‘Why?’
‘Eva wanted him to create mass-produced scents as well as personal commissions. But Andre didn’t believe in it. They had bitter disagreements about it.’
‘Yes,’ Grace conceded, ‘but how can a perfumer not believe in selling perfume?’
Madame stiffened. ‘He didn’t believe in selling everyone the same perfume. She got her way in the end, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She sold one of his formulations to Hiver during the war. She betrayed everything Andre believed in.’
Grace thought back to what the shop assistant had told them in the Galeries Lafayette: the Hiver perfume created by a small outside house during the war, a formula that couldn’t be reproduced… ‘Are you talking about Ce Soir?’
She nodded. ‘Even the name is common.’
Grace sat forward. ‘But why would she do such a thing?’
Madame Zed shook her head, her face suddenly drained of colour. ‘During the occupation, Andre was arrested, taken to Drancy concentration camp. Eva got it into her head that she could persuade Hiver to use his influence with the Third Reich to have Andre released. But she needed to make it worth his while, to prove that Andre could be indispensable to Hiver’s business. Only Hiver was a stupid, shallow man. He took the formula but Andre died in Dachau.’
Grace struggled to take it all in. ‘And yet Eva continued to stay with Hiver after the war?’
Madame flashed her a look. ‘Now you know why we didn’t speak. But Eva had no willpower. By then, she was nothing more than a drunk. You see, for Andre, meeting Eva again in Monte Carlo was a turning point, the beginning of his success. But, for her, it was already too late.’
‘Too late for what?’
‘By the time Andre met her again she’d already been ruined. Even though she was still so young, she’d developed ways of surviving that made her hard. She and Lamb lived far beyond their means. They always had. For years, Eva had tried to put money aside but Lamb drank most of it, gambled the rest. The dresses she wore were remodelled a thousand times. The illusion they presented was just that. They stayed at the finest hotels, placed the biggest bets, knew all the right people. But at a tremendous cost. Though, I believe,’ she added, ‘that for all his faults, Lamb truly cared for her. In fact, I know he did.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He did for her something no one else could do.’ Madame eased back into her chair. ‘Love is self-serving – we do all sorts of things for our own comfort and call it love. But revenge is an intimate thing, don’t you think? Would you be willing to enact another person’s vengeance?’
It was a disturbing manifestation of devotion; one that seeded itself uncomfortably in Grace’s imagination.
‘Please don’t misunderstand me,’ Madame continued. ‘He owed her that much. And for once in his life, he made good on his debts.’
Crawley, West London, 1928
It had been raining all week without respite. Cold, unrelenting rain, all day and night. He’d walked to the hospital from the flat they were renting. He would’ve liked to have taken the bus but he’d lost a great deal on the horses yesterday and money was tight. If he could just hold out until tomorrow, there was a poker game in a club in Soho he had high hopes for. And his luck might finally change.
When he arrived on the ward he was drenched, shaking the water from his raincoat the way a dog shakes out after a swim, raindrops rolling round the brim of his hat.
The nurse on duty was young; a plain, solid girl with a round, doughy face. She stared up at him with wide eyes. He looked like Douglas Fairbanks. When he spoke, it was clear he was a gentleman.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘She’s still recovering, sir.’
‘How long until she’ll be able to come home?’
‘Perhaps a week. She lost a great deal of blood.’
‘And the baby?’
‘A girl, sir. A lovely healthy girl.’
‘I see.’ He frowned, staring at the floor.
The nurse had seen this reaction before. Men who’d wanted sons. But Mr Lamb seemed particularly disappointed.
‘Would you like to see your daughter?’ she offered brightly. As soon as they saw them, their feelings often changed.
‘My daughter?’ He looked up at her with surprise, as if she’d just slapped his face. Then he paused, remembering himself. ‘Ah, perhaps later. I’d like to see… to see my wife first.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
The nurse led him down to the far end of the maternity ward, bustling in front of him with a proprietorial air. She wanted to appear efficient; to impress him with her expertise.
But as it happened, he wasn’t looking at her.
It was visiting hour; there were clusters of family groups gathered round several of the other women’s bedsides, cooing over newborns. The new mothers had made an effort; they were sitting up, wearing bed jackets knitted in soft candy colours for just this occasion, their hair freshly combed, wearing lipstick, with proud, beaming faces. There was a celebratory, party atmosphere around them.
Lamb watched as they passed the babies from one pair of hands to another.
Eva’s bed, however, was at the end of the row, nearest to the nurse’s station; separated from the others. The curtain was drawn; the blind on the window pulled down, shutting out the grey sky. The nurse quietly drew back the curtain.
Eva was sleeping. Her face looked drawn and pale, her arms thin. And he was struck again by the fact that she was only a child; a girl at best.
He turned to the nurse, his voice suddenly accusatory. ‘She doesn’t look well.’
The girl blinked. ‘As I said, she lost a lot of blood. It was a very difficult labour,’ she explained.
‘I want her to be taken care of,’ he insisted, suddenly frightened for her. ‘Properly taken care of!’
‘Of course, sir. We’re doing everything we can.’
