‘You’re angry.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be angry? What is the appropriate response when you discover your entire life has been built upon a lie?’
Madame Zed looked at her but said nothing.
Grace reached for another drink of cognac. ‘Why did she include me in her will?’
‘Because she was connected to you. Because even despite her absence, she existed and you existed. You are a fact in each other’s lives in the same way that the sea exists even if you never go to the seaside.’
Grace pushed her glass across the table. ‘I’d like some more.’
‘I think you’ve had enough.’
‘You’re wrong.’
Madame Zed got up and poured her a third.
Throwing her head back, she downed it in one.
‘Who is my father? Lambert?’ She spat the name out.
Taking a deep drag, Madame shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Then who?’
‘I don’t know his name. She never told me. Besides, I don’t think it’s important.’
‘Oh really?’ Grace laughed bitterly. ‘Apparently I’m not something important!’
‘Your mother—’
‘My mother? Don’t you dare call her that!’ Grace snapped angrily, surprised by her own strength of feeling. ‘You have no right to call her that! A mother is someone who is there – who stays.’ The words felt strangled in her throat. ‘Not someone who simply abandons you!’
Madame Zed inhaled slowly on her cigarette. ‘That wasn’t her intention.’
‘So what happened? Did it slip her mind? I don’t care who this woman is – Catherine Maudley is my real mother. Do you understand?’
Madame got up. ‘I think perhaps you’re right – maybe you should go back to the hotel now.’
Grace stood too; she felt unreal, as though she was floating, grounded only by her anger and rising fear. ‘I’m sorry I trespassed, madame. And I’m sorry I came back. In fact, I’m sorry I came to Paris at all.’
‘Allow me to help you find a taxi,’ she offered, holding Grace’s coat open for her; showing her to the door.
Grace yanked the belt of her coat tight round her waist and pulled on her hat. ‘I want to walk.’
‘I don’t think that’s safe.’
‘I’m tired of being safe.’ She opened the door and headed down the narrow stairs to the street below.
Madame Zed watched as she made her way outside. A gust of cold wind blew in, racing up to the landing, hurling itself against her like an angry, invisible fist before the door slammed shut.
Edouard Tissot’s secretary had already left for the day and the office was quiet as the afternoon drew to a close. He was working late, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, papers covering his entire desk, concentrating hard on the details of a complicated settlement proposal. Then suddenly she was there, standing in the doorway.
He didn’t know what made him look up; she appeared without a sound. The lights in the outer office were turned off; the sky outside had darkened to a deepening mauve. She seemed shadowy and unreal, especially the way she was standing, so quiet and still.
‘Madame Munroe?’ He got up. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. Please, sit down.’ He gestured to a chair opposite him.
But she didn’t move.
There was something different about her; about the hard set of her jawline, her eyes that seemed to stare past him, the flat line of her lips, drawn tight.
She shook her head, forced her fists deep into her raincoat pockets. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Monsieur Tissot, and to come without an appointment. But I thought you should know that I’m ready now, to sign any papers you need to complete the sale of the property to Yvonne Hiver.’
‘I see.’ He looked at her in surprise. ‘Please, won’t you have a seat? And we can discuss it.’
But again, she didn’t move.
‘Forgive me,’ he continued, trying to discern what had changed about her since this morning, ‘but I was under the impression that you hadn’t completely made up your mind yet.’
‘Well, you have convinced me.’ Her tone was brusque and detached. ‘Will it take long to draw up the papers?’
‘No. I shouldn’t think so…’
‘Good. I’m eager to finish this business as quickly as possible.’
He came closer. ‘I realize that women enjoy the privilege of capriciousness but this is quite sudden. Has something happened?’
She looked past him rather than at him. ‘No. I want to go home. And you’re right – there’s no reason for me to stay here, when I already have an offer from a wealthy buyer.’
‘Nothing scares me more than when a woman tells me I was right all along,’ he joked.
