Then he left, going down to the far end of the hallway to use the service staircase.
Eva came back several times to check on Miss Waverley in between her duties. By early evening, she was in bed resting and Eva had managed to get her to eat some ice cream, drowned in Coca-Cola.
She sat in the corner of the room as Miss Waverley drifted in and out of sleep, her face drawn, lips colourless, tense with pain. The man hadn’t rung again.
A little before nine, Miss Waverley woke and sat up in bed.
‘You’re still here.’ Reaching across to the nightstand, she groped for her cigarettes. Lighting one, she leaned back against the pillows and took a deep drag.
‘You need to eat something.’
‘Where’s that medicine?’
‘Here.’
After she’d taken some, washed down by whisky, she looked across at Eva. ‘Why did you stay?’
‘You needed help.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘France. The countryside, near Lille.’
Miss Waverley exhaled, a stream of smoke drifting up slowly to the ceiling. ‘Farmland?’
‘Yes,’ Eva nodded. ‘My grandparents had a small dairy farm.’
‘I came from Minnesota. I can still smell the cow shit. I’d rather die than go back.’
‘Really? I thought maybe you were from New York.’
She laughed, like a hard little cough. ‘Well, we don’t have to tell everyone, do we? Are your parents alive?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry for you. You have to make your own way then, don’t you?’
It had never occurred to Eva that there was another way. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’
The woman tilted her head. ‘There aren’t many professions a girl with no background can go into.’
‘No, ma’am.’
Miss Waverley’s face tensed. Stubbing out her cigarette, she looked exhausted again. ‘You can go now. I’ll be fine. Turn out the light, please. No one needs to know about this, understand?’
The next day, Miss Waverley’s normal morning appointments resumed.
And when Eva went to service her room that afternoon, she was out.
After that, Eva took it upon herself to visit Miss Waverley almost every afternoon. She often entertained at odd hours, with black jazz musicians from Harlem, exotic dancers and nightclub performers. There were buckets of champagne and bottles of gin, and there was music playing constantly. Both she and her guests treated Eva like a cross between a pet and a little sister; calling her Lulu for no particular reason other than it made them laugh, teaching her how to dance, sending her on endless errands for cigarettes, magazines and chocolates. But she didn’t mind. In fact, she loved feeling that she was a part, no matter how peripheral, of Miss Waverley’s glamorous set.
Sometimes there was no one else and Eva and Miss Waverley would spend the time alone. Eva guessed that she didn’t like being on her own much; she sensed that, left by herself, Miss Waverly’s mood could be changeable and even morbid. She needed the reassurance of company. So she would amuse herself by trying on different outfits for her evening engagements and Eva would help her to select her jewellery and accessories. Other times, Miss Waverley would sun herself, lying naked on a silk robe on the balcony while Eva ironed her clothes.
Miss Waverley had no shame of her body but treated it rather like a weapon, meant to disarm those around her. She held her head high, her shoulders back, hips swaying as she sauntered lazily from one room to the next. And she was physically fascinating; her breasts were high and full, with pink swollen nipples. Her pubic hair curled in thick dark tendrils. She teased Eva, winking as she walked by, ‘You know, you really shouldn’t stare,’ which made Eva blush. Only she couldn’t help staring. Eva couldn’t tell if she was in fact perfect, or simply gave the impression of perfection. And Eva was shocked and yet mesmerized by the overwhelming undertow of eroticism that surrounded her. Eva’s own body was just forming, tiny buds of breasts and a pale hint of hair around her groin, of which she was inexplicably both ashamed and frightened. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror. But Miss Waverley was like some wonderful goddess, meant to be openly adored.
One day when it was too hot to sunbathe, Miss Waverley amused herself by making up Eva’s face and teaching her how to apply thick coats of black eyeliner and red lipstick.
‘Your face is like a blank canvas. First you smooth it out with powder, then you paint a dark frame around your eyes. There is no need to try to make it look natural. It’s better when you exaggerate. Timidity is deadly. In anything. Always be bold. Look at you!’ She stood back, admiring her handiwork. ‘See how you’re transformed?’
