The Perfume Collector

Paris, Spring, 1955

‘Madame Munroe? Madame Munroe?’

Grace blinked, looking up into Madame Zed’s face.

Madame Zed got up, went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of water. Then she set it on the table next to her.

Grace stared at the glass. She could see it, but it was as if she couldn’t place its purpose.

‘What happened to her?’ she asked after a while. ‘She was dismissed. Do you remember that?’

Grace shook her head. ‘I remember vaguely being at my grandparents’ home. That we seemed to stay there forever. A woman named Mrs Press looked after me. She was older, with thick white hands. I used to think they were made of lard. My mother always told me my father died of a heart attack.’

‘Well, what else could she say?’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed numbly.

Madame Zed passed her the final vial. Choses Perdus, she said. ‘It means “Lost things”. This is the accord Eva was obsessed with – the heart of the fragrance Hiver can’t reproduce.’

Grace took it, held it up.

Suddenly the gap in her senses closed. The air became tighter, more compressed. Her eyes filled with tears.

‘I have never been able to smell it.’ Madame sat forward. ‘Please, will you describe it to me?’

Grace nodded. ‘It’s the smell of wool, paperwhites, wood… and hair… my hair.’