Madame inhaled slowly. ‘Like what?’
‘He made a three-storey house for the hens that was heated by a row of light bulbs under a wire mesh floor in the winter and that was always perfectly snug.’
‘How funny!’
‘Yes,’ Grace smiled. ‘And he built my mother a series of rotating pantry shelves and a wringer for the laundry that was operated by using a pedal on the floor rather than a handle so her arms wouldn’t grow tired.’
‘Did she like that?’
‘Well, she wasn’t very domestic – not much of a cook. She was more involved with her writing. Besides, we always had help for the housekeeping duties. They must have liked his inventions. But my father liked solving problems, I think, and my mother let him. I don’t think… I’m sorry.’ Suddenly Grace found it hard to concentrate on what she was trying to say. ‘I think something’s burning, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Have you got something in the oven? Your supper? I think it must be burning.’
‘Oh, merde! Not again!’ Crushing her cigarette into the ashtray, Madame got up and hurried to the kitchen. Grace could hear her muttering and cursing, the banging of pots and pans, the sound of running water.
When she didn’t return after a few minutes, Grace ventured into the hallway. The smell of charred pastry crust filled the corridor. ‘Can you save it?’ she asked, doubtfully.
‘It’s nothing.’ Madame opened the kitchen window to clear the smoke out. ‘Nothing that can’t be made again another time. I have always abhorred cooking. But every once in a while I try.’
‘I’m a dreadful cook. Far too easily distracted. I suppose I get that from my mother.’
Madame gave her a curious look. ‘Perhaps you do. But you must forgive me,’ she began ushering Grace towards the door, ‘it’s late. And as you can see, I have some cleaning to do.’ She held the door open for her. ‘Come again. Maybe tomorrow. And we will talk some more.’
Grace lit a cigarette on the pavement outside the deserted perfume shop on Rue Christine and began walking back to her hotel through the quiet, dimly lit streets, recounting Madame’s words. One sentence echoed in her mind, replaying itself over and over.
‘A young woman on the cusp of her sexual awakening is a powerful creature.’
She took a deep drag. Here in this strange city, the net of her memory loosened. She too had been intoxicated by her awakening sexuality.
It had happened just as Madame had noted; early on; after her mother’s death when she was thirteen or so. She’d only recently gone to live with her uncle in Oxford. He had no experience with children; suddenly she found she had the run of the house. He was always working and she was left more and more to her own devices, treated as an adult rather than a child. Grace remembered feeling such a tangle of opposing emotions – the aching loss of her mother, fear, and at the same time a new confidence and terrible, thrilling freedom. But underneath all that, there was an unfamiliar, overwhelming desire to be touched. Her body had grown languid, easily aroused. And overnight it had transformed from the narrow shapeless body of a child to that of a young woman, with a slimmer waist, swelling breasts, curving hips.
She began attracting attention. Clandestine looks and mysterious tensions suddenly corseted her days; unspoken invitations tugged at her awareness. Her uncle, always on the periphery, receded even further, maintaining a respectful distance from her transformation. But his colleagues gazed upon her with new eyes and suddenly she too had moved a little slower, a little more deliberately, teasing out their interest without knowing why; simply because all of a sudden she could.
She was fascinated and repulsed in equal measures by the sudden increase in male attention. She learned to cover her desire with a steely surface of indifference, playing the tensions off one another.
It had been an effective strategy, surprisingly sophisticated for one so young.
Near the banks of the Seine, tucked beneath bridges, in the shadows, Grace glimpsed the outlines of couples, bodies entwined, stealing embraces.
She crossed over the river, the black water rushing beneath her like a sheet of moving glass, the lights from the shore reflected in its smooth surface.
There had been a student of her uncle’s, a young man in his early twenties named Theo Lund; lanky, serious, with large, round blue eyes. He was shy, studious, socially awkward. From a modest background, he didn’t mix much, but was instead dedicated to earning his degree.
He came to the house every week, while working on his thesis, for private tutorials.
And she made a point of being the one to answer the door, showing him into her uncle’s study. She took care with her dress, her hair; lingering, allowing him to make conversation with her. And her answers to his questions were always evasive, teasing. Week after week, she felt his interest and admiration grow.
In private, she dreamed of his hands on her skin; of the pressure of his mouth on hers. She yearned for a physical pleasure she couldn’t quite imagine, didn’t understand.
Then she’d offered to show him the garden one late spring evening, with the magnolia tress in full bloom.
He’d followed her into the grove, talking too fast, too much. The trees had formed a canopy of rich blooms, waxy petals of deep pink, exploding with colour and perfume. She’d stood, quite still, while he admired them, looking everywhere but at her. And then finally he stopped. His hands shook a little as he reached for her.
She had met him more than halfway, tilting her face up, wrapping her arms around his neck. Tentative, tight-lipped kisses became urgent, hands travelled…
‘Grace!’ Her uncle’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘What are you doing?’
He was standing at the end of the path, rigid with indignation.
Even after all these years, her whole body still withered with mortification at the thought of it.
