The Perfume Collector (19 page)

Mallory darted from one counter to another with the focused determination of a pirate looting an exotic port, and Grace trailed behind her, carrying her ever-increasing bags. Normally, a day spent shopping would’ve sent her running. But for once the crowds didn’t irritate her, possibly because it took real concentration for her to pick up anyone else’s conversation; she felt protected by her own foreignness. And Mallory’s gusto was such that she barely noticed that Grace was lagging behind. They moved with methodical speed from hats to gloves to scarves to lingerie and so on up the winding floors, Mallory debating the merits of each purchase in an ongoing conversation of her own.

‘Too coy?’ she asked, adjusting the veil of a tiny ‘fascinator’ hat, featuring a cluster of enormous black silk roses. ‘Or simply bizarre?’

Before Grace could answer, Mallory replaced it with an even more extreme version featuring three rather obscene organza calla lilies. She examined her reflection. ‘Don’t you find that the line between something being ravishing and revolting is dangerously close? Sometimes something is so ugly, it becomes amazing. Which do you think this is?’

Grace shook her head. ‘Not sure. What would you wear it with?’

‘What wouldn’t I wear it with!’ Mallory turned to inspect her profile. ‘Do you think those fuzzy yellow stamens are just the tinsiest bit suggestive?’

‘Only if you have a lewd imagination.’

Mallory shot her a look. ‘So I’ll take that as a yes. Oh, Gracie,’ she sighed. ‘I’m in two minds about this one. If one’s going to make a statement, one might as well have fuzzy stamens, don’t you think?’

‘What statement are you trying to make, Mal?’

They caught each other’s eye and laughed.

‘You’ll see.’ Mallory took the hat off. ‘We’ll get back to London and fuzzy stamens will be all the rage and I’ll have you to blame for missing the boat!’

‘I’m not stopping you. Buy two – three if you like!’

On the next floor up, they spent almost an hour in the lingerie department.

‘Gracie, look.’ Mallory ran her hand through the sheer silky chiffon of a delicately embroidered nightdress. ‘Oh, what heaven! Geoffrey doesn’t deserve it but I do.’

The saleswoman at the lingerie counter was only too pleased to help each of them to select several pairs of beautiful silk stockings, and advise them on the newest designs of cantilevered girdles and brassieres. ‘These are essentials,’ Mallory insisted, piling another two satin slips on the counter for the saleswoman to ring up.

‘You said that about the gloves and the hats too.’

‘And I’m right.’ Mallory thrust her chin in the air. ‘One cannot go about the business of being a woman without the proper equipment.’

Eventually, after they’d had a restorative lunch of salade niçoise and black coffee in the rooftop restaurant, they made it as far as the women’s dress department. There they browsed slowly through the collections, in a kind of awed, reverent silence. The exaggerated full skirts, crinoline petticoats and impossibly nipped-in waists of the Paris fashions were more daringly tailored than those in England; fashioned from yards of luxurious moiré silk, faille and taffeta in bold, saturated colours. It was the kind of excessive abundance of lavish beauty that London had been missing since the war.

‘I think I’m going to faint!’ Mallory whispered to her, holding up a marine blue chiffon evening dress.

Gingerly, Grace felt the gauzy fabric.

It was beautiful.

Mallory’s eyes began to well up. ‘I have to try it on,’ she sighed, shaking her head hopelessly. ‘I have to try them all on!’

And with the help of a seasoned shop assistant, Mallory piled five or six dresses into a changing room.

Grace continued to walk through the racks on her own. She wished she could be like Mallory and shop with enthusiasm.

Certainly her clothes were dull and dated. What’s more, she didn’t even like them. Yet the wide skirts, embellished with beads and rich embroidery, all in bright peacock colours for the upcoming summer season, seemed almost garish.

Pausing, Grace looked helplessly at her reflection. It was always like this: she meant to change her wardrobe, take herself in hand, but as soon as she arrived in a shop, she lost her nerve. She was back on the bus, on her way home, before she’d so much as tried anything on.

She was just about to head back to check on Mallory when an older shop assistant spotted her wavering amidst a sea of taffeta and net. ‘
Comment puis-je vous aider
?’ she enquired with a polite smile.

‘
J’ai besoin d’une robe
,’ Grace blurted out, instantly regretting that she’d spoken at all.

