It was an apartment of extremes – classic, modern – and undeniably sophisticated. Almost no concessions had been made to convention. It wasn’t a social setting but rather a sanctuary.
It was such a different world from the one Grace was familiar with. She’d lived her life in English heritage houses, with chintz fabric, Queen Anne furniture, paintings of long-dead family members – all with their noses and eyes in the right places. She was unused to a home that didn’t cheerfully sport a traditional public face. It seemed to her a luxurious disregard.
Madame Zed brought in a bottle of cognac and some glasses. ‘I’m afraid it’s not very ladylike, however I prefer this to tea.’
‘You have such a wonderful home,’ Grace admired.
‘I used to have a wonderful home,’ Madame corrected her, pouring out two drinks. ‘It’s outdated. But I’m old now. I have neither the strength nor the means to redo it.’
‘Outdated! On the contrary, I think it’s extremely modern.’
She handed her a drink. ‘All my life I’ve been a creature of fashion. Fashion, like life, is all about change. About embracing the new and the unknown. This look is old. I’m stuck.’
‘Where I come from, everything is stuck.’
‘And that,’ Madame raised her glass, ‘is why no one travels halfway across the world to buy a dress in London.’
Touché, Grace thought with a smile. ‘I understand that you’re a perfumer, is that right? That you created some very memorable scents.’
Madame Zed gave a little shrug. ‘I’ve enjoyed some success in my time.’
‘Do you still make perfume?’
‘No. Not in many years. A lifetime ago.’ She settled into a chair across from her. ‘But now, tell me how you came here?’
‘Well, actually, there’s very little to tell. I live in London. I’m married. I lead a perfectly average life,’ she admitted. ‘Then one day, I received a letter from Madame d’Orsey’s lawyer, Monsieur Tissot, informing me that I was the sole beneficiary of her will. I was certain there had been a mistake. But Monsieur Tissot insisted. So I arrived in Paris a few days ago to see for myself.’ She put her glass down. ‘As bizarre as it sounds, apparently I’ve received an inheritance from a woman I know nothing about. The entire situation is absurd!’
Madame raised a hand to stop her. ‘I’m sorry, but what precisely is your inheritance, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘According to the will, my inheritance is to be the proceeds of the sale of an apartment, in the Place des Vosges. Do you know it?’
‘Oh.’ Madame Zed frowned; shifted. ‘I see. Nothing else?’
‘Well, there are some stocks.’ Grace sat forward. ‘The lawyer – I’m sure he thinks that I should just take the money and leave. But I can’t. I’m looking for someone who knew Eva d’Orsey, for some clue to my connection to her.’
Grace waited, hoping that Madame Zed would willingly fill in the gaps, but instead she took a sip of her cognac, her features unreadable. She seemed hesitant, even reluctant to offer any information.
Still, Grace remembered the way the old woman had reacted when she’d heard of Eva’s death. She tried again. ‘You knew her, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I knew her.’ However, instead of explaining, Madame fell silent, drifting into her own thoughts.
‘What was she like?’ Grace prompted.
‘Eva?’ Madame’s black eyes held the distance, as if she were looking inward, into her own memory. ‘Eva was the most genuinely original, singularly elegant woman I think I have ever known. She was also very troubled. Desperate even. I knew her a long time. The truth was we both had certain expectations of each other. In the end, I suppose they were too high.’
‘What kind of expectations? What do you mean, desperate?’
Madame looked across at Grace. ‘It’s a complicated history, Mrs Munroe. I’m not entirely certain even I understand it.’
Her evasiveness was frustrating.
‘I just want to know something about her.’ Grace felt as though she was begging; perhaps she was. ‘I know nothing!’
Madame considered a moment. ‘What if knowing more meant that your life would change?’
‘How?’
But Madame Zed didn’t elaborate. Instead she stared at Grace, as if trying to measure her resolve.
‘Hasn’t my life already changed?’ Grace pointed out. ‘The only difference is, right now I don’t understand why.’
‘Very well,’ Madame agreed finally.
Then, to Grace’s surprise, the old woman got up and left the room.
