Monsieur Tissot leaned in to light it for her.
‘Merci.’ Madame Hiver exhaled, aiming a stream of smoke at the ceiling. ‘Let us not be coy,’ she suggested, looking straight at Grace. ‘You may already be aware that Eva d’Orsey had an arrangement with my late husband – an agreement that spanned many years.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then,’ she concluded, with a little shrug. ‘We had something in common.’
Grace stared at her, speechless.
To her surprise, Yvonne Hiver laughed. ‘You are very easily shocked! It’s a charming quality, I assure you. But you see, I bear no ill feelings to Eva d’ Orsey. She played a role, a role someone was bound to play, in my husband’s life and therefore in mine too. And to her credit, she was clever with it. She kept herself to herself, didn’t try to become the second wife. In short, she knew her place.’
‘Her place?’
‘Yes.’ Again, Madame Hiver exhaled. ‘Do you have children, Madame Munroe?’
‘No.’
‘Well, when you do, you will have a nanny. A young woman who will get the children up, dress and feed them, teach them letters and numbers and manners… And then when you come home, they cannot wait to see you. You take them to the park and play and they are delightful. The same is true for a mistress. She rolls up her sleeves, tends to the hard labour. She pretends this middle-aged man is fascinating, listens to his woes, massages his ego. She even goes so far as to reassure him physically. But that’s all it is. Flattery. And then he returns home, refreshed, grateful…’ She paused. ‘… repentant. One can proceed with one’s own interests knowing that one’s spouse is perfectly content.’
Monsieur Tissot looked at Grace.
She looked away, embarrassed. Was this how she was meant to feel about Vanessa? Is this how sophisticated people behaved?
‘I seem to be in the habit of shocking you today,’ Madame Hiver deduced. ‘I apologize. I only wanted to illustrate to you that I appreciated her contribution. She did other things as well. During the war, she entertained all of those men who were so important to keeping our industries open.’
‘You mean the Nazis?’ Grace asked.
Yvonne exhaled slowly, giving her a look. ‘Yes, them. It was necessary, during the occupation. A pragmatic move on our part. But still, one didn’t want to dine with them. Luckily, there was always Eva. How do you think she merited such a grand apartment in the first place? And they liked that, I’m told. Being entertained by the mistress.’ She was staring at Grace, observing her reactions with a cold curiosity. ‘This property has a place in our family history, for good and bad. It’s always been part of the Hiver property holdings. And now I wish to own it again.’
Grace turned her father’s lighter round and round inside her pocket. She wasn’t immune to the disdainful note in Madame Hiver’s voice or the subtle insistence of her request. Madame Hiver did her best to downplay her urgency but it was there just the same.
‘I appreciate your candour,’ Grace said. ‘Thank you for taking the time to explain. I’ve not yet decided exactly what I will do, however I can assure you that I will certainly consider your offer very seriously.’
Madame Hiver’s face hardened. She’d obviously hoped for more. But all she said was, ‘You’re too kind. It means a great deal to me to be able to ensure my son inherits the traditional family estate, intact.’ Then, pulling the black net veil over her face, she adjusted it beneath her chin. ‘Au revoir, madame.’
‘May I escort you to your car?’ Monsieur Tissot offered, opening the door.
‘Of course.’
As she reached the doorway, Madame Hiver turned once more. ‘All terms are negotiable. If the offer isn’t quite what you’d hoped to achieve…’
‘I can assure you, you are more than generous.’
‘How right you are to consider all your options,’ Madame Hiver conceded with a terse flash of teeth. ‘Although I hope you realize, an offer like this cannot be available indefinitely.’ And with a brisk nod of the head, she left.
Grace felt her shoulders relax as soon as Madame Hiver was gone. Suddenly her mouth was dry and she realized she’d been holding her hands in fists by her side. Walking into the kitchen, she leaned over the sink to drink handfuls of cool water from the tap. Groping for a tea towel, she turned.
Then she stopped.
