The Perfume Collector (22 page)

‘So why am I here?’

He pulled himself up, re-crossed his legs. ‘You . . . well, the truth is, I overheard your conversation a few days ago in the lobby and your request for rain inspired me.’

‘It’s not the first time you’ve made a perfume for me,’ she reminded him.

‘No, no, it isn’t.’

‘Are you hoping I’ll buy this from you?’

Her bluntness caught him off guard. He felt transparent, made of cellophane. ‘Well . . . that’s not quite what I meant . . .’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘Why not?’

She was so much more adept at this sort of thing than he was; so unabashed.

Instead, he reverted to what was familiar; he took the small vial of perfume from his travelling case of ingredients. ‘Would you like to know how I made it?’ He tried to assume an authoritative, professional tone.

‘Oh, Andre!’ She shook her head. ‘You’re not quite honest, are you? I understand that. You and I can’t afford to be, can we?’

‘I’m sorry?’ He stared at her, her face illuminated by the city lights like a ghostly apparition.

‘But you must tell me the truth. Look, I’ll make a deal with you – if you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. And believe me, there aren’t many people in this world I would trust.’

He hesitated. But the temptation to confide in someone was too great.

‘My shop is failing,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t know how to sell things – especially things that I haven’t even made yet.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘In truth, Eva, I loathe people. I always have.’

‘Go on.’

‘I loathe idle chit-chat. I despise idiots. I can’t bear to sit and talk to people.’

‘Imagine that!’

He smiled in spite of himself; she could always see right through him. Relaxing further, he took a deep drag. ‘To me the most irritating part of the business of making perfume is the client. The truth is, I can only really create my best work when I’m moved by someone, as I am by you. I own a shop but I hate customers. Isn’t that mad? And now I’m here, in Monte Carlo, to do little more than prostitute myself to the very people for whom I have the least respect. I am out of money. I am out of time. And now I loathe myself for coming here at all.’

‘Oh dear!’ She tipped her head back, laughing. ‘What a tragic tale!’

Her sarcasm popped his grandiosity like a bubble; he couldn’t help but laugh too.

She spread her arms wide. ‘Welcome to the brothel, my dear Andre! The difficulty is not that you must prostitute yourself but that you do it so badly. You need these people and whether they know it or not, they need
you
. But if you’re going to get paid to swallow, my dear, you’d better learn not to choke.’

Shocked, he coughed and spluttered on the smoke of his cigarette.

‘You need to learn the art of seduction,’ she continued. ‘After all, prostitutes aren’t paid for ambivalence. There is only one rule – you can sell me anything as long as you adore me.’

‘But I . . . I don’t know anything of these matters. I don’t even want to. I only know how to make perfume.’

‘Yes, but I do. And let me tell you something – your arrogance is justified – you are a genius. With the smallest effort and guidance you could easily be the best perfumer in Paris.’

‘Really?’ He’d doubted himself; her words were like a balm to his bruised and smarting ego.

‘I know all about these people. Their habits and secrets, how they think and feel, every single Achilles heel. And let me tell you, they’re not complicated. You must trust me, Andre.’

‘Why would you help me?’

‘Because,’ there was something both tender and melancholy in her tone, ‘you made it rain.’

He stared at her, enthralled. ‘But tell me, what are you doing here? How did you come to be so, so exquisite?’

She stood up. And with a little shake of her shoulders, her dress slipped to the floor. She was naked except for her silver sandals, which she kicked off as she came closer, stopping in front of him. She was radiant, her skin like white marble in the balmy darkness.

Reaching out, he dared to run his fingers over the smooth arch of her back. ‘Eva . . .’

She held up a finger. ‘Shhhh!’

Leaning forward, she kissed him. Valmont felt his body warm with the heat of an unfamiliar desire.

Pulling her to him, he closed his eyes, burying his face against her. He breathed her in – each moist hollow, every sumptuous curve – inhaling hungrily the vast, varied landscape of her skin.

She sat in the alcove of the window seat, smoking by the open window.

‘So, what are you doing here?’ Valmont propped himself up on his elbow, jamming a pillow under his head. ‘Who are you travelling with? Please say it’s not your husband.’

‘No, it’s not my husband. It’s an associate.’

‘Associate?’ He pulled the sheet across his bare torso. ‘What does that mean?’

