The Perfume Collector

Paris, Spring, 1955

Madame Zed looked across at Grace, ‘You do understand, don’t you?’

Grace opened her mouth to speak but stopped. The knot tightened in her stomach, as if someone were pulling, playing tug-of-war with her insides. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked numbly.

Instead of answering, Madame reached over, pulled open the drawer of a small end table next to her and took out a photograph.

‘Have you ever seen a picture of Eva?’

Grace shook her head.

She passed it to Grace. ‘That was taken many years ago.’

It was an old black-and-white photograph, taken in a studio. The girl in the picture was very young; she had a heart-shaped face, radiant clear eyes. Her hair was a shining black helmet, her skin pale. The Cupid’s bow lips were curved into a knowing half-smile. The eyes, lined in thick charcoal, looked challengingly into the very centre of the camera lens, daring it to blink before she did. A kind of sexual heat radiated from her, a sultry, defiant sophistication.

Madame Zed had taken out a silver cigarette case. ‘She’s beautiful, don’t you think?’

Grace nodded, unable to stop staring.

This wasn’t the woman she’d expected. Nothing like her at all. She tried to match the picture with Monsieur Tissot’s description of a woman whose face was changed by pain; with the sharp, sophisticated perfume that lingered in the apartment.

But the girl in the photograph was so surprising in her immediacy, and so terribly young.

Madame Zed opened the silver cigarette case, took the last one. ‘Here.’ She passed Grace the empty case.

Grace didn’t understand. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Go on,’ she nodded to it. ‘Look.’

Slowly, Grace lifted it up. Her face reflected back at her in its smooth surface.

‘Do you know why you are here, Mrs Munroe? In Paris?’

Grace struggled to see what was before her eyes. Here was the same heart-shaped face, the same clear, grey-green eyes.

‘My mother… my mother was Lady Catherine Maudley,’ she heard herself say.

‘Of course.’ Madame struck a match, the flame flared to life as she lit her cigarette. ‘Only, whom do people usually bequeath their property to?’

Grace swallowed hard, tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.

‘My mother died in the Blitz,’ she said, stupidly. Madame Zed didn’t bother to respond. Instead she got up, went to the sideboard, poured a glass of cognac, and handed it to her. ‘Go on. Drink.’

The sweet amber liquid burned down the back of Grace’s throat; the alcohol seeped slowly into her limbs. She took another drink, draining the glass.

Madame sat down. ‘You can’t have come all this way and not at least have had the thought cross your mind.’

Grace put the glass down. ‘You don’t absolutely know for certain… do you?’

She looked at Grace, not unkindly, then got up and filled the glass again.

Grace drank it, staring at the photograph yet unable to see it clearly any more. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, after a while.

‘You were born when Eva was just a teenager.’

Grace pressed her eyes close. ‘But how do you know?’

‘Because, drinkers talk too much.’

The dog twitched in his sleep, whimpering a little.

A shaft of sunlight shifted, moving almost imperceptibly across the floor.

‘I think I’d better go.’ Grace stood up, her legs oddly shaky underneath her.

‘Where?’

She stared at the old woman blankly. ‘I don’t know.’

Madame Zed looked up at her with those large black eyes. ‘You have nowhere else to go.’

She was right.

Grace sat down again, her body leaden and numb. ‘Why didn’t she try to contact me?’

Madame shook her head.

‘She knew where I lived and how to get in touch with me after her death!’ Grace heard her voice rising, like the panic inside her. ‘Why didn’t she bother to do it while she was alive?’

‘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.’

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.’

Grace opened her mouth to speak but didn’t know where to begin, the words sticking in her throat. ‘You… I don’t understand…’

‘Please, darling.’ He got up. ‘Forgive me. You’ve married a fool. But I’m your fool, I promise.’ Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close.

He was so tall, she slipped in easily, just under his chin. She could feel his heart beating, smell the familiar soapy aftershave he wore. She stood very still, her cheek against his chest, until he took a step back.

He was smiling, handsome, relieved.

‘God, I’m shattered! What a journey.’

Tucking his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he lifted his case up, setting it on the luggage rack. He unsnapped the locks and took out his shaving kit.