Invisible fingers, like cold wind, brushed against the back of her neck, sending a shiver up her spine.
Each of the cupboards was just slightly ajar, the drawers not quite closed, the closet door off the latch, as if someone had been looking through them; someone in a hurry.
Grace went through to the drawing room, looking out of the window onto the courtyard below.
The chauffeur was climbing back in the front seat, closing the car door, turning on the engine. Then the big black Daimler turned out of the courtyard and sped away.
It was late in the afternoon when Grace knocked again on the narrow red door in the alleyway behind Rue Christine.
There was the sound of the dog barking and then the slow descent. The door opened a crack, a black eye appeared.
‘Good afternoon, Madame Zed.’
‘Good afternoon.’ Madame Zed opened the door wider. ‘I almost didn’t recognize you – you have had your hair done!’
Grace smiled, self-conscious. ‘Yes. I have.’
‘Well!’ Madame took her in, nodding approvingly. ‘What an interesting counter-attack!’
‘A counter-attack? Against what?’
‘Against fate, my dear.’ She stepped back and Grace came in, following her upstairs, into the drawing room.
‘Are we at war with fate?’
‘It’s a tango, don’t you find? Sometimes dramatic, sometimes quiet, but always with a few good hard slaps thrown in.’ Madame Zed gestured for her to sit. ‘That’s what fashion is, really. A way of renegotiating the terms that life deals you. When a woman changes her hair what she’s really saying to fate is, no. I refuse to be defined by those terms.’ She settled into her favourite chair. ‘You’ve obviously decided your past no longer serves you.’
‘Perhaps,’ Grace admitted.
‘It’s a good thing. A woman who no longer cares about how she looks has given up on more than fashion – she’s given up on life.’
There was the high-pitched whistle of a kettle coming to the boil.
‘I’m just making tea.’ Madame Zed stood up. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ Grace said, taking off her coat.
After a few minutes, Madame came back again with a tray, setting it on the low table between them. Pouring out a cup, she handed it to Grace, then another one for herself. ‘Do you take lemon or milk?’ she asked, lifting a slice of lemon into her cup.
‘Milk, please.’
‘Paris becomes you.’ Madame passed her the creamer.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry to trouble you.’ Grace poured in some milk. ‘I know I’m disturbing you. But I still have so many questions. I wondered, you mentioned the other day about some men, who’d broken into the shop downstairs… in a black car?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did they take anything?’
‘It’s hard to tell. I think I disturbed them before they found what they were looking for.’
‘Found what they were looking for?’ Grace sat forward. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘They were searching through the drawers and files. Common thieves would have simply taken as much as they could grab.’
‘Do you have any idea what they were looking for? Or who they were?’
‘It’s difficult to say. Though not many burglars can afford to drive to work in expensive motor cars. Your inheritance,’ she looked sideways at Grace, ‘does it include anything else besides the apartment?’
She’d asked her this before. ‘Well, yes, there are shares.’
‘But nothing else?’ she pressed. ‘No letters or correspondence?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I just wondered. It doesn’t surprise me that Eva invested,’ she said, sidestepping the question. ‘She had a good head for business. Even when she was at her worst, she could always turn a profit.’
Grace lifted her teacup to her lips and was about to take a sip when she noticed a pungent, sour smell. The milk was off. Discreetly, she put the cup down again. ‘What do you mean, “her worst”?’
Madame settled back into her chair. ‘She drank too much. “There’s a piece of glass digging into my brain,” she used to say. “And I can’t get it out.”’
‘I wonder if that’s what killed her?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. She was one of those people who could be perfectly civilized, though – never slur or stumble, carry on fairly normally even though she was drunk most of the time. But as I said, she was always good at business. Knew how to make money.’
‘I’d like to hear more about her.’
Madame took a sip. ‘My memory isn’t what it used to be.’
‘Last time, you told me that Eva had left New York, with Lambert,’ Grace prompted. ‘And you and Valmont had gone to Morocco.’
