The Perfume Collector (14 page)
Miss Waverley was miraculously made. She had gleaming mahogany hair, cut into a sharp, sleek bob and eyes that were the colour of dark chocolate – huge doe eyes framed by black lashes. Her skin was ivory and her proportions amazing; a thin tapered waist, high full breasts, shapely legs. She walked with such casual sensuality that it was impossible not to stare at her. And she was a woman who was used to being stared at.
Miss Waverley was well known at the Hotel. She was a regular guest, although not a paying customer herself. She just appeared, rather as an intriguing footnote to the travel arrangements of some of their wealthier male clients. They would request an adjoining room to their own suite or sometimes, if discretion were a serious consideration, another suite on the next floor up. During the time that they visited, Miss Waverley adorned the Hotel like a rare, exquisite flower, only occasionally accompanying her benefactor out in public. She never rose before 11 a.m., at which time she had a standing order for strong coffee, a bowl of ice cubes and lemon slices, and half a grapefruit. No one knew what she did with the ice. Half an hour later, no matter what the day, a hairdresser, masseuse and manicurist arrived to attend to her in her room. She emerged, two hours later, a shimmering apparition of dewy youth, as graceful and artlessly arranged as a field of wild flowers.
She had a smooth, low voice and a naughty, shocking sense of humour. Laughter followed in her wake; she collected admirers, both male and female, simply walking across the lobby. She had a certain knack for including everyone in her own private jokes, bending in conspiratorially to say something wickedly off-colour to one of the old stone-faced dowagers waiting for a cab. The next moment, they’d both be giggling uncontrollably and Miss Waverley would be offering to have her chauffeur take the old dear wherever she was meant to be going.
If she dined downstairs in the restaurant, service to the other tables would inevitably stagnate while the staff jostled for a view from the kitchen doors to see what she was wearing.
‘Is she a movie star?’ Eva wondered, the first time she saw her.
‘She wishes!’ Rita snorted. ‘She’s a prostitute. Gets treated better than the Queen, though. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? What the world’s coming to.’
Eva couldn’t believe it. Prostitutes were women in cheap garments, standing in the shadows at the wrong end of town. ‘Really, Rita,’ she admonished, ‘you shouldn’t spread gossip.’
‘It’s not gossip. It’s a known fact. And watch who you’re calling a liar!’ Rita trotted off, chin in the air, affronted and superior.
Miss Waverley stayed in room 321 for ten days at the end of July. She’d come at the bequest of Senator Henry Clayton Grimsby of the Boston Grimsbys. However, Senator Grimsby was also travelling with his teenage daughter and son. Therefore, Miss Waverley had a corner room not too far, not too close. And, due to the fact that it was the Grimsby children’s first trip to New York, a little more time to herself.
Eva was only allowed to service her room after 3 p.m. And she looked forward to it as a child anticipates its birthday. At 3.00 precisely, Eva unlocked Miss Waverley’s door and stepped inside a world of glamour and luxury.
The wardrobes were bulging with packages from dress designers and hat makers. Beautiful gowns lay tossed onto the backs of chairs from the night before. Tissue-thin stockings were bunched on the floor; filmy underthings of satin and lace, too sheer, too delicate to even imagine wearing, lay crumpled on the bed. Eva moved slowly, carefully, savouring each moment, hanging the clothes, making the bed, pulling back the thick curtains to let in the blazing afternoon sun. The air smelled of some exotic, rich perfume and stale cigarette smoke. There were full ashtrays on the side of the bath; half-finished glasses of champagne left on the balcony.
Everything about Miss Waverley fascinated Eva. And she refused to believe that someone so sophisticated and charming stooped to the moral depths Rita described. It was most likely that she’d misunderstood; after all, Rita was far too eager to believe the worst of everyone.
Eva’s favourite bit was cleaning the dressing table. Here was the front line of female alchemy. Eva owned an old hairbrush she’d had since childhood and a small box of wiry hairpins to secure her hat – those constituted her only toiletries. But Miss Waverley’s dressing table was covered in mysterious jars, bottles and compacts; gold lipstick cases, round face-powder puffs, tins of pink rouge, black squares of eyeliner and a large perfume atomizer. She dusted and rearranged them, wondering how they were all put to use.
