The Perfume Collector (27 page)

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?’