The Perfume Collector

New York City, 1927

Mrs Ronald, the Head of Housekeeping, leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘This is very unusual. We normally go through an agency. This is not how it’s done at all, Mr Dorsey. Not at all.’

Antoine d’Orsey, the Senior Sous-chef, stood very still but said nothing, staring patiently at the space between his feet on the floor. He was making an awkward request and, in his experience, the most effective way to get what he wanted was to simply wait it out. Years of marriage had taught him that; say what you want and then hold your ground. Also, after working at the Hotel (as the Warwick was known to the staff who ran it) since it opened, he was familiar enough with Mrs Ronald to know that her tough exterior masked a sentimental disposition, along with a keen, practical mind. It was well known that she was short of staff and the summer season was only beginning. In the end, she needed his help too.

Not that she was willing to admit as much. ‘Does she even speak any English?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He shifted slightly. ‘You see, my wife has taken a job with a family in Westchester. There is nowhere else for her to go.’

Mrs Ronald considered this, sucking hard on her back teeth. She felt for Antoine. She knew him to be hard working, quiet, stubborn; perhaps a little too fastidious. His nickname was ‘Escargot’ because the Head Chef claimed he moved at a snail’s pace. However, he was always one of the first people to arrive and one of the last to leave; a cornerstone of the kitchen staff.

Sighing again, she surveyed the young girl who stood in front of her.

Small and thin, she had dark hair that hung lankly to her shoulders. Her face was more unfortunate than pretty, with wide-set, oddly coloured eyes that curved upwards like a cat’s and a rather long, narrow nose. They were aquiline features, with a sensual, curving mouth that struck Mrs Ronald as somehow obscene; far too large for her face. She was dressed very plainly, in a simple navy skirt and white blouse, the inexpensive fabrics worn from use but neatly pressed. She kept her eyes on the floor.

Mrs Ronald turned back to Antoine. ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’

‘She’s fourteen,’ he said. ‘She’s just small for her age. She’s already been working for two years – she has references from a family in Brooklyn.’

‘And why did she leave their employ?’

‘They were from Austria and were only here for a short time.’

He nodded to her and the girl took an envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Mrs Ronald.

‘Eva,’ Mrs Ronald read aloud, her lip curling ‘That’s an odd name. Eva Dorsey.’ She managed to make it sound ugly.

Antoine was straining to correct her, only it did no good. Mostly he was used to his family name being butchered, flattened out to its nearest American counterpart. Today, however, it grated.

‘She’s my wife’s sister’s child. Both her parents are dead now. I gave her my family name when we came over.’

There was hardness in his voice. He resented his niece’s history and there was a lot of it he avoided recounting to people like Mrs Ronald. But the last thing he wanted was anyone mistaking Eva for his own child.

She was a quiet girl, conscientious and obedient, but he mistrusted her instinctively. Her mother had been pregnant out of wedlock and died of tuberculosis. Eva was invariably cut from the same cloth; an unwelcome drain on both his time and his resources.

Mrs Ronald raised an eyebrow. ‘I see you worked as a lady’s maid. That might be useful.’ She handed the letter back to her. ‘We have several female guests who fancy themselves as ladies, though nothing could be further from the truth. Come here,’ she ordered. ‘Let’s see your hair.’

Eva bent her head down while Mrs Ronald searched her scalp. ‘No sign of lice. Good. Show me your hands.’

Eva did as she was told.

‘She’s clean,’ Antoine assured her. ‘My wife is very strict about that. And in good health.’

Mrs Ronald crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘Still, it’s hard graft. I’m not convinced you could handle the work.’ (She didn’t like to give in too easily.) ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

Eva paused, looking from one to the other. ‘I think, ma’am, that you know best. However, I would be grateful for the opportunity to try.’

The girl was smart and polite. And she knew how to address a superior.

Mrs Ronald nodded. ‘I appreciate your confidence in my judgement.’

Antoine’s shoulders relaxed.

‘I will take her on trial,’ Mrs Ronald decided, looking across at him. ‘I can’t promise beyond that. Now,’ she made a quick notation in the ledger in front of her, ‘there are things you need to know about working here. Be warned, Miss Dorsey. The Warwick is different from any other hotel in New York City. And with good reason. Mr Hearst built this hotel at the same time he built the Zeigfeld Theater. The stars from the Follies depend on us; above all, they want somewhere comfortable and discreet to stay. We are their home away from home. Everything you see, everyone you encounter, stays here, within these walls. Do you understand?’

