The Perfume Collector

New York, 1927

Miss Waverley was miraculously made. She had gleaming mahogany hair, cut into a sharp, sleek bob and eyes that were the colour of dark chocolate – huge doe eyes framed by black lashes. Her skin was ivory and her proportions amazing; a thin tapered waist, high full breasts, shapely legs. She walked with such casual sensuality that it was impossible not to stare at her. And she was a woman who was used to being stared at.

Miss Waverley was well known at the Hotel. She was a regular guest, although not a paying customer herself. She just appeared, rather as an intriguing footnote to the travel arrangements of some of their wealthier male clients. They would request an adjoining room to their own suite or sometimes, if discretion were a serious consideration, another suite on the next floor up. During the time that they visited, Miss Waverley adorned the Hotel like a rare, exquisite flower, only occasionally accompanying her benefactor out in public. She never rose before 11 a.m., at which time she had a standing order for strong coffee, a bowl of ice cubes and lemon slices, and half a grapefruit. No one knew what she did with the ice. Half an hour later, no matter what the day, a hairdresser, masseuse and manicurist arrived to attend to her in her room. She emerged, two hours later, a shimmering apparition of dewy youth, as graceful and artlessly arranged as a field of wild flowers.

She had a smooth, low voice and a naughty, shocking sense of humour. Laughter followed in her wake; she collected admirers, both male and female, simply walking across the lobby. She had a certain knack for including everyone in her own private jokes, bending in conspiratorially to say something wickedly off-colour to one of the old stone-faced dowagers waiting for a cab. The next moment, they’d both be giggling uncontrollably and Miss Waverley would be offering to have her chauffeur take the old dear wherever she was meant to be going.

If she dined downstairs in the restaurant, service to the other tables would inevitably stagnate while the staff jostled for a view from the kitchen doors to see what she was wearing.

‘Is she a movie star?’ Eva wondered, the first time she saw her.

‘She wishes!’ Rita snorted. ‘She’s a prostitute. Gets treated better than the Queen, though. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? What the world’s coming to.’

Eva couldn’t believe it. Prostitutes were women in cheap garments, standing in the shadows at the wrong end of town. ‘Really, Rita,’ she admonished, ‘you shouldn’t spread gossip.’

‘It’s not gossip. It’s a known fact. And watch who you’re calling a liar!’ Rita trotted off, chin in the air, affronted and superior.

Miss Waverley stayed in room 321 for ten days at the end of July. She’d come at the bequest of Senator Henry Clayton Grimsby of the Boston Grimsbys. However, Senator Grimsby was also travelling with his teenage daughter and son. Therefore, Miss Waverley had a corner room not too far, not too close. And, due to the fact that it was the Grimsby children’s first trip to New York, a little more time to herself.

Eva was only allowed to service her room after 3 p.m. And she looked forward to it as a child anticipates its birthday. At 3.00 precisely, Eva unlocked Miss Waverley’s door and stepped inside a world of glamour and luxury.

The wardrobes were bulging with packages from dress designers and hat makers. Beautiful gowns lay tossed onto the backs of chairs from the night before. Tissue-thin stockings were bunched on the floor; filmy underthings of satin and lace, too sheer, too delicate to even imagine wearing, lay crumpled on the bed. Eva moved slowly, carefully, savouring each moment, hanging the clothes, making the bed, pulling back the thick curtains to let in the blazing afternoon sun. The air smelled of some exotic, rich perfume and stale cigarette smoke. There were full ashtrays on the side of the bath; half-finished glasses of champagne left on the balcony.

Everything about Miss Waverley fascinated Eva. And she refused to believe that someone so sophisticated and charming stooped to the moral depths Rita described. It was most likely that she’d misunderstood; after all, Rita was far too eager to believe the worst of everyone.

Eva’s favourite bit was cleaning the dressing table. Here was the front line of female alchemy. Eva owned an old hairbrush she’d had since childhood and a small box of wiry hairpins to secure her hat – those constituted her only toiletries. But Miss Waverley’s dressing table was covered in mysterious jars, bottles and compacts; gold lipstick cases, round face-powder puffs, tins of pink rouge, black squares of eyeliner and a large perfume atomizer. She dusted and rearranged them, wondering how they were all put to use.

