The Perfume Collector (24 page)

It was a sweltering, humid evening. Eva arrived later, after a dance competition that she had entered with an Argentinian polo star. Lamb was doing rather well that evening without her.

Valmont was waiting at a table on his own, watching for her. From where he was seated, off to one side, he had a clear view. He saw Eva enter, pausing at the doorway, surveying the scene.

Her eyes rested on the centre craps table, where Gotti was attempting to impress his new lover by placing higher and higher bets. Eva watched as he urged her to blow on his dice for good luck; Kay Waverley, in all her golden glory, hung from his arm, distracted and bored.

There was something about Eva’s face, her level of concentration, that stuck Valmont. Her energy had always been mercurial, uneasy and agitated. But right then, right there, she solidified. Her focus, on Gotti and especially on Kay Waverley, sharpened into a fixed stare. It was as if she’d suddenly spotted something she’d been searching for, for a very long time. He didn’t realize it until much later, but in that brief, unguarded moment, Valmont observed a complete shift in Eva’s personality. Nothing about her changed outwardly, but internally, a decision had been made. In that moment, she turned away from him, towards a separate, shadowy agenda of her own.

Eva proceeded to the blackjack table and threw an arm around Lamb’s shoulder, accidentally bumping into Gotti just as he was about to throw. ‘Pardon me. And who is this?’ she asked, turning. ‘Why, it’s Adonis, throwing dice!’

Gotti laughed and gave a little bow. ‘Mademoiselle.’

She bowed back. ‘Say I’m forgiven. I can’t bear to offend.’

‘You’re too kind. I’m certain you’ll only improve my luck.’

‘What more luck can the gods bestow on you?’

He laughed again, thrilled by her attention.

Waverley’s eyes narrowed.

‘But I’ve disturbed you,’ Eva apologized. ‘Go on – show your mother how it’s done.’

Gotti’s friends gasped, twittering to each other in Italian.

Eva pretended not to notice. ‘
Ah, parli italiano
?
Fantastico
!’

Valmont watched as she chatted away in Italian to both Gotti and his friends, before announcing to anyone who would listen that she fancied a little skinny dip before dawn.

Completely out of her depth in multilingual society, Kay Waverley was reduced to mute fury.

Some of Gotti’s friends decided to race after Eva onto the beach. Gotti, left behind, looked after her with longing.

But before she left, Eva did something Valmont had never seen her do before. She wrapped her arms around Lamb’s neck and gave him half a dozen kisses.

Eva taunted and teased Lamb; everyone knew they shared a suite. But she never displayed any affection for him. Lamb laughed, shrugging her off, but even he looked a bit surprised as he waved them away, into the night.

Kay Waverley slipped her arm through Gotti’s, reeling him in closer.

Then she cast a look over her shoulder at Lamb, who’d just tripled his winnings.

He was buying a round of drinks for everyone. For one shining moment, he was the most successful man in Monte Carlo; handsome, urbane, gracious.

And above that, clearly the man this little fool Dorsey adored.

Her face softened into a half-smile.

But Valmont couldn’t help but notice that something in her too had suddenly sharpened; the bored distracted look was gone. She looked at Lamb several more times as the evening progressed.

He wasn’t sure why, but suddenly Valmont felt uneasy.

Kay Waverley knew how to charm when she wanted to. And she’d launched a charm offensive now. She appeared, magnificent and toned, sunbathing by the hotel pool one late afternoon, even though she had a private pool of her own in her villa. Young men seemed to collect by her side, ready with drinks and conversation. She tanned quickly and easily, her delicate limbs oiled and gleaming. In the evening, she made the most of her new tan in low-cut clinging evening dresses in white or black. And suddenly the Grand Casino was her favourite haunt. Gotti had been dismissed, sent abruptly back to Rome. Instead, she began arriving alone in the evenings, late, sitting at the tables, a whisky glass in hand. In addition to her good looks, her other great natural talent was that she knew how to drink.

Kay Waverley drank like a man, matching anyone shot for shot. She became neither tipsy nor morbid; she never giggled, slurred or swayed. Instead, she eased herself into a drunk, like falling, weightless, into an old lover’s arms. She had a finely honed appreciation for the irony and ridiculousness of the human condition which shot out as wry little asides. She could savour pathos without becoming pathetic; she could intimate that she was one of the boys without sacrificing any of her sex appeal.