Eva nodded.

‘Many of these people are dancers, performers; they behave like cattle sometimes, believe me. However, they are still Mr Hearst’s guests. Whatever a client wants, he or she gets. And we do things here in the old-fashioned way – your presence is felt, not seen. You’re here to be part of the woodwork. That means no face powder, no jewellery, no lip rouge; caps must be worn at all times. If a guest notices you, especially a male, you’ve failed in your duties.’

She stood up, taking a heavy set of keys from her pocket, and unlocked a closet on the far side of the office, hanging with spare uniforms. ‘I expect you to be early rather than late, to anticipate your guests’ needs rather than waiting to be called, and above all, you must be polite.’ She rummaged through, searching for the correct size as she continued, ‘We take a very serious view of stealing. Everyone is always prosecuted. No exceptions.’ She held up a grey cotton uniform. ‘This is going to be too big but I’m afraid it will have to do. Can you sew?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Then take it in. Not too tight, mind you.’ She locked the closet again. ‘And if I hear that you’ve spoken to the press or to a gossip columnist, you can expect to pack your bags immediately. Do you understand?’

Eva nodded.

‘Each chambermaid is responsible for cleaning and maintaining fifteen rooms. However, when you’re on duty, you’re entirely at the clients’ command. No request is to be denied if at all possible. We have standards here, much higher, much more obliging than other establishments.’

She turned to Antoine. ‘I suppose she’ll need accommodation.’

‘Well, if it’s not too much—’

‘She’ll have to share,’ Mrs Ronald cut him off. ‘And I want it understood that there are to be no guests, male or female, at any time in this hotel. Have I made myself clear?’

Again, Eva nodded.

‘If you’d like to get your things, you can start this afternoon.’

‘These are my things, ma’am.’

Mrs Ronald looked down. There was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, by the girl’s feet.

‘I see. Then I’ll ring for one of the girls to come down and show you your room. Mrs Crane will instruct you in your duties. That will be all.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She left the office.

Antoine hesitated a moment by the door.

‘I appreciate this,’ he said.

‘Yes, well,’ Mrs Ronald moved back behind her desk, ‘mind she makes you proud, Mr Dorsey. I’d have no pleasure in firing her but I’d have no problem doing it either.’

He went out into the hallway, where Eva was waiting.

She watched as he took a hand-rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket, and lit it. He looked at her hard, as if she’d already done something wrong.

Eva lowered her eyes, concentrating on the floor. Where other people only saw different-coloured tiles, she saw comforting patterns and equations. There were twenty-nine black tiles to every eighty-seven white. Three white to every one black. A whole hidden world of order and symmetry appeared if you only looked closely enough.

‘If you have any trouble, you’re on your own. Do you understand? You’re old enough to answer for yourself from now on.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then he turned and walked away, towards the lower kitchen, disappearing into the long maze of corridors that ran underneath the main hotel.

Eva exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.

The weight that had been pressing into the centre of her chest all morning was finally beginning to ease. She folded her uniform on top of the small parcel of her belongings and waited with her back pressed against the wall.

The only thing she’d had all morning was coffee, black and strong. Her uncle ate at work and now that her aunt had gone, there was no reason, in his mind, to keep food in the apartment or, in fact, an apartment at all. Her stomach knotted and growled.

She didn’t want to share a room with a stranger. She wasn’t even certain she wanted a job as a chambermaid. But what she wanted didn’t matter.

Eva pressed her eyes together.

There had been 778 tiles on the floor of Mrs Ronald’s office. 426 grey and 352 white. If you multiplied them together you got 149,952. If you subtracted 352 from 426 you ended up with 74 and if you added 4 plus 2 plus 6 you got 12 and if you added 3 plus 5 plus 2 you got 10 and if you divided 12 into 778…

‘Already asleep on the job, eh?

She flicked her eyes open to see a blonde-haired girl standing in front of her, also a maid, only her uniform fitted. Hand on her hip, the girl had somehow contrived to position her cap at a fetching angle, just between two of the blonde kiss curls that adorned her wide forehead. There was a neatness and a compactness about her; a sureness in the swagger of her movements.

‘I’m Sis, short for Cecily.’ She thrust a hand out and pumped Eva’s palm hard. ‘I’m from Virginia, in case you hadn’t noticed. Looks like we’ll be sharing together. I knew my luck couldn’t hold out for ever. Had the room all to myself for nearly a week. Anyway,’ she sighed. ‘I guess I’m meant to show you around. Follow me.’