‘
Alors
!’ The woman spread her arms wide, as if to say, ‘Here we are.’

‘
Oui, ou je sais
. . .
non
,’ Grace struggled, her limited French failing her, ‘
une robe simple
. . .’

‘
Simple
?’

‘
Oui,
ah
, simple, noir
. . .’

The assistant tapped her finger on her lips, looking Grace up and down. Then suddenly she smiled. ‘
Voilà
!
Avec votre sèche, je sais que la chose
!’

Grace didn’t understand. She watched as the woman bustled into the back room.

After a few minutes she came out with a very sculptured, simply cut black dress, which she held up proudly. ‘
Elle est nouvelle. C’est Balenciaga
!’

‘
Balenciaga
?’ Grace had never heard of this designer.

‘
C’est très nouveau, très chic
!’ the woman assured her.

And indeed, the dress was unlike anything Grace had ever seen before: architectural in shape, stark, restrained. It was the polar opposite of the elaborate gowns all around her.

‘May I try it on?’

‘
Oui
!’ the assistant agreed with a nod.

Holding the dress solemnly before her, she led Grace across the department to a fitting room on the other side. ‘
Attention
!’ she waved to the other assistants as they passed. ‘
La Balenciaga
!’

Soon three or four of them were gathered in their wake.

The fitting room was easily the size of her bedroom in London and far more glamorous, with a plush chaise longue and pinkish walls. The saleswoman hung the dress on a rail and closed the fitting-room curtain with a flourish.

As soon as Grace pulled the dress over her hips, she knew this was no ordinary design. And when she stepped out of the fitting room, the staff were waiting, greeting her with sighs of appreciation and soft flutters of applause. ‘
C’est parfait
!’ her assistant declared. ‘
Ce n’est pas une robe – c’est le destin
!’

‘
Pardon
?’ Grace flushed, shy yet delighted by all the attention.

‘This is not a dress,’ a younger assistant offered, ‘it is destiny!’

‘My God, Grace!’ Mallory emerged from a neigh-bouring fitting room, dressed in a floaty canary yellow ball gown, and looked Grace up and down. ‘Where did you get that?’ She turned to the saleswoman. ‘Does it come in other colours?’

‘
Non. Elle est unique.
’

‘Shame.’ Mallory put her hands on her hips. ‘Then again, so is my friend.’

The dress did cost the most extraordinary amount of money. More money than Grace had ever spent on anything in her life. But what woman turns her back on destiny?

Exhilarated and exhausted, the girls made their way downstairs, past the accessories department, through to handbags and finally into the make-up department on their way out in search of a taxi.

Grace paused before a counter with rows of perfume bottles on display. One bottle in particular caught her eye. It was perfectly round, filled with deep amber liquid, ornamented with a gold stopper. It was a bottle she was familiar with but had never really looked at.

Grace stopped, picked it up.

‘Oh, I love that one,’ said Mallory. ‘
My Sin
. My mother used to wear it.’ She held out her arm. ‘Here. Give me a squirt – for old times’ sake.’

Grace sprayed a little on Mallory’s wrist. ‘It’s strong.’

‘I know. Mummy only ever wore it on special occasions.’ Lifting her wrist, she sniffed. ‘Used to give me a headache, now that I think of it.’

‘It’s one of Madame Zed’s perfumes.’

Mallory looked at her, impressed. ‘Really?’

There was a picture, rendered in gold leaf on the glass – an abstract image of a mother, arms outstretched, bending to embrace her child. ‘Jeanne Lanvin’ was printed underneath. The two figures formed a single, seamless golden arch of affection.

A young sales girl came up. ‘
Puis-je vous aider madame
?’

‘
Ah, oui, je pense
. . .’

‘Are you English?’ the girl smiled.

‘Yes.’ Grace pointed to the picture on the label. ‘This is an unusual trademark. Do you know what it means? Where it comes from?’

‘That is the symbol of Lanvin. The . . . ah,’ the girl thought a moment, her brow wrinkling, ‘how do you say it? Tag? You see,’ she leaned closer, pointing to the delicate outline on the glass, ‘Jeanne Lanvin loved her daughter, Marie-Blanche, very much. The most important person in her life. They say this trademark is from a picture of them before a ball. Now it’s the symbol for Lanvin. It’s very unique, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘I was thinking of getting a new perfume,’ Mallory said. ‘Can you recommend something different? Something I wouldn’t be able to find in London?’