Men tended to look after her. She tended not to stop them.

Kay made a point of sitting next to Lamb one evening. It didn’t take long before they were sharing a bottle and a joke.

Eva became visibly distraught at this new alliance. It was excruciating for Valmont to see the way she tried to drag Lamb away or interject herself between them. This was no longer an act, he was sure. Suddenly Eva circled the tables like a gadfly; hung on Lamb’s arm, tried to lure him on to the dance floor or into another room.

The tension between them was palpable. One evening Valmont heard them arguing in hushed, angry whispers on the terrace before supper.

‘You promised!’ Eva’s tone was vehement.

‘I never said I was willing to go that far. Never!’

‘She likes you. It will be easy.’

‘And what about me? What if I don’t like her?’

‘Do I have to remind you how far I’ve gone for you?’ Her voice turned vicious. ‘How much I sacrificed? Don’t tell me you can’t remember!’

‘Dorsey, don’t!’

‘There are only two people I hate in this world. And she’s one of them!’

There was a taut silence. ‘I did what was best. It was best for all concerned. Eva, please . . .’

Her voice caught. ‘Don’t touch me! And don’t fail me! And don’t ever pretend to know what is best again. I’ve kept my side of the bargain and it’s time you kept yours.’

She ran in through the open French doors, eyes blinded with tears, past the entrance to the dining room which was filling up for the last dinner service.

When Lamb came in to supper, he looked tired and visibly shaken.

He drank more than usual that night.

Only he didn’t do it alone.

Dorsey was out of her league. When a woman like Kay Waverley took you on over a man, you were done for. It was the scandal of the season and all of Monte Carlo agreed; poor little Dorsey wasn’t handling it well.

One night, right in the middle of the piazza in front of the Grand Casino, she confronted Lamb as he escorted Waverley to her car.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She grabbed his arm.

‘Dorsey, stop it!’ He pulled away. ‘Go back to the hotel, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Not without you.’

Kay had stepped aside. She knew when to play the star and when to slip into a supporting role. ‘I can make my own way.’ She waved to the valet. ‘After all, I don’t need a babysitter.’

‘I said go back to the hotel!’ Lamb hissed to Eva.

Kay’s silver Bentley pulled up and Kay slid into the driver’s seat.

‘Not without you!’ Dorsey’s voice had reached fever pitch. She was pathetic, clinging to him.

‘Damn it! Leave me alone.’ He gave her a shove.

She stumbled backwards, almost falling.

‘Don’t! I’m warning you,’ she threatened.

A small crowd was gathering, clusters of well-dressed patrons, spilling out of the casino, eager to watch the drama unfold.

‘Stop making a scene.’ Lamb regarded her with unveiled disdain.

Kay rolled down the window. ‘Hey sailor, can I drop you somewhere?’

‘Yes,’ he decided firmly, ‘as a matter of fact, you can.’

Kay opened the door and moved over into the passenger seat. ‘In that case, you can drive. A man’s place is behind the wheel.’

Lamb climbed in and she curled up next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘Maybe we should do some skinny dipping of our own. What do you think?’

She laughed as the car pulled off, making its way up the winding streets to the villa on the hillside. And Dorsey, humiliated and sobbing, ran off alone into the dark narrow streets.

‘Didn’t you hear? She made the most ridiculous scene last night.’

Valmont was sitting at breakfast across from the Lyonesse Sisters. Both widows in their seventies, they came to Monte Carlo every year at the same time; a permanent feature of the social hierarchy. Their father had owned the Lyon Sugar factory and so they were known by their maiden name and considerable fortune.

‘She’s a pretty girl.’

‘A very pretty girl,’ the other agreed.

‘But she’s out of her depth.’

‘Completely.’

‘Kay Waverley is a woman of the world. And so is Lord Lambert.’

‘Lord?’ Valmont looked up, surprised. ‘I didn’t know he was titled.’

‘He never uses it. But we know all about him – we know his father, in fact. But young Dorsey made such a scene.’ The old woman sighed, stirring an extra lump of her family’s sugar into her coffee. ‘And that will never do.’

‘Not the way to impress a man like Lamb,’ her sister surmised. ‘Shouting, grabbing at him.’

‘Like some sort of fishwife. Right in the middle of the courtyard.’