She led Eva down the long hallway and up a back staircase. When they got to the first floor she stopped. ‘Ever been in the front lobby?’

Eva shook her head, too nervous to speak. Already she was in awe of Sis; of her Southern drawl and her easy, careless attitude. She was afraid to speak in case Sis didn’t like her accent. It had happened to her in the house in Brooklyn, where the Scottish cook insisted on referring to her as ‘the Foreigner’ even though their employers spoke German and her own Glaswegian accent was only barely comprehensible.

‘Ever even seen it?’ Sis asked.

Again, Eva shook her head.

‘Figures. You have the look of someone who’s spent her entire life going round to the back service entrance. Come on.’ Sis pushed through the door at the top, and they peered out into the West Lobby.

By hotel standards it was modest, intimate. But if it wasn’t the largest or grandest hotel lobby in New York, it certainly was one of the most glamorous.

The marble floors shone beneath the oriental carpets, banks of settees were piled with velvet and silk pillows, and the bevelled mirrors which lined the walls reflected the beautiful profiles of the off-duty chorus girls parading through on their way to the bar.

Carefully chosen for the perfection of their figures, they were all the same height, with long shapely legs. Their laughter was punctuated by the clicking of their high-heeled shoes and the swishing of their daringly short skirts. A piano was playing and someone was singing.

A bellhop wove through the pockets of guests with a silver salver. ‘Madame Arpeggio,’ he called loudly. ‘Madame Arpeggio.’ The air smelled of brass polish, cigar smoke, and the lush, overripe sweetness of fresh-cut tiger lilies.

Eva watched as a small, round woman dressed entirely in black, her head crowned with a velvet turban fastened with a large ruby brooch, entered with a pair of enormous shaggy grey Irish wolfhounds. Their black leather collars were studded with pearls.

Instantly one of the doormen brought them water in china bowls, which they lapped loudly, creating puddles on the marble floor, while their mistress paused to light a cigarette and check her messages at reception.

‘Who’s that?’ Eva was so fascinated, she forgot about her resolution not to speak.

‘No one really.’ Sis sniffed. ‘Some filthy Prussian countess. Never bathes and doesn’t take those dogs out nearly as much as she ought to. Her room smells like a zoo. They’ve already changed the carpet once.’

The girls watched as she turned, and proceeded at a regal pace towards the elevator.

‘Thing is,’ Sis confided, ‘all the important people here look ordinary and the really fancy ones are usually broke or on the make. I’ll tell you, you’re in an upside-down world now,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Takes a while, but you’ll get used to it.’

Eva shared a room with Sis in the attic eaves of the building; it had a basin in one corner, a shallow closet and two narrow single beds. The window looked into the light well of the tall building opposite and the alleyway below. There was no view of the sky.

Not that it mattered. Both girls were up at six and eating in the lower kitchen, which also served as a staff canteen, by six-thirty. Then they stood in line waiting for Mrs Ronald to inspect their uniforms and appearance.

Eva had successfully managed to take her uniform in; however, the gauzy white apron and cap were still too big, bordering on ridiculous. It was a fine line between hiring girls who would not excite notice among the guests and making sure that they matched Mrs Ronald’s inner vision of the overall chic of the establishment. So Eva was assigned the less desirable lower floors, in the hopes that she would grow another few inches over the summer.

After inspecting the girls’ hair and nails, Mrs Ronald briefed them as to which guests were checking in and which were checking out that day, along with any special preferences.

These included the actress who required black velvet curtains hung in her suite so that she could sleep during the day and whose room must only be serviced at night, when she was on stage at the Ziegfeld Follies a block away. And the movie producer who had a horror of anything which had been used by other people; his bed, mattress and bedclothes had to be replaced, new each time he came and the sheets were to be washed separately from those of the other guests, a duty which he only trusted Mrs Ronald to perform (but which she regularly passed off to one of the other girls).

Then there were the more common requests: extra ice buckets, satin sheets, special requests for certain types of flowers – hothouse roses and gardenias were the most popular. Some guests requested that there be no paintings or artwork in their rooms while others couldn’t bear certain colours and had them banished from sight. Imported foods were provided at vast expense – chocolates from Paris, fresh pineapples from Mexico, black tea from India, and thick, long Cuban cigars. Extra pianos were delivered almost daily, as were exotic pets, new automobiles and hunting guns; and police guarded vans carrying jewellery, which was stored in the vaulted hotel safe.

