The Perfume Collector (26 page)
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?’