She watched as he untied his shoelaces, slipped off his shoes, hung up his suit jacket. ‘Is that the loo?’

She nodded.

Roger padded past her into the bathroom and locked the door. She could hear the water running.

Grace sat down on the side of the bed.

He was back. All the way from London.

And Vanessa… apparently little more than a misunderstanding. If she believed him.

It had taken all of five minutes. He’d come in, made his apology and now he was in the bathroom – her bathroom.

So why didn’t she feel anything?

Running her hand over her forehead, Grace pressed her fingers deep into her skin. Yes, she could feel them. But why was she so numb inside?

After a while, Roger came out again.

Without saying anything, Grace turned off the light and he finished undressing in the dark. She stretched out along the far side of the bed with her back to him and he crawled in next to her.

It had been such a long time since he’d been this close; her heart pounded so loudly in her head she thought he might hear it.

But when he reached across to touch her, she moved away.

‘No.’

When Grace woke up the next morning, Roger was already fully dressed, sitting at the writing desk. He was looking over some papers, his reading glasses low on his nose.

Still groggy, Grace propped herself up on her elbows. ‘What time is it?’

He didn’t bother to look over. ‘I’m not sure.’ He turned the page. ‘There’s a time difference, isn’t there?’

Grace rubbed her eyes. ‘What are you doing?’

Taking off the glasses, he turned, holding up the papers. ‘Do you have any idea what a valuable share portfolio this is?’

Grace sat up, fully awake now. ‘Those papers belong to me, Roger!’

‘You’re my wife, Grace. They belong to both of us now.’

‘Why were you even looking at them?’ She swung her legs out. ‘Who gave you permission?’

He looked at her, his upper lip curling slightly, as if she were mad. ‘They were here on the desk, for anyone to see. Besides, Mallory told me you were having difficulty with some business matters. I know how to read contracts, Grace. I do it all day long. You should have shown them to me as soon as they came in the door.’

‘Mallory?’ They’d been discussing her behind her back? ‘What has she got to do with anything?’

‘Nothing. My God, you’re touchy!’ He turned round in his chair to face her. ‘I rang her, all right? I wanted to know that you were safe.’

‘Then why didn’t you ring me?’

‘Because,’ he stood up, ‘you weren’t listening to me! Were accusing me of having an affair. What is wrong with you this morning?’

Grace turned her back on him. It felt as though her head was going to explode. He was too big, too loud; took up all the space in the room. No sooner had he arrived than he was going through her papers, telling her what to do, ringing her friends. Grabbing a dress from the wardrobe, she marched into the bathroom.

When she came out, Roger was going through the documents she’d signed with Monsieur Tissot. ‘We absolutely need to have these translated properly. And I’m going to ring this Edouard Tissot and get him to meet me here this afternoon. I’m telling you, this is negligence,’ he insisted, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe that you would sign anything without consulting me first, Grace. This could be a serious mistake. Have you any idea what the going rate of property is in this area? You’re lucky I found them in time.’

Grace picked up her handbag and coat. Put on her hat.

Roger took off his glasses. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I need some fresh air.’

‘You can’t leave now, Grace. You need to tell me exactly what you’ve done here. We have to go through these. Don’t you understand? This affects both of us. Who is this Eva d’Orsey, anyway?’

She opened the door. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. And these are my affairs, Roger. They do not concern you.’

The first place she went was to Mallory’s room but there was no answer.

After scanning the dining room and terrace, Grace eventually found her sitting in one of the corner sofas in the drawing room, writing postcards.

Mallory smiled. ‘Hello, stranger. Feeling better?’

Grace threw herself into one of the armchairs across from her. ‘Roger is here.’

‘He’s here?’ Mallory looked up, shocked. ‘In Paris?’

Grace leaned in close. ‘Why did you tell him about the inheritance?’

Mallory put down her pen. ‘You mean you haven’t?’

Grace ran her fingers over her eyes. It was as if the walls were closing in around her. Paris, where she’d felt so autonomous and free, had overnight become as suffocating as London. ‘He’s into all my papers now, Mal. He’s ringing the lawyer, he’s going to have the contracts translated.’

‘Well,’ she said, frowning, ‘isn’t that rather a good thing?’