Eva liked to imagine this was her room she was cleaning; that she’d been up all night dancing with Mr Lambert and that these were her golden shoes on the balcony, their half-empty glasses of champagne. Here she was, hanging her beaded dresses, ready for their next evening out; these were her expensive nightgowns she was folding.
She pressed her cheek to the cool, smooth silk. This is what sophistication felt like, what it felt like to be a grownup woman.
‘It’s handmade. I had four fittings on the bodice alone. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get that.’
Eva’s eyes shot open.
In the doorway stood Miss Waverley.
Dressed in a tailored black-and-white summer dress and a large rimmed black sun hat, hand on her hip, she looked like some exquisite, if angry, apparition.
Eva dropped the nightgown.
‘Easy does it! Do you have any idea of what that cost?’
‘No, ma’am.’
Miss Waverley tossed her gloves and handbag on the bed. ‘Pick it up. And mind you don’t rip it.’ Taking off her hat, she gave her head a shake and her hair fell automatically back into place. ‘Did you steal anything?’
‘No, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream of it! I’m so sorry, ma’am.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, huh?’ She looked at Eva hard. ‘Just a bit curious, I suppose.’
‘I apologize, ma’am.’
Taking out a silver cigarette case, she lit one. ‘How old are you anyway?’
‘Fourteen.’
She inhaled deeply. ‘I was curious at your age. Got me into a lot of trouble.’ She walked over to the window.
‘Maybe I should come back, ma’am. Clean the room later.’
‘No, no. Later won’t be a good time.’ She took another drag. ‘Later is never a good time. Do it now.’
She went out on to the balcony, where she sat smoking, looking out over the skyline, while Eva finished the room.
One day Miss Waverley’s regular hairdresser, masseuse and manicurist failed to show up. Her breakfast tray sat, untouched, outside her door. Then, somewhere just after noon, she rang for more towels. Eva delivered them, knocking repeatedly on the door before eventually using her pass key.
‘Hello?’ She stepped into the bedroom. The curtains were still drawn and the bed sheets were in a tangle. There were vases of flowers, heavily scented and beginning to rot in the cloudy, stagnant water.
‘Hello, housekeeping?’ Eva almost tripped over a pair of shoes.
‘In here.’ The voice that came from the bathroom was weak, hoarse.
‘Shall I leave the towels outside?’
‘No.’ There was a pause. ‘I need help.’
Eva slowly pushed the bathroom door open. Miss Waverley was doubled over in the bathtub, but there was no water. She was wearing a pale pink silk nightgown. From the waist down it was bright red.
She raised her head. Without make-up, her face looked childishly small and washed out. Her eyes were bloodshot, swollen. ‘I need a doctor,’ she told Eva. ‘You must not call reception. I need a doctor who will come up the back stairs, do you understand?’
Eva wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded and put the towels down on the basin.
Racing out of the room and into the hallway, she spotted Rita trundling down the corridor towards her, pushing her cart.
‘There’s a problem!’ Eva rushed up to her. ‘Miss Waverley, she’s sick. Very sick.’
‘Jesus! Keep your voice down, will you?’ Rita winced. She was nursing a hangover.
‘But what should I do?’
‘Do?’ She looked at her as if she were insane. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘But she’s ill!’
‘The woman deserves what she gets. Close the door and get on with your business, that’s what I say.’ Rita sniffed, giving her trolley a shove.
Eva ran down to the front lobby and over to Alfonse, the doorman, who was still on duty from the night shift. He was the man who could get you what you needed when you needed it, without any questions. At least, that’s what she’d heard.
‘There’s a problem,’ she panted. ‘I need a doctor.’
He didn’t even bother to look up from his paper. ‘See reception.’
‘No, the kind who can come and go through the back entrance.’
He looked up, eyes narrowed, then put the paper down. ‘Staff or guest?’
‘A guest.’
He picked up the phone. ‘What room?’
She told him. Then she went back to Miss Waverley.
Eva knocked softly. ‘It’s me.’
She was still in the bathtub, eyes closed. ‘Is the doctor coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get me a drink, will you?’
Eva had never seen so much blood. It ran in thick dark rivulets into the drain, pooled in eddies around her pale feet. ‘Shouldn’t we . . . I mean, shouldn’t you . . .’
‘Just get me a drink.’
Eva went to the next room and poured her a whisky. She came back in. ‘Here.’
