The Perfume Collector

Paris, Spring, 1955

Madame Zed reached again for her glass of cognac but it was empty. Grace pushed the bottle across to her.

‘So Eva went with him? This Mr Lambert?’

She nodded.

Something inside Grace’s chest flared; a deep sense of indignation. ‘But she was just a child! You do realize that, don’t you? Whoever this man is, this Lambert, what he did was a crime.’

Madame merely looked at her, head tilted thoughtfully to one side. ‘One is never sure, in the end, of who seduces whom. A young woman on the cusp of her sexual awakening is a powerful creature. She’s often unused to, even unaware of, the tremendous power she holds and is easily intoxicated by it.’

Grace couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Are you defending him?’

Madame Zed shrugged. ‘I’m not defending anyone. Or condemning anyone.’ She looked at Grace thoughtfully. ‘Are you a prude, Mrs Munroe?’

‘A prude? Well, no. I don’t think so,’ Grace fumbled, offended.

‘I only ask because this is not a fairy tale, my dear.’ Taking out a long black cigarette holder, Madame Zed fitted a cigarette into it and lit it. She looked across at Grace, staring at her from beneath her heavily lidded dark eyes. ‘You came to me. You wanted to know more. But I can’t change the story to put you at ease.’

‘No. I don’t want you to do that,’ Grace relented. ‘I just suppose it’s a bit shocking that she would go off with a… a grown man like Lambert.’

Madame exhaled. ‘Lambert took her to Europe, introduced her into society, gave her an education of sorts. Some of us, no matter how hard we try, aren’t meant to lead ordinary lives. Fate finds us. Gives us a shove.’ She drew the holder to her lips and inhaled slowly. ‘Fate has given you a little push, hasn’t it?’

‘Me?’

Madame nodded. ‘Here you are, in a foreign city, with a strange legacy.’ She exhaled through her nose. ‘Perhaps, Madam Munroe, you weren’t meant for a mundane life either. Perhaps you’re considerably more exciting than you realize.’

‘Me? Oh no, I’m as dull as ditchwater.’

‘Really?’ Madame tilted her head to one side. ‘Tell me, where did you grow up again?’

‘In Oxfordshire. A small village called West Challow.’

‘And you lost your family in the war?’

‘My mother died in the Blitz. But my father died before the war, of a heart attack.’

‘Yes, I remember now,’ she nodded to herself. ‘You told me that. And what was she like, your mother?’

‘My mother?’ Grace frowned, laughing a little. She hadn’t expected to be the topic of conversation between them. ‘Well, let’s see…’ She tried to concentrate. ‘She was small, very energetic and had that kind of deep auburn hair I’ve always wanted myself but wasn’t lucky enough to inherit.’ She smiled to herself. ‘She seemed very beautiful and charming to me. She was also the author of several rather badly written romantic novels published under the pen name Irene Worthing.’

‘Really?’ Madame seemed fascinated. ‘How extraordinary. Have you read them?’

‘Of course. A thousand times.’

‘What about your father?’

‘It’s difficult for me to remember him at all, to be honest. He was a botanist. He came back a hero from the Great War… he was quite deaf from all the shelling and had suffered terribly from mustard gas poisoning. He was unable to be comfortable for any period of time.’

‘Do you miss them?’

Grace looked across at her. It was an odd thing to ask.

‘It’s been so long,’ she said after while. ‘At least, I think I miss the idea of them. I have to admit that I’ve forgotten almost everything about them or it’s been distorted. For example, my mother used to smell a certain way – of rose-water perhaps, or of soap, I can’t remember which. I don’t know if she smelled like that all the time or just once.’ She paused. ‘We lived on my mother’s family estate. But we didn’t live in the Great Hall – we had a smaller, separate house on the grounds where my father could work on his research as a botanist. He was always brooding, distracted. He didn’t speak much because of his hearing. I think he was actually extremely shy. He drew a lot, took notes. He preferred to make things.’

Madame inhaled slowly. ‘Like what?’

‘He made a three-storey house for the hens that was heated by a row of light bulbs under a wire mesh floor in the winter and that was always perfectly snug.’

‘How funny!’

‘Yes,’ Grace smiled. ‘And he built my mother a series of rotating pantry shelves and a wringer for the laundry that was operated by using a pedal on the floor rather than a handle so her arms wouldn’t grow tired.’

