The Perfume Collector (32 page)

‘I’m not that fond of your husband,’ she said after a while.

Yvonne shifted, sighed, like someone forced to wait for a bus when they wanted a cab. ‘What you will get in return is this apartment, and a generous, regular stipend.’

‘I prefer stocks.’

Frowning, she pursed her lips. ‘As you wish. Do we understand each other?’

Eva turned to face her. ‘So you want me to do you a favour?’

‘A favour?’ Yvonne’s eyes flared.

‘What price is your husband’s company or your reputation, Madame Hiver?’ She smiled softly. ‘I’ll consider it, on one condition. I want you to do something for me.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Andre Valmont. I want Hiver to hire him. I want you to ensure he’s protected and classified as essential wartime personnel to the company.’

Yvonne’s eyes narrowed. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘We’re not hiring anyone. Especially not Jews.’

‘He’s a world-class perfumer. A genius. Just the kind of visionary Hiver needs.’

‘I don’t know what you expect me to do.’

‘What if he created a perfume for Hiver?’ Eva persisted. ‘One that was sold exclusively under the Hiver name. Then it would prove he was essential to the future of the company.’

‘The Nazis have taken over our factories,’ Yvonne explained, exasperated. ‘We’re not producing cosmetics right now. We’re making nylon for parachutes and God knows what else!’

‘We could make it, Andre and I – in the shop. We still have supplies. We could produce the formulation in small batches. Your products are still being sold.’

‘It’s old stock. And it’s running out fast. The longer this war lasts the more precarious our position becomes.’

‘Yes, but what if, during France’s darkest hour, Hiver delivers, against all odds, a new perfume. Can you imagine what it would mean to an ordinary woman, at a time like this? Just that something beautiful is being created, that it exists – something uniquely French. What’s more quintessentially French than perfume? Do you think that hope has a fragrance? Allegiance? Loyalty? And the very fact that you were producing it without factories, in spite of the Germans, would spark the imagination. It would seem like an exquisite act of patriotism.’

Yvonne pursed her lips again, said nothing.

Thinking aloud, Eva continued. ‘The bottle should have a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it.’

‘And what will you call it?’

‘
Mon Coeur.
Now, always, forever.’

Yvonne snorted, shaking her head. ‘It’s ridiculous! And dangerous.’

‘Acts of courage require daring – that’s why they’re admired. It’s perfume, not politics.’

‘Everything is politics. We can’t afford scandal.’

‘Scandal is the best form of advertising.’

‘You don’t bite the hand that feeds you.’

‘And you don’t lick the one that rubs your nose in the dirt and beats you!’ Eva snapped back.

‘We’re aiming not to beaten, mademoiselle,’ Yvonne pointed out smoothly. ‘We’re striving to survive intact. Though now I can see why Jacques finds you so fascinating.’

‘Don’t be fooled,’ Eva looked at her sideways ‘He doesn’t. He finds himself fascinating. But only when there’s an audience.’

‘That’s not very flattering to you.’

‘I’m nothing more than a shiny little shard of glass, madam. He looks to see his own face, not mine.’

Some shadow of recognition moved across her features. ‘I wonder that you’re satisfied with so little,’ she said, quietly.

‘The important thing,’ Eva changed the subject, ‘is that the perfume have the Hiver name and that its creator, Andre Valmont, be identified as essential personnel to Hiver Cosmetics.’

‘There are no guarantees.’

‘But you will try,’ Eva pressed.

Yvonne nodded slowly. ‘You know, I think,’ she reflected, ‘that maybe the bottle could have a picture of the Eiffel Tower, but that the name should be something more neutral. Perhaps something like
Ce Soir
.’

Eva frowned. ‘
Ce Soir
doesn’t mean anything.’

‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘But products that carry the Hiver name don’t need anything else. Go on. Why not look around?’ she suggested, with a wave of her hand.

Eva walked back inside. Yvonne trailed in after her.

Eva inspected the apartment, moving slowly from room to room. When she came to the bedroom, she stopped. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a bed of course.’

‘It’s a little vulgar.’

Yvonne folded her arms across her chest defensively. ‘It’s a family heirloom.’

Eva shrugged.

When they were done, Yvonne Hiver took up her head-scarf, re-tied it around her head. ‘You know,’ she admitted, ‘there was a time when everyone was talking about that little shop of yours, about Andre Valmont. I was really quite envious. But now I wonder, is this Jew of yours really as talented as you say he is? Or has he lost his way?’ Reaching the doorway, she turned. ‘Only, for all the fuss, I thought you would smell better than you do.’

Paris, Spring, 1955

Grace walked into the empty apartment. Going to the window, she looked out over the Place des Vosges. An uninterrupted view of the Paris skyline was spread out before her, like a giant landscape painting rendered in shades of blue-grey, charcoal and purple-tinted umber; the dreamy palette of shifting shadows at twilight.

The blue hour.