Eva liked to imagine this was her room she was cleaning; that she’d been up all night dancing with Mr Lambert and that these were her golden shoes on the balcony, their half-empty glasses of champagne. Here she was, hanging her beaded dresses, ready for their next evening out; these were her expensive nightgowns she was folding.

She pressed her cheek to the cool, smooth silk. This is what sophistication felt like, what it felt like to be a grownup woman.

‘It’s handmade. I had four fittings on the bodice alone. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get that.’

Eva’s eyes shot open.

In the doorway stood Miss Waverley.

Dressed in a tailored black-and-white summer dress and a large rimmed black sun hat, hand on her hip, she looked like some exquisite, if angry, apparition.

Eva dropped the nightgown.

‘Easy does it! Do you have any idea of what that cost?’

‘No, ma’am.’

Miss Waverley tossed her gloves and handbag on the bed. ‘Pick it up. And mind you don’t rip it.’ Taking off her hat, she gave her head a shake and her hair fell automatically back into place. ‘Did you steal anything?’

‘No, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream of it! I’m so sorry, ma’am.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, huh?’ She looked at Eva hard. ‘Just a bit curious, I suppose.’

‘I apologize, ma’am.’

Taking out a silver cigarette case, she lit one. ‘How old are you anyway?’

‘Fourteen.’

She inhaled deeply. ‘I was curious at your age. Got me into a lot of trouble.’ She walked over to the window.

‘Maybe I should come back, ma’am. Clean the room later.’

‘No, no. Later won’t be a good time.’ She took another drag. ‘Later is never a good time. Do it now.’

She went out on to the balcony, where she sat smoking, looking out over the skyline, while Eva finished the room.

One day Miss Waverley’s regular hairdresser, masseuse and manicurist failed to show up. Her breakfast tray sat, untouched, outside her door. Then, somewhere just after noon, she rang for more towels. Eva delivered them, knocking repeatedly on the door before eventually using her pass key.

‘Hello?’ She stepped into the bedroom. The curtains were still drawn and the bed sheets were in a tangle. There were vases of flowers, heavily scented and beginning to rot in the cloudy, stagnant water.

‘Hello, housekeeping?’ Eva almost tripped over a pair of shoes.

‘In here.’ The voice that came from the bathroom was weak, hoarse.

‘Shall I leave the towels outside?’

‘No.’ There was a pause. ‘I need help.’

Eva slowly pushed the bathroom door open. Miss Waverley was doubled over in the bathtub, but there was no water. She was wearing a pale pink silk nightgown. From the waist down it was bright red.

She raised her head. Without make-up, her face looked childishly small and washed out. Her eyes were bloodshot, swollen. ‘I need a doctor,’ she told Eva. ‘You must not call reception. I need a doctor who will come up the back stairs, do you understand?’

Eva wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded and put the towels down on the basin.

Racing out of the room and into the hallway, she spotted Rita trundling down the corridor towards her, pushing her cart.

‘There’s a problem!’ Eva rushed up to her. ‘Miss Waverley, she’s sick. Very sick.’

‘Jesus! Keep your voice down, will you?’ Rita winced. She was nursing a hangover.

‘But what should I do?’

‘Do?’ She looked at her as if she were insane. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘But she’s ill!’

‘The woman deserves what she gets. Close the door and get on with your business, that’s what I say.’ Rita sniffed, giving her trolley a shove.

Eva ran down to the front lobby and over to Alfonse, the doorman, who was still on duty from the night shift. He was the man who could get you what you needed when you needed it, without any questions. At least, that’s what she’d heard.

‘There’s a problem,’ she panted. ‘I need a doctor.’

He didn’t even bother to look up from his paper. ‘See reception.’

‘No, the kind who can come and go through the back entrance.’

He looked up, eyes narrowed, then put the paper down. ‘Staff or guest?’

‘A guest.’

He picked up the phone. ‘What room?’

She told him. Then she went back to Miss Waverley.

Eva knocked softly. ‘It’s me.’