‘Did she like that?’

‘Well, she wasn’t very domestic – not much of a cook. She was more involved with her writing. Besides, we always had help for the housekeeping duties. They must have liked his inventions. But my father liked solving problems, I think, and my mother let him. I don’t think… I’m sorry.’ Suddenly Grace found it hard to concentrate on what she was trying to say. ‘I think something’s burning, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Have you got something in the oven? Your supper? I think it must be burning.’

‘Oh, merde! Not again!’ Crushing her cigarette into the ashtray, Madame got up and hurried to the kitchen. Grace could hear her muttering and cursing, the banging of pots and pans, the sound of running water.

When she didn’t return after a few minutes, Grace ventured into the hallway. The smell of charred pastry crust filled the corridor. ‘Can you save it?’ she asked, doubtfully.

‘It’s nothing.’ Madame opened the kitchen window to clear the smoke out. ‘Nothing that can’t be made again another time. I have always abhorred cooking. But every once in a while I try.’

‘I’m a dreadful cook. Far too easily distracted. I suppose I get that from my mother.’

Madame gave her a curious look. ‘Perhaps you do. But you must forgive me,’ she began ushering Grace towards the door, ‘it’s late. And as you can see, I have some cleaning to do.’ She held the door open for her. ‘Come again. Maybe tomorrow. And we will talk some more.’

Grace lit a cigarette on the pavement outside the deserted perfume shop on Rue Christine and began walking back to her hotel through the quiet, dimly lit streets, recounting Madame’s words. One sentence echoed in her mind, replaying itself over and over.

‘A young woman on the cusp of her sexual awakening is a powerful creature.’

She took a deep drag. Here in this strange city, the net of her memory loosened. She too had been intoxicated by her awakening sexuality.

It had happened just as Madame had noted; early on; after her mother’s death when she was thirteen or so. She’d only recently gone to live with her uncle in Oxford. He had no experience with children; suddenly she found she had the run of the house. He was always working and she was left more and more to her own devices, treated as an adult rather than a child. Grace remembered feeling such a tangle of opposing emotions – the aching loss of her mother, fear, and at the same time a new confidence and terrible, thrilling freedom. But underneath all that, there was an unfamiliar, overwhelming desire to be touched. Her body had grown languid, easily aroused. And overnight it had transformed from the narrow shapeless body of a child to that of a young woman, with a slimmer waist, swelling breasts, curving hips.

She began attracting attention. Clandestine looks and mysterious tensions suddenly corseted her days; unspoken invitations tugged at her awareness. Her uncle, always on the periphery, receded even further, maintaining a respectful distance from her transformation. But his colleagues gazed upon her with new eyes and suddenly she too had moved a little slower, a little more deliberately, teasing out their interest without knowing why; simply because all of a sudden she could.

She was fascinated and repulsed in equal measures by the sudden increase in male attention. She learned to cover her desire with a steely surface of indifference, playing the tensions off one another.

It had been an effective strategy, surprisingly sophisticated for one so young.

Near the banks of the Seine, tucked beneath bridges, in the shadows, Grace glimpsed the outlines of couples, bodies entwined, stealing embraces.

She crossed over the river, the black water rushing beneath her like a sheet of moving glass, the lights from the shore reflected in its smooth surface.

There had been a student of her uncle’s, a young man in his early twenties named Theo Lund; lanky, serious, with large, round blue eyes. He was shy, studious, socially awkward. From a modest background, he didn’t mix much, but was instead dedicated to earning his degree.

He came to the house every week, while working on his thesis, for private tutorials.

And she made a point of being the one to answer the door, showing him into her uncle’s study. She took care with her dress, her hair; lingering, allowing him to make conversation with her. And her answers to his questions were always evasive, teasing. Week after week, she felt his interest and admiration grow.

In private, she dreamed of his hands on her skin; of the pressure of his mouth on hers. She yearned for a physical pleasure she couldn’t quite imagine, didn’t understand.

Then she’d offered to show him the garden one late spring evening, with the magnolia tress in full bloom.

He’d followed her into the grove, talking too fast, too much. The trees had formed a canopy of rich blooms, waxy petals of deep pink, exploding with colour and perfume. She’d stood, quite still, while he admired them, looking everywhere but at her. And then finally he stopped. His hands shook a little as he reached for her.

