening, with the magnolia tress in full bloom.

He’d followed her into the grove, talking too fast, too much. The trees had formed a canopy of rich blooms, waxy petals of deep pink, exploding with colour and perfume. She’d stood, quite still, while he admired them, looking everywhere but at her. And then finally he stopped. His hands shook a little as he reached for her.

She had met him more than halfway, tilting her face up, wrapping her arms around his neck. Tentative, tight-lipped kisses became urgent, hands travelled . . .

‘Grace!’ Her uncle’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘What are you doing?’

He was standing at the end of the path, rigid with indignation.

Even after all these years, her whole body still withered with mortification at the thought of it.

She never saw Theo Lund again. Was unsure if he ever graduated or not.

It was odd now, looking back . . . she’d been only a girl then. But her lasting impression was that he’d been the vulnerable one, the one whose innocence had been lost and led astray.

And then later, there was Roger.

That night after her birthday party at Scott’s, she was meant to be staying with Mallory but instead she and Roger had taken a room in a small hotel in Mayfair. She’d wanted to make love, couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

Once the door was locked, she went to him immediately.

‘You’re like a wild animal,’ he teased, extracting himself to make them both drinks. ‘Take it easy!’

‘But I don’t want to take it easy.’

Later, in bed, he manoeuvred her from one position to another; he had more experience and enjoyed instructing her. However, her willingness, her talent as a student, threw him.

‘Have you done this before?’ he accused.

‘No, but I want to please you.’

‘Relax,’ he said firmly, pushing her arms down by her side. ‘Let me.’

But by relax, he meant, ‘Be still.’

Grace had unladylike appetites; aggressive lusts. And a grasping emptiness in her soul. She should be ashamed of herself. It was painful to her, in the same way that certain high-pitched noises are unbearable to the ears, to even acknowledge this part of her nature.

Climbing the steps to the hotel, Grace paused, taking a long look at Paris, in all its shimmering, enigmatic elegance, wearing the night as a beautiful woman wears diamonds.

Madame Zed was right; one is not always sure who seduces whom.

Back in the rich, warm glow of the hotel lobby, piano music played, soft and melodious; the scent of white hyacinths, massed together in great brass urns near the front desk, perfumed the air with a sharp green sweetness. And the vast marble foyer echoed with conversation, laughter and the clinking of glasses.

It was cocktail hour.

‘Madame Munroe!’ The concierge bustled out from behind his desk. ‘You have a message, madame. A gentleman, Monsieur Tissot, has telephoned for you today.’ He handed her a slip of paper. ‘Here is his number. And also your husband has rung.’

‘My husband?’

‘Yes, madame. He has asked if you might be so good as to return his call.’ He handed her a second slip. ‘He is staying at his London club. This is the number.’

Her heart lifted. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

Upstairs in her room, Grace lit a cigarette and stood smoking by the window, looking out over the city skyline.

Every day she’d expected something; a letter or flowers, perhaps?

As the days dragged out, her hope withered.

But sure enough, in his own time, here it was.

Closing her eyes, Grace took another drag, gathering her nerve.

Mallory must’ve given him the name of the hotel.

She hated the thought of a strained, long-distance conversation. But perhaps it was for the best. He could apologize and they could move on with their lives, though the idea of him explaining his behavior; of being vulnerable in any way, made her cringe inwardly. They simply needed to get past this episode. And she told herself she could bear anything as long as he didn’t go into details; she didn’t want to imagine the affair any more vividly than she already had.

As long as Roger understood that it was over, for ever, they could carry on.

Resolved, Grace stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the receiver.

‘Yes, I’d like to place a trunk call please, to the East India Club in St James’s.’ She waited, gnawing on her fingernails while the operator connected her, eventually being transferred via the club switchboard to his room.

‘Hello? Hello?’ Roger’s voice crackled on the other end of the line. He sounded as if he were speaking through a tin can, and very far away.

Automatically, Grace’s spine stiffened. ‘Hello? Hello, Roger . . . it’s me.’

‘Who? I’m sorry? Who is this?’

‘It’s Grace,’ she said, louder. Who was he expecting?

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ There was silence. ‘How are you?’