The Perfume Collector (20 page)

Fiercely groomed and compact, Paulette regarded Grace with aloof curiosity, as if she were something between an unsightly stain on the floor and an exotic pet.

Grace, in turn, smiled nervously and laughed, then gestured to her head, doing a little mime performance meant to illustrate the way she normally liked to style her hair.

Paulette watched with a blank expression.

When Grace had finished, she opened a drawer and took out a pair of razor-sharp scissors.

‘
Coupez les cheveaux
.’

Grace stared at the scissors in horror. ‘Off? You mean, cut it off?’

‘
Absolument
.’ Paulette took down Grace’s long hair from the knot on top of her head and began brushing it out. ‘Off.’

It was decided.

Paulette was a singularly focused woman. After she’d cut at least six inches from Grace’s hair, she applied a lather of colour and popped her under a hairdryer. Then she began filing Grace’s fingernails. Without further consultation, she finished them off with a coat of deep red lacquer. Then she rinsed Grace’s head, and, having towel dried it, she took her by the shoulders and placed her in front of one of the many salon mirrors.

‘
Voilà
!’ she declared, proudly.

Grace stared back at herself, amazed. Her hair shone, a tussled glossy black bob. Suddenly her features appeared delicate and pixieish, her skin white, her eyes clear and vividly green. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and she was illuminated, only from within.

Paulette bustled her into the next room where she wound her hair into curlers and popped her under another hairdryer. The final effect was softer, more feminine, yet still striking.

An hour and a half later, Grace met Mallory again in the salon foyer.

Mallory froze in astonishment. ‘Grace! Is that you?’ she gasped. ‘Why, there was a sophisticated woman lurking underneath that woolly Oxford jumper this whole time!’

‘Thank you, I think,’ Grace laughed.

‘Well,’ Mallory pivoted round. ‘
Et moi
? What do you think? Am I not transformed?’

Mallory’s hair looked like a slightly pouffy version of what Mr Hugo usually did for her.

‘Wonderful,’ Grace smiled.

‘It’s miles better, isn’t it?’ Mallory admired herself again in the mirror. ‘I’m going to have one of those drainage treatments tomorrow. I’ve arranged supper for us with the Prescotts who are in Paris until next Thursday. Daphne’s always whippet thin – and now I know why. I’m just going to get my coat.’

While Grace waited, she spotted the silent Paulette hovering by the door.

Digging through her handbag for a suitable tip, Grace handed her a note (either far too much or far too little) which Paulette slid into her white uniform pocket without so much as a glance. Then, taking a deep breath, Paulette placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. ‘
Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes
.’

‘
Pardon
?’

Paulette tried again. ‘
Vous êtes belle
.’ Her tone was firm.

It took Grace a moment to realize it wasn’t a compliment, but a reproach.

‘
Comprenez-vous
?’ Paulette eyed her sternly.

Grace nodded, afraid to argue.

Paulette shook her head and sighed. In her world Grace had failed to meet the responsibility of her own beauty. This was not just a waste but a sin.

‘
Belle
.’ She repeated the word, as a warning against future infractions.

By the time they got back to the hotel, both girls were exhausted. ‘Let’s meet in the lobby for a drink before supper,’ Mallory suggested. ‘But now I need a lie down!’

Upstairs, Grace closed her bedroom door, kicked off her shoes and lit a cigarette.

Then she reached for her French phrasebook, trying to remember exactly what Paulette had said. ‘
Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes
. . .’

Tucking the cigarette into the side of her mouth, she sat down on the edge of the bed and flipped through the pages.

Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes
.

Savez
. . . from
savoir
. . .

. . . to know . . .

Exhaling, Grace closed the book. She collapsed backwards into the soft pillows and closed her eyes.

You don’t know who you are.

At breakfast the next morning, Grace was drinking her coffee alone when Monsieur Tissot suddenly appeared in the dining room. He scanned the faces. She waved to him and he came over.

‘You are avoiding me, Madame Munroe,’ he announced, pulling out the chair opposite her. ‘May I?’

She gave a little nod.

‘And you have changed your hair.’ He sat down. ‘Is this part of your plan to elude me?’

