Grace poured herself a second cup of coffee. ‘Perhaps they have some sentimental value.’
Mallory shrugged. ‘The entire affair is quite frankly unbelievable.’ She took a sip. ‘But I can’t wait to spend some time with you,’ she smiled. ‘And to see Paris again!’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘As long as I can. I persuaded Geoffrey that you were in dire straits and my services were required immediately and indefinitely. As far as he’s concerned, that gives him free reign to stay at his club, drink too much and lose at cards, which is fine by me. And be warned: I plan to make the most of my shore leave. The hotel is arranging a room for me right now.’
Grace flopped back on to the bed, propping a stack of pillows behind her head. ‘Oh, I am glad you’re here, Mal,’ she sighed. ‘I can’t tell you how strange this whole thing is. The lawyer tries to be helpful but he has no more information about her than I do. It’s as if she never really existed.’
‘You said she was someone’s mistress?’ Mallory perused the breakfast tray. She selected a piece of toast and spread it generously with butter.
‘Jacques Hiver. The cosmetics giant.’
‘There we go!’ Mallory waved her toast. ‘He probably kept her hidden, perhaps he had political ambitions. Look, do you have any cousins you could speak to? Aunts or uncles? Someone’s bound to know something. Could she have been a friend of your parents or even of your grandparents?’
Grace shook her head. ‘It’s possible. But right now my uncle is on a lecture tour in America so there’s no one else to ask. He hasn’t been in touch for weeks.’
‘So, any other news?’ Mallory looked across at Grace significantly. ‘Have you spoken to Roger?’
Grace sighed. ‘If one can call it that. He simply pretends that the affair never happened, that I’m making it all up. He even has the nerve to act as if he barely knows Vanessa. I feel like Alice, tumbling down a rabbit hole!’
Mallory considered carefully. ‘Did he ring you or the other way round?’
‘I had a message. I rang him back.’
‘Then he’s noticed your absence.’
‘Oh, he’s noticed that I’ve gone. He just won’t acknowledge why.’
Mallory crunched into her toast thoughtfully. ‘He knows why. You can’t expect a man like Roger to own up to anything. But you have the upper hand, you just need to know how to make the most of it.’
‘Make the most of it?’ How like Mallory to find an opportunity in even the direst marital impasse. ‘He won’t even speak to me about it, Mal.’
‘Of course not. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have the upper hand. He won’t want a scandal, Grace. It could ruin his career.’
‘I don’t think he cares about that.’
‘Don’t be fooled. He’s full of bravado but that’s all it is. And, with all due respect, darling, he’s no golden boy. He needs a good reputation to survive. If you play your cards right, you could end up at an advantage.’
‘What advantage? What advantage is there being in a… a…’ A cuckold sounded too medieval, ‘a loveless marriage’ like some cheap romance novel.
Mallory took another bite of toast. ‘He’ll be in your debt.’
‘So you’re suggesting I put up with it? Regardless?’
‘I’m trying to think about your best interests, Grace. Really, what other options are there?’
‘I don’t know. I could divorce him, couldn’t I?’
‘Oh my Lord! Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face! What will that accomplish?
Grace frowned at her. ‘What are you saying – that I’m too old to re-marry?’
‘Of course not! But whom will you remarry? How will you meet anyone worth knowing if you’re divorced? It’s not as if you’ll be invited to the same parties on your own. In fact, you won’t be invited anywhere.’ She jammed a pillow into a more comfortable position underneath her elbow. ‘Face it, a woman has to be very rich indeed to change husbands the way one changes clothes and get away with it.’
Grace felt overwhelmed by Mal’s harsh assessment. ‘Well, I may not even want to re-marry.’
‘What are you going to do? Race back to Oxford and become some lonely eccentric, with ugly shoes, mad hair and a library card? You need to walk every scenario through, in detail, right to the very end. At the moment you may want to run away but will you want it in five years time? One can’t simply waltz into a whole new life. Doors will close, Grace. Doors that will never reopen.’ Mallory looked across at her. ‘One doesn’t want to act in haste.’
‘I thought you hated Roger.’
‘I do! The man’s an ass. For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to be level-headed!’
‘So, you’re advocating that I… what?’