Eva stared at her reflection. It wasn’t her at all but some exotic intruder, using her body, her features. She couldn’t take her eyes off herself, she looked so different, so much older.
‘You just don’t know how to make the most of yourself, that’s all,’ Miss Waverley said. ‘A diamond in the rough. That’s what we call it.’ Then she frowned, holding up a mass of Eva’s hair. ‘But this is getting in the way. And it’s not very modern looking. You need to cut it.’
‘Cut it?’
‘Absolutely!’ Opening a drawer, she pulled out a pair of scissors. ‘Sit down.’
‘But…’
‘I’ll make it look like mine. Don’t you want to look like me?’
‘Yes.’ More than anything, Eva thought.
‘Well, then.’
Miss Waverley pulled up a chair and sat Eva in front of the mirror. ‘Be still,’ she commanded, pouring herself a drink. She downed it in one.
Eva watched nervously as she chopped off a huge section. ‘Do you cut your own hair?’
‘Are you mad?’ Miss Waverley snorted. Another pile of locks fell to the floor. ‘Look at that! You have a neck.’
Eva closed her eyes. It was probably best not to look.
Forty minutes later, she stood side by side with Miss Waverley in front of the mirror. Miss Waverley wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
‘What do you think?’
‘I guess it takes a while to get used to it.’
‘We look like sisters. I’ve never had a little sister before.’
And it was true. Eva was shorter, but they had the same delicate build, and now the same sleek dark bob.
Eva blinked, heart pounding. ‘Do you think?’
‘Sure. I know, let’s put a dress on you, shall we?’
She helped Eva out of her uniform, then stopped.
‘Good God, is this really your underwear?’ She cringed at Eva’s dingy pair of cotton shorts and threadbare camisole. Eva felt her face go hot from shame. ‘They’re dreadful! You need new ones.’
Miss Waverley tugged one of her dresses over Eva’s head. The smooth jersey fell over Eva’s figure, draping it in gentle curves. It felt cool and silky against her skin. Miss Waverley stood behind her, pulling in the waistline so that it appeared to fit perfectly in the reflection. ‘You look like a film star!’
Eva stared at herself, fascinated.
‘Do you know what this dress is for?’ Miss Waverly whispered.
Eva shook her head.
‘Seduction!’
The word disturbed Eva; it was laden with the murky enticements of sin, dangerous moral ambiguity and the certain promise of future remorse. But even worse than that was the implication of mysterious skills that remained beyond her comprehension. ‘I wouldn’t know how to seduce anyone,’ she murmured.
Miss Waverley raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’re old enough to want a man, then you’re old enough to seduce him. It’s easy. Seduction is nothing more than knowing that you want someone and then showing them, very gradually, very deliberately, that you do. It’s the way you do it – reveal, tease, ignore, take it back – that makes it seduction.’
‘But how do you know when to reveal, when to take away?’
‘Simple. You think about what you would like and then do it to them.’
‘Do you know how much this dress cost?’ Miss Waverley continued. ‘More than you make in a year. But look,’ she gestured to the wardrobe, its doors open, over-flowing. ‘I have more than I know what to do with. Of course, a girl has to be smart. Did you know I used to work in a canning factory sticking labels on to tins of bromide?’
It didn’t seem possible. ‘What happened?’
‘I had a little conversation with my boss one evening. See, the truth is, most girls don’t understand men, don’t know what they want.’
‘What do they want?’
‘Well…’ Miss Waverley seemed about to say something for a moment but then changed her mind. ‘If you really want to know about it, I’ll tell you some day. But trust me, it’s not complicated. Now, hang that, will you? And be a good girl and clean this up,’ she pointed to the mess of hair on the floor. ‘I’ll buy you some new under-things in just your size. When I come back.’
‘You’re leaving?’
But Miss Waverly didn’t bother to answer.
Instead she poured herself another drink, went into the bathroom and shut the door.