When she returned, she was holding three very different bottles of perfume, which she put down on the table between them. Two were in fine hand-blown glass flacons with crystal stoppers. The first was elegant, a slim, simple rectangular shape; the second was a multifaceted crystal creation that threw rainbows of light around the room. Each had a gold-embossed printed labels. One read La Première and the other said Auréole Noire.
The last one was nothing more than a plain, generic chemist’s vial, sealed with a cork stopper. A yellowed, peeling label read Choses Perdus.
Grace looked up. ‘What’s this?’
Madame sat down again in the chair opposite. ‘Once upon a time, I was a perfumer, Mrs Munroe. Now I’m reduced to a custodian, a collector of the past. I can’t write or paint or compose… my language is scent – the vocabulary of feeling and memory. So forgive me if the story I’m about to tell is illustrated in a slightly unconventional way.’ She gestured, indicating the perfumes. ‘Here is a history. A love letter, in fact.’
Grace stared at the three bottles again. ‘In perfume?’
She nodded. ‘Only these perfumes weren’t created by me. They were the work of my only apprentice, Andre Valmont, an extraordinarily talented young man.’
‘The shop below was his, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. His, mine… and to a certain extent, Eva’s. You see, Eva d’Orsey was his muse, his greatest source of inspiration. She gave him vision. And he gave her clarity, focus.’
Grace sat forward, eager to hear more. ‘A muse? So, was she beautiful?’
‘Not when I first met her. Then she was just a girl – awkward, unformed.’
‘Really?’
Madame smiled indulgently. ‘Most people assume that a muse is a creature of perfect beauty, poise and grace. Like the creatures from Greek mythology. They’re wrong. In fact, there should be a marked absence of perfection in a muse – a gaping hole between what she is and what she might be. The ideal muse is a woman whose rough edges and contradictions drive you to fill in the blanks of her character. She is the irritant to your creativity. A remarkable possibility, waiting to be formed.’
Madame picked up the bottle marked La Première. Very gently she eased the stopper off and held her nose above the bottle. Eyes closed, she inhaled.
She passed the bottle to Grace.
Gingerly, Grace smelled it too.
It was a heady, overwhelming veil of scent. At first it developed almost hypnotically into a floral, fruit bouquet; languid and sensual with a musky, almost dusty depth. But then a sharpness emerged, beautiful, icy, unexpected. There was something almost overwhelming about the lush complexity of the formulation, the sheer unbridled eroticism which came across in wave after wave of contrasting notes.
‘This is floral, earthy, and there’s the clean overlay of aldehydic waxiness and soft flowers,’ Madame explained. ‘And then, underneath, a whiff of more feral, impolite essences. Under the clean, innocent exterior there’s a carnal presence. It’s not without ulterior motive.’
Grace stared hopelessly. Here was a language she definitely didn’t understand. ‘I’m sorry?’
Madame Zed looked across at her. ‘This, Mrs Munroe, is the scent of intoxication and desire. The perfume of seduction.’
New York, 1927
It was nearing the end of August when Eva saw Miss Waverley again. She was strolling down the hallway on t
he arm of a dark-haired man with a very thin moustache as Eva was coming out of the linen closet on the third floor.
‘Oh, hello!’ Miss Waverley smiled gaily, as if Eva were an old friend.
‘You’re back!’ Eva beamed in turn, ridiculously thrilled at the sight of her.
Miss Waverley laughed and pulled the long chinchilla wrap she was wearing up on her shoulders. ‘I told you I would be.’
The gentleman tipped his hat at her.
Miss Waverley squeezed his arm. ‘This is Mr Wiener. And this, my dear,’ she said, turning to him, ‘is the little maid I told you about.’
Miss Waverley had been talking about her; had remembered her. Eva’s whole chest swelled with pride.
‘Charmed,’ he nodded. He had a German accent and intent, almost entirely black eyes.
‘So, you’re still here,’ Miss Waverley said.
‘Yes.’
Mr Wiener lit a cigarette. ‘Does it suit you?’