‘You know what I like,’ the girl said, picking up another bottle – a narrow slim black rectangle with a tall golden stopper. ‘This one is by Hiver,
Ce Soir
. It’s an unusual scent, very compelling.’

‘Tonight,’ Mallory translated the name and advertising slogan. ‘“Some chances only come once.” Oh!’ She gave Grace a look. ‘That sounds a bit thrilling!’

‘There’s nothing else like it.’ The girl sprayed a little onto her own wrist and held it across for Mallory to smell. ‘Here.’

Intrigued, Grace bent forward too.

The layers of fragrance that unfolded were soft at first, darkly sensual layers of wild violet, amber, cedar, and bark . . . dry mossy woodland smells which then, very gradually, stealthily, gave way to raw musky richness; they had an intensity, a slightly damp, earthy density that was mesmerizing . . . and there was something else there too . . . sharp, almost acrid, yet hauntingly familiar . . .

‘I never thought I’d say this,’ Mallory frowned, ‘but I think there’s something almost obscene about it.’ She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. ‘Then again, it’s rather more-ish, isn’t it? How much is it?’

‘Well, that depends,’ the girl explained. ‘There is the original perfume, which is the one you’re holding, and then there’s a newer formulation. I’m afraid the original is quite costly.’

‘Why are there two formulations?’ Grace asked.

‘Well, you see,
Ce Soir
was first made during the war, when the Hiver factories were taken over by the Nazis. Hiver commissioned this fragrance from a private perfume house, which produced it by hand. During the occupation, it was very exclusive, almost impossible to get. Now it is the most popular fragrance Hiver sells. I have a bottle. It’s very unusual, very refined.’ The girl leaned in. ‘They say Hiver gave in to the Germans too easily. That the war was too comfortable for him. But no one can resist this perfume. However, apparently the perfumer who made it never sold Hiver the formula. This is common, for perfumers alone to know all the ingredients. Hiver has tried to recreate it but they cannot get it right. No one wants the newer version. I cannot sell it.’

‘Oh, then I must have a bottle!’ Mallory opened her handbag and took out her purse.

‘But you said this was their most popular fragrance.’ Grace picked up the bottle. ‘If Hiver can’t reproduce it, then they’ll have a crisis on their hands.’

‘Precisely,’ the girl agreed. ‘When Jacques Hiver died, the company suffered. But you see, while there are many lovely perfumes, there are only a few great ones.’

‘In that case, we’ll both have one.’ Mallory pulled a stack of French francs from her purse.

‘Mal . . . where did you get all that?’

‘Coutts, silly. I ordered them in advance. I’ve been planning this trip since the day I drove you to the airport. And I want to treat you,’ she insisted. ‘A woman who buys her own perfume is a sorry creature.’

‘You just bought yourself a bottle.’

‘I’m the exception to every rule,’ she smiled. ‘Especially my own.’

Grace watched as the assistant wrapped up their purchases.

‘Why would someone create a perfume for a company like Hiver and then not sell them the formula?’ she wondered. ‘Surely it would be in their best interests financially to do so.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t about money,’ Mallory said.

‘It’s a business. What other motivation could they possibly have?’

‘Who knows?’ Mallory tucked the bag with her latest acquisition over her arm, with all her other bags. ‘Perhaps it was out of sheer spite.’

The woman’s name was Paulette and she spoke no English at all.

Not that it would have mattered. From the moment Grace and Mallory appeared in the famous Carita beauty salon on Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré for their scheduled appointments the next day, their fate was clearly out of their hands.

The salon itself was a sparkling white monastery of beauty, featuring staff of both sexes, neatly dressed in white uniforms that looked like scientists’ lab coats over their suits and dresses. And indeed, the whole ethos of the salon was ‘the science of beauty’; a solemn pursuit, a long way from the local hairdresser’s Grace was used to. The salon not only styled hair but offered a range of beauty treatments neither of the girls had ever even heard of – including
le drainage
, a procedure involving half a day, a vast quantity of various creams and lotions and what looked like a small vacuum cleaner.

After a brief review of the schedule, the receptionist whisked Grace into one changing room and Mallory into another, where each was given a clean white gown to put over her street clothes and then introduced to her stylist. While Mallory babbled away to hers in unbroken French, Grace sat silent as the woman walked slowly around her.