‘What in the Lord’s name did you do to your hair?’ asked Sis in horror, down in the laundry room.
Eva pulled her cap further down on her head. ‘I didn’t do it. Miss Waverley did.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ Sis grabbed Eva by the shoulders and turned her round. ‘She cut it all off!’ She ran her fingers through the blunt edge at the back of Eva’s neck. ‘It’s gone!’
‘I know. But it will be easier to keep clean,’ she added, trying to sound reasonable. Suddenly Sis’s grip felt like cement on her shoulder. She moved away.
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Sis said grimly, handing her another pile of wet linen. ‘That woman’s trouble.’
‘No, she isn’t. She’s just being nice.’ Eva took the sheets, feeding them in between the heavy rollers of the laundry press. ‘Besides, you think everyone’s trouble.’
‘I know all I need to know. And I’m right. What do you do with her anyway?’
‘Nothing.’ Eva concentrated on forcing the sheets through rather than on Sis’s face. ‘I help her get dressed, iron clothes.’
‘Why did you let her cut your hair?’
‘I look older. That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘But why do you want to look older? That’s what I want to know.’
A taut silence stretched out between them. Sis yanked the pressed sheets out of the other end.
‘She lies about with no clothes on,’ Sis said after a while, unable to leave the subject alone. ‘Everyone knows she does it.’
Eva rolled her eyes. ‘She’s sunbathing. In the privacy of her own room.’
‘There’s nothing private about a balcony in the middle of New York City.’
‘It’s all the rage, among fashionable people.’
‘If you want to look like a farmhand. Fashionable my eye! She has a reputation, you know.’
‘She’s good to me.’
‘Who do you think pays her bills?’
Eva tried to take the high ground. ‘Not everything in this world is black or white, Sis.’
‘Sure it is.’ Sis eyed her harshly. ‘The sooner you figure that out, the easier life goes for you. Good, bad, right, wrong. You wanna live in the grey area, you’re gonna find out you don’t know your ass from your elbow.’ She lifted another pile of sheets. ‘And mark my words, grey turns to black pretty damn fast.’
Paris, Spring, 1955
Grace had luncheon on her own, sitting at an outdoor table in a café in the sun. Turning over in her mind what Monsieur Androski had told her, she thought about perfume and its connection to memory.
Monsieur Tissot had teased her about her sensitivity to taste and smell and he wasn’t the only one. Part of her seemed to have always known what Monsieur Androski had clarified; that certain smells were the custodians of memory. And once they were unleashed, their effect was instant aneous, like switching on a light – flooding the senses far too quickly and completely. They had the power to transport and overwhelm. For that reason, one needed to be wary of them.
There were blocks of time in her memory that simply didn’t exist. In fact, she had very little recollection of anything before the age of eight. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been unusual except that Grace’s memory in everything else was exceptional.
It was as if she were inwardly holding her breath, afraid to inhale life fully.
Around her the tables were filling with people, tourists planning their next stop over a coffee, businessmen meeting for luncheon, well-heeled women taking a break from their sprees, leaning in to gossip with one another, shopping bags piled at their feet.
It was such a simple yet satisfying pleasure to dine out of doors in the sunshine. Taking a sip of her citron pressé, Grace relished the refreshing contrast of sweet syrup and lemon juice. And she found herself thinking of Monsieur Tissot’s philosophy: come to your senses.
Yield to them.
Had she ever entirely yielded to anything? The word implied a suppleness of spirit; an inherently optimistic predisposition she’d never fully entertained.
After luncheon, Grace began to walk, aimlessly at first, with only the vaguest sense of direction. She had no agenda. But Paris was much easier to navigate than she had imagined. London had sprung up wildly, everything thrown on top of everything else. But Paris had been designed. Here, historical landmarks appeared graciously; evenly spaced for maximum aesthetic impact. One had only to follow from one to another to reach any destination, including the Left Bank.