She exhaled. ‘He’s the man I work with, Lambert. Although he goes by Lamb here. The man who taught me my trade.’

Again, the word struck him as odd. ‘You have a trade?’ He’d assumed she was someone’s lover or mistress.

‘Do you doubt it?’ She looked across at him, challengingly. ‘You’re not the only one who’s come to Monte Carlo for business. This place is full of people on the make – gigolos, prostitutes, salesmen, schemers, social climbers, snobs.’

‘You make it sound like a cesspool!’

She gave a little shrug. ‘Just the normal entourage of the rich. As for me, I have a number of skills. But mostly I count cards.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m a professional gambler, Andre.’

‘A professional gambler!’ He wanted to laugh but was too stunned. ‘Do people really do that?’

‘People certainly gamble all the time. But no, not many have the ability to turn it into a profession.’

‘But you do?’

She nodded. ‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Well, yes, frankly.’

‘Good! That’s the way I like it. But with Lamb, the whole thing works.’

‘Really?’ Already he was beginning to dislike this Lamb fellow. ‘What’s so special about him?’

‘Well,’ she yawned, arching her back, ‘if I were to sit down at the tables, play all night and win, I’d probably end up dead or in jail. But with a partner, especially one like Lamb, we provide just the right amount of distraction and plausibility.’

‘You’re not plausible, then?’

She gave him a look. ‘A woman is always conspicuous at a casino, especially if she wins. No, my job is distraction. And I do stick out, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I had.’

‘Whereas Lamb looks as though he belongs at the tables. Knows how to talk to people.’

Valmont folded his arms across his chest. ‘So, how exactly does it work, this association with you and Lamb?’

‘It varies. We have systems, codes in place. We play them, improvising on the feeling in the room. But the basic principal is simple. Lamb sits at the tables and plays. And drinks. Far too much. By the time I arrive he’s always down a great deal of money and too intoxicated to walk let alone cheat. To anyone watching us, I seem as though I’m a pretty little fool and he’s a drunkard. No one ever suspects that I’m the one who’s in control. In two hands, I can recoup all his losses. In three, I can put us ahead. We rarely stay for four hands but in four . . .’ She smiled. ‘In four, I’d push us too far and we’d be rumbled. Win little and often, unless you want to spend every night on the road. They call me his good luck charm. No one ever thinks that a girl could be that clever.’

‘And is he, Lamb . . . is he also your lover?’

She snorted, laughing. ‘You make it sound so romantic!’

Valmont felt his irritation rise; already he felt unreasonably possessive. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s not like that. And don’t pretend to be jealous. It doesn’t suit you.’ Standing, she stretched her arms high above her head. ‘It’s a business arrangement. The truth is, he looked after me when I had nowhere to go. I owe him.’

‘How much?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How much? When is your debt paid?’ he demanded. She turned away from him and stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray. ‘That seems to be a matter of debate,’ she said quietly.

He watched as she crossed the room, stepping back into her evening dress and pulling it up over her hips. ‘I need to get back to the tables. He’ll be losing now quite heavily, which is no bad thing.’

‘When will I see you?’

‘I’ll be around. Trust me, you won’t be able to miss me.’ She slipped on her sandals and picked up her evening bag. ‘In the meantime, I don’t want you to talk to anyone. Do you understand? No introducing yourself, no idle conversations by the pool, nothing. Allow your natural sullenness to thrive.’

‘Sullenness!’ He frowned. ‘I’m not sullen.’

She smiled. ‘But that’s precisely what I want you to be.’ Sitting down on the end of the bed, she stroked his leg. ‘The first thing you need to understand about the wealthy and privileged is that they’re like children – they only want what they can’t have. If they knew you’d come to sell them something they’d demolish you before breakfast.’

‘Then what am I meant to do?’

‘Simple. Talk to no one. When someone comes towards you, walk the other way. These people are used to being fawned over – they not only expect it, they rely on it. If there’s one thing they can’t bear, it’s someone who isn’t paying them any attention. So, as far as they’re concerned, you want nothing more than to be left alone.’ She stood up. ‘Allow me to do the rest. And we will need to see a tailor. Immediately.’

‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘I don’t have the money for a new wardrobe.’

