The Perfume Collector (18 page)

‘I’m . . . I’m in Paris,’ she said stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘Yes, so I gather. I’ve spoken to Mallory.’

‘Really.’

‘And how was the trip?’

‘The trip? Fine. It’s a nice hotel.’

‘Good.’

More silence.

Her mind raced, tripping over itself for something, anything, to fill in the void. She could tell him about the will, explain the extraordinary inheritance of Madame d’Orsey . . . but she didn’t. His transgression was the matter at hand. However, she couldn’t help notice, with a sense of growing misgiving, that he hadn’t even asked as to the nature of her business.

‘And you?’ she fumbled. ‘Are you well?’

‘Well,’ he paused, ‘as well as can be expected. I can’t say I was thrilled to return from Scotland to empty house.’ He sounded petulant, put-upon. ‘There wasn’t a single thing to eat, Grace.’

It was amazing how he managed to twist things, to imply that he was being stoic in the face of her abandonment. She could hear him shifting, changing position. ‘How are you bearing up? Can you stomach the food?’

Grace’s skin went cold. Was this it? Was he just going to make pleasant conversation and pretend that nothing had happened? ‘It’s quite good really,’ she answered numbly. ‘I like it.’

‘You either love or hate it. Too much garlic for my taste. But it’s worse in Rome.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s what they say.’

Pause.

‘Well, good. I just wanted to ring and see if you were all right. After all,’ his words assumed a pointed tone, ‘you left so abruptly. Also I wanted to know when you planned to return home. People have been asking after you. I can’t put them off for ever.’

Grace blinked, amazed by his dexterity.

He’d simply sidestepped the entire thing. As far as he was concerned, she was the one leaving him in the lurch. And suddenly it struck her, clearly, that he had no intention of ever acknowledging his affair.

And he expected her to behave in the same way.

Grace sat down hard on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath. ‘What about Vanessa?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Vanessa.’ Grace’s heart was beating so hard, she felt as though she was going to be sick. ‘What about her?’

It took her a moment to realize that the sound she was hearing was laughter. ‘What are you talking about? What has Vanessa Maxwell got to do with anything?’

Vanessa Maxwell. He said her full name, as if he wasn’t familiar enough to call her by her first name alone.

The shock of it was like iced water seeping through her veins.

‘Are you . . . are you having an affair?’ She forced the words out of her mouth.

‘An affair? What are you talking about? With whom?’

Grace couldn’t bring herself to say anything more.

‘Grace? Grace! What’s got into you?’ he demanded.

She reached for her cigarettes; her hand was shaking. ‘You deny it.’

‘Deny what? There’s nothing to deny.’

He had the power to dissolve reality. Suddenly she was falling, with nothing to hold on to.

‘I think you’ve lost your mind,’ he said coldly.

‘I need to go now. It’s late.’

‘You could at least do me the courtesy of letting me know when you plan to return.’

‘I . . . I don’t know. I need time.’

‘Time for what? For more ridiculous accusations?’

‘This call is costing a fortune. I really must go. Goodbye.’

She hung up abruptly, managed with some difficulty to light another cigarette.

The hopelessness of her situation pressed in around her, as thick and dark as the evening shadows that filled the room.

How could she make him give up a mistress who didn’t exist?

The telephone was ringing. Grace struggled to lift her head off the pillow but it felt as though it was made of marble. And the telephone didn’t sound right. It had a short, high ring; sharp and fast.

She opened her eyes. Blazing morning sunlight filled the room, blinding her.

Good God, what was that? A chandelier dangled precariously overhead. For a moment she thought it might fall. Then she remembered.

The telephone was a French telephone.

She was in Paris.

Slowly, Grace propped herself up on her elbows. She was still wearing her blouse and skirt from yesterday, now badly creased. She must’ve cried herself to sleep last night on top of the bedcovers.

Finally the ringing stopped.

Sinking down, she groped on the bedside table for her cigarettes. The packet was empty.

‘Damn it!’

She swung her legs out, the parquet floor cold beneath her feet. She made her way to the telephone and dialled the front desk.

‘Hello? Hello . . . I mean,
bonjour
, yes . . . this is Mrs Munroe. I need some aspirin, please. Yes, aspirin. And some toast and coffee. As soon as possible, please.’