And weather that in England would have been blustery and punctuated with freezing rain showers was refreshingly breezy and fresh. The wind pushed the clouds across the sky at enormous speed but the sun remained high and warm. Before long Grace found herself back on the narrow winding little side street near the embankment – Rue Christine.
In front of her, on the corner, was Andre Valmont’s abandoned shop.
It was as if she couldn’t keep away from it; her curiosity was too strong. And now that she’d spoken with Monsieur Androski, it was even stronger.
From across the street, she watched as a workman finished nailing new boards across the windows and door of the corner shop; repairing the damage she and Monsieur Tissot had done. Head down, Grace walked on, past the front door, around to the back, looking to see if there might be a private entrance. And she found one, a discreet, faded red door in an alleyway behind the building.
Grace looked up. There was a light on in the second-floor window.
Perhaps Monsieur Tissot was right; maybe the old woman did live in the flat above the shop.
Gathering her courage, Grace knocked on the red door. Sure enough, a dog sprang to life upstairs, yapping excitedly, its toenails clicking against the floorboards as it scurried between the feet of its owner down the steps.
‘Oui?’ a voice called through the locked door.
Grace took a deep breath. ‘Madame, I’d like to speak to you if I may. I’m Grace Munroe, the woman… the woman who was in your shop.’
She waited, listening.
Silence.
Minutes passed with no movement on either side.
Finally, Grace heard a bolt slide across and the door eased open a crack.
The old woman eyed her suspiciously. ‘I should phone the police. You have no right to be here.’
Grace proceeded delicately. ‘I’m truly sorry that we gave you a fright. It was wrong to break in like that. My lawyer and I believed that the shop was abandoned. We had no idea you were living above.’
‘Fine,’ she dismissed her, waving her away. ‘Consider yourself absolved.’
She was beginning to close the door when Grace took the card out of her coat pocket and offered it to her. ‘I found this on the floor of the shop. When you surprised us, I accidentally put it into my pocket. Does it by any chance belong to you?’
; The old woman stared at it before taking it, turning it over slowly in her hand. ‘What do you and that lawyer have to do with Eva d’Orsey?’ she asked.
‘I’m her heir.’
‘Her heir?’ She looked surprised.
‘Yes.’
She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. ‘Did you read this?’ she asked, after a moment, holding up the card.
Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’
She handed it back to Grace. ‘I don’t care what happens to it now.’
Again, she began to shut the door but Grace held it open with her hand. ‘Pardon me, but are you by any chance Madame Zed? The famous perfumer, Madame Zed?’
‘How do you know that name?’
‘Are you she?’
‘What business is it of yours? Why do you want to know?’
‘Well, the thing is,’ Grace explained quickly, struck yet again by the absurdity of her situation, ‘I’d like to ask you some questions, if I may. You see, I never met Eva d’Orsey. She’s a complete stranger to me and I know nothing about her.’
Madame Zed paused, taking this in. ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘And when were you born?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How old are you?’ she pressed.
‘I was born on 30 May 1928. Why?’
‘In London?’
‘No, in Oxfordshire. Or rather, just outside.’ The woman was looking at her as if she expected more. ‘My parents died when I was young. After that, I was brought up by my uncle who is Professor of Medieval Literature at Balliol.’
‘An English girl,’ Madame repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘And how did you find me? Who told you to come here?’
‘No one. I saw it a newspaper, in Eva d’Orsey’s apartment. She’d circled something, with this address.’
‘A notification… of repossession,’ Madame deduced. ‘I’m surprised she noticed. Well, then,’ she stepped back, opened the door wider. ‘Yes, I think perhaps you’d better come inside.’
Madame Zed’s apartment was in stark contrast to the decadent aesthetics of the shop downstairs. The high narrow windows were simply shuttered against walls of soft bluey-grey. The furniture was sparse, arranged on a bare wooden floor and in the angular geometric art deco style. A large collection of cubist paintings, interspersed with old master portraits and landscapes, crowded the walls. In one corner, an antique harpsichord dominated, its keys worn and yellowed. Piles of sheet music were stacked high underneath it.
The Perfume Collector Page 16