‘Pardon me, sir?’
‘This type of work?’
They were both looking at her very seriously, waiting for a response.
‘It suits me very well, sir.’
‘You have no ambition?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Really? Tell me, you don’t want to be in the movies like everyone else in the world?’
‘Don’t tease her,’ Miss Waverley chided. ‘She doesn’t know what you’re talking about. Josef is a film director,’ she explained Eva. ‘And a world-class cynic.’
‘So.’ He had a way of staring directly into her eyes that made her uneasy. ‘You are the only girl in New York who doesn’t want to be a film star, is that right?’
‘I don’t think I can act, sir.’
He laughed. ‘That has never stopped anyone else! Everyone wants something. Go on, tell me your dream.’
‘Me?’ She looked to Miss Waverley, who just smiled at her. ‘I don’t think I have any dreams, sir.’
‘Really? That’s a shame. Because I might just be inclined to give some of them to you.’ He tipped his hat again and they continued on.
Tossing the chinchilla over her shoulder, Miss Waverley caught Eva’s eye and gave her a wink. ‘Do come and see me later,’ she called. ‘I have a present for you. But come after midnight. I’ll be out until then.’
It was half past midnight when Eva knocked on Miss Waverley’s door.
She opened it, wrapped in her dressing gown, and smiled. ‘I thought maybe you weren’t coming.’
The room was dark, just a few candles and a record playing. It was a hot night. The balcony doors were open. Eva could just make out the dark outline of a man, smoking in one of the chairs.
‘Oh.’ She backed away slightly. ‘You have company, miss.’
‘Oh, don’t mind him.’ Miss Waverley took her by the hand and closed the door. ‘He won’t trouble us.’ Then she walked over to the dressing table and poured Eva a drink. ‘Here. Want one? It’s about time you learned how to handle whisky.’
Eva looked at the outline of the man; at the glowing embers of his cigarette. Then she looked back at Miss Waverley, smiling at her in her scarlet silk dressing gown.
Eva took the glass, sat on the edge of the bed. She already knew how to drink whisky; she’d watched her uncle do it. She tossed the entire shot straight into the back of her throat, where it burned, searing down the centre of her. She held out the glass again and Miss Waverley laughed.
‘Well, look at you! So many hidden talents,’ she said, filling it again. Then she took a little package from the top of her wardrobe wrapped in pink tissue paper, tied with a white ribbon.
She laid it on the bed. ‘Here. Open it.’
Eva ran her fingers over the paper. She felt anxious; slightly woozy from the whisky. She tugged at the ribbon and the layers of paper floated to the side. Inside there was a tiny shell-pink demi bra and tap pants with embroidered lace silk stockings. They were extremely delicate and exquisitely made, with tiny bluebells hand-stitched along the borders.
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Go on,’ Miss Waverley urged, ‘aren’t you going to try them on?’ She leaned back in the armchair, propping her feet up on the ottoman. ‘I want to see if they fit.’
Eva stood up; a reeling wave of light-headedness washed over her. She took the lingerie into the bathroom. The whisky had hit her hard; her hands seemed miles away from her body, her fingers tingling. She looked at her reflection in the mirror.
She didn’t want to change, but she didn’t want to seem rude either. Besides, they had played dress-up before.
Eva finished her drink. Then she put on the panties and bra, the silk stockings.
When she opened the door, Miss Waverley was waiting. She had changed the record. It was a slow song. The candles glimmered.
‘You look just perfect. Like a real lady.’
The man had got up and was standing in the shadows, by the doorway.
‘Now put some lipstick on. Just like I showed you.’
‘I’m not sure I want to.’ Her voice sounded small and far away.
Miss Waverley took a step closer. ‘Of course you do.’ Her voice lowered to a whisper. ‘He wants to take us with him. To California. We’re going to live in a big white house in the hills and each of us will have a car and there will be maids and housekeepers and a screen test for both of us!’ She smiled, her eyes burning with excitement. ‘This, my dear, is what opportunity looks like.’