Madame put her teacup down. ‘Yes,’ she nodded, remembering. ‘We travelled for some time and lost touch with Eva entirely. But Valmont continued to grow and develop in his art. He seemed to have gained a sense of himself. We travelled around India, gathering rare absolutes. And then I became very ill.’ She shifted. ‘I had contracted meningitis. Eventually, we returned to Paris. I could no longer work with him and he, well, he was eager to set out on his own. Only,’ she sighed, ‘Andre wasn’t like other people.’
‘In what way?’
‘He had enormous difficulty being personable. Several times I arranged for him to have an interview at some of Paris’s finest perfumers but always his arrogance and pride would get in the way. He didn’t mean to be awkward, he simply had no social veneer. All he cared about was work. I gathered what money I had left and invested in this building, so he could open his own business. But even working for himself, he managed to upset people. He simply couldn’t get or keep customers. And he had no flair. The shop looked like a medical laboratory. In desperation, I finally sent him to the coast, to the Côte d’Azure, during the height of the season. I was still too weak to accompany him but I tried to impress upon him the importance of making connections with potential clients, of getting in with the right set of people.’
‘The whole thing most likely would have been a disaster, if it weren’t for Eva. She was travelling with Lambert, though now he went by the name Lamb. His debts kept him moving from place to place, assuming different identities. And like many Englishmen of his class he preferred nicknames; he called her Dorsey, which was, of course, a play on her surname. She’d grown. Filled out, I think is the expression.’ She paused, recalling an image from the past; summoning it to the forefront of her mind. ‘At that stage in her life, she was magnificent – there wasn’t one element about her that didn’t capture the erotic imagination. The way she moved, the clothes she wore. But she was the Englishman’s girl. His good-luck charm. And he was a hopeless alcoholic. Everyone knew it. She’d surpassed him in every possible way. But she was trapped.’
‘Trapped?’ Grace leaned forward. ‘In what way?’
Madame Zed reached for her cigarette holder, fitting one in, lighting it. She took a deep breath. ‘The Englishman had a hold on Eva that went beyond money or loyalty. Or, for that matter, love.’
Hôtel Hermitage, Monte Carlo, 1932
‘Good morning, sir.’ The doorman bowed his head. ‘Welcome to the Hôtel Hermitage.’
‘Thank you.’ Valmont walked into the enormous golden lobby, bustling with the early morning activity of Monte Carlo society. Guests were checking in and out, flowers were being delivered, and valets were scurrying to procure tickets for luggage and dinner reservations while exquisite women lounged on the rose silk settees, pulling lazily at the fingers of their white gloves and smoking gold-tipped Russian cigarettes behind the veils of their hats.
Standing back, Valmont registered their particular mixture of indolence and petulance with dread. These were the women he’d come to conquer. The moneyed, idle, voracious wives and mistresses of the Paris elite. Monte Carlo was the place to gamble, gossip and sunbathe, exchange an old lover for a newer one, and acquire next season’s fashion statement a full three months before the rest of Paris. And now that he had arrived, it would also become the place to purchase yourself the rarest of fashionable distinctions, a personal perfume; one that set you apart from anyone else in the room.
At least, that was the plan.
Valmont took a deep breath and pushed his hands into his pockets, hoping his nerves didn’t show.
He loathed these sort of places, almost as much as he loathed the people who frequented them. Here was a club it was almost impossible to get into, even with wealth and breeding. But for someone like him, it was equivalent to jumping off a cliff in the blind hope that he might be able to sprout wings and fly.
It was only out of desperation that he’d come at all. But his new shop in Saint-Germain, as small as it was, was already floundering; he was unable to make any inroads into the clientele he needed to secure a lasting reputation. And he was in debt. If some dramatic steps weren’t taken quickly, he’d have failed before he’d even begun.
Coming to Monte Carlo was Madame Zed’s idea. Despite her financial backing and considerable connections in Paris, Valmont had failed to make the right impression. Worse, it was his own fault and he knew it.