Only she didn’t laugh.
He tried again. ‘Don’t you even want to advertise the property? See what’s it worth on the open market?’
‘I’m sure it’s not necessary. Madame Hiver’s offer is more than generous. Will the papers take long, Monsieur Tissot?’ she asked again.
‘No. I can have them ready for you later tonight.’
‘Fine. I’ll be in all evening.’
‘Madame Munroe,’ he took a step closer, ‘Grace…’
Her eyes flashed, stopping him in his tracks.
‘Why don’t you tell me what has happened?’ he suggested.
The look on her face was fierce, almost frightened; her tone one of uncharacteristic hardness. ‘Nothing has happened. I’m the same as I’ve always been.’
Then she left.
Gone as suddenly as she’d appeared.
It was after nine when he had finally finished preparing the documents and later still by the time he arrived at the Hôtel Raphael. Still, he was surprised to be told by the receptionist that Madame Munroe wasn’t in her room, but waiting for him in the hotel bar.
It was a Friday evening. The bar was filled with people, a jazz pianist was playing and the air was dense with smoke and laughter. He paused at the doorway, searching the crowded room for her.
She was sitting alone at one of the side tables, smoking; a whisky in front of her. And she was wearing a black dress that would’ve been simple if it weren’t for the absolute perfection with which it framed her pale shoulders and highlighted her slender curves.
It was a garment of such modern elegance that it demanded a certain worldly sophistication from the woman who wore it. Tonight, with her deep red lipstick and wide-set, dark-lined eyes, Madame Munroe was almost unrecognizable: coolly chic, aloof. This was not the same young woman who had balked at eating an oyster or dragged him through a junk shop. However, the magnificent armour of her appearance made her seem all the more fragile to him. And as he made his way through the people towards her, he couldn’t help but wonder, with a thrill of adrenalin, if this effort had been made on his behalf.
‘Madame Munroe…’ He stopped in front of her. ‘You look very beautiful tonight.’
His compliment seemed not to register. She raised her eyes slowly. ‘Please,’ she motioned to the seat across from her.
Almost immediately a waiter appeared; she seemed to excite special attention tonight, even in this busy place. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
He took off his coat, sat down. ‘What are you having?’
‘Scotch.’
‘I’ll have the same.’
She pointed to his briefcase. ‘Are those the papers?’
‘Yes.’ He took this as a cue and got them out, passing them across the table to her.
‘And where am I to sign?’
She certainly wasn’t wasting any time.
He indicated the spaces at the bottom of the pages. ‘I have marked the places with an X.’
She took a quick drag of her cigarette, balancing it in the ashtray. ‘Do you have a pen, by any chance?’
‘Would you like me to go over the terms of the agreement?’ He took a pen out of his breast pocket and passed it her. ‘I’d be more than happy to talk you through it.’<
br />
She scrawled her signature across the bottom of several pages. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Don’t you even want to know how much money it is selling for?’
Again, she scribbled her signature. ‘Whatever it is, it’s bound to be considerably more than I had when I arrived, isn’t it?’ She flashed him a terse smile and handed his pen back to him. ‘Voilà, Monsieur Tissot.’ She pushed the papers back across the table. ‘We are done.’
The waiter arrived with his drink.
‘Madame Munroe,’ he began, slipping the documents back into his briefcase, ‘I cannot help but feel that something has happened…’
‘Please, Monsieur Tissot,’ she took a final drag of her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray as she rose, ‘I want to thank you for all of your assistance here in Paris. Your services have been excellent.’ She held out her hand.
He stood too, suddenly affronted. ‘My services?’
‘Yes. Your dedication to your profession is admirable and I’m extremely grateful for the time you’ve given me. I’m aware that you’ve gone above and beyond to accommodate me. I want to thank you and wish you luck in the future.’
He stared at her, his face inadvertently flushing with anger. ‘Are you dismissing me? Do you think my time with you was based solely upon professional courtesy?’