‘No, Mallory. It isn’t.’

‘You don’t think he might be useful?’

‘This is my affair,’ Grace insisted. It had never struck her before how crucial it was that she figure out these questions on her own; how deeply her autonomy mattered to her.

Mallory’s brow furrowed; she bit her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry, Grace. I thought you were, well, out of your depth. When he rang the other night, he sounded genuinely concerned. He told me he just wanted to know that you were all right. I had no idea you hadn’t told him. And I certainly didn’t know that he was going to turn up. Honestly, darling,’ she put her hand over Grace’s, ‘I just wanted to do what was best for you.’

Grace stood up. ‘This isn’t it.’

‘How can you be sure?’

Grace looked at her. ‘I… I don’t know,’ she floundered, taken aback. Mallory had hit a nerve; Grace was normally the confused one, the one floating aimlessly, stumbling in the dark.

‘Well,’ Mallory sighed, ‘what is best then?’

Grace pulled her coat on. Even Mallory doubted her. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Where are you going?’ Mallory got up too.

‘I need to be alone.’

‘Wait!’ Mallory took her arm. ‘Did Roger apologize? Tell me, what did he say?’

Mallory’s face was so intent.

Grace stared at her, trying to yank her mind back into focus. But it wouldn’t go. For some reason the whole question of Roger, of what he said or did, didn’t matter as much as something else – something she couldn’t quite define. It hovered just out of reach of her awareness, like a shadow.

Mallory was waiting. Grace’s brain spun. She could hardly remember the details of last night’s conversation; only that Roger had arrived, swallowed up all the air, taken up all the space. And after months of wishing he would touch her, now she was the one pushing him away.

In contrast, the guilty memory of Edouard Tissot’s mouth on hers ricocheted through her entire body.

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure… I suppose so.’ Her voice was flat, lifeless. ‘He said everything I wanted to hear. Told me it was all… all a lie. Only, now I don’t want to hear it any more.’

She was sitting in the park across the street, with her back to the playground, looking out across the river. Her dog, the ageing terrier with his watery eyes and moulting fur, was crouched in a neat little ball underneath the bench, hiding from the screaming children.

It was easy to spot her – the long black coat, the wool felt turban-style hat. Even from behind, her stiff bearing gave her an imperious air.

Grace didn’t want to be here; with all her heart she didn’t want to speak to Madame Zed ever again. But here she was, just the same.

When she first left the hotel, she’d gone to the Louvre. It was so enormous; her plan was to lose herself in the miles of galleries. Spend the whole day or at least until her head quietened down. But no sooner had she gone inside than the sheer scale of the palace overwhelmed her. The pale marble walls and high columns echoed with voices chattering in half a dozen languages; the incredible opulence of the gilded walls and ceiling of the Apollo Gallery dazzled too brightly; all around her on the canvases, bodies writhed, wars raged, heroic actions prevailed. The grandeur jarred rather than soothed.

So she left; wandered the streets, bought a coffee she didn’t drink. Walking into a bookshop, she stood, staring, unseeing, at the titles on the shelves.

A gentleman in glasses approached. ‘Comment puis-je vous aider?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Comment puis-je vous aider?’ he repeated slowly.

It took Grace a moment to realize she was staring at a row of anatomy journals; this was an academic bookshop.

‘Non. Non, merci.’

Soon it became clear that no place would offer the refuge she sought. Her mind stumbled and careered, tripping and falling again and again into the same unanswerable voids. One moment the taste, feel and smell of Edoaurd Tissot seemed to have taken over her body and then, equally as intense, the horrendous truth blinded her – that she could no longer trust herself; that everything she thought she was, was a lie.

Now she was back, on the Left Bank. Searching for the person who had cracked her life open like an egg.

Grace stopped in front of the bench. Hands in her pockets, she gripped her father’s old lighter, holding it tightly in the palm of her hand. ‘You must really hate me.’

Madame Zed looked up at her, surprised. Then, taking in Grace’s expression and demeanour, she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you.’ Her lips hardened into a thin, taut line. ‘But I loathed her.’

Grace stared at her in shock. ‘Why?’