Shuffling into the bathroom, Grace turned on the bath-water, then caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying, her nose red; half of her hair was standing straight up and the other lay flat, pressed against her head.

Sinking down on the side of the bath, she trailed her fingers in the warm water. Perhaps she should just go back to bed; crawl under the covers and never come out. Who would know the difference or care?

There was a knock on the door. It was too soon for room service.

Turning off the tap, Grace yanked a dressing gown over her wrinkled clothes and answered it.

‘
Bonjour
!’ Mallory struck a pose in the doorway. She was wearing a chic little day suit of brilliant blue wool and a new red hat, no doubt purchased for the occasion.

‘Mal!’ Grace blinked at her in surprise. ‘My God! What are you doing here?’

Laughing, Mallory gave her a hug. ‘I’ve been ringing your room for ages but you never answer your phone. You’re not the only one who can get on an aeroplane, you know!’ Then she stood back. ‘My God, Grace. What’s happened to you? Are you ill?’

The waiter delivered the aspirin and placed the large silver dining tray on a table by the window, pouring out two cups of strong hot coffee.

‘Let me see if I’ve got this right.’ Mallory had settled herself in the corner of the settee and kicked her shoes off, pulling her feet underneath her. ‘So, you’re saying you’ve inherited a flat and some stocks and shares? And you still have no idea who this woman is?’

Grace perched on the end of her bed. ‘That’s about it. The only one who seems to have any information about her is this Madame Zed.’

‘The perfumer.’ Mallory poured crème into her cup and stirred.

‘Yes. Otherwise, I’m rather lost. Oh,’ she frowned, suddenly remembering, ‘except for these.’

She’d almost completely forgotten about the china figures. Pulling the cardboard box out from under the bed, Grace took out each of the six figures, unwrapped them and placed them in a line on the writing desk.

Mallory made a face. ‘Oh dear.’ She picked one up – a white-skinned shepherdess running through a field of small yellow flowers. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Apparently, they were left for me by Eva d’Orsey. The concierge had them and when I visited the flat, her daughter brought them up for me in that box.’

Mallory turned the figure round. ‘This woman leaves you a beautiful flat, shares of who knows what value and
these
?’ She put the figure down. ‘They’re not even originals – they’re mass-reproduced replicas. They’ve got no maker’s mark, nothing. Of all the things you’ve told me, darling, that’s the oddest.’

Grace poured herself a second cup of coffee. ‘Perhaps they have some sentimental value.’

Mallory shrugged. ‘The entire affair is quite frankly unbelievable.’ She took a sip. ‘But I can’t wait to spend some time with you,’ she smiled. ‘And to see Paris again!’

‘How long are you staying?’

‘As long as I can. I persuaded Geoffrey that you were in dire straits and my services were required immediately and indefinitely. As far as he’s concerned, that gives him free reign to stay at his club, drink too much and lose at cards, which is fine by me. And be warned: I plan to make the most of my shore leave. The hotel is arranging a room for me right now.’

Grace flopped back on to the bed, propping a stack of pillows behind her head. ‘Oh, I am glad you’re here, Mal,’ she sighed. ‘I can’t tell you how strange this whole thing is. The lawyer tries to be helpful but he has no more information about her than I do. It’s as if she never really existed.’

‘You said she was someone’s mistress?’ Mallory perused the breakfast tray. She selected a piece of toast and spread it generously with butter.

‘Jacques Hiver. The cosmetics giant.’

‘There we go!’ Mallory waved her toast. ‘He probably kept her hidden, perhaps he had political ambitions. Look, do you have any cousins you could speak to? Aunts or uncles? Someone’s bound to know something. Could she have been a friend of your parents or even of your grandparents?’

Grace shook her head. ‘It’s possible. But right now my uncle is on a lecture tour in America so there’s no one else to ask. He hasn’t been in touch for weeks.’

‘So, any other news?’ Mallory looked across at Grace significantly. ‘Have you spoken to Roger?’

Grace sighed. ‘If one can call it that. He simply pretends that the affair never happened, that I’m making it all up. He even has the nerve to act as if he barely knows Vanessa. I feel like Alice, tumbling down a rabbit hole!’

Mallory considered carefully. ‘Did he ring you or the other way round?’

‘I had a message. I rang him back.’

‘Then he’s noticed your absence.’