‘And good morning to you.’ She signalled to the waiter to bring another cup. ‘Yes, I think of you constantly and every single thing I do is born out of a desire to thwart you. Coffee?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve been leaving messages for you which the concierge assures me he’s delivered.’

‘It’s reassuring, isn’t it? To know they take their obligations so seriously.’ The waiter brought another cup and she poured him some coffee. ‘Cream?’

‘No, thank you.’

She passed it to him.

‘They’re not the only ones who take their jobs seriously, madame. One can’t be too careful with heiresses roaming about the streets of Paris.’

‘You read too many cheap novels, Monsieur Tissot. Your sense of the dramatic is overdeveloped.’

‘Except in this novel the heroine is difficult to track down.’

‘The truth is,’ she explained, ‘a friend of mine has joined me from London, quite unexpectedly. I’ve been caught up with her the past few days.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. However, I’m here with news. I’ve had an offer on the apartment.’

She frowned. ‘But how? Have you been advertising it already?’

‘No. The offer comes from an unexpected source. Madame Jacques Hiver.’

‘Jacques Hiver’s widow?’

He nodded. ‘Her lawyers contacted me two days ago. She would like to purchase the property before it goes on the market publicly. And she’s willing to pay twice its estimated value in order to complete the transaction quickly.’

‘Twice its value! But why? Doesn’t it strike you as in particularly poor taste to want to purchase the apartment your husband’s mistress lived in?’

‘I’m not sure what her interests are. However, she would like to meet you.’

‘Meet me?’ Grace put her cup down. ‘Oh, I don’t think so!’

He leaned back. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’

‘I don’t know . . . what if she rails at me for her husband’s affair?’

He looked at her quizzically. ‘And why would she do that? What have you got to do with it? Her offer seems entirely above board. However, it’s up to you. I felt it was important that you be aware of these developments and have time to consider them. It is, after all, a great deal of money.’

‘Of course. I’m grateful, Monsieur Tissot, that you took the time to inform me. And I apologize for not keeping in touch.’

He smiled, taking another sip of coffee. ‘So, what else have you been doing besides avoiding my calls? Did you make any enquiries? Or find anything else out about Madame d’Orsey?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I have been to see the old woman who lives above the perfume shop again. She’s a perfumer herself. And she knew Eva d’Orsey quite well.’

Monsieur Tissot’s face turned serious. ‘You shouldn’t go there by yourself. She seems quite mad.’

‘I’ve only spoken to her once.’

‘Well, I should come with you next time, if there’s going to be a next time. I don’t like the idea of you going there on your own.’

‘I can’t take you everywhere I go,’ she laughed.

‘And why not?’

‘People will talk.’

‘You’re in Paris. People began talking when you got off the plane.’

‘I didn’t wish to waste your time – you’re a busy man.’

‘Who’s wasting whose time?’ Mallory had come down to breakfast and was standing between them, looking from one to the other.

Immediately, Monsieur Tissot was on his feet, offering his hand to Mallory. ‘Edouard Tissot, madame. At your service.’

‘And how very lovely to meet you, Monsieur Tissot.’ She smiled her most charming smile.

‘This is my dear friend, Mrs Hayes,’ Grace introduced them. ‘Monsieur Tissot is my lawyer here in Paris, acting on behalf of Eva d’Orsey’s interests,’ she explained.

He shot her a look. ‘And your interests as well,’ he corrected her.

‘And how are matters proceeding, Monsieur Tissot?’ Mallory took a seat, as a waiter brought her a cup. ‘Please, sit down and join us.’

But he remained standing. ‘There have been several new developments. However, I don’t wish to intrude upon your time together.’

‘I would love to see this apartment.’ Mallory looked across at Grace. ‘I find it all so exciting!’

‘It would be my pleasure to arrange another viewing. Let me know when it’s convenient.’

Folding her napkin, Grace stood too. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ She turned to Mallory. ‘Darling, order some tea, will you? I’ll be right back.’

‘Think about the meeting with Madame Hiver,’ Monsieur Tissot advised, as they made their way through the dining room. ‘I would give it serious consideration. Twice the asking price is a great deal of money. By the way,’ he glanced at her sideways, as they strolled into the front lobby, ‘your new hairstyle is very fetching.’