She was still in the bathtub, eyes closed. ‘Is the doctor coming?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get me a drink, will you?’

Eva had never seen so much blood. It ran in thick dark rivulets into the drain, pooled in eddies around her pale feet. ‘Shouldn’t we… I mean, shouldn’t you…’

‘Just get me a drink.’

Eva went to the next room and poured her a whisky. She came back in. ‘Here.’

‘Thank you.’ Miss Waverley’s hand was shaking. She took a sip, wincing, and handed it back to her. ‘Don’t be frightened. It looks much worse than it is. Does he know what room to go to?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’ She closed her eyes again, lay her head on her knees. ‘You can go now.’

Eva laid her hand across Miss Waverley’s damp forehead. ‘You’re hot.’

‘So I am.’

Eva turned on the water and washed the blood away. Then she took a washcloth and very gently doused Miss Waverley with lukewarm water. It ran over her slim frame, down through her shoulder blades, over her chest. The silk gown clung to her.

The phone rang.

Eva got up.

Miss Waverley looked at her, sudden panic on her face. ‘He mustn’t know,’ was all she said.

Eva picked up the receiver by the bed. ‘Miss Waverley’s room.’

The person on the other end hesitated. Finally a man’s voice said, ‘Is she there?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. Miss Waverley is indisposed. May I take a message?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Housekeeping, sir.’

‘No. No. Tell her I’ll… no, no message.’

He hung up.

When she went back into the bathroom, Miss Waverley was resting her head against her arms. ‘You’re clever,’ she murmured, without looking up. ‘You’re a clever girl.’

Soon the doctor arrived, a rather shabby-looking man with a worn black case. While he examined Miss Waverley, Eva tidied the room, changing the sheets and hanging up her clothes. After a while he came out and handed Eva a bottle of thick black liquid.

‘I presume she has no husband.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Not that I know of, sir.’

He sighed, rubbed his eyes. ‘She doesn’t want to go to the hospital. But she’ll need this for the pain. And she needs to eat something and drink lots of fluids. Give her anything – just so long as she rests and takes it easy. Do you understand?’

She nodded. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

He put on his hat. ‘She’s having a miscarriage. Quite a good idea to sit in the bath actually. Here.’ He handed her a bill. ‘Call me again if her temperature rises or the pain gets too bad.’

Then he left, going down to the far end of the hallway to use the service staircase.

Eva came back several times to check on Miss Waverley in between her duties. By early evening, she was in bed resting and Eva had managed to get her to eat some ice cream, drowned in Coca-Cola.

She sat in the corner of the room as Miss Waverley drifted in and out of sleep, her face drawn, lips colourless, tense with pain. The man hadn’t rung again.

A little before nine, Miss Waverley woke and sat up in bed.

‘You’re still here.’ Reaching across to the nightstand, she groped for her cigarettes. Lighting one, she leaned back against the pillows and took a deep drag.

‘You need to eat something.’

‘Where’s that medicine?’

‘Here.’

After she’d taken some, washed down by whisky, she looked across at Eva. ‘Why did you stay?’

‘You needed help.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘France. The countryside, near Lille.’

Miss Waverley exhaled, a stream of smoke drifting up slowly to the ceiling. ‘Farmland?’

‘Yes,’ Eva nodded. ‘My grandparents had a small dairy farm.’

‘I came from Minnesota. I can still smell the cow shit. I’d rather die than go back.’

‘Really? I thought maybe you were from New York.’

She laughed, like a hard little cough. ‘Well, we don’t have to tell everyone, do we? Are your parents alive?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry for you. You have to make your own way then, don’t you?’

It had never occurred to Eva that there was another way. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

The woman tilted her head. ‘There aren’t many professions a girl with no background can go into.’

‘No, ma’am.’

Miss Waverley’s face tensed. Stubbing out her cigarette, she looked exhausted again. ‘You can go now. I’ll be fine. Turn out the light, please. No one needs to know about this, understand?’

The next day, Miss Waverley’s normal morning appointments resumed.

And when Eva went to service her room that afternoon, she was out.