She had met him more than halfway, tilting her face up, wrapping her arms around his neck. Tentative, tight-lipped kisses became urgent, hands travelled…

‘Grace!’ Her uncle’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘What are you doing?’

He was standing at the end of the path, rigid with indignation.

Even after all these years, her whole body still withered with mortification at the thought of it.

She never saw Theo Lund again. Was unsure if he ever graduated or not.

It was odd now, looking back… she’d been only a girl then. But her lasting impression was that he’d been the vulnerable one, the one whose innocence had been lost and led astray.

And then later, there was Roger.

That night after her birthday party at Scott’s, she was meant to be staying with Mallory but instead she and Roger had taken a room in a small hotel in Mayfair. She’d wanted to make love, couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

Once the door was locked, she went to him immediately.

‘You’re like a wild animal,’ he teased, extracting himself to make them both drinks. ‘Take it easy!’

‘But I don’t want to take it easy.’

Later, in bed, he manoeuvred her from one position to another; he had more experience and enjoyed instructing her. However, her willingness, her talent as a student, threw him.

‘Have you done this before?’ he accused.

‘No, but I want to please you.’

‘Relax,’ he said firmly, pushing her arms down by her side. ‘Let me.’

But by relax, he meant, ‘Be still.’

Grace had unladylike appetites; aggressive lusts. And a grasping emptiness in her soul. She should be ashamed of herself. It was painful to her, in the same way that certain high-pitched noises are unbearable to the ears, to even acknowledge this part of her nature.

Climbing the steps to the hotel, Grace paused, taking a long look at Paris, in all its shimmering, enigmatic elegance, wearing the night as a beautiful woman wears diamonds.

Madame Zed was right; one is not always sure who seduces whom.

Back in the rich, warm glow of the hotel lobby, piano music played, soft and melodious; the scent of white hyacinths, massed together in great brass urns near the front desk, perfumed the air with a sharp green sweetness. And the vast marble foyer echoed with conversation, laughter and the clinking of glasses.

It was cocktail hour.

‘Madame Munroe!’ The concierge bustled out from behind his desk. ‘You have a message, madame. A gentleman, Monsieur Tissot, has telephoned for you today.’ He handed her a slip of paper. ‘Here is his number. And also your husband has rung.’

‘My husband?’

‘Yes, madame. He has asked if you might be so good as to return his call.’ He handed her a second slip. ‘He is staying at his London club. This is the number.’

Her heart lifted. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

Upstairs in her room, Grace lit a cigarette and stood smoking by the window, looking out over the city skyline.

Every day she’d expected something; a letter or flowers, perhaps?

As the days dragged out, her hope withered.

But sure enough, in his own time, here it was.

Closing her eyes, Grace took another drag, gathering her nerve.

Mallory must’ve given him the name of the hotel.

She hated the thought of a strained, long-distance conversation. But perhaps it was for the best. He could apologize and they could move on with their lives, though the idea of him explaining his behavior; of being vulnerable in any way, made her cringe inwardly. They simply needed to get past this episode. And she told herself she could bear anything as long as he didn’t go into details; she didn’t want to imagine the affair any more vividly than she already had.

As long as Roger understood that it was over, for ever, they could carry on.

Resolved, Grace stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the receiver.

‘Yes, I’d like to place a trunk call please, to the East India Club in St James’s.’ She waited, gnawing on her fingernails while the operator connected her, eventually being transferred via the club switchboard to his room.

‘Hello? Hello?’ Roger’s voice crackled on the other end of the line. He sounded as if he were speaking through a tin can, and very far away.

Automatically, Grace’s spine stiffened. ‘Hello? Hello, Roger… it’s me.’

‘Who? I’m sorry? Who is this?’

‘It’s Grace,’ she said, louder. Who was he expecting?

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ There was silence. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m… I’m in Paris,’ she said stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘Yes, so I gather. I’ve spoken to Mallory.’

‘Really.’

‘And how was the trip?’

‘The trip? Fine. It’s a nice hotel.’

‘Good.’

More silence.

Her mind raced, tripping over itself for something, anything, to fill in the void. She could tell him about the will, explain the extraordinary inheritance of Madame d’Orsey… but she didn’t. His transgression was the matter at hand. However, she couldn’t help notice, with a sense of growing misgiving, that he hadn’t even asked as to the nature of her business.