‘Why not?’ she shot back, her black eyes fierce. ‘He was mine. I discovered him, I trained him! My money bought him the business. He was my whole world – the child I never bore, the husband I never married, the companion I never found. And then she arrived, out of nowhere!’ She leaned forward. ‘Do you know what was so devastating about her? She truly had a unique talent. She knew how to catch the flavour of the times, how to distil it into the perfect atmosphere. She was good at it. And more than anyone else, she knew how to make him listen.’ She gripped the terrier’s lead tightly, winding it round her boney hand. ‘When I spoke, my voice disappeared like the wind. Eva knew how to bring out the best in him. When she made a suggestion, he took note. It was obviously right. Do you realize how galling that was? I was reduced to an onlooker – an antiquity from another age.’ She stared out across the choppy grey water for some time. When she spoke again, she sounded empty, hollow. ‘Even when she left, he’d become so cocksure, so independent, he didn’t need me any more.’

Grace shook her head. ‘That’s not even true! What about the correspondence I found? The letter with those strange accords you were creating with him – wet wool, hair and so on?’

Madame wound the lead even tighter. ‘That wasn’t Valmont.’

‘Then who was it?’ she demanded. ‘Who else would want your help to create a perfume?’

‘Who indeed.’ She turned, locking Grace in with her unfathomable black gaze. ‘She only made one formula. I cannot believe it, even to this day. To have such success with one’s first real attempt.’ She shook her head, laughing bitterly. ‘Unheard of!’

Grace sat down on the edge of the bench. ‘What are talking about?’

‘The formula she sold Hiver – Eva created it.’

‘But you told me she’d betrayed Valmont! That it was his!’

‘It had his name on it. But no. She’d been working on it for a while, on her own. It was a private obsession.’

‘How could you do that?’ She stared at her in dismay. ‘Did you lie about anything else?’

‘Some day you will have a nemesis,’ Madame warned bitterly. ‘It’s not easy, you know. Someone who has the ability to do everything you wish you could, but with greater ease, style, success.’

Grace folded her arms across her chest. ‘I already have a nemesis, thank you.’

‘You’re too young to understand what it’s like to be dismissed from someone’s life – someone you love.’

Grace glowered at her. ‘I could write a book about it.’

They sat a while.

Then Madame Zed spoke again. ‘I’ve known her so many years, hated her for so long, she’s like a part of me. A limb. When you told me she had died, I actually felt bereft. Sometimes I wonder if we don’t hold our hatreds closer than our loves. Then you, of all people, came to me for answers.’

‘And you saw the chance to get your own back.’

‘No, that wasn’t my intention at all.’ She turned on Grace, suddenly indignant. ‘Do you think I want to be petty? That I’m not repulsed by my own jealousy and resentment? I wanted to be fair.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘No, no I wasn’t,’ she agreed. For a while, she sat very still. ‘I lost my ability,’ she said at last.

Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘In India I contracted meningitis. I never fully recovered. Over time, it eroded my sense of smell.’

‘But what about the perfumes you showed me…’

‘They were recounted from memory. But I can no longer make anything. I became useless.’

Grace thought back to the spoiled milk, the burning supper.

‘It’s true that I should not have agreed to talk to you.’ Madame admitted. ‘But in the end, I think Eva and I had more in common than I realized. She lost what mattered most to her too.’

‘Lost!’ Grace shook her head in disbelief. ‘You make it sound as though I was misplaced.’

‘Don’t you want to know where you came from?’

‘Is that how you justify it to yourself? That you’re helping me? Explaining to me how my entire life is a fraud?’

Madame Zed kept her eyes trained on the ground between her feet. Deep creases cut across her brow. ‘No. I can’t justify my actions. I suppose I did want you to hate her,’ she said quietly.

‘Well, you’ve succeeded. And all it’s done is tear me to pieces.’ Against her will, there were tears. ‘Made me think less of the entire human race.’

‘Well, now. We can’t have that.’

Madame Zed rose, the little terrier scurrying to his feet too. The afternoon was clouding over, the wind gathering strength. Gusts battered against her thin frame, threatening to topple her. ‘Come with me.’

‘Why?’ Grace looked up at her. ‘Why would I ever come with you again?’