He glared at her and she backed away.
Pulling up a chair by the side of the bed, he sat down. He took off his hat, turning it nervously around in his hands.
He didn’t want to be here; hated that she was so fragile and small. If only he’d won yesterday…
Her cheeks were flushed, her hair matted from sweat. She smelled of iodine and blood. They should have given her a wash. Couldn’t these people do anything right? He forced his fingers through his hair.
He would speak to them later.
Around and around he turned his hat.
Around and around and around. Outside the rain beat against the windowpane.
After a while, Eva’s eyes fluttered, then opened. ‘Where is she?’ Her voice was raw, just above a whisper, as if she hadn’t spoken in days.
‘She’s fine. Everything’s fine.’ He patted her shoulder reassuringly.
‘I want to see her,’ she insisted.
‘And so you shall. But we have matters to discuss first. You and I have an arrangement, remember?’
She nodded weakly.
‘I’ve looked after you, haven’t I? Months, without anything in return. But it’s cost me.’
Eva tried to sit up but it was too much effort. ‘Have you seen her? Does she have hair? What does she look like?’
‘It’s cost me,’ he said again, firmly.
She slumped back down. ‘Yes. I know. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll get a job.’
He laughed, a dry, coughing sound. ‘You have a job, my dear. You just haven’t been able to perform it yet.’
‘I know. But if I get someone to look after her…’
He gave her a look and her voice trailed off.
‘We’ve spoken about this,’ he reminded her. ‘That wasn’t the deal. You have a special talent. We can make money, big money. But we can’t do it here. Not in England. We need to go abroad. And I’m not toting some baby with us, understand?’
She pressed her eyes closed, tears running down her cheeks.
He shook his
head, turned his hat around and around.
He hated this; it was easier to leave a lover than to do this.
Rummaging in his coat pocket, he took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘Look, I’ve always been straight with you, Dorsey. And now you owe me, quite a bit.’
‘But it’s different now. She’s here now.’
He leaned in. ‘How are you going to look after a baby on your own? Think about it. Once you get past the romance of it, what’s it going to be like day to day? Where are you going to live? How are you going to make ends meet? Who do you think is going to hire an unmarried girl with a baby in tow?’ He exhaled a long stream of smoke. ‘Do you want to die in poverty and have your little girl do the same?’
‘Stop it!’ She turned her face away. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’
‘No, it doesn’t. Listen to me – I have a sister. Lovely, accomplished. Kind. Married to a good man, a war hero. They have no children. But they do have a large house, money, and social position – something money can’t buy.’
‘Please!’ She took his hand. ‘Give me some time.’
‘We haven’t got time.’ He shook her off. ‘How do you think we’ve been living up till now? For God’s sake! If I don’t win tomorrow, we’ll get kicked out – I can’t even pay the rent.’ He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
‘You don’t have to give her up for ever,’ he pointed out, calmer now. ‘Just until you’ve got yourself back on your feet. You come to Europe with me and we make some real money. The casinos there are sagging with millionaires. And when we’ve had enough, we come back.’
He stroked her hair, pushing it gently back from her face. ‘And you, my dear, will have enough money to buy your own house with a garden, pay for good schools and beautiful frocks. You’ll be a rich woman, able to give her anything she needs or wants. But nothing is free, Dorsey. You know that. Besides, she’s only a baby. She won’t remember who looked after her when she was tiny.’
‘I will.’
‘Maybe, but you owe me. I’ve looked after you for quite a while now.’
‘What about your family? Couldn’t you speak to your father?’
His face hardened. ‘No. I told you, I’m dead to him and he to me. I wouldn’t take anything from him even if he offered, which, believe me, he won’t.’
‘We… we could get married… for real.’
‘Jesus! She’s not even mine!’
She was being unreasonable; making it much harder than it needed to be.
He tried again. ‘I’m not marrying anyone. Besides, let’s not pretend, you and I. Let’s do each other that small kindness.’
He stared down at the hat in his hands. ‘I have an illness – a little gift from the war. I can’t take a lovely young wife. At least not without risking her contamination too. And I’d rather kill myself than let it take me slowly. I made up my mind about that a long time ago.’
‘Is that why—’
‘Yes,’ he cut her off. ‘That’s why you have nothing to fear from me. But let’s be clear – I’m not your Prince Charming. I live by my wits, such as they are, and I intend to die that way too. Face it,’ he took another drag, ‘we’re both in a pickle, you and I, with not a lot to offer anyone.’
She said nothing.
‘Let me do this. This baby doesn’t belong with us. Not now. Let my sister help us. The child will be safe, well looked after.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the nursery. ‘That poor child deserves better than this, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
His voice softened. ‘But one thing’s for certain – of all the people I could drag around Europe with me, I’m glad I chose you.’
Another tear worked its way down. ‘Why?’
‘You’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. Truth is, I’m in awe of you. Not that I believe in God, but if I did, you’d be on the list of things that proves his existence.’
It was as close to a compliment as he’d ever come.
Her head throbbed; the room was shifting, the edges around things smudging. She closed her eyes, trying to make it stop. ‘It wouldn’t be for long, would it?’
