The Perfume Collector (29 page)

She stopped . . . ran her finger along the sharp, delicately serrated metal edge.

Eva put the cutter down on the counter and pressed her palm into it, hard.

The sensation was exquisite and excruciating. Feeling flooded in. And the pressure valve in her head loosened, easing just the tiniest bit.

She closed her eyes.

There was a whole vocabulary of suffering, eloquent in its wordlessness, which gave voice to all the things she couldn’t do or say.

Opening her eyes, she forced her hand into a fist, stretching out her fingers again and again. Then she turned to get the milk.

Jonathan Maudley was standing, watching in the doorway.

He leaned awkwardly against the door frame.

Tall and very thin it was clear that at one time he’d been handsome. With large blue eyes, a high, intelligent forehead and a firm jaw, he might have been the very model of well-bred English manhood. Only now his eyes were ringed with deep bluey circles, the result of years of nightmares and fragmented sleep; his sandy blond hair had thinned, his cheeks were hollowed and his lips drawn. His large hands were expressive and elegant. They should have been the hands of a gentleman or a diplomat, only now the long tapered fingers were stained with nicotine from too many cheap roll-ups, a habit he’d acquired in the trenches and failed to give up, and the fingernails rimmed with black soil.

Upstairs the front door closed; Catherine and Grace had left.

Down here, the low ceiling of the kitchen pressed in on them, trapping the heat of the oven, the air warm and moist. A cloud passed over the sun; the room fell into shadow.

Eva reached for the milk. The pain that a minute ago had been a release was now an obstacle. She poured a little into the bowl, mixing the ingredients together, methodically.

She felt his eyes following her movements.

‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ he said.

Eva looked up.

The veil dropped from his features; gone was the public face of a distracted intellectual. Suddenly she saw in him a comprehension of loss that was terrible to behold.

Unnerved, she turned away.

When next she looked round, he was gone.

There had been no plan. The idea had begun with a simple wish; just to see her daughter.

Three years earlier, after Lambert’s death, a letter had arrived. And for the first time, Eva knew where her daughter lived; knew her name.

But when she looked up the address Lambert had given her, her hopes plummeted. The Great Hall, West Challow, Oxfordshire was no ordinary home. In fact, she found an etching of it in a library book entitled
The Stately Homes of England
. Her child was living on an estate, surrounded by thousands of acres, the legal daughter of landed aristocracy. Eva wouldn’t be able to even gain access to the grounds, let alone her little girl.

Still, she paid a considerable amount to see a well-known lawyer, hoping he could offer advice. Instead, he dismissed her claim completely. ‘You have no proof,’ he interrupted her, halfway through her explanation. ‘If you are the child’s mother,’ he gave her a look that made it clear he seriously doubted it, ‘then why would you remove her from a life of privilege and opportunity? From what you’ve told me, she’ll have a social position, possibly an inheritance. . . . am I mistaken? What kind of parent would wish to destroy their child’s chances in this world simply to satisfy their curiosity?’

Folding his hands in front of him on the desk, he waited for her to respond. When Eva didn’t, he shook his head. ‘What did you say your position was again?’

‘I’m a manageress, that is, a clerk. A sales girl in a store,’ she answered, meekly.

‘No,’ he corrected her. ‘You’re an
unmarried
sales girl. Let me be frank, mademoiselle. Do you honestly believe that your daughter would want to even know that you exist? Consider this carefully,’ he cautioned. ‘Once the information, such as it is, is revealed, she can never return to her former ignorance. You will have tainted her by your history and your inferior circumstances.’ He looked at her hard. ‘In my professional opinion, you would be stealing from her a life of infinitely greater possibility. And you would have nothing to offer in its stead.’

Her attempts to convince Andre fared no better. He’d taken the news of her child badly. Now he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist.

‘You see, I have the address now,’ she explained over supper one day to him. ‘Perhaps we might go together to visit the village. It’s of a reasonable size – right near Oxford. Anyone might go there as a tourist!’ she added excitedly.

He put his fork down. ‘What are you going to do when you arrive – knock on the front door? Hide in the bushes until she appears?’