‘Andre, the second thing you need to understand is that you’re not selling perfume – you’re selling yourself. The idea of you as an eccentric genius. You can’t afford to blend in – you must look distinctive.’ Hands on her hips. ‘How can I help you if you don’t take my advice?’

Valmont stared at her. She was familiar and yet completely unknown to him. ‘You’re not the same girl at all.’

Crossing the room, she opened the door. Light from the hallway illuminated her from behind; her face was shadowy, yet her black hair shone as though it was on fire.

‘We are none of us the same girl, are we?’

The Grand Casino at Monte Carlo was a triumph of elaborate Belle Époque design, a golden canopy of gleaming gilt and elaborate flourishes. In the evening, under its vast domed ceiling, all of Monte Carlo society could be observed, including one delightful, wayward young woman and her tragically debauched English guardian.

Valmont watched from a remote seat at the bar as Eva worked her charms.

Her role at the tables was just as she had outlined. She seemed to pay little if any attention to Lamb, acting instead like a very sexy, tempestuous child. Occasionally she’d steal a sip from his drink or tap out an impatient little rhythm while he was glowering over his cards. More often she’d flirt, dance, tell rude jokes. Sometimes Lamb would beg her to be quiet or try to get her to leave. But she always ignored him. Only Valmont guessed that her well-timed interruptions were, in fact, carefully orchestrated signals.

Lamb’s reputation was crucial to the success of their venture. An alcoholic of heroic proportions, he regularly lost staggering amounts of money on sloppily played hands, ensuring that few devoted gamblers ever took him seriously. But then, after everyone had long written him off, and Eva was begging him to give up, he would place some magnificent bet and the tables would turn.

Shortly afterwards, she would haul him back to the hotel in a stupor.

That night he kept his distance. But Valmont couldn’t help but notice a seamless affinity between the two of them, an instinctual rhythm only he was aware of. Eva was so charming, outrageous, and seemingly oblivious of anything but herself. And Lamb so perfectly dismissive of her; it was almost impossible to imagine that together they were pulling off these nightly coups. And never once did Eva ever do anything that betrayed her level of true concentration and focus.

When next her saw her, he complimented her on her skill.

‘You’re the only one who knows, Andre,’ she sighed. ‘But I’m bored with playing the fool. I want a new conquest. Let’s make you famous, shall we?’

She was true to her word.

Over the next week, Eva found ways of taking very public notice of Valmont, planting an air of mystery around him. She whispered to her companions as soon as he appeared in the lobby or at dinner and since he was under orders to ignore everyone, he would register her with nothing more than disdain, retiring to a table in the far corner on his own.

She took him to a young tailor in the hills of Monte Carlo who made him a pair of very simply cut, clean-lined black gabardine trousers and two shirts of dark grey silk. ‘If you cannot fit into the mould, then you must step out of it,’ Eva smiled approvingly, running her fingers along the smooth fabric across his shoulders. The dark colours and simple silhouette made him seem taller, chicer and far more modern. ‘Anyone can wear a suit, but casual clothing is the great equalizer. What I adore is that you look as if you’re not taking anything too seriously. That makes everyone else appear overdressed.’

In return, he repaid her in the only way he could. ‘I want to take you somewhere; to show you something miraculous.’ He took her by train one day to the jasmine fields of Grasse. They travelled third class, slipping away in the early morning like two teenagers playing truant.

To Valmont, Grasse was like a sacred shrine.

‘I’m going to teach you how to smell,’ he told her, as soon as they got on the train. ‘Most people judge scents and they avoid looking into the heart of them.’ He found seats for them across from a couple of farm workers who were heading to market.

‘Inhale the sweat, the dirt, the oil from their unwashed hair,’ he whispered in her ear.

She shot him a look. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ she whispered back.

‘Because this is the root of all perfume creation. To change the way we smell. It could be argued that all perfume is born out of shame; a self-consciousness of our natural odour. We want to hide it.’

‘Or change it,’ she murmured.

‘That’s right. In that way, fragrance is an aspiration. A goal. Not just a tool of seduction but of power and status. Do you realize how much the ancients used to pay for francinsense or myrrh? Whole empires were built on the trade of these commodities. You see, even then, when life was short and cruel, people wanted to smell differently. To be transported. But these coarse natural odours – filthy hair, pungent skin, unwashed women – they’re the root of everything – of our disgrace and desire. That’s what I meant by people judge them.’