Rita undressed Eva and put her into the bath. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her uniform and bathed her, as gently as a baby.
‘She’s sick, ma’am.’
Mrs Ronald narrowed her eyes and searched Sis’s face. ‘Really. What kind of sick?’
‘She’s throwing up, ma’am. Some sort of fever, I think.’
‘I hope this isn’t the result of any alcoholic drink, Cecily?’
‘No, ma’am. I think, although I couldn’t say for certain, that she’s got some sort of influenza.’
‘Influenza,’ Mrs Ronald repeated, sucking hard on her back teeth.
‘Or maybe she ate something that didn’t agree with her.’
‘Isn’t that interesting. Especially as you all eat in the canteen together. I’ve had no other reports.’
‘With all due respect, ma’am, she is foreign. They eat things no one else would touch.’
Mrs Ronald sighed. It was almost impossible to tell when Sis was lying; she was clever. It served her right for hiring a clever girl in the first place.
‘I’d be happy, ma’am, to clean her rooms in addition to my own,’ Sis offered.
Mrs Ronald leaned back in her chair, folding her hands together in her lap. ‘Would you now? Perhaps we should call a doctor for Miss Dorsey?’
Sis didn’t flinch. ‘As I said, ma’am, I can’t say for certain, but to me it looks like something that may well pass in a couple of days.’
‘That’s a lot of work, even if it is only a couple of days.’
Sis straightened. ‘She’d do the same for me, ma’am.’
‘Would she?’
For the first time, Sis dared to look Mrs Ronald in the eye. ‘Yes, ma’am, I believe she would.’
It was almost the end of October when Mr Lambert finally returned.
Eva caught a glimpse of him as he was riding the elevator one morning. She was dusting the light fixtures in the hallway when the doors opened and another patron got off. They were about to close again when he recognized her. ‘Oh, hello, it’s you!’ He jammed his hand between the doors and bounded off. ‘What have you done to your hair?’
His suit was badly in need of a press, his collar grey and frayed, but his eyes were just as blue as she’d remembered; his smile instantly disarming. She made herself concentrate on dusting.
‘So, you’re still here.’ His voice was low, conspiratorial.
‘Yes. I’m still here.’ Then she added, against her better judgement, ‘Did you enjoy Niagara Falls, sir?’
‘Niagara Falls?’ His brow furrowed as if he had no idea of what she was talking about. ‘I can’t say I did. Place with all the water, isn’t it?’
And the Laughing Blonde, she thought. But instead she just nodded. ‘That’s what they say.’
‘Yes, well, it’s been a busy summer. I’ve been all over the East Coast so it’s hard to remember.’
‘Must be.’ She moved a little further down the hallway.
‘Well, here’s the thing,’ he said, strolling up behind her, hands in his pockets. ‘I’ve been thinking of you quite a lot. Of your many admirable qualities.’
She glanced at him sideways. ‘Have you?’
‘And I have a small favour to ask of you. Well, a proposition really. You know,’ he leaned casually against the wall, ‘I’d like to discuss it with you sometime, only not here. It’s a private matter. Nothing one would talk about in a public hallway. You understand.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I’m in room 701. So, what do you say?’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Come and see me, say, in an hour?’
‘I’m not sure I have time,’ she said quietly.
‘Of course. Well, I mean. You know where I am, so you can come when you like.’
She continued to avoid his eyes; gave a little shrug. ‘I’ll think about it, sir.’
Mr Lambert blinked, as if suddenly seeing her for the first time. She’d changed. Her face was different; there was a shift in her demeanour and tone. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped.
The little maid was off, heading down the hallway.
He stood, more than a little surprised, watching as she walked away.
Two days later, at the end of her shift, Sis came down to Eva’s floor with a message.
‘I’ve got someone asking after you,’ she informed her, hand on hip.
‘Who?’
Sis leaned up against the counter, watching as Eva washed out dirty glasses in the tiny room-service kitchen. ‘Mr Lambert, of all people.’
Eva kept her eyes down. ‘Really.’
‘Humm. Why’s he asking after you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘He was on my floor for a while. Maybe he misses the way I change the sheets.’
‘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 s
orts. 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.’
The Perfume Collector Page 18