Dance floors were installed so that stage stars could practise their routines, furniture removed, massage tables and exercise equipment set up. One week the entire Grand Ballroom was turned into a championship boxing ring when Jack Dempsey was fighting Jack Sharkey at Yankee Stadium.

Guests frequently brought their own staff as well. Extra valets and ladies’ maids hovered on the edges of the lobby, unsure of their place outside the dominion of their home-land. Not quite guests and yet not quite servants when their employers departed for the day, they were often both suspicious of and intoxicated by their new-found freedom.

The city itself had a dangerous effect on their normally restrained personalities. More than once they lost not only their heads, but their positions as well.

There was the valet who was found to be posing as his employer, the Prince of Wales, who ran up enormous gambling debts in Harlem before being discovered in flagrante with a black prostitute in his master’s bed. And the lady’s maid who had never tasted alcohol before and yielded to temptation, only to wake up somewhere near the waterfront next to an Italian dock worker who politely informed her, in broken English, that they were married and he would like to claim his conjugal rights.

Eva was assigned to learn her duties from Rita Crane, an older woman of indeterminate age and one of the world’s most unsuccessful secret drinkers. Rita kept a flask in the depths of her laundry cart, an old rubbing alcohol bottle filled with gin in her locker and a vial of morphine in her handbag that her doctor prescribed for her ever deteriorating nerves. Every morning she showed up, hands shaking, arms covered in bruises. Eva wondered if she’d been beaten with a stick but of course, couldn’t ask.

Rita had probably once been a beauty. But too much drinking, too many ex-husbands, and a fondness for good old-fashioned English cuisine had left her quite round; her bust large like the prow of a ship tapering to two hefty legs, ribboned with varicose veins. Her features were lost in the soft folds of her white skin, and her eyes had a curious downward slant which made them seem automatically sad. Her lips were so thin as to be nothing more than an idea for a mouth. Rita moved as if resentful of gravity; as though the whole idea of a physical body caused her untold inconvenience. On the whole she was like a creature raised underwater, without the benefit of light for which eyes were optional and a spine a positive luxury.

There was a violence to Rita’s scrubbing; a furious zeal to her bed making and a positive rage to her dusting which left Eva in no doubt that she was not only capable of murder but most likely experienced in it as well. Her last husband had died eleven years ago. Now she was married to her job. She hated and resented it, uttering a constant stream of profanities under her breath, the way a nun recites a rosary. Yet she was fiercely committed to performing each task to her own exacting standards. Over the years Rita had tailored her expectations of life and others accordingly – anticipating the worst at every turn and managing to find the damp, dark potential in any cloudless sky.

For an entire two weeks, Rita supervised every move Eva made; correcting her toilet-bowl cleaning technique, insisting that she sweep each carpet in perfectly straight vertical lines and then again horizontally, chastising her for the lack of artistry with which she arranged the linen hand towels, all the while attacking her youth, personal appearance and general foreignness as she felt appropriate.

Eva soon learned that when Rita was drunk she was much easier to handle. In fact, in the canteen after her shift she could be almost funny.

Back in Lille, Eva had a grandfather who was a drinker. When her grandmother needed him to be sober for an important event, she always treated him to his own personal supply of chocolates. ‘The sugar calms him,’ she used to say.

Eva couldn’t afford chocolates but she began to make Rita cups of very sugary tea throughout the day. Rita in turn grumbled and complained but drank them just the same. While it didn’t make her pleasant, at least it kept her from being downright vicious.

By the time Eva ended her training period, she had mastered all the arts of domestic service, including the proper display of hand towels.

Rita had gained seven pounds.

Soon Eva adapted to the regular rhythm of hotel life. In the evenings the girls laundered and ironed their clothes, mended and gossiped. There was a radio in the pantry of the lower kitchen that the staff crowded round, listening to the Silvertown Cord Orchestra or the comedy antics of Amos ‘n’ Andy. Drinking was out of the question; Mrs Ronald was very strict about that. And the only dancing they did was with each other. A tall, lanky black girl named Wallace was the recognized Charleston expert and willing to teach anyone for the price of a Coca-Cola, even though chances to use their new-found skills were next to nil. On Saturday evenings, they went to confession at St Boniface. On Sunday mornings, early, they went to Mass.

