The Perfume Collector (2 page)

Something changed in Grace’s eyes. Inhaling hard, she turned away. ‘I don’t think I have a belt,’ she said quietly, looking through the dresses hanging in her wardrobe.

Mallory stared at Grace’s slim back.

She’d obviously hit a nerve.

‘Here,’ Mallory reached across, tugging a cummerbund of black velvet from another evening gown. ‘This one will do just fine,’ she said, fitting it round Grace’s waist.

Grace looked small tonight, even younger than usual. She reminded Mallory of a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes. It was the hairstyle, so conservative and staid; it would’ve suited an older woman but on Grace it only accentuated her youth. It made her eyes look even larger than normal; they were a very clear grey-green colour, wide set and almond-shaped.

‘Do you think this is all right?’ Grace examined her reflection in the mirror, tense.

It wasn’t like Grace to care too much what others thought. Suddenly Mallory realized it was one of the things that secretly she’d admired about her friend, despite their constant sparring.

‘It’s perfect,’ she assured her. ‘Now let’s go or we shall miss the whole thing.’

Coming down the stairs, Grace paused to check the second post on the hall table.

‘Oh look!’ She held up an envelope. ‘I’ve got airmail! From France. How exciting!’ She tore it open. ‘Who do I know in France?’

‘Is it from your uncle?’ Mallory pulled her coat on.

‘No, he’s in America, lecturing.’ Grace unfolded a letter, began reading.

Mallory waited; tapped her foot impatiently. ‘We must go.’ She took out her car keys. ‘What is it anyway?’

‘This doesn’t make sense.’

‘Is it in French?’

‘No. No, it’s in English.’ Grace sat down on the hall chair. ‘There’s an aeroplane ticket.’

‘An aeroplane ticket? For where?’

‘To Paris.’ Grace looked up, handing her the letter. ‘This is a mistake. Some sort of very bizarre mistake.’

Mallory took it.

It was typed on the kind of heavy, good quality paper that signaled official correspondence. In the corner she noted the name and address of a law firm in central Paris: Frank, Levin et Beaumont.

Dear Mrs Munroe,

Please accept our sincere sympathies for your recent loss. Our firm is handling the estate of the deceased Madame Eva d’Orsey, and it is our duty to inform you that you are named as the chief beneficiary in her will. We request your presence at our offices at your earliest convenience, so that we may go through the details of your inheritance.

Again, we apologize for this intrusion on your time of grief and look forward to being of service to you in the near future.

Yours sincerely,

Edouard A. Tissot, Esquire

‘Oh!’ Mallory looked up. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d recently lost someone, Grace.’

Grace’s face was unchanging. ‘Neither had I.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mallory, I’ve never met any Eva d’Orsey. I have no idea who this woman is.’

Vanessa Maxwell knew how to throw a party. It was her greatest contribution and would doubtless be her lasting legacy to those who had known, if not loved her, long after she was gone.

The first rule was that they were almost always held on the spur of the moment. Unlike some hostesses who sent out invitations a month in advance, Vanessa understood that the success of the entire venture depended upon the delicate relationship between anticipation and fulfilment; too long a wait between one and the other resulted only in indifference and boredom. And any event that didn’t demand the frantic re-juggling of previous commitments, a trail of white lies and the testing of long-held personal loyalties wasn’t worth attending.

Secondly, she was ruthless about whom she invited. She almost never returned an invitation with one of her own. In fact, she was famous for picking people she’d only just met, pairing them up in unlikely, possibly incendiary ways. She tossed elder statesmen next to starlets, seated royalty across from working-class playwrights; once she sent her chauffeur to the Florida Club only to return with an entire jazz ensemble plucked off stage and half a dozen dancers from an all-male burlesque review in Soho to ‘liven things up a bit’.

Lastly, her events were held in rooms far too small, far too bright. People rubbed up against one another, jostled for space, occasionally landed in one another’s laps. While any other hostess would lull her guests into a coma with soft lights and deep comfortable sofas, Vanessa demanded that everyone, regardless of age or position, wedge themselves into a cramped pub in Shepherd Market, around the slippery border of a public swimming pool or onto the balcony of a private club. People shouted to be heard, grabbed at the drinks floating by on silver trays, eavesdropped shamelessly on intimate conversations as they allowed their hands to wander, brushing up against the warm limbs of strangers.