‘And you?’ she fumbled. ‘Are you well?’

‘Well,’ he paused, ‘as well as can be expected. I can’t say I was thrilled to return from Scotland to empty house.’ He sounded petulant, put-upon. ‘There wasn’t a single thing to eat, Grace.’

It was amazing how he managed to twist things, to imply that he was being stoic in the face of her abandonment. She could hear him shifting, changing position. ‘How are you bearing up? Can you stomach the food?’

Grace’s skin went cold. Was this it? Was he just going to make pleasant conversation and pretend that nothing had happened? ‘It’s quite good really,’ she answered numbly. ‘I like it.’

‘You either love or hate it. Too much garlic for my taste. But it’s worse in Rome.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s what they say.’

Pause.

‘Well, good. I just wanted to ring and see if you were all right. After all,’ his words assumed a pointed tone, ‘you left so abruptly. Also I wanted to know when you planned to return home. People have been asking after you. I can’t put them off for ever.’

Grace blinked, amazed by his dexterity.

He’d simply sidestepped the entire thing. As far as he was concerned, she was the one leaving him in the lurch. And suddenly it struck her, clearly, that he had no intention of ever acknowledging his affair.

And he expected her to behave in the same way.

Grace sat down hard on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath. ‘What about Vanessa?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Vanessa.’ Grace’s heart was beating so hard, she felt as though she was going to be sick. ‘What about her?’

It took her a moment to realize that the sound she was hearing was laughter. ‘What are you talking about? What has Vanessa Maxwell got to do with anything?’

Vanessa Maxwell. He said her full name, as if he wasn’t familiar enough to call her by her first name alone.

The shock of it was like iced water seeping through her veins.

‘Are you… are you having an affair?’ She forced the words out of her mouth.

‘An affair? What are you talking about? With whom?’

Grace couldn’t bring herself to say anything more.

‘Grace? Grace! What’s got into you?’ he demanded.

She reached for her cigarettes; her hand was shaking. ‘You deny it.’

‘Deny what? There’s nothing to deny.’

He had the power to dissolve reality. Suddenly she was falling, with nothing to hold on to.

‘I think you’ve lost your mind,’ he said coldly.

‘I need to go now. It’s late.’

‘You could at least do me the courtesy of letting me know when you plan to return.’

‘I… I don’t know. I need time.’

‘Time for what? For more ridiculous accusations?’

‘This call is costing a fortune. I really must go. Goodbye.’

She hung up abruptly, managed with some difficulty to light another cigarette.

The hopelessness of her situation pressed in around her, as thick and dark as the evening shadows that filled the room.

How could she make him give up a mistress who didn’t exist?

The telephone was ringing. Grace struggled to lift her head off the pillow but it felt as though it was made of marble. And the telephone didn’t sound right. It had a short, high ring; sharp and fast.

She opened her eyes. Blazing morning sunlight filled the room, blinding her.

Good God, what was that? A chandelier dangled precariously overhead. For a moment she thought it might fall. Then she remembered.

The telephone was a French telephone.

She was in Paris.

Slowly, Grace propped herself up on her elbows. She was still wearing her blouse and skirt from yesterday, now badly creased. She must’ve cried herself to sleep last night on top of the bedcovers.

Finally the ringing stopped.

Sinking down, she groped on the bedside table for her cigarettes. The packet was empty.

‘Damn it!’

She swung her legs out, the parquet floor cold beneath her feet. She made her way to the telephone and dialled the front desk.

‘Hello? Hello… I mean, bonjour, yes… this is Mrs Munroe. I need some aspirin, please. Yes, aspirin. And some toast and coffee. As soon as possible, please.’

Shuffling into the bathroom, Grace turned on the bath-water, then caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying, her nose red; half of her hair was standing straight up and the other lay flat, pressed against her head.

Sinking down on the side of the bath, she trailed her fingers in the warm water. Perhaps she should just go back to bed; crawl under the covers and never come out. Who would know the difference or care?

There was a knock on the door. It was too soon for room service.

Turning off the tap, Grace yanked a dressing gown over her wrinkled clothes and answered it.

‘Bonjour!’ Mallory struck a pose in the doorway. She was wearing a chic little day suit of brilliant blue wool and a new red hat, no doubt purchased for the occasion.

‘Mal!’ Grace blinked at her in surprise. ‘My God! What are you doing here?’