‘I’m advocating that you weigh up your options carefully. A repentant husband can be a very useful thing.’
Grace felt her throat tighten. ‘I don’t care about that.’
‘Darling, don’t be naïve.’
‘Can’t we talk about something else?’
Mallory sighed. ‘Of course.’
They sat a moment in silence.
Finally Mallory sat up. ‘Let’s plan our attack for the day, shall we? I’m warning you, I intend to go shopping and drain every last penny from my current account. I suggest that you do the same.’
‘Roger would kill me.’
‘Roger will countersign anything you do now.’
Grace shot her a look. ‘I thought we’d agreed to talk of something else.’
‘Fine.’ Mallory took out a small notebook from her handbag and flipped it open. ‘I’ve got the names and addresses of several boutiques, a beauty salon that promises to reduce your waist by two inches in an hour, the furrier Josephine Wexley uses…’ She pursed her lips, concentrating. ‘But I think the only place to start is at the Galeries Lafayette,’ she decided, snapping the notebook shut. ‘After all, I want to break you in slowly. Now,’ she stood up, brushing the crumbs off her skirt and slipping her shoes back on, ‘get in the bath before I wash you myself. Your hair looks like a piece of avant-garde art and I don’t mean that in a good way. I’m going to check on my room. And when I come back, I expect you to be scrubbed, scented and ready to spend.’
Grace nodded. ‘Done.’
Turning to adjust her lipstick in the mirror, Mallory caught Grace’s eye. ‘I really do only want to help,’ she said softly.
‘I know. But I wish with all my heart this wasn’t my life right now.’
‘Fine.’ Mallory turned to face her. ‘Then for the next few days, it won’t be. I promise, I won’t bring it up again.’
Just after breakfast, the two of them headed to Galeries Lafayette on Boulevard Haussmann. Although not a keen shopper, Grace enjoyed the comfort of being with Mallory again. And she couldn’t help but be in awe of the dramatic golden-domed interior of the place; floor after floor of spiralling boutiques that sent Mallory into a series of delighted squeals as soon as they arrived.
Mallory darted from one counter to another with the focused determination of a pirate looting an exotic port, and Grace trailed behind her, carrying her ever-increasing bags. Normally, a day spent shopping would’ve sent her running. But for once the crowds didn’t irritate her, possibly because it took real concentration for her to pick up anyone else’s conversation; she felt protected by her own foreignness. And Mallory’s gusto was such that she barely noticed that Grace was lagging behind. They moved with methodical speed from hats to gloves to scarves to lingerie and so on up the winding floors, Mallory debating the merits of each purchase in an ongoing conversation of her own.
‘Too coy?’ she asked, adjusting the veil of a tiny ‘fascinator’ hat, featuring a cluster of enormous black silk roses. ‘Or simply bizarre?’
Before Grace could answer, Mallory replaced it with an even more extreme version featuring three rather obscene organza calla lilies. She examined her reflection. ‘Don’t you find that the line between so
mething being ravishing and revolting is dangerously close? Sometimes something is so ugly, it becomes amazing. Which do you think this is?’
Grace shook her head. ‘Not sure. What would you wear it with?’
‘What wouldn’t I wear it with!’ Mallory turned to inspect her profile. ‘Do you think those fuzzy yellow stamens are just the tinsiest bit suggestive?’
‘Only if you have a lewd imagination.’
Mallory shot her a look. ‘So I’ll take that as a yes. Oh, Gracie,’ she sighed. ‘I’m in two minds about this one. If one’s going to make a statement, one might as well have fuzzy stamens, don’t you think?’
‘What statement are you trying to make, Mal?’
They caught each other’s eye and laughed.
‘You’ll see.’ Mallory took the hat off. ‘We’ll get back to London and fuzzy stamens will be all the rage and I’ll have you to blame for missing the boat!’
‘I’m not stopping you. Buy two – three if you like!’
On the next floor up, they spent almost an hour in the lingerie department.
‘Gracie, look.’ Mallory ran her hand through the sheer silky chiffon of a delicately embroidered nightdress. ‘Oh, what heaven! Geoffrey doesn’t deserve it but I do.’