There was an air of danger to her gatherings; the frisson of mischief. At her most famous dinner party she hired a sprinkling of actors to pose as staff and one as an unfortunate guest who was then dramatically poisoned during the first course. It was then up to the remaining guests to solve the mystery before the police arrived or they themselves were eliminated through one heinous end or another.

It was just this kind of daring enterprise that had catapulted her and, by default, her husband, businessman and tobacconist Phillip Maxwell, to the top of the London social scene.

Grace had never been invited to one of Vanessa’s parties before; to say they didn’t travel in the same circles was putting it kindly. Grace’s husband Roger knew Phillip Maxwell professionally and had known Vanessa before either of them were married. But Grace, coming from Oxford, was still an outsider.

Mallory, however, had been twice before; a distinction she both relished and pretended not to notice. She’d been the first to fall into the water at the famous midnight pool party and charmed everyone with the nonchalance with which she proceeded to wear her sopping wet gown, transparent and clinging to her admirable figure, for the rest of the evening.

Tonight, however, was a relatively simple affair by comparison. As loyal members of the Tory Party, the Maxwells were hosting a campaign fund-raiser aimed at securing Anthony Eden as prime minister. Eden, appointed Churchill’s natural successor upon his resignation, had called a general election for 26 May and his pledge that ‘Peace comes first, always,’ struck a chord with a nation weary from sacrifice and loss.

To highlight this dawning age of prosperity, Vanessa had organized an impromptu ‘Summer Fete’ in the Orangery of Kensington Palace, with traditional entertainment and food, including a coconut shy, dunk tank, horseshoes, egg and spoon races, jugglers and even pony rides, while vats of Pimm’s, strawberry ice, caviar tarts and champagne made the rounds. The only difference was that the tickets were purchased in pounds rather than pennies, and the stalls were manned by famous faces from the stage and screen.

As soon as they entered it was clear from the crush of bodies that most of fashionable London was in attendance. A large banner with the slogan ‘United for Peace and Progress’ hung across the entrance. People were shouting and waving to one another across a sea of faces; smoke clouds hung thick and heavy; the constant throbbing tempo of a brass band could be heard pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the general roar.

Holding each other’s hands, the two girls slipped through the crowds.

‘Can you see her?’ Grace scanned the long gallery.

‘She’s over there!’ Mallory shouted back, waving to a small, dark-haired woman, surrounded by people on the other side of the room.

She dragged Grace through the throng.

‘Vanessa!’

Vanessa turned round. Dressed in a gauzy evening gown of layered black chiffon, she had sharp, even features and rather small, deep brown eyes. Although not very tall, she was so delicate and perfectly proportioned that despite her unremarkable face she could only be described as exquisite. Next to her, other women appeared suddenly bedraggled and bovine. Her manner was relaxed; almost bored, as if she weren’t greeting her guests so much as auditioning them. And every detail of her person was flawlessly finished – from the smooth centre-parting of her hair drawn back behind her ears to reveal a pair of magnificent emerald clips, to her long, slender fingers, accented with creamy, pale polish, the precise translucent shade of the small cluster of rosebuds that adorned her waist. Vanessa smiled, taking a long, slow drag of her cigarette. ‘Welcome, ladies! I hope you’re feeling lucky. There’s a tombola that includes a ladies’ gold watch from Asprey and the tickets are going like hot cakes. That new comedian Benny Hill is hosting the auction.’

‘The one from the television?’ Mallory’s eyes widened.

‘The very same. And let me tell you, he’s nothing like that in real life!’

‘How did you manage it?’

‘The same way I manage anything – through sheer unrelenting gall.’ She turned to Grace, looking at her steadily from beneath hooded lids. ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.’

‘Oh, I want you to meet my friend, Grace Munroe. Roger’s wife.’

‘Hello,’ Grace held out her hand. ‘And thank you for having me. This is simply . . . well . . . incredible!’

Vanessa received Grace’s fingertips with a squeeze, tilting her head to one side, ‘So, you’re Roger’s wife. We were all wondering where he’d disappeared to.’ Taking another deep drag, she regarded Grace with frank curiosity, as if she were a rare specimen on display in a museum. ‘You’re related to Lord Royce, aren’t you?’