‘Thank you.’ Miss Waverley’s hand was shaking. She took a sip, wincing, and handed it back to her. ‘Don’t be frightened. It looks much worse than it is. Does he know what room to go to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’ She closed her eyes again, lay her head on her knees. ‘You can go now.’
Eva laid her hand across Miss Waverley’s damp forehead. ‘You’re hot.’
‘So I am.’
Eva turned on the water and washed the blood away. Then she took a washcloth and very gently doused Miss Waverley with lukewarm water. It ran over her slim frame, down through her shoulder blades, over her chest. The silk gown clung to her.
The phone rang.
Eva got up.
Miss Waverley looked at her, sudden panic on her face. ‘He mustn’t know,’ was all she said.
Eva picked up the receiver by the bed. ‘Miss Waverley’s room.’
The person on the other end hesitated. Finally a man’s voice said, ‘Is she there?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Miss Waverley is indisposed. May I take a message?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Housekeeping, sir.’
‘No. No. Tell her I’ll . . . no, no message.’
He hung up.
When she went back into the bathroom, Miss Waverley was resting her head against her arms. ‘You’re clever,’ she murmured, without looking up. ‘You’re a clever girl.’
Soon the doctor arrived, a rather shabby-looking man with a worn black case. While he examined Miss Waverley, Eva tidied the room, changing the sheets and hanging up her clothes. After a while he came out and handed Eva a bottle of thick black liquid.
‘I presume she has no husband.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Not that I know of, sir.’
He sighed, rubbed his eyes. ‘She doesn’t want to go to the hospital. But she’ll need this for the pain. And she needs to eat something and drink lots of fluids. Give her anything – just so long as she rests and takes it easy. Do you understand?’
She nodded. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
He put on his hat. ‘She’s having a miscarriage. Quite a good idea to sit in the bath actually. Here.’ He handed her a bill. ‘Call me again if her temperature rises or the pain gets too bad.’
Then he left, going down to the far end of the hallway to use the service staircase.
Eva came back several times to check on Miss Waverley in between her duties. By early evening, she was in bed resting and Eva had managed to get her to eat some ice cream, drowned in Coca-Cola.
She sat in the corner of the room as Miss Waverley drifted in and out of sleep, her face drawn, lips colourless, tense with pain. The man hadn’t rung again.
A little before nine, Miss Waverley woke and sat up in bed.
‘You’re still here.’ Reaching across to the nightstand, she groped for her cigarettes. Lighting one, she leaned back against the pillows and took a deep drag.
‘You need to eat something.’
‘Where’s that medicine?’
‘Here.’
After she’d taken some, washed down by whisky, she looked across at Eva. ‘Why did you stay?’
‘You needed help.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘France. The countryside, near Lille.’
Miss Waverley exhaled, a stream of smoke drifting up slowly to the ceiling. ‘Farmland?’
‘Yes,’ Eva nodded. ‘My grandparents had a small dairy farm.’
‘I came from Minnesota. I can still smell the cow shit. I’d rather die than go back.’
‘Really? I thought maybe you were from New York.’
She laughed, like a hard little cough. ‘Well, we don’t have to tell everyone, do we? Are your parents alive?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry for you. You have to make your own way then, don’t you?’
It had never occurred to Eva that there was another way. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’
The woman tilted her head. ‘There aren’t many professions a girl with no background can go into.’
‘No, ma’am.’
Miss Waverley’s face tensed. Stubbing out her cigarette, she looked exhausted again. ‘You can go now. I’ll be fine. Turn out the light, please. No one needs to know about this, understand?’
The next day, Miss Waverley’s normal morning appointments resumed.
And when Eva went to service her room that afternoon, she was out.
After that, Eva took it upon herself to visit Miss Waverley almost every afternoon. She often entertained at odd hours, with black jazz musicians from Harlem, exotic dancers and nightclub performers. There were buckets of champagne and bottles of gin, and there was music playing constantly. Both she and her guests treated Eva like a cross between a pet and a little sister; calling her Lulu for no particular reason other than it made them laugh, teaching her how to dance, sending her on endless errands for cigarettes, magazines and chocolates. But she didn’t mind. In fact, she loved feeling that she was a part, no matter how peripheral, of Miss Waverley’s glamorous set.