She never saw Theo Lund again. Was unsure if he ever graduated or not.
It was odd now, looking back… she’d been only a girl then. But her lasting impression was that he’d been the vulnerable one, the one whose innocence had been lost and led astray.
And then later, there was Roger.
That night after her birthday party at Scott’s, she was meant to be staying with Mallory but instead she and Roger had taken a room in a small hotel in Mayfair. She’d wanted to make love, couldn’t wait to be alone with him.
Once the door was locked, she went to him immediately.
‘You’re like a wild animal,’ he teased, extracting himself to make them both drinks. ‘Take it easy!’
‘But I don’t want to take it easy.’
Later, in bed, he manoeuvred her from one position to another; he had more experience and enjoyed instructing her. However, her willingness, her talent as a student, threw him.
‘Have you done this before?’ he accused.
‘No, but I want to please you.’
‘Relax,’ he said firmly, pushing her arms down by her side. ‘Let me.’
But by relax, he meant, ‘Be still.’
Grace had unladylike appetites; aggressive lusts. And a grasping emptiness in her soul. She should be ashamed of herself. It was painful to her, in the same way that certain high-pitched noises are unbearable to the ears, to even acknowledge this part of her nature.
Climbing the steps to the hotel, Grace paused, taking a long look at Paris, in all its shimmering, enigmatic elegance, wearing the night as a beautiful woman wears diamonds.
Madame Zed was right; one is not always sure who seduces whom.
Back in the rich, warm glow of the hotel lobby, piano music played, soft and melodious; the scent of white hyacinths, massed together in great brass urns near the front desk, perfumed the air with a sharp green sweetness. And the vast marble foyer echoed with conversation, laughter and the clinking of glasses.
It was cocktail hour.
‘Madame Munroe!’ The concierge bustled out from behind his desk. ‘You have a message, madame. A gentlema
n, Monsieur Tissot, has telephoned for you today.’ He handed her a slip of paper. ‘Here is his number. And also your husband has rung.’
‘My husband?’
‘Yes, madame. He has asked if you might be so good as to return his call.’ He handed her a second slip. ‘He is staying at his London club. This is the number.’
Her heart lifted. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
Upstairs in her room, Grace lit a cigarette and stood smoking by the window, looking out over the city skyline.
Every day she’d expected something; a letter or flowers, perhaps?
As the days dragged out, her hope withered.
But sure enough, in his own time, here it was.
Closing her eyes, Grace took another drag, gathering her nerve.
Mallory must’ve given him the name of the hotel.
She hated the thought of a strained, long-distance conversation. But perhaps it was for the best. He could apologize and they could move on with their lives, though the idea of him explaining his behavior; of being vulnerable in any way, made her cringe inwardly. They simply needed to get past this episode. And she told herself she could bear anything as long as he didn’t go into details; she didn’t want to imagine the affair any more vividly than she already had.
As long as Roger understood that it was over, for ever, they could carry on.
Resolved, Grace stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the receiver.
‘Yes, I’d like to place a trunk call please, to the East India Club in St James’s.’ She waited, gnawing on her fingernails while the operator connected her, eventually being transferred via the club switchboard to his room.
‘Hello? Hello?’ Roger’s voice crackled on the other end of the line. He sounded as if he were speaking through a tin can, and very far away.
Automatically, Grace’s spine stiffened. ‘Hello? Hello, Roger… it’s me.’
‘Who? I’m sorry? Who is this?’
‘It’s Grace,’ she said, louder. Who was he expecting?
‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ There was silence. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m… I’m in Paris,’ she said stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say.
‘Yes, so I gather. I’ve spoken to Mallory.’
‘Really.’
‘And how was the trip?’
‘The trip? Fine. It’s a nice hotel.’
‘Good.’
More silence.
Her mind raced, tripping over itself for something, anything, to fill in the void. She could tell him about the will, explain the extraordinary inheritance of Madame d’Orsey… but she didn’t. His transgression was the matter at hand. However, she couldn’t help notice, with a sense of growing misgiving, that he hadn’t even asked as to the nature of her business.
‘And you?’ she fumbled. ‘Are you well?’
‘Well,’ he paused, ‘as well as can be expected. I can’t say I was thrilled to return from Scotland to empty house.’ He sounded petulant, put-upon. ‘There wasn’t a single thing to eat, Grace.’
It was amazing how he managed to twist things, to imply that he was being stoic in the face of her abandonment. She could hear him shifting, changing position. ‘How are you bearing up? Can you stomach the food?’
Grace’s skin went cold. Was this it? Was he just going to make pleasant conversation and pretend that nothing had happened? ‘It’s quite good really,’ she answered numbly. ‘I like it.’
‘You either love or hate it. Too much garlic for my taste. But it’s worse in Rome.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s what they say.’
Pause.
‘Well, good. I just wanted to ring and see if you were all right. After all,’ his words assumed a pointed tone, ‘you left so abruptly. Also I wanted to know when you planned to return home. People have been asking after you. I can’t put them off for ever.’
Grace blinked, amazed by his dexterity.