His sarcasm stung her. ‘This isn’t a joke Andre.’

‘And I’m not treating it as one.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘You have a life. Your place is here with me. Our work is what matters. That . . . that girl is fine without you.’

‘You don’t understand.’

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. ‘Then explain it to me.’

He waited, crossed his legs, smoothing down the wool fabric of his trousers with his hand. He was savvy now, having fully adopted the character she’d created for him – the avant-guarde virtuoso of scent. He was taking Paris by storm, while she stood by him, beautifully dressed, endlessly encouraging.

Explain what? she thought. What could be more obvious than the desire to see your own child?

Still, Eva tried. ‘Andre, she’s the only person in this world connected to me, who is truly mine.’

‘I’m connected to you. Doesn’t that matter?’ He ran his hand over his eyes. ‘Eva, who is to say that seeing her might not be worse than never seeing her? You cannot simply run up and grab her! This is a dream. An illusion. You must wake up now.’

She’d imagined that he would come with her, as her husband, perhaps accompanying her to the authorities to advocate her case. But instead he thought her deluded, capable of hiding in bushes and snatching the child like a madwoman.

Andre reached for her hand. ‘I need you. Your place is here. You need to face the truth; you were never meant to be a mother. You haven’t got it in you. That child is better off without you.’

She pulled away. ‘How do you know? Who’s to say I haven’t got it in me? And what does that leave me with, Andre? A job as your sales girl? A life with a man who will not touch me?’

He looked away.

He’d ceased to be her lover a while ago, a rejection they never spoke of, that left her embarrassed and confused. Talk of an engagement had faded too. More and more the relationship assumed a purely business-like focus. His business. His focus.

‘Is that all that matters to you?’ he asked. ‘Do you think that’s all love is? A crude groping in the dark?’

‘You tell me what love is, Andre!’ she shot back.

He picked up a teaspoon and twirled it impatiently in his fingers, glaring down at the table.

Eva hadn’t forgotten the body in his bed in New York or the new friends, attractive young men, who occupied his evenings now.

‘So, you think you’re just a sales girl?’ he surmised quietly, shaking his head. ‘That if I’m not grabbing at you and thrusting, you have no place in my life?’

‘What place do I have? What do you need me for?’ The floor seemed to disappear beneath Eva’s feet. The world she’d invested in was false, built on little more than wishful thinking. She was falling now, into an unseen abyss. ‘What place do I really have anywhere?’

Across from her, Andre sat silently, spinning the spoon round and round.

He wouldn’t even look at her.

‘You don’t love me.’ Pushing her chair back from the table, she stood up. Her head was reeling; the very tips of her fingers throbbed, so acute was her sense of betrayal. ‘In fact, I don’t think you’re capable of love!’

He didn’t stop her as she walked away.

That was the last time they ever spoke about it.

But in spite of these disappointments or perhaps because of them, a foolish improbable dream took hold, rooting itself deep in Eva’s heart. She refused to believe that there was no way to make contact with her child without compromising her; she obsessed, turning the problem round in her head, gnawing round its edges day and night. She enjoyed a life of independence and excitement. Almost every evening she was out, as part of a set of bohemian artists, designers, and thinkers – dining in cafés, going to the theatre, dancing in the many nightclubs that made Paris famous. But even then or when she was overseeing a client in the perfumery, her mind never stopped. How could she penetrate the invisible barrier that separated her from her child? In what way might she slip through the fence posts of breeding and class to gain even the smallest glimpse of her little girl?

She cradled this hope, nurtured it, fed it for three years.

And then one day, quite accidently, the answer came to her.

It was an autumn afternoon. A woman entered the shop, accompanied by a small boy. It was clear from her dress that she was in service and when she addressed Eva, she stumbled and started, unused to being in such an exclusive establishment.

‘I’m sorry, madam, pardon me. But I am here . . .’ she opened her pocketbook, took out a piece of paper, which she passed across the counter to Eva, ‘I am here to collect an order for my mistress.’

‘Certainly.’ Eva collected the parcel from the black Chinese cabinet and looked across to where the little boy was climbing on top of the leopard ottoman.

‘Charles, get down!’ the woman hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him off.