‘You mean you want me to go with you?’ Eva couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
‘Of course! Do this right and we’ll end up in California, making movies. You’ll never have to pick up another dustpan and brush in your life.’ She pointed to the dressing table. There was a tube of red lipstick, its cap already off, waiting. ‘Go on.’
Eva reached for the lipstick, her hand trembling.
‘Here.’ Miss Waverley helped her to apply a slow smear of blood red. She stood behind her in the mirror. ‘You want to be with me, don’t you?’
Eva nodded.
‘Good. Just do what I do.’ Then, louder, she said, ‘Now, we look like sisters, don’t we?’ She ran her hands over Eva’s shoulders, slowly down her arms. ‘I like that idea, don’t you?’
Eva looked past Miss Waverley’s reflection, at the man smoking by the balcony door, staring. The embers of his cigarette glowed hot as he inhaled hard. Her legs felt rubbery, her head dizzy. ‘I think I’d better go. I’m not well.’
‘Really?’ Miss Waverley’s grip tightened on her arms. ‘I think someone deserves a thank-you, don’t you?’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Such a good girl.’ Miss Waverley’s dark eyes showed in the flickering light.
Suddenly Eva couldn’t speak. It was as if her mouth could move but she’d forgotten how to form words. Her limbs felt numb and heavy.
The man stepped out of the shadows. There was the distinctive thin moustache, the penetrating black eyes.
‘Only,’ Miss Waverley tilted her head, smiling softly at her in the mirror, ‘I’m not the person who paid for them.’
‘Get up.’ Someone was shaking her, gently at first and then more firmly. ‘Come on. It’s time to get up!’
Eva tried to open her eyes, but her lids were so heavy. Sleep pulled at her, tugging her under.
More shaking; harder this time. ‘Do you want to lose your job? Get up!’
Eva recognized that voice; the same voice that had scolded and berated her non-stop for two weeks. It was Rita.
She forced her eyes open. Rita was standing over her, hands on hips. It was daylight and Eva was lying in a bed; the wrong bed, not her narrow little cot but a wide soft mattress with piles of pillows. Her whole body hurt and her head throbbed. She tried to move, to sit up. The room started spinning. ‘I don’t feel well,’ she gagged.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Rita grabbed the waste-paper basket and then hauled Eva up with one powerful arm. ‘Be sick in here. And mind yo
u don’t splatter!’
Eva threw up in the basket and Rita wiped her face with a wet washcloth. Then Eva sank down again, into the pillows. She heard Rita running the bath.
Her breathing slowed and she closed her eyes, slipping back down underneath the black waves of sleep.
‘Oh no, you don’t.’ Rita shook her arm again. ‘You’ve got to get up. Here,’ she handed her three aspirin and a shot of whisky from her rubbing alcohol bottle.
Eva tried to push them away. ‘Please, no!’
‘Don’t answer back. You take them or you won’t be able to walk across the floor let alone up the steps.’
Eva did as she was told. ‘What time is it?’ She had no idea how long she’d slept; if it had been a few hours or a whole day.
‘Just after nine in the bloody morning.’ Rita hoisted Eva up. The beautiful silk lingerie was twisted, torn and stained. The silk stockings ruined. ‘Good God! Look at the state of you!’ Rita peeled off the shredded stockings. ‘Don’t tell me this is what you’ve been wasting your wages on.’
‘Where is she? When did she say she would be back?’
‘Who?’ Rita shot her a look. ‘You mean that whore? Oh, you’ll never see her again, missy. I told you she was no good but you didn’t want to listen, did you?’
‘But she’s coming back for me. She said she would take me with her.’
Rita shook her head. ‘She’s checked out. First thing this morning with that Hun. That’s the only reason I’m cleaning this early. And what happens? I open the door and find you spread out on the bed like a corpse.’
‘No.’ Tears ran down Eva’s cheeks and chin. ‘I’m… I’m ruined!’
‘Well, if you want to swim with the sharks you’re going to get bit,’ Rita sighed. ‘And there’s no need to be dramatic. You’re not the first girl in the world to make a mistake. Now, get up.’
The Perfume Collector Page 17