Laughing, Mallory gave her a hug. ‘I’ve been ringing your room for ages but you never answer your phone. You’re not the only one who can get on an aeroplane, you know!’ Then she stood back. ‘My God, Grace. What’s happened to you? Are you ill?’

The waiter delivered the aspirin and placed the large silver dining tray on a table by the window, pouring out two cups of strong hot coffee.

‘Let me see if I’ve got this right.’ Mallory had settled herself in the corner of the settee and kicked her shoes off, pulling her feet underneath her. ‘So, you’re saying you’ve inherited a flat and some stocks and shares? And you still have no idea who this woman is?’

Grace perched on the end of her bed. ‘That’s about it. The only one who seems to have any information about her is this Madame Zed.’

‘The perfumer.’ Mallory poured crème into her cup and stirred.

‘Yes. Otherwise, I’m rather lost. Oh,’ she frowned, suddenly remembering, ‘except for these.’

She’d almost completely forgotten about the china figures. Pulling the cardboard box out from under the bed, Grace took out each of the six figures, unwrapped them and placed them in a line on the writing desk.

Mallory made a face. ‘Oh dear.’ She picked one up – a white-skinned shepherdess running through a field of small yellow flowers. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Apparently, they were left for me by Eva d’Orsey. The concierge had them and when I visited the flat, her daughter brought them up for me in that box.’

Mallory turned the figure round. ‘This woman leaves you a beautiful flat, shares of who knows what value and these?’ She put the figure down. ‘They’re not even originals – they’re mass-reproduced replicas. They’ve got no maker’s mark, nothing. Of all the things you’ve told me, darling, that’s the oddest.’

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 something 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 daughter, 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.’

‘Oh, then I must have a bottle!’ Mallory opened her handbag and took out her purse.

‘But you said this was their most popular fragrance.’ Grace picked up the bottle. ‘If Hiver can’t reproduce it, then they’ll have a crisis on their hands.’

‘Precisely,’ the girl agreed. ‘When Jacques Hiver died, the company suffered. But you see, while there are many lovely perfumes, there are only a few great ones.’

‘In that case, we’ll both have one.’ Mallory pulled a stack of French francs from her purse.

‘Mal… where did you get all that?’

‘Coutts, silly. I ordered them in advance. I’ve been planning this trip since the day I drove you to the airport. And I want to treat you,’ she insisted. ‘A woman who buys her own perfume is a sorry creature.’

‘You just bought yourself a bottle.’

‘I’m the exception to every rule,’ she smiled. ‘Especially my own.’

Grace watched as the assistant wrapped up their purchases.

‘Why would someone create a perfume for a company like Hiver and then not sell them the formula?’ she wondered. ‘Surely it would be in their best interests financially to do so.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t about money,’ Mallory said.

‘It’s a business. What other motivation could they possibly have?’

‘Who knows?’ Mallory tucked the bag with her latest acquisition over her arm, with all her other bags. ‘Perhaps it was out of sheer spite.’

The woman’s name was Paulette and she spoke no English at all.

Not that it would have mattered. From the moment Grace and Mallory appeared in the famous Carita beauty salon on Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré for their scheduled appointments the next day, their fate was clearly out of their hands.

The salon itself was a sparkling white monastery of beauty, featuring staff of both sexes, neatly dressed in white uniforms that looked like scientists’ lab coats over their suits and dresses. And indeed, the whole ethos of the salon was ‘the science of beauty’; a solemn pursuit, a long way from the local hairdresser’s Grace was used to. The salon not only styled hair but offered a range of beauty treatments neither of the girls had ever even heard of – including le drainage, a procedure involving half a day, a vast quantity of various creams and lotions and what looked like a small vacuum cleaner.

After a brief review of the schedule, the receptionist whisked Grace into one changing room and Mallory into another, where each was given a clean white gown to put over her street clothes and then introduced to her stylist. While Mallory babbled away to hers in unbroken French, Grace sat silent as the woman walked slowly around her.

Fiercely groomed and compact, Paulette regarded Grace with aloof curiosity, as if she were something between an unsightly stain on the floor and an exotic pet.

Grace, in turn, smiled nervously and laughed, then gestured to her head, doing a little mime performance meant to illustrate the way she normally liked to style her hair.

Paulette watched with a blank expression.