The saleswoman at the lingerie counter was only too pleased to help each of them to select several pairs of beautiful silk stockings, and advise them on the newest designs of cantilevered girdles and brassieres. ‘These are essentials,’ Mallory insisted, piling another two satin slips on the counter for the saleswoman to ring up.
‘You said that about the gloves and the hats too.’
‘And I’m right.’ Mallory thrust her chin in the air. ‘One cannot go about the business of being a woman without the proper equipment.’
Eventually, after they’d had a restorative lunch of salade niçoise and black coffee in the rooftop restaurant, they made it as far as the women’s dress department. There they browsed slowly through the collections, in a kind of awed, reverent silence. The exaggerated full skirts, crinoline petticoats and impossibly nipped-in waists of the Paris fashions were more daringly tailored than those in England; fashioned from yards of luxurious moiré silk, faille and taffeta in bold, saturated colours. It was the kind of excessive abundance of lavish beauty that London had been missing since the war.
‘I think I’m going to faint!’ Mallory whispered to her, holding up a marine blue chiffon evening dress.
Gingerly, Grace felt the gauzy fabric.
It was beautiful.
Mallory’s eyes began to well up. ‘I have to try it on,’ she sighed, shaking her head hopelessly. ‘I have to try them all on!’
And with the help of a seasoned shop assistant, Mallory piled five or six dresses into a changing room.
Grace continued to walk through the racks on her own. She wished she could be like Mallory and shop with enthusiasm.
Certainly her clothes were dull and dated. What’s more, she didn’t even like them. Yet the wide skirts, embellished with beads and rich embroidery, all in bright peacock colours for the upcoming summer season, seemed almost garish.
Pausing, Grace looked helplessly at her reflection. It was always like this: she meant to change her wardrobe, take herself in hand, but as soon as she arrived in a shop, she lost her nerve. She was back on the bus, on her way home, before she’d so much as tried anything on.
She was just about to head back to check on Mallory when an older shop assistant spotted her wavering amidst a sea of taffeta and net. ‘Comment puis-je vous aider?’ she enquired with a polite smile.
‘J’ai besoin d’une robe,’ Grace blurted out, instantly regretting that she’d spoken at all.
‘Alors!’ The woman spread her arms wide, as if to say, ‘Here we are.’
‘Oui, ou je sais… non,’ Grace struggled, her limited French failing her, ‘une robe simple…’
‘Simple?’
‘Oui, ah, simple, noir…’
The assistant tapped her finger on her lips, looking Grace up and down. Then suddenly she smiled. ‘Voilà! Avec votre sèche, je sais que la chose!’
Grace didn’t understand. She watched as the woman bustled into the back room.
After a few minutes she came out with a very sculptured, simply cut black dress, which she held up proudly. ‘Elle est nouvelle. C’est Balenciaga!’
‘Balenciaga?’ Grace had never heard of this designer.
‘C’est très nouveau, très chic!’ the woman assured her.
And indeed, the dress was unlike anything Grace had ever seen before: architectural in shape, stark, restrained. It was the polar opposite of the elaborate gowns all around her.
‘May I try it on?’
‘Oui!’ the assistant agreed with a nod.
Holding the dress solemnly before her, she led Grace across the department to a fitting room on the other side. ‘Attention!’ she waved to the other assistants as they passed. ‘La Balenciaga!’
Soon three or four of them were gathered in their wake.
The fitting room was easily the size of her bedroom in London and far more glamorous, with a plush chaise longue and pinkish walls. The saleswoman hung the dress on a rail and closed the fitting-room curtain with a flourish.
As soon as Grace pulled the dress over her hips, she knew this was no ordinary design. And when she stepped out of the fitting room, the staff were waiting, greeting her with sighs of appreciation and soft flutters of applause. ‘C’est parfait!’ her assistant declared. ‘Ce n’est pas une robe – c’est le destin!’
‘Pardon?’ Grace flushed, shy yet delighted by all the attention.
‘This is not a dress,’ a younger assistant offered, ‘it is destiny!’
‘My God, Grace!’ Mallory emerged from a neigh-bouring fitting room, dressed in a floaty canary yellow ball gown, and looked Grace up and down. ‘Where did you get that?’ She turned to the saleswoman. ‘Does it come in other colours?’
‘Non. Elle est unique.’