‘He’s my second cousin on my mother’s side. He inherited the title when my grandfather died.’

‘I see.’ Vanessa exhaled, a long thin stream of smoke shooting from her nose. ‘You’re quite pretty, aren’t you?’

Grace blushed a little, feeling suddenly gauche; like a child who’d been trotted out before bedtime to entertain older relatives with their good manners. ‘Thank you.’

‘And where is your husband tonight?’ Vanessa asked

‘In Scotland. On business.’

‘How terrible for you. Or,’ she arched an eyebrow, ‘perhaps lucky. I know I’d be euphoric if Phillip went away.’

‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’ Grace shifted the conversation away from herself. ‘I’m sure the fundraiser will be a grand success.’

‘I do my best. Wander round,’ Vanessa suggested with a wave of her hand, turning back to greet some other guests. ‘And buy lots of tickets, girls. It’s for the good of Britain.’ She flashed Grace a little smile. ‘So nice to meet you. Really.’

‘Let’s get a drink,’ Mallory decided, heading for the refreshments table. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, I have designs on that gold watch.’

Grace put a hand on Mallory’s arm. ‘How did Vanessa know about my family?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s common knowledge. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ Grace frowned. ‘Only there’s a family rumour my cousin is going to be forced to sell the estate soon. Roger’s quite upset about it. But those old places simply burn money and there’s so much debt.’

Mallory gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t think about that tonight, darling. It’s probably just a coincidence that she brought it up.’

Grace hadn’t expected to enjoy herself but the evening was surprisingly entertaining. Vanessa’s cattle car policy meant that conversation was immediate and the carnival games created a raucous sense of competitive camaraderie. Mallory lost almost five pounds on the coconut shy before finally landing an up-and-coming Rank starlet in the dunk tank, to the extreme delight of all the men nearby. Grace excelled at horseshoes, eventually being outplayed by the Duchess of Kent. Neither of the girls won the gold watch. Grace discovered a few familiar faces amidst the throng and both she and Mallory devoured several caviar tarts washed down with champagne.

Then Mallory spotted the Mr Memory stall, manned by Phillip Maxwell himself in a top hat and tails, and became even more excited.

‘Look! We used to play this game all the time as children.’ She grabbed Grace’s arm and dragged her across the hall. ‘I’m an expert at this. Come on. I’ll go against you, one on one.’

‘I’ve never played.’ Grace stared at the row of increasingly larger trays lined up on the stall counter. Each was covered with a cloth. ‘What do you do?’

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world, ladies!’ Phillip Maxwell tipped his hat, giving them an exaggerated bow. ‘Each tray has upwards of fifteen objects on it. I remove the cloth for a minute, cover it again, and you have another minute to record as many objects as you can remember. The person who’s able to remember the most objects correctly is the winner.’

‘That’s all?’ It sounded straightforward enough. ‘All right, Mal. You’re on.’

Phillip Maxwell handed them each a pencil and a piece of paper. ‘Now, you can’t begin writing your answers until the tray has been completely re-covered, understand? Ready, steady, go!’

He lifted the cloth, timing the minute with a stopwatch, then replaced it.

Mallory began furiously jotting down her list.

Grace, however, didn’t move.

‘Time!’ Maxwell called. ‘Pass me your papers!’

Mallory handed hers across then looked at Grace. ‘But you haven’t written anything.’

Grace smiled. ‘I don’t need to.’

‘Oh really? And why is that?’

‘I remember,’ Grace said.

Maxwell and Mallory exchanged a look.

‘Well, go on then!’ Mallory crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘Prove it!’

Grace took a deep breath. ‘One thimble; four needles of various sizes stuck into a pincushion in the shape of a green tomato; a small red rubber ball; a box of Bromo; two shillings, one heads side up, one tails; a glass ring, emerald cut; a letter opener with an ivory handle; a letter addressed to the leader of the Labour Party, unopened; a tortoiseshell comb; a leather hunting flask; a bill of sale from Ogden’s bookshop in Bloomsbury for two books, totalling one pound, two shillings; a folded road map for Dorset; a used packet of Chesterfields; a token from a fairground ride; a china salt shaker in the shape of a duck; a nail file; and a teaspoon with the letters “VM” engraved on the handle.’