He’d simply sidestepped the entire thing. As far as he was concerned, she was the one leaving him in the lurch. And suddenly it struck her, clearly, that he had no intention of ever acknowledging his affair.
And he expected her to behave in the same way.
Grace sat down hard on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath. ‘What about Vanessa?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Vanessa.’ Grace’s heart was beating so hard, she felt as though she was going to be sick. ‘What about her?’
It took her a moment to realize that the sound she was hearing was laughter. ‘What are you talking about? What has Vanessa Maxwell got to do with anything?’
Vanessa Maxwell. He said her full name, as if he wasn’t familiar enough to call her by her first name alone.
The shock of it was like iced water seeping through her veins.
‘Are you… are you having an affair?’ She forced the words out of her mouth.
‘An affair? What are you talking about? With whom?’
Grace couldn’t bring herself to say anything more.
‘Grace? Grace! What’s got into you?’ he demanded.
She reached for her cigarettes; her hand was shaking. ‘You deny it.’
‘Deny what? There’s nothing to deny.’
He had the power to dissolve reality. Suddenly she was falling, with nothing to hold on to.
‘I think you’ve lost your mind,’ he said coldly.
‘I need to go now. It’s late.’
‘You could at least do me the courtesy of letting me know when you plan to return.’
‘I… I don’t know. I need time.’
‘Time for what? For more ridiculous accusations?’
‘This call is costing a fortune. I really must go. Goodbye.’
She hung up abruptly, managed with some difficulty to light another cigarette.
The hopelessness of her situation pressed in around her, as thick and dark as the evening shadows that filled the room.
How could she make him give up a mistress who didn’t exist?
The telephone was ringing. Grace struggled to lift her head off the pillow but it felt as though it was made of marble. And the telephone didn’t sound right. It had a short, high ring; sharp and fast.
She opened her eyes. Blazing morning sunlight filled the room, blinding her.
Good God, what was that? A chandelier dangled precariously overhead. For a moment she thought it might fall. Then she remembered.
The telephone was a French telephone.
She was in Paris.
Slowly, Grace propped herself up on her elbows. She was still wearing her blouse and skirt from yesterday, now badly creased. She must’ve cried herself to sleep last night on top of the bedcovers.
Finally the ringing stopped.
Sinking down, she groped on the bedside table for her cigarettes. The packet was empty.
‘Damn it!’
She swung her legs out, the parquet floor cold beneath her feet. She made her way to the telephone and dialled the front desk.
‘Hello? Hello… I mean, bonjour, yes… this is Mrs Munroe. I need some aspirin, please. Yes, aspirin. And some toast and coffee. As soon as possible, please.’
Shuffling into the bathroom, Grace turned on the bath-water, then caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying, her nose red; half of her hair was standing straight up and the other lay flat, pressed against her head.
Sinking down on the side of the bath, she trailed her fingers in the warm water. Perhaps she should just go back to bed; crawl under the covers and never come out. Who would know the difference or care?
There was a knock on the door. It was too soon for room service.
Turning off the tap, Grace yanked a dressing gown over her wrinkled clothes and answered it.
‘Bonjour!’ Mallory struck a pose in the doorway. She was wearing a chic little day suit of brilliant blue wool and a new red hat, no doubt purchased for the occasion.
‘Mal!’ Grace blinked at her in surprise. ‘My G
od! What are you doing here?’
Laughing, Mallory gave her a hug. ‘I’ve been ringing your room for ages but you never answer your phone. You’re not the only one who can get on an aeroplane, you know!’ Then she stood back. ‘My God, Grace. What’s happened to you? Are you ill?’
The waiter delivered the aspirin and placed the large silver dining tray on a table by the window, pouring out two cups of strong hot coffee.
‘Let me see if I’ve got this right.’ Mallory had settled herself in the corner of the settee and kicked her shoes off, pulling her feet underneath her. ‘So, you’re saying you’ve inherited a flat and some stocks and shares? And you still have no idea who this woman is?’
Grace perched on the end of her bed. ‘That’s about it. The only one who seems to have any information about her is this Madame Zed.’
‘The perfumer.’ Mallory poured crème into her cup and stirred.
‘Yes. Otherwise, I’m rather lost. Oh,’ she frowned, suddenly remembering, ‘except for these.’
She’d almost completely forgotten about the china figures. Pulling the cardboard box out from under the bed, Grace took out each of the six figures, unwrapped them and placed them in a line on the writing desk.
Mallory made a face. ‘Oh dear.’ She picked one up – a white-skinned shepherdess running through a field of small yellow flowers. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Apparently, they were left for me by Eva d’Orsey. The concierge had them and when I visited the flat, her daughter brought them up for me in that box.’
Mallory turned the figure round. ‘This woman leaves you a beautiful flat, shares of who knows what value and these?’ She put the figure down. ‘They’re not even originals – they’re mass-reproduced replicas. They’ve got no maker’s mark, nothing. Of all the things you’ve told me, darling, that’s the oddest.’
The Perfume Collector Page 19