When Grace had finished, she opened a drawer and took out a pair of razor-sharp scissors.

‘Coupez les cheveaux.’

Grace stared at the scissors in horror. ‘Off? You mean, cut it off?’

‘Absolument.’ Paulette took down Grace’s long hair from the knot on top of her head and began brushing it out. ‘Off.’

It was decided.

Paulette was a singularly focused woman. After she’d cut at least six inches from Grace’s hair, she applied a lather of colour and popped her under a hairdryer. Then she began filing Grace’s fingernails. Without further consultation, she finished them off with a coat of deep red lacquer. Then she rinsed Grace’s head, and, having towel dried it, she took her by the shoulders and placed her in front of one of the many salon mirrors.

‘Voilà!’ she declared, proudly.

Grace stared back at herself, amazed. Her hair shone, a tussled glossy black bob. Suddenly her features appeared delicate and pixieish, her skin white, her eyes clear and vividly green. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and she was illuminated, only from within.

Paulette bustled her into the next room where she wound her hair into curlers and popped her under another hairdryer. The final effect was softer, more feminine, yet still striking.

An hour and a half later, Grace met Mallory again in the salon foyer.

Mallory froze in astonishment. ‘Grace! Is that you?’ she gasped. ‘Why, there was a sophisticated woman lurking underneath that woolly Oxford jumper this whole time!’

‘Thank you, I think,’ Grace laughed.

‘Well,’ Mallory pivoted round. ‘Et moi? What do you think? Am I not transformed?’

Mallory’s hair looked like a slightly pouffy version of what Mr Hugo usually did for her.

‘Wonderful,’ Grace smiled.

‘It’s miles better, isn’t it?’ Mallory admired herself again in the mirror. ‘I’m going to have one of those drainage treatments tomorrow. I’ve arranged supper for us with the Prescotts who are in Paris until next Thursday. Daphne’s always whippet thin – and now I know why. I’m just going to get my coat.’

While Grace waited, she spotted the silent Paulette hovering by the door.

Digging through her handbag for a suitable tip, Grace handed her a note (either far too much or far too little) which Paulette slid into her white uniform pocket without so much as a glance. Then, taking a deep breath, Paulette placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. ‘Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes.’

‘Pardon?’

Paulette tried again. ‘Vous êtes belle.’ Her tone was firm.

It took Grace a moment to realize it wasn’t a compliment, but a reproach.

‘Comprenez-vous?’ Paulette eyed her sternly.

Grace nodded, afraid to argue.

Paulette shook her head and sighed. In her world Grace had failed to meet the responsibility of her own beauty. This was not just a waste but a sin.

‘Belle.’ She repeated the word, as a warning against future infractions.

By the time they got back to the hotel, both girls were exhausted. ‘Let’s meet in the lobby for a drink before supper,’ Mallory suggested. ‘But now I need a lie down!’

Upstairs, Grace closed her bedroom door, kicked off her shoes and lit a cigarette.

Then she reached for her French phrasebook, trying to remember exactly what Paulette had said. ‘Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes…’

Tucking the cigarette into the side of her mouth, she sat down on the edge of the bed and flipped through the pages.

Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes.

Savez… from savoir…

… to know…

Exhaling, Grace closed the book. She collapsed backwards into the soft pillows and closed her eyes.

You don’t know who you are.

At breakfast the next morning, Grace was drinking her coffee alone when Monsieur Tissot suddenly appeared in the dining room. He scanned the faces. She waved to him and he came over.

‘You are avoiding me, Madame Munroe,’ he announced, pulling out the chair opposite her. ‘May I?’

She gave a little nod.

‘And you have changed your hair.’ He sat down. ‘Is this part of your plan to elude me?’

‘And good morning to you.’ She signalled to the waiter to bring another cup. ‘Yes, I think of you constantly and every single thing I do is born out of a desire to thwart you. Coffee?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve been leaving messages for you which the concierge assures me he’s delivered.’

‘It’s reassuring, isn’t it? To know they take their obligations so seriously.’ The waiter brought another cup and she poured him some coffee. ‘Cream?’

‘No, thank you.’

She passed it to him.

‘They’re not the only ones who take their jobs seriously, madame. One can’t be too careful with heiresses roaming about the streets of Paris.’

‘You read too many cheap novels, Monsieur Tissot. Your sense of the dramatic is overdeveloped.’