After that, Eva took it upon herself to visit Miss Waverley almost every afternoon. She often entertained at odd hours, with black jazz musicians from Harlem, exotic dancers and nightclub performers. There were buckets of champagne and bottles of gin, and there was music playing constantly. Both she and her guests treated Eva like a cross between a pet and a little sister; calling her Lulu for no particular reason other than it made them laugh, teaching her how to dance, sending her on endless errands for cigarettes, magazines and chocolates. But she didn’t mind. In fact, she loved feeling that she was a part, no matter how peripheral, of Miss Waverley’s glamorous set.

Sometimes there was no one else and Eva and Miss Waverley would spend the time alone. Eva guessed that she didn’t like being on her own much; she sensed that, left by herself, Miss Waverly’s mood could be changeable and even morbid. She needed the reassurance of company. So she would amuse herself by trying on different outfits for her evening engagements and Eva would help her to select her jewellery and accessories. Other times, Miss Waverley would sun herself, lying naked on a silk robe on the balcony while Eva ironed her clothes.

Miss Waverley had no shame of her body but treated it rather like a weapon, meant to disarm those around her. She held her head high, her shoulders back, hips swaying as she sauntered lazily from one room to the next. And she was physically fascinating; her breasts were high and full, with pink swollen nipples. Her pubic hair curled in thick dark tendrils. She teased Eva, winking as she walked by, ‘You know, you really shouldn’t stare,’ which made Eva blush. Only she couldn’t help staring. Eva couldn’t tell if she was in fact perfect, or simply gave the impression of perfection. And Eva was shocked and yet mesmerized by the overwhelming undertow of eroticism that surrounded her. Eva’s own body was just forming, tiny buds of breasts and a pale hint of hair around her groin, of which she was inexplicably both ashamed and frightened. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror. But Miss Waverley was like some wonderful goddess, meant to be openly adored.

One day when it was too hot to sunbathe, Miss Waverley amused herself by making up Eva’s face and teaching her how to apply thick coats of black eyeliner and red lipstick.

‘Your face is like a blank canvas. First you smooth it out with powder, then you paint a dark frame around your eyes. There is no need to try to make it look natural. It’s better when you exaggerate. Timidity is deadly. In anything. Always be bold. Look at you!’ She stood back, admiring her handiwork. ‘See how you’re transformed?’

Eva stared at her reflection. It wasn’t her at all but some exotic intruder, using her body, her features. She couldn’t take her eyes off herself, she looked so different, so much older.

‘You just don’t know how to make the most of yourself, that’s all,’ Miss Waverley said. ‘A diamond in the rough. That’s what we call it.’ Then she frowned, holding up a mass of Eva’s hair. ‘But this is getting in the way. And it’s not very modern looking. You need to cut it.’

‘Cut it?’

‘Absolutely!’ Opening a drawer, she pulled out a pair of scissors. ‘Sit down.’

‘But…’

‘I’ll make it look like mine. Don’t you want to look like me?’

‘Yes.’ More than anything, Eva thought.

‘Well, then.’

Miss Waverley pulled up a chair and sat Eva in front of the mirror. ‘Be still,’ she commanded, pouring herself a drink. She downed it in one.

Eva watched nervously as she chopped off a huge section. ‘Do you cut your own hair?’

‘Are you mad?’ Miss Waverley snorted. Another pile of locks fell to the floor. ‘Look at that! You have a neck.’

Eva closed her eyes. It was probably best not to look.

Forty minutes later, she stood side by side with Miss Waverley in front of the mirror. Miss Waverley wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

‘What do you think?’

‘I guess it takes a while to get used to it.’

‘We look like sisters. I’ve never had a little sister before.’

And it was true. Eva was shorter, but they had the same delicate build, and now the same sleek dark bob.

Eva blinked, heart pounding. ‘Do you think?’

‘Sure. I know, let’s put a dress on you, shall we?’

She helped Eva out of her uniform, then stopped.

‘Good God, is this really your underwear?’ She cringed at Eva’s dingy pair of cotton shorts and threadbare camisole. Eva felt her face go hot from shame. ‘They’re dreadful! You need new ones.’