Grace felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Yes, but it failed to throw you off the scent. Perhaps I will have to become a redhead next.’

‘You aren’t going to lose me that easily.’

They’d reached the main entrance.

‘I forgot,’ she held out her hand, ‘you’re a dedicated professional. You won’t rest until that flat is sold.’

He took her hand. ‘That’s certainly part of it.’

He gave her fingers a squeeze, then released her. ‘I will be in contact when I’ve arranged the meeting. And I would be grateful if in future you would be so kind as to return my calls.’

With a little bow, he left.

Grace headed back into the dining room and sat down.

Mallory bit into a croissant. ‘Well, he’s certainly very attentive,’ she said with a smile.

‘He’s just doing his job.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘So, what are your plans for today?’

‘Well, I’m practically almost completely at your disposal. Only I’ve got a luncheon arranged with Tippi Miller who’s on her way back from Nice and is only here for two nights. She’s staying at the Ritz and I know she’d love to see you,’ she added hopefully.

‘God save me from Tippi Miller!’ Graced groaned, filling her cup again. ‘She’s a terrible gossip. No sooner is someone’s back turned than she’s sticking a knife in it. What are you thinking of, Mal?’

‘She rang me. Besides,’ she added with a little shrug, ‘everyone becomes a friend when you’re in a foreign country.’ She leaned forward. ‘She’s been up and down the French Riviera for a month and yes, she will be choking with gossip and I want to hear it all first-hand. She’s already told me she only just avoided being named in a divorce suit, also that she gambled away her mother’s diamonds one night and had to do unspeakable things to a Swiss banker to get them back. And apparently three very famous sisters have been sharing the same wildly handsome tennis instructor without any of them knowing, only Tippi refuses to confirm names until I see her!’

Grace shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I haven’t got the stomach for it. The entire place sounds like a zoo.’

‘But a beautiful zoo,’ Mallory sighed, ‘with sun and sand and glorious sea!’

‘And far too many wild animals. Be careful, Mal,’ she warned. ‘Don’t let Tippi eat you for lunch!’

Shortly after midday, Monsieur Tissot rang; he’d managed to arrange a meeting with Yvonne Hiver, who’d requested that they meet at the apartment.

Grace decided to walk to the appointment. When she arrived in the courtyard outside the apartment, a large shiny black Daimler was already parked outside; a uniformed driver was leaning against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette as she passed by.

She’d hoped to be the first one here, to have a few moments alone in the apartment again.

The front door was propped open. Someone had been scrubbing the steps; a tin bucket and brush were pushed to one side in the hallway. Mounting the stairs, she heard voices – Monsieur Tissot and a woman; low voices, speaking French.

The door to the flat was open. Grace walked inside to find them standing in the drawing room, facing the wall of windows that overlooked the garden square below.

They turned.

Yvonne Hiver looked younger than she’d expected. Dressed in a very modern tweed sheath dress that hugged her figure, with a Persian lamb scarf, she exuded the air of a woman used to spending her days glowing brightly at the centre of her own, personal solar system. Her matching hat had a thin mesh veil which she had folded back; her hair was brushed away from her face, highlighting her excellent bone structure, and her eyes were accentuated by bold flourishes of black eyeliner. It was the kind of deceptively simple day ensemble that easily cost a fortune.

‘I’m afraid,’ Grace apologized as she removed her gloves, ‘that I must be late.’

‘Not at all.’ Monsieur Tissot walked over and took her hand. ‘Madame Hiver is very prompt. In fact, she was already here when I arrived.’

‘The door was open downstairs,’ Madame Hiver explained.

Catching Grace’s eye, Monsier Tissot smiled reassuringly. ‘May I present Madame Hiver. Madame Hiver, this is Grace Munroe.’

It struck Grace that he had used her first name; as if somehow he were staking a subtle claim to her autonomy.

Yvonne Hiver took a step forward, offering her hand. Grace could see that closer up, she must be easily in her mid-forties. ‘Madame Munroe, how kind of you to meet me.’ Her voice was a low, rich contralto, and there was a certain bored, drawling out of her vowels; a universal characteristic of the upper classes that Grace recognized even through her heavy accented English. She shook Grace’s hand. ‘This is good of you,’ she added.