‘Except in this novel the heroine is difficult to track down.’

‘The truth is,’ she explained, ‘a friend of mine has joined me from London, quite unexpectedly. I’ve been caught up with her the past few days.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. However, I’m here with news. I’ve had an offer on the apartment.’

She frowned. ‘But how? Have you been advertising it already?’

‘No. The offer comes from an unexpected source. Madame Jacques Hiver.’

‘Jacques Hiver’s widow?’

He nodded. ‘Her lawyers contacted me two days ago. She would like to purchase the property before it goes on the market publicly. And she’s willing to pay twice its estimated value in order to complete the transaction quickly.’

‘Twice its value! But why? Doesn’t it strike you as in particularly poor taste to want to purchase the apartment your husband’s mistress lived in?’

‘I’m not sure what her interests are. However, she would like to meet you.’

‘Meet me?’ Grace put her cup down. ‘Oh, I don’t think so!’

He leaned back. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’

‘I don’t know… what if she rails at me for her husband’s affair?’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘And why would she do that? What have you got to do with it? Her offer seems entirely above board. However, it’s up to you. I felt it was important that you be aware of these developments and have time to consider them. It is, after all, a great deal of money.’

‘Of course. I’m grateful, Monsieur Tissot, that you took the time to inform me. And I apologize for not keeping in touch.’

He smiled, taking another sip of coffee. ‘So, what else have you been doing besides avoiding my calls? Did you make any enquiries? Or find anything else out about Madame d’Orsey?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I have been to see the old woman who lives above the perfume shop again. She’s a perfumer herself. And she knew Eva d’Orsey quite well.’

Monsieur Tissot’s face turned serious. ‘You shouldn’t go there by yourself. She seems quite mad.’

‘I’ve only spoken to her once.’

‘Well, I should come with you next time, if there’s going to be a next time. I don’t like the idea of you going there on your own.’

‘I can’t take you everywhere I go,’ she laughed.

‘And why not?’

‘People will talk.’

‘You’re in Paris. People began talking when you got off the plane.’

‘I didn’t wish to waste your time – you’re a busy man.’

‘Who’s wasting whose time?’ Mallory had come down to breakfast and was standing between them, looking from one to the other.

Immediately, Monsieur Tissot was on his feet, offering his hand to Mallory. ‘Edouard Tissot, madame. At your service.’

‘And how very lovely to meet you, Monsieur Tissot.’ She smiled her most charming smile.

‘This is my dear friend, Mrs Hayes,’ Grace introduced them. ‘Monsieur Tissot is my lawyer here in Paris, acting on behalf of Eva d’Orsey’s interests,’ she explained.

He shot her a look. ‘And your interests as well,’ he corrected her.

‘And how are matters proceeding, Monsieur Tissot?’ Mallory took a seat, as a waiter brought her a cup. ‘Please, sit down and join us.’

But he remained standing. ‘There have been several new developments. However, I don’t wish to intrude upon your time together.’

‘I would love to see this apartment.’ Mallory looked across at Grace. ‘I find it all so exciting!’

‘It would be my pleasure to arrange another viewing. Let me know when it’s convenient.’

Folding her napkin, Grace stood too. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ She turned to Mallory. ‘Darling, order some tea, will you? I’ll be right back.’

‘Think about the meeting with Madame Hiver,’ Monsieur Tissot advised, as they made their way through the dining room. ‘I would give it serious consideration. Twice the asking price is a great deal of money. By the way,’ he glanced at her sideways, as they strolled into the front lobby, ‘your new hairstyle is very fetching.’

Grace felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Yes, but it failed to throw you off the scent. Perhaps I will have to become a redhead next.’

‘You aren’t going to lose me that easily.’

They’d reached the main entrance.

‘I forgot,’ she held out her hand, ‘you’re a dedicated professional. You won’t rest until that flat is sold.’

He took her hand. ‘That’s certainly part of it.’

He gave her fingers a squeeze, then released her. ‘I will be in contact when I’ve arranged the meeting. And I would be grateful if in future you would be so kind as to return my calls.’

With a little bow, he left.

Grace headed back into the dining room and sat down.

Mallory bit into a croissant. ‘Well, he’s certainly very attentive,’ she said with a smile.

‘He’s just doing his job.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘So, what are your plans for today?’