Even when she was wrong, Madame managed a superior tone. ‘Because I have one last perfume to show you.’

Madame Zed picked up the simple chemist’s vial with the peeling label. But before she opened it, she said, ‘Let me tell you what happened.’

‘You’ve already lied to me once. Why should I believe what you say?’

‘Why don’t you hear what I have to say first?’ she countered, evenly.

‘Fine.’

Madame Zed sat down and Grace took a seat opposite her.

‘When Eva was just a young girl, working as a maid in New York, she became pregnant,’ Madame began. ‘Charles Lambert, or Lamb as he was known, brought her with him to England. But it was agreed between them that Eva would pay for her fare and Lamb’s protection by working with him, after the baby was born, in the large gambling casinos of Europe. That’s what he was relying on and why he agreed to help her. She had a rare, extremely rare, gift for numbers.’

Grace was unimpressed. ‘You’ve already told me that.’

Madame Zed took her rudeness in her stride.

‘Eva was fifteen, maybe sixteen when you were born,’ she went on, ‘without friends or family, in a strange country. Lambert convinced her that he should take the child to live with his sister, Catherine. That she would be able to look after you better than anyone else. Catherine was married to a man named Maudley, a soldier who’d been badly injured in France. They never thought they would have children. So when Lambert came to them one day with the baby of an unmarried young girl, it seemed like a godsend.’

Grace’s heart speeded up. ‘You’re talking about my parents.’

Madame Zed nodded.

A memory flashed into Grace’s mind; her mother’s lips pressed to her forehead as she tucked her into to bed at night. ‘Goodnight, my darling girl.’

Instinctively she touched her fingers to her brow.

‘Eva didn’t want to let you go,’ Madame continued. ‘But Lambert insisted. He promised her that when she’d repaid her debt, he would write to his sister and arrange a meeting; that Eva would be able to have you back. Time passed. Eva did everything Lambert asked of her. But it was never enough. He was a raging alcoholic. Even her skill couldn’t prevent him from digging them deeper and deeper into debt.’

‘What was meant to be a temporary solution became a permanent one. Lambert kept his sister’s name and address from Eva. He said she would only ruin things if she tried to contact her on her own, but in truth it gave him power over Eva. However, the night he took his life, Lambert wrote to her, finally giving her the details. He also confessed that his attempts at negotiating the child away from his sister had failed – Catherine had become too attached to the little girl. She wasn’t prepared to give her up without a battle. You see, Lambert had given his sister not just the child but the birth certificate too. Eva had no proof that you were hers.’ Madame looked across at her. ‘But Eva refused to give up.’

Grace felt her insides twist and knot. ‘Go on.’

‘Catherine and her husband didn’t live in the main household of her father’s estate. Instead, they chose one of the smaller private houses on the grounds. They didn’t have much in the way of help. Then one summer,’ Madame continued, ‘Catherine Maudley began writing a book. They decided to hire a nanny. In fact, the girl they employed was initially taken on as a housemaid and cook. She’d appeared quite out of the blue one spring, asking the village pastor if he would help her find a position. But her devotion to the little girl was so instant and touching, that in addition to cooking and cleaning for the Maudleys, she gradually assumed greater responsibilities, taking charge of the child’s entertainment and care while her mother worked. The girl Catherine Maudley hired was French. She was called Céline.’

Grace felt the bottom of her stomach disappear.

The name triggered something. Out of the dark shadows in her memory, a face emerged.

‘Lena,’ she murmured.

The crack opened wide, images tumbling to the fore-front of her consciousness.

Lena had been small, with dark brown hair and a soft, pleasing voice. And for a time, she’d been everywhere, in the kitchen baking, out on the lawn hanging up the washing, up on the landing calling her into her bath…

‘Lena! Lena!’ Grace could remember the feeling of her name in her mouth, on her tongue; running in through the back door of the house, calling out, ‘Lena!’ She wasn’t so much a nanny as a playmate, a constant conspirator in fun. ‘Lena!’

And she’d smelled of something familiar, something so natural, so elemental that for ever afterwards and for reasons she could never quite place, Grace would associate the sudden drop in temperature, the darkening of the sky and the low growl of thunder, with peace and comfort.

She’d smelled of rain.