She stiffened, withdrew her hand. Somewhere behind the thick black mascara he could see in her eyes that he’d hit his mark. ‘You wanted me to sign the papers, didn’t you?’
‘Yes but I… I was trying…’ He stopped, thrown back on himself. ‘I was simply trying to advise you, in a professional capacity, on the most reasonable course of action.’
‘And so you have.’ She picked up her handbag from the table. ‘Your responsibilities to me are finally ended.’
She slid past him, through the busy bar.
He grabbed his briefcase and coat, heading after her into the foyer.
‘I don’t understand. What has happened to you?’ he demanded, catching her up.
‘Nothing.’ She made her way down the main corridor to the lift at the end. The doors opened and she stepped inside. He got in too.
‘What are you doing?’
The doors closed.
‘I’m following you.’
‘Why?’
Suddenly, he stopped, sniffed the air. ‘Are you wearing perfume?’
‘Why not? All women like perfume,’ she said, matter-of-factly.
‘Not you. You don’t. What is that anyway?’
She kept her eyes trained straight ahead, on the lift doors. ‘Something my friend bought me. From Hiver.’ She gave a hard little laugh. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think?’
The doors opened and she got off. Again, he kept pace with her.
In the middle of the corridor she stopped, turned on him. ‘What are you planning to do? Follow me to my room?’
‘Why are you wearing perfume? Where did you get this dress?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t like the way I look?’
‘I liked the way you looked before!’
‘Oh really?’ She turned away, her pace quickening. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Besides, that’s not the point.’
‘What is the point?’ She took out her key, unlocked the door to her room.
‘Something’s happened and you’re not telling me what it is.’ He reached out, grabbed her arm.
‘What difference does it make to you? Oh I know!’ Suddenly she laughed. ‘You think I’m broken and you want to fix me – that’s right, isn’t it?’
Her words stung him, but still he held fast. ‘You’re not yourself tonight.’
She stopped laughing. ‘Now there’s a concept. No, monsieur, am most definitely not myself.’ She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go.
‘Why?’
Suddenly she stopped resisting, relaxed back against the door frame. ‘You don’t like the way I look?’ she asked again, looking at him challengingly.
His eyes met hers. ‘I always like the way you look,’ he answered truthfully.
‘Do you?’
He nodded, let go of her arm. ‘It has little to do with what dress you’re wearing, or the style of your hair.’
She moved closer, until he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. ‘What does it have to do with?’
‘It has to do with who you are.’
He let his briefcase and coat fall to the floor. Reaching out, he took her face in his hands.
She closed her eyes. ‘And who am I?’
Leaning in, he grazed his lips ever so lightly over hers. ‘Surely you’re the creature who’s been sent to drive me mad,’ he whispered.
He pulled her closer and kissed her. Her mouth was soft, tender. She yielded, responding slowly, teasingly. The smooth contours of her body softened against his. The strange perfume clung to her hair, her neck; it blended into her skin, lent her an earthy, green freshness. He kissed her harder now, running his hands down her back, along the swell of her breast, over the curve of her hips.
Then suddenly she pulled away.
He reached for her again but she stepped back; eyes now wide and frightened.
‘Forgive me. I’m not myself tonight.’
Before he could respond, she had slipped inside the room and shut the door.
‘Darling, it’s me!’ Someone was knocking on her door. ‘Let me in. It’s me, Mallory.’
Opening her eyes, Grace could see the bright sunshine slicing through the break in the curtains, a beam of white light on the carpet.
Getting up, she staggered across the room, unlocking the door.
‘Oh!’ Mallory looked at her in surprise. ‘You’re not even dressed. I thought you wanted to go sightseeing. Are you all right?’
‘I’m a little hungover,’ Grace lied. ‘I need some more sleep. Can you manage without me?’