‘Why must you be so rude?’ Madame Zed had fretted, to no avail. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot insult someone who is giving you money!’
She was right, of course.
But Valmont was quite unwilling to hide his annoyance for anyone who couldn’t immediately appreciate his talent. And if he were honest, his arrogance was nothing more than a defence against the inevitable rejection he felt certain was coming his way. It was easier, if considerably less profitable, to reject clients as being too stupid to comprehend his vision. But in truth, he was terrified. He couldn’t seem to find his place in this rarefied world of fashion, style and, most of all, money.
And now he was here, alone. In perhaps the most famous, shallowest pool in all the world.
The bellhop carried his bag over to the front desk and Valmont followed, overwhelmed and irritated by the noise of the cavernous marble lobby. He’d been up well into the early hours of the morning, debating whether to come or not. Although it was not a long journey, he was tired now and eager to get to his room.
He could feel the stares of the other hotel guests burning into his back as he made his way across the lobby. The cut of his suit was dated; the fabric had gone shiny in places from too much pressing and his suitcase was inexpensive and battered. Worse, he could smell the perfumes of his rivals wafting up from the pillow-strewn settees in a noxious cacophony of odours – the orange blossom of L’Heure Bleue battling next to the hesperidic top notes and deep jasmine heart of Coty’s Chypre; both of them drowning in a sickening mixture of Arpège’s twisted adelphic cocktail clashing against the lush overstated orientalism of Mitsouko. To him, it was as discordant as four orchestras sitting side by side, playing warring symphonies.
It never ceased to amaze him that anyone would be so pedestrian as to wear the same scent as someone else. They might as well be appearing in public in an identical dress. And yet women did it all the time. It also baffled him that they would happily wear the same perfume every day; it was like eating the same meal, day in and day out, for breakfast, luncheon and dinner.
These creatures were idiots! He should turn round, head back to the train station now.
‘May I help you?’ The receptionist regarded him coolly.
‘Yes. I’m Andre Valmont. I’ve booked with you for a fortnight.’
‘Really.’ He glanced at the register in front of him. ‘Oh, yes, here it is. One of
the smaller rooms. Without a sea view.’
Valmont’s eyes narrowed. He was on the verge of saying something but just managed to hold his tongue.
‘I’ll be a moment while I see if your room is ready yet.’
The man left and Valmont sank into despondence, staring blankly into the middle distance. Already he was receding into the familiar, private world of his imagination.
Across the lobby, the lift doors opened and a young woman walked out. Without being entirely conscious of it, Valmont found himself staring at her. At the easy, languid way in which she crossed the floor; of the taut perfection of her figure, which, without being conspicuously on show beneath the soft folds of her white summer dress, was not entirely hidden by it either. It struck him as a calculated statement; both ambiguous and provocative without being obvious. This subtlety pleased him. Although finely boned and petite, she possessed bearing and composure; a certain reckless enjoyment of her own body. And her face was equally striking, with large feline eyes and full lips, poised on the verge of a smile, as if she were recalling a private joke. Her hair was black. It was brushed back from her face and arranged like a soft dusky halo round her head. A little straw handbag dangled from her wrist and she frowned slightly as she made her way up to the front desk.
The receptionist’s face lit up when he saw her. ‘Mademoiselle, how may I help?
‘Please tell me it’s going to rain today, François.’
‘Ah!’ he smiled. (This was obviously familiar territory.) ‘I regret to inform you that the forecast calls for nothing but sunshine.’
‘Relentless sunshine,’ she corrected him.
‘Yes, mademoiselle, relentless sunshine.’
She leaned forward and for the first time, Valmont caught a trace of her scent; a distinctive, unique formulation that blended with the natural earthiness of her skin to create an aura of musky, acrid warmth. There was a refinement to it that literally made his mouth water.
‘François, I’m longing for it to rain.’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
The Perfume Collector Page 22