There were occasional treats – matinée performances tucked into the balcony at the Strand theatre, followed by a sandwich at the Riker’s Drug Store counter. Sometimes, they went to stare at the lights of Times Square, waiting to see the crowds leaving the theatres and discuss what the fashionable women were wearing.

Other times, they strolled across Central Park to Fifth Avenue, walking down past the grand department stores but never daring to go inside. There were places in the East End, small shops run by immigrants where fabric could be purchased, shoes traded, coats and jewellery pawned.

Sis took Eva to the public library and showed her how to get a card. Every week, Eva read her way through the works of Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Anthony Trollope, Henry James and Elizabeth Gaskell. She dreamed of heroines from modest backgrounds attracting unprecedented attentions, soaring tales of love across social divides and sudden unexpected reversals of fortunes. In these pages, anything was possible, even for a girl like her.

‘The trouble with you is, you’re a romantic,’ Sis pronounced one Sunday afternoon, as they all sat knitting by the radio in the kitchen. ‘That’s not going to get you anywhere. You need to be practical. Romantics get their hearts broken too easily.’

‘That’s true,’ Rita agreed for once, resting her swollen feet on an empty vegetable crate. ‘You need a man with a good solid job who doesn’t drink or gamble. One that won’t hit you or the kids too much and that goes to church. None of my husbands ever made it to Mass. Let that be a lesson to you,’ she warned. ‘Truth is they were never sober enough to make it out of bed on a Sunday morning.’

Sis considered. ‘Maybe my Charlie knows someone.’

She was already engaged to a young doorman from the Iroquois hotel and was the supreme social architect of the backstairs staff. Sis treated marriage as a coup; a strategic overthrow of the natural male instincts which must be systematically attacked and maintained through military ruthlessness and fortitude.

At seventeen, she’d already vetted and refused more men than the rest of them combined. With her first month’s earnings she’d invested in a bolt of real lace from Ireland for her wedding dress. Sis knew which neighbourhood she wanted to live in, right down to what houses she would accept and had long decided on the names and professions of her future children (all of them boys). Despite her modest circumstances, she’d amassed a considerable collection of housewares, china and linens, stored in a trunk underneath her bed that she referred to as her ‘hope chest’.

Charlie was only a few years older than Sis and had yet to receive so much as a kiss from her. But Sis already managed his money and his career; she had him working extra shifts and taking an evening class in accounting with a view to heading up reception some day.

And he was in awe of her. Sometimes he came to meet them in the park or after a movie (Sis wouldn’t let him sit next to her in the dark in case he got the wrong idea), and Eva could see the mixture of fear and pride in his face when he was around her.

‘Pick a man with an overbearing mother,’ Sis advised. ‘Charlie’s mum is a widow with seven kids to feed and only a Bible to keep her warm. Charlie feels guilty from the moment he wakes up in the morning and what’s more, he’s used to taking orders from a woman.’

Eva nodded.

She never argued with Sis’s advice. It wasn’t sensible if you wanted a quiet evening.

‘Good God!’ Rita laughed, jerking her head towards Eva. ‘You’ve got your work cut out with that one! She’ll be a lot tougher to shift than you, Sis.’

Everyone turned to Eva.

She felt her cheeks colour.

‘She’s not done growing yet, is all!’ Sis shot back. ‘Besides, you managed to get a few husbands and you’re not exactly the Queen of Sheba!’

Still, when the conversation changed, Eva got up and went outside.

It was true: she was too thin, her face too long; her features seemed stretched out like a cartoon character from the Sunday papers.

Sis was tall and blonde, like a smiling Gibson Girl in an advertising poster.

Eva was short and dark and foreign looking.

She wandered out into the back alleyway, sitting alone on the back steps. The warm humid air of New York clung to the night, unwilling to relinquish its suffocating hold. And yet to Eva, the city had an underlying hum of possibility; a constant forward motion that promised, no matter what, that change was on its way.

In every book she’d ever read, the heroine was subject to self-doubt and unjust criticism. And in every case, it only served to harden their resolve. Besides, what did Rita know? If Eva wanted a life scrubbing toilets, she could follow Rita’s advice. But she didn’t. She wanted something more.

She wasn’t certain what, exactly, or how she would get it. But for right now, she didn’t need to think about that. She could simply sit, basking in the glow of not-so-distant stars, which must be somewhere, blinking behind the thick layer of cloud that masked the evening sky.