‘No. The faster we get on with it, the shorter it will be.’
‘And your sister, she’d give her back to me, wouldn’t she? You’d explain it all to her?’
‘I’ll arrange everything.’ He stood up.
She tried to sit up again but her arms felt shaky and weak. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Eva, trust me.’ He pressed his hand to her cheek, then frowned. ‘You’re hot. Too hot. I’m going to speak to the doctor. I’ll be back.’
She sank down once more, drifting in and out of sleep. After a while, she couldn’t tell how long, the nurse came back and took her temperature; her face lined with concern. ‘You have a fever, Mrs Lamb.’
‘Where did… where did he go?’
‘Your husband? He’s gone, dear.’
‘Gone?’
The nurse adjusted her pillows. ‘I’m going to give you an injection. It will prick a bit.’ She took out a needle.
‘It’s cold,’ Eva shivered. ‘I feel so cold.’
‘Be still now. Don’t move.’ Eva winced as she injected the morphine into her arm.
‘When can I see my baby?’ she murmured. ‘I haven’t seen her yet. I want to look at her.’
‘Well, just as soon as you go home, dear. She’ll be there waiting for you. Here,’ the nurse laid an extra blanket over her. ‘You have an infection, you need to rest.’
Eva took her hand. ‘But I want to see her now.’
‘My dear, your husband took her. It’s for the best. You don’t want her to be ill too now, do you?’ She gently but firmly extracted Eva’s hand. ‘Besides, you cannot look after the baby when you’re ill. She’s in good hands. Sleep now. She’ll be back in your arms in no time.’
Paris, Spring, 1955
Madame Zed looked across at Grace, ‘You do understand, don’t you?’
Grace opened her mouth to speak but stopped. The knot tightened in her stomach, as if someone were pulling, playing tug-of-war with her insides. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked numbly.
Instead of answering, Madame reached over, pulled open the drawer of a small end table next to her and took out a photograph.
‘Have you ever seen a picture of Eva?’
Grace shook her head.
She passed it to Grace. ‘That was taken many years ago.’
It was an old black-and-white photograph, taken in a studio. The girl in the picture was very young; she had a heart-shaped face, radiant clear eyes. Her hair was a shining black helmet, her skin pale. The Cupid’s bow lips were curved into a knowing half-smile. The eyes, lined in thick charcoal, looked challengingly into the very centre of the camera lens, daring it to blink before she did. A kind of sexual heat radiated from her, a sultry, defiant sophistication.
Madame Zed had taken out a silver cigarette case. ‘She’s beautiful, don’t you think?’
Grace nodded, unable to stop staring.
This wasn’t the woman she’d expected. Nothing like her at all. She tried to match the picture with Monsieur Tissot’s description of a woman whose face was changed by pain; with the sharp, sophisticated perfume that lingered in the apartment.
But the girl in the photograph was so surprising in her immediacy, and so terribly young.
Madame Zed opened the silver cigarette case, took the last one. ‘Here.’ She passed Grace the empty case.
Grace didn’t understand. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Go on,’ she nodded to it. ‘Look.’
Slowly, Grace lifted it up. Her face reflected back at her in its smooth surface.
‘Do you know why you are here, Mrs Munroe? In Paris?’
Grace struggled to see what was before her eyes. Here was the same heart-shaped face, the same clear, grey-green eyes.
‘My mother… my mother was Lady Catherine Maudley,’ she heard herself say.
‘Of course.’ Madame struck a match, the flame flared to life as she lit her cigarette. ‘Only, whom do people usually bequeath their property to?’
Grace swallowed hard, tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.
‘My mother died in the Blitz,’ she said, stupidly. Madame Zed didn’t bother to respond. Instead she got up, went to the sideboard, poured a glass of cognac, and handed it to her. ‘Go on. Drink.’
The sweet amber liquid burned down the back of Grace’s throat; the alcohol seeped slowly into her limbs. She took another drink, draining the glass.
Madame sat down. ‘You can’t have come all this way and not at least have had the thought cross your mind.’
Grace put the glass down. ‘You don’t absolutely know for certain… do you?’
She looked at Grace, not unkindly, then got up and filled the glass again.
Grace drank it, staring at the photograph yet unable to see it clearly any more. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, after a while.
‘You were born when Eva was just a teenager.’
Grace pressed her eyes close. ‘But how do you know?’
‘Because, drinkers talk too much.’
The dog twitched in his sleep, whimpering a little.
A shaft of sunlight shifted, moving almost imperceptibly across the floor.
‘I think I’d better go.’ Grace stood up, her legs oddly shaky underneath her.
‘Where?’
She stared at the old woman blankly. ‘I don’t know.’
Madame Zed looked up at her with those large black eyes. ‘You have nowhere else to go.’
She was right.
Grace sat down again, her body leaden and numb. ‘Why didn’t she try to contact me?’
Madame shook her head.
‘She knew where I lived and how to get in touch with me after her death!’ Grace heard her voice rising, like the panic inside her. ‘Why didn’t she bother to do it while she was alive?’
The Perfume Collector Page 26