‘Oh, he’s noticed that I’ve gone. He just won’t acknowledge why.’

Mallory crunched into her toast thoughtfully. ‘He knows why. You can’t expect a man like Roger to own up to anything. But you have the upper hand, you just need to know how to make the most of it.’

‘Make the most of it?’ How like Mallory to find an opportunity in even the direst marital impasse. ‘He won’t even speak to me about it, Mal.’

‘Of course not. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have the upper hand. He won’t want a scandal, Grace. It could ruin his career.’

‘I don’t think he cares about that.’

‘Don’t be fooled. He’s full of bravado but that’s all it is. And, with all due respect, darling, he’s no golden boy. He needs a good reputation to survive. If you play your cards right, you could end up at an advantage.’

‘What advantage? What advantage is there being in a . . . a . . .’ A cuckold sounded too medieval, ‘a loveless marriage’ like some cheap romance novel.

Mallory took another bite of toast. ‘He’ll be in your debt.’

‘So you’re suggesting I put up with it? Regardless?’

‘I’m trying to think about your best interests, Grace. Really, what other options are there?’

‘I don’t know. I could divorce him, couldn’t I?’

‘Oh my Lord! Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face! What will that accomplish?

Grace frowned at her. ‘What are you saying – that I’m too old to re-marry?’

‘Of course not! But whom will you remarry? How will you meet anyone worth knowing if you’re divorced? It’s not as if you’ll be invited to the same parties on your own. In fact, you won’t be invited anywhere.’ She jammed a pillow into a more comfortable position underneath her elbow. ‘Face it, a woman has to be very rich indeed to change husbands the way one changes clothes and get away with it.’

Grace felt overwhelmed by Mal’s harsh assessment. ‘Well, I may not even want to re-marry.’

‘What are you going to do? Race back to Oxford and become some lonely eccentric, with ugly shoes, mad hair and a library card? You need to walk every scenario through, in detail, right to the very end. At the moment you may want to run away but will you want it in five years time? One can’t simply waltz into a whole new life. Doors will close, Grace. Doors that will never reopen.’ Mallory looked across at her. ‘One doesn’t want to act in haste.’

‘I thought you hated Roger.’

‘I do! The man’s an ass. For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to be level-headed!’

‘So, you’re advocating that I . . . what?’

‘I’m advocating that you weigh up your options carefully. A repentant husband can be a very useful thing.’

Grace felt her throat tighten. ‘I don’t care about that.’

‘Darling, don’t be naïve.’

‘Can’t we talk about something else?’

Mallory sighed. ‘Of course.’

They sat a moment in silence.

Finally Mallory sat up. ‘Let’s plan our attack for the day, shall we? I’m warning you, I intend to go shopping and drain every last penny from my current account. I suggest that you do the same.’

‘Roger would kill me.’

‘Roger will countersign anything you do now.’

Grace shot her a look. ‘I thought we’d agreed to talk of something else.’

‘Fine.’ Mallory took out a small notebook from her handbag and flipped it open. ‘I’ve got the names and addresses of several boutiques, a beauty salon that promises to reduce your waist by two inches in an hour, the furrier Josephine Wexley uses . . .’ She pursed her lips, concentrating. ‘But I think the only place to start is at the Galeries Lafayette,’ she decided, snapping the notebook shut. ‘After all, I want to break you in slowly. Now,’ she stood up, brushing the crumbs off her skirt and slipping her shoes back on, ‘get in the bath before I wash you myself. Your hair looks like a piece of avant-garde art and I don’t mean that in a good way. I’m going to check on my room. And when I come back, I expect you to be scrubbed, scented and ready to spend.’

Grace nodded. ‘Done.’

Turning to adjust her lipstick in the mirror, Mallory caught Grace’s eye. ‘I really do only want to help,’ she said softly.

‘I know. But I wish with all my heart this wasn’t my life right now.’

‘Fine.’ Mallory turned to face her. ‘Then for the next few days, it won’t be. I promise, I won’t bring it up again.’

Just after breakfast, the two of them headed to Galeries Lafayette on Boulevard Haussmann. Although not a keen shopper, Grace enjoyed the comfort of being with Mallory again. And she couldn’t help but be in awe of the dramatic golden-domed interior of the place; floor after floor of spiralling boutiques that sent Mallory into a series of delighted squeals as soon as they arrived.