‘Shame.’ Mallory put her hands on her hips. ‘Then again, so is my friend.’
The dress did cost the most extraordinary amount of money. More money than Grace had ever spent on anything in her life. But what woman turns her back on destiny?
Exhilarated and exhausted, the girls made their way downstairs, past the accessories department, through to handbags and finally into the make-up department on their way out in search of a taxi.
Grace paused before a counter with rows of perfume bottles on display. One bottle in particular caught her eye. It was perfectly round, filled with deep amber liquid, ornamented with a gold stopper. It was a bottle she was familiar with but had never really looked at.
Grace stopped, picked it up.
‘Oh, I love that one,’ said Mallory. ‘My Sin. My mother used to wear it.’ She held out her arm. ‘Here. Give me a squirt – for old times’ sake.’
Grace sprayed a little on Mallory’s wrist. ‘It’s strong.’
‘I know. Mummy only ever wore it on special occasions.’ Lifting her wrist, she sniffed. ‘Used to give me a headache, now that I think of it.’
‘It’s one of Madame Zed’s perfumes.’
Mallory looked at her, impressed. ‘Really?’
There was a picture, rendered in gold leaf on the glass – an abstract image of a mother, arms outstretched, bending to embrace her child. ‘Jeanne Lanvin’ was printed underneath. The two figures formed a single, seamless golden arch of affection.
A young sales girl came up. ‘Puis-je vous aider madame?’
‘Ah, oui, je pense…’
‘Are you English?’ the girl smiled.
‘Yes.’ Grace pointed to the picture on the label. ‘This is an unusual trademark. Do you know what it means? Where it comes from?’
‘That is the symbol of Lanvin. The… ah,’ the girl thought a moment, her brow wrinkling, ‘how do you say it? Tag? You see,’ she leaned closer, pointing to the delicate outline on the glass, ‘Jeanne Lanvin loved her daught
er, Marie-Blanche, very much. The most important person in her life. They say this trademark is from a picture of them before a ball. Now it’s the symbol for Lanvin. It’s very unique, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes,’ Grace agreed. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘I was thinking of getting a new perfume,’ Mallory said. ‘Can you recommend something different? Something I wouldn’t be able to find in London?’
‘You know what I like,’ the girl said, picking up another bottle – a narrow slim black rectangle with a tall golden stopper. ‘This one is by Hiver, Ce Soir. It’s an unusual scent, very compelling.’
‘Tonight,’ Mallory translated the name and advertising slogan. ‘“Some chances only come once.” Oh!’ She gave Grace a look. ‘That sounds a bit thrilling!’
‘There’s nothing else like it.’ The girl sprayed a little onto her own wrist and held it across for Mallory to smell. ‘Here.’
Intrigued, Grace bent forward too.
The layers of fragrance that unfolded were soft at first, darkly sensual layers of wild violet, amber, cedar, and bark… dry mossy woodland smells which then, very gradually, stealthily, gave way to raw musky richness; they had an intensity, a slightly damp, earthy density that was mesmerizing… and there was something else there too… sharp, almost acrid, yet hauntingly familiar…
‘I never thought I’d say this,’ Mallory frowned, ‘but I think there’s something almost obscene about it.’ She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. ‘Then again, it’s rather more-ish, isn’t it? How much is it?’
‘Well, that depends,’ the girl explained. ‘There is the original perfume, which is the one you’re holding, and then there’s a newer formulation. I’m afraid the original is quite costly.’
‘Why are there two formulations?’ Grace asked.
‘Well, you see, Ce Soir was first made during the war, when the Hiver factories were taken over by the Nazis. Hiver commissioned this fragrance from a private perfume house, which produced it by hand. During the occupation, it was very exclusive, almost impossible to get. Now it is the most popular fragrance Hiver sells. I have a bottle. It’s very unusual, very refined.’ The girl leaned in. ‘They say Hiver gave in to the Germans too easily. That the war was too comfortable for him. But no one can resist this perfume. However, apparently the perfumer who made it never sold Hiver the formula. This is common, for perfumers alone to know all the ingredients. Hiver has tried to recreate it but they cannot get it right. No one wants the newer version. I cannot sell it.’
The Perfume Collector Page 20