‘That’s all right,’ Eva smiled.

‘I apologize,’ the woman said stiffly, putting the package into a basket on her arm. ‘We have been given some errands to do and he’s not yet been to the park. But I can assure you, his mother will hear of this when we return home.’

With that, she took the little boy’s hand and dragged him out of the shop.

Eva leaned her elbows of the counter, watching as they rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

The girl was the child’s nanny.

A domestic servant, who spent more hours of the day with her charge than the mother did.

Suddenly the puzzle cracked wide open.

A week later, Eva visited a pawn shop in Montmartre and sold anything she had of value. Instead, she purchased simple, functional clothes – shapeless cotton dresses, a pair of sturdy second-hand shoes. Off came the dark red nail varnish and matching lipstick; she combed her hair back from her face, arranged it in a heavy net. Any spare money she stitched into the lining of her brassiere. She exchanged her luggage for an inexpensive travel case, her reputation for forged references.

And then she left, without telling anyone

Her first stop in West Challow, Oxfordshire, was at the local church. She was an experienced, diligent girl, looking for employment, willing to do anything . . . could they help? Did they know of anyone? Her English was good and she could cook.

The Revd Johns thought she might try the Hall – he knew the housekeeper, Mrs Dunnan. He would be happy to put in a good word. Also, he thought there might be some work to be had at Ivy House. It was part of the estate . . . they were a young couple and needed an extra hand.

Of course, Eva already knew the Hall and, more importantly, Ivy House – the red-brick Queen Anne house, set back on the grounds, behind a high garden wall covered in ivy and moss. She’d walked past it a dozen times since her arrival, hoping against hope for a glimpse of her little girl.

The interview at Ivy House had been terrifying; exhilarating. Catherine Maudley had fallen upon her like a starving man at a banquet. ‘At last! I can really work!’ she declared, barely glancing at the references in front of her. ‘When can you start?’

Now, as Eva pressed her head to her pillow at night, with her cheek against the cool linen, she listened, waiting until the house fell quiet. Then she got out of bed, crept soundlessly down the steps from her room in the attic and stole, undetected, into the nursery.

Crouching down by the side of her bed, she watched as Grace’s chest rose and fell in an even, sighing rhythm.

Sometimes she stayed there half the night.

Leaning over, she inhaled the fragrance of Grace’s matted hair; an intoxicating blend of warm sweat and tender, young skin. It was a smell that went to her very core; feeding a hunger that could never be satisfied.

Reaching out, Eva ran her fingers gently along the curve of Grace’s round little cheek.

Whatever her sins were, God must have forgiven them.

Here was heaven; here was redemption.

Here was her place on earth.

Folding the morning paper, Catherine Maudley took another sip of her tea, then held out her cup for Eva to refill. ‘Take Mr Maudley something to eat, Lena, will you?’ She stirred some milk into her cup. ‘He’s been up half the night and has locked himself away in that office of his again.’

Eva hesitated. The greenhouse was normally off limits. ‘What shall I take him, ma’am?’

‘Tea and toast,’ Catherine decided, opening one of her many notebooks and slipping on her reading glasses. ‘Or whatever. I shouldn’t think it matters. I don’t suppose he’ll actually eat it, but one tries, doesn’t one?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Eva nodded, heading back down into the kitchen. She wasn’t keen to go on her own.

Grace was sitting at the table, making a drawing with some colouring pencils, swinging her feet to and fro.

‘Darling,’ Eva turned to her, ‘would you like to give your father some of those black biscuits?’

Grace slid off her chair. ‘Yes, please!’

Eva arranged a tray with a pot of tea, a jug of milk, and some sliced apple and cheese, along with the charcoal biscuits on a pretty little plate. (No one wanted to eat cold toast.) She gave the plate to Grace to carry and together they walked over to the greenhouse and knocked on the door.

After a while, Jonathan Maudley unlocked the door, dressed in a laboratory coat. He looked from one to the other. ‘What’s this?’

‘We brought you something to eat.’ Grace held up the plate eagerly. ‘These will help your tummy! We made them, only Lena made them mostly . . .’ she corrected herself.