‘Of course. Can I get you anything? Some aspirin, or perhaps,’ she grinned slyly, ‘a pick-me-up? You know, I might be persuaded to join you.’
‘No,’ Grace shook her head. ‘I can’t bear the thought.’
‘Spoilsport! I suppose I have that French lawyer to blame for getting you drunk.’ She took out her gloves from her handbag. ‘I’ll go to Notre Dame and Montmartre but I’ll save the Eiffel Tower for when you feel better, all right?’
Mallory headed off and Grace closed the door.
Somewhere around four, she awoke again. The air in the room was warm; the weather had turned almost summery. But her head hurt. There was a tenderness, like an ache, across her chest.
Feeling shaky, she rang down for something to eat – in the end deciding upon tarte au citron and tea. She had no real appetite but wanted something sweet.
When room service delivered her food, she found an envelope on the floor that had been slipped under the door. It contained the signed documents along with a note.
I recommend that you reconsider. Please, at least meet me before you leave.
E. Tissot
Grace left the letter on the table and pulled back the curtains.
She didn’t want to talk to him today. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.
She just wanted silence.
Whatever it was that she’d thought of as herself had shattered. In its wake was only emptiness. It was as if her parents had died all over again; only this time, all the memories she had were eradicated too. Suddenly every single one of them was tainted.
Eva d’Orsey hadn’t given her anything.
Instead she’d taken away the only life she’d ever known.
The hollowness inside Grace deepened into a dull, senseless exhaustion.
She left the tea and tart untouched and closed the curtains.
And fell once more into a heavy, deep sleep.
She had been dreaming.
The room was dark. It was night now.
His arms enfolded her warm skin; his jacket smelled of wet wool, as if he’d been caught in a sudden
shower. ‘Come to your senses.’ His lips on her neck, fingers slipping through her hair. ‘Come.’
Grace rolled over.
There was a knocking at the door. Not Mallory again.
But she wouldn’t go away.
The knocking persisted.
Grace sat up.
It was pitch black. She staggered across the room, fumbling with the latch.
The door opened, the glare of lights from the hallway flooding in, blinding her.
‘Good God!’ She stepped back, blinking. ‘Roger?’
‘Well it’s about time,’ he said. ‘I’d nearly given up on you.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see you. After all, I am your husband.’ He smiled. Roger had a charming smile, one that illuminated his whole face; wrinkling his nose, crinkling the skin around his hazel eyes. ‘My God!’ he laughed. ‘Whatever in the world have you done to your hair? Never mind – I suppose it will grow back.’ Tossing his overcoat over the back of the desk chair, he settled into the settee, took out his cigarettes.
Grace remained standing, still stunned; arms folded protectively across her chest over her white cotton nightdress.
‘Come on, now!’ He laughed at her sternness, tilting his head sideways. ‘Are you really going to tell me you’re not even a little bit pleased to see me?’ He pushed his fingers through his sandy blond hair. ‘I’ve come all this way. Want one?’ He held out a packet of Chesterfields.
‘No, thank you.’
She watched as he lit one, easing back into the settee. Already he was at home. He had the talent of annexing any space he entered, claiming it for his own.
‘But what are you doing here?’ she asked again, holding her ground.
His eyes softened. ‘I’ve come to bring you back to London, Grace. I’ve been going mad without you. The truth is, I’ve been stupid and selfish.’ He sat forward, elbows on knees. The smoke from his cigarette wound upwards around his fair head. ‘You need to know, nothing happened with Vanessa. She just happened to be in Edinburgh, at the same hotel. We saw a film together but that’s all. I swear it.’
‘Then why did you lie?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sighing, he shook his head. ‘I was angry, I suppose. Frightened. And she can be very sympathetic.’ He looked up at her again; straight into her eyes. ‘We’ve had such a dreadful go of it, you and I, haven’t we?’ he said softly. ‘And I’m sorry, Gracie, but I didn’t handle it very well.’
The Perfume Collector Page 27