Miss Waverley tugged one of her dresses over Eva’s head. The smooth jersey fell over Eva’s figure, draping it in gentle curves. It felt cool and silky against her skin. Miss Waverley stood behind her, pulling in the waistline so that it appeared to fit perfectly in the reflection. ‘You look like a film star!’

Eva stared at herself, fascinated.

‘Do you know what this dress is for?’ Miss Waverly whispered.

Eva shook her head.

‘Seduction!’

The word disturbed Eva; it was laden with the murky enticements of sin, dangerous moral ambiguity and the certain promise of future remorse. But even worse than that was the implication of mysterious skills that remained beyond her comprehension. ‘I wouldn’t know how to seduce anyone,’ she murmured.

Miss Waverley raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’re old enough to want a man, then you’re old enough to seduce him. It’s easy. Seduction is nothing more than knowing that you want someone and then showing them, very gradually, very deliberately, that you do. It’s the way you do it – reveal, tease, ignore, take it back – that makes it seduction.’

‘But how do you know when to reveal, when to take away?’

‘Simple. You think about what you would like and then do it to them.’

She made it sound so obvious.

‘Do you know how much this dress cost?’ Miss Waverley continued. ‘More than you make in a year. But look,’ she gestured to the wardrobe, its doors open, over-flowing. ‘I have more than I know what to do with. Of course, a girl has to be smart. Did you know I used to work in a canning factory sticking labels on to tins of bromide?’

It didn’t seem possible. ‘What happened?’

‘I had a little conversation with my boss one evening. See, the truth is, most girls don’t understand men, don’t know what they want.’

‘What do they want?’

‘Well…’ Miss Waverley seemed about to say something for a moment but then changed her mind. ‘If you really want to know about it, I’ll tell you some day. But trust me, it’s not complicated. Now, hang that, will you? And be a good girl and clean this up,’ she pointed to the mess of hair on the floor. ‘I’ll buy you some new under-things in just your size. When I come back.’

‘You’re leaving?’

But Miss Waverly didn’t bother to answer.

Instead she poured herself another drink, went into the bathroom and shut the door.

‘What in the Lord’s name did you do to your hair?’ asked Sis in horror, down in the laundry room.

Eva pulled her cap further down on her head. ‘I didn’t do it. Miss Waverley did.’

‘Oh my goodness!’ Sis grabbed Eva by the shoulders and turned her round. ‘She cut it all off!’ She ran her fingers through the blunt edge at the back of Eva’s neck. ‘It’s gone!’

‘I know. But it will be easier to keep clean,’ she added, trying to sound reasonable. Suddenly Sis’s grip felt like cement on her shoulder. She moved away.

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Sis said grimly, handing her another pile of wet linen. ‘That woman’s trouble.’

‘No, she isn’t. She’s just being nice.’ Eva took the sheets, feeding them in between the heavy rollers of the laundry press. ‘Besides, you think everyone’s trouble.’

‘I know all I need to know. And I’m right. What do you do with her anyway?’

‘Nothing.’ Eva concentrated on forcing the sheets through rather than on Sis’s face. ‘I help her get dressed, iron clothes.’

‘Why did you let her cut your hair?’

‘I look older. That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘But why do you want to look older? That’s what I want to know.’

A taut silence stretched out between them. Sis yanked the pressed sheets out of the other end.

‘She lies about with no clothes on,’ Sis said after a while, unable to leave the subject alone. ‘Everyone knows she does it.’

Eva rolled her eyes. ‘She’s sunbathing. In the privacy of her own room.’

‘There’s nothing private about a balcony in the middle of New York City.’

‘It’s all the rage, among fashionable people.’

‘If you want to look like a farmhand. Fashionable my eye! She has a reputation, you know.’

‘She’s good to me.’

‘Who do you think pays her bills?’

Eva tried to take the high ground. ‘Not everything in this world is black or white, Sis.’

‘Sure it is.’ Sis eyed her harshly. ‘The sooner you figure that out, the easier life goes for you. Good, bad, right, wrong. You wanna live in the grey area, you’re gonna find out you don’t know your ass from your elbow.’ She lifted another pile of sheets. ‘And mark my words, grey turns to black pretty damn fast.’