‘I almost felt sorry for Kay. And for Lord Lambert.’

‘I suppose they’re in love.’ Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. ‘I hear he hasn’t been back to the hotel yet.’

‘That young girl has no mother,’ the other concluded. ‘A mother would have instructed her in how to handle the situation. One should never give the other woman the satisfaction.’

‘It’s best to simply ignore it,’ her sister agreed. ‘And of course to find a lover of your own.’

(They were both old campaigners and had survived many marital skirmishes in their time.)

‘Yes,’ the old woman chuckled, reaching for another slice of fresh brioche, ‘men can only focus on one lover – either yours or theirs. And after they’ve made their conquest, yours becomes considerably more interesting.’

Valmont sipped his coffee too, but inside he felt lacerated by the strength of Eva’s feeling for Lamb. Ever since Kay Waverley had arrived in Monte Carlo, she’d been distracted and elusive. The woman who was once his keenest advocate could barely spare him a few words. The conversation moved on, but he sat miserably.

After they’d parted company, he tried to send a message to Eva’s room but was informed that Mademoiselle Dorsey had left the hotel that morning, without leaving a forwarding address.

Valmont sat on his bed, staring out at his newly acquired sea view.

She was gone. And it had never even occurred to her to let him know.

His hatred of Lamb hardened into a knife in his heart. He found himself searching the casino and bars for him, unsure of what he would do when he found him, only that it would be as violent as he was capable of making it. But with no luck.

Lamb had not emerged from the pink villa in the hills.

In fact, Valmont never saw him again.

Two days later he received a telegram from Paris.

YOUR SHOP INTERIOR IS HIDEOUS STOP ARE YOU PLANNING TO SELL PERFUME OR RAW MEAT STOP

Within the hour, he was on a train.

It was months later that Valmont read, quite by chance, of the death of an Englishman in the South of France. The body of Viscount Charles Lamb, aka Charles Alexander Haveston Lambert, only son of the Earl of Royce, and the recipient of the British Victory Medal for his service in the Great War, was discovered early one morning reclining in a deckchair on the beach at Cap Ferrat, staring out towards the sea. The coroner concluded that he’d gone there deliberately to overdose, which he’d accomplished with a substantial amount of morphine, to which he’d been addicted ever since he’d suffered a serious leg injury in the war.

He’d just won 20,000 francs at roulette a few hours earlier. The money was nowhere to be found. Theft was ruled out when it was discovered that he’d posted a letter in the early hours of that morning, a fact that had been noted by the night receptionist at the hotel.

During the post-mortem that took place in Cap Ferrat shortly afterwards, when the medical examiner was asked if he suspected any foul play, he surprised the court by answering an unequivocal ‘no’. When pressed as to what reason Lord Lambert might have had for taking his own life, he paused, looking around the crowded courtroom, before he answered.

‘I’m afraid that the man known as Charles Lamb was very seriously ill, Your Honour.’

‘Really?’ The Coroner adjusted his glasses. ‘Can you elaborate? What was the nature of his illness?’

Again, the medical examiner hesitated. Then, clearing his throat, he continued. ‘Mr Lamb, or rather, Lord Lambert, suffered from an advanced case of syphilis. His liver was already inflamed, indicating hepatitis, peritonitis, and possible kidney disease. His prognosis would not have been good. And he probably suffered a great deal of pain. Further manifestations would most likely include seizure, meningitis, dementia, not to mention horrendous pains in the lower extremities and possible deformity.’

And so the case was concluded.

The money and the letter were never traced.

Lambert’s family refused to collect the body or pay his outstanding bills and so the local people gave him a burial at sea as a civic kindness.

Sitting in the dining room of his Paris apartment, Valmont read the story over and over.

He thought of Eva’s face the first night she’d seen Kay Waverley and the argument she’d had with Lamb on the terrace.

‘She likes you. It will be easy.’ Her words resounded in Valmont’s head.

Without knowing why, he had the sickening feeling that Eva had manipulated the situation to her own particular ends. Had her jealous hysterics been just another deftly played con – one that even he had fallen for?

He considered asking her about it but recoiled from phrasing the questions out loud. Part of him suspected she wouldn’t answer him truthfully; that in all probability she would claim complete ignorance. And he couldn’t bear to have her lie to him.