‘Well, I’m practically almost completely at your disposal. Only I’ve got a luncheon arranged with Tippi Miller who’s on her way back from Nice and is only here for two nights. She’s staying at the Ritz and I know she’d love to see you,’ she added hopefully.

‘God save me from Tippi Miller!’ Graced groaned, filling her cup again. ‘She’s a terrible gossip. No sooner is someone’s back turned than she’s sticking a knife in it. What are you thinking of, Mal?’

‘She rang me. Besides,’ she added with a little shrug, ‘everyone becomes a friend when you’re in a foreign country.’ She leaned forward. ‘She’s been up and down the French Riviera for a month and yes, she will be choking with gossip and I want to hear it all first-hand. She’s already told me she only just avoided being named in a divorce suit, also that she gambled away her mother’s diamonds one night and had to do unspeakable things to a Swiss banker to get them back. And apparently three very famous sisters have been sharing the same wildly handsome tennis instructor without any of them knowing, only Tippi refuses to confirm names until I see her!’

Grace shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I haven’t got the stomach for it. The entire place sounds like a zoo.’

‘But a beautiful zoo,’ Mallory sighed, ‘with sun and sand and glorious sea!’

‘And far too many wild animals. Be careful, Mal,’ she warned. ‘Don’t let Tippi eat you for lunch!’

Shortly after midday, Monsieur Tissot rang; he’d managed to arrange a meeting with Yvonne Hiver, who’d requested that they meet at the apartment.

Grace decided to walk to the appointment. When she arrived in the courtyard outside the apartment, a large shiny black Daimler was already parked outside; a uniformed driver was leaning against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette as she passed by.

She’d hoped to be the first one here, to have a few moments alone in the apartment again.

The front door was propped open. Someone had been scrubbing the steps; a tin bucket and brush were pushed to one side in the hallway. Mounting the stairs, she heard voices – Monsieur Tissot and a woman; low voices, speaking French.

The door to the flat was open. Grace walked inside to find them standing in the drawing room, facing the wall of windows that overlooked the garden square below.

They turned.

Yvonne Hiver looked younger than she’d expected. Dressed in a very modern tweed sheath dress that hugged her figure, with a Persian lamb scarf, she exuded the air of a woman used to spending her days glowing brightly at the centre of her own, personal solar system. Her matching hat had a thin mesh veil which she had folded back; her hair was brushed away from her face, highlighting her excellent bone structure, and her eyes were accentuated by bold flourishes of black eyeliner. It was the kind of deceptively simple day ensemble that easily cost a fortune.

‘I’m afraid,’ Grace apologized as she removed her gloves, ‘that I must be late.’

‘Not at all.’ Monsieur Tissot walked over and took her hand. ‘Madame Hiver is very prompt. In fact, she was already here when I arrived.’

‘The door was open downstairs,’ Madame Hiver explained.

Catching Grace’s eye, Monsier Tissot smiled reassuringly. ‘May I present Madame Hiver. Madame Hiver, this is Grace Munroe.’

It struck Grace that he had used her first name; as if somehow he were staking a subtle claim to her autonomy.

Yvonne Hiver took a step forward, offering her hand. Grace could see that closer up, she must be easily in her mid-forties. ‘Madame Munroe, how kind of you to meet me.’ Her voice was a low, rich contralto, and there was a certain bored, drawling out of her vowels; a universal characteristic of the upper classes that Grace recognized even through her heavy accented English. She shook Grace’s hand. ‘This is good of you,’ she added.

‘And a pleasure to meet you, Madame Hiver. I understand you have an interest in purchasing this flat, is that correct?’ Grace was aware of sounding abrupt but found herself unexpectedly nervous, thrown by Madame Hiver’s commanding self-possession.

‘That’s correct.’

Grace slipped her hands into her pockets. ‘And may I ask why?’

‘This apartment has been in my husband’s family for years. Now that it is empty, I would like to restore it to the Hiver portfolio. And as I’m sure you know, property like this, in a good location, is always an excellent investment.’

‘But surely not at twice its estimated value.’

Madame Hiver tilted her head slowly to one side, like an animal sizing up its prey. ‘Well, perhaps we could say it’s for sentimental reasons.’

‘Sentimental?’

Yvonne Hiver took out a gold cigarette case. ‘Do you think that’s odd?’ She removed a cigarette.

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.’