Lightly, she pressed her fingertips against the cold window pane.

Le droit de choisir.

Freedom.

Eva d’Orsey had wanted her to have, above all, the ability to choose the kind of life she wanted for herself.

Behind her, she could hear footsteps, coming closer, stopping in the doorway.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Roger said

Grace turned. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find it?’

‘I was looking for you.’ He turned on the switch. A cold white light filled the room. ‘That’s better. Also, I met with that French lawyer this afternoon. He drove me here. I wanted to see this place for myself.’

Grace looked down into the courtyard below. Standing in the widening glow of the street lamp, Edouard Tissot was waiting, leaning against his car.

She turned back, suddenly self-conscience. Her heart sped up and her hands felt numb.

Roger was walking from room to room. ‘This place is enormous!’ he shouted from the bathroom. ‘It’s bound to be worth more than he’s letting on.’

‘She was my mother,’ Grace blurted out, unable to contain the information any more.

Roger came back into the drawing room. He looked at her carefully. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘Eva d’Orsey. The woman who left me all this.’ Her voice caught, her heart thundering in her chest. ‘I’m adopted, Roger.’

Roger stood very still for a moment, thinking. Then he came closer, took Grace firmly by the shoulders. ‘I’m glad you told me. That’s an end of it, do you understand?’ He pulled her to him, held her close. ‘No one ever needs to know.’

Without warning, Grace found that she was crying, sobbing. Her shoulders shook and she struggled to catch her breath between sobs. Roger stroked her hair tenderly, kissed the top of her head. ‘We can sell all this in a heartbeat,’ he assured her. ‘We can buy a house in Belgravia now. I promise you, this will all disappear, darling, like a bad dream. I’ll take care of it from now on. And we shall never speak of that woman again.’

After a while, when Grace had cried herself out, Roger handed her a handkerchief from his coat pocket. She blew her nose.

‘Now go and splash a little water on that face,’ he smiled. ‘Your nose is all red.’

Grace dutifully went into the bathroom and splashed her face with cool water. Only, looking at her reflection in the mirror, a different face stared back her, one she couldn’t un-see. It was Eva’s face.

When she walked back into the drawing room, Roger was pacing the room, counting out the approximate square footage. She stood in the corner, watching him.

‘Why did you say we would never mention her again?’ Grace asked.

He was calculating in his head and held up his hand, signalling for her to wait. ‘I’d say it’s easily thirty-five feet by twenty,’ he decided, taking a small notebook out of his breast pocket and making a notation.

Grace went back to the window.

Edouard was still there.

‘Why did you say we would never mention Eva d’Orsey?’ she asked again, wondering if Edouard would look up and see her.

‘Why would we? The less we say about the whole affair, the better,’ Roger decided. ‘Imagine if one of us slipped and it came out in public.’

Grace turned back to him. ‘But you don’t even know anything about her.’

‘That’s not the point. You have a family, a very important family, Grace. That’s all that matters. Anything else just complicates things.’

‘But my family,’ she stopped, searching for the right words, ‘that’s not real. That’s a not the whole story.’

‘Look,’ he sighed, ‘the truth only matters if it’s useful.’

‘But don’t you even want to know about who she was?’

‘If you want to tell me, then I’ll listen. But these stories, well,’ he sighed, ‘they tend to be a bit pathetic.’ Suddenly, his face changed. ‘She didn’t have any other family, did she? Any who could contest the will?’

Grace shook her head. ‘No.’

He relaxed. ‘What a stroke of luck! Honestly, darling, I don’t think this could’ve worked out better. She lives in another country, has no family; no one in England will have ever heard of her. You know, considering what you’ve just told me, I have to say, I’m impressed with the way this woman’s handled the whole thing.’

‘Eva,’ she interjected.

‘What?’

‘Her name is Eva.’

‘Yes, well, Eva. She’s been extremely generous and also incredibly discreet. She obviously understood what was best.’

Grace slid her hands into her pockets, began to fidget with her father’s old lighter. ‘I suppose.’

‘We can say you received the money from an old friend of your father’s.’

‘You think we should lie? I mean, not just omit the details, but actually lie?’

‘I’m only suggest we get our story straight unless someone asks. Listen, who gains by us broadcasting her existence? No one. Imagine trying to explain it to our friends.’

‘Do you really believe that it would matter that much?’

‘Grace,’ he looked at her indulgently, ‘as much as I adore you, I can’t believe you’re even asking that.’

Roger began counting out paces in the bedroom.

Grace walked over to the window again.

‘You haven’t got a light by any chance, have you?’ she called.

‘Not on me.’

‘I’m going downstairs. Monseur Tissot will have one I’m sure.’

As Grace crossed the darkening courtyard, Edouard straightened, instead of leaning on the car. She stopped in front of him and he gave a little nod. ‘Madame Munroe.’

‘Hello. I . . . I’ve been wanting to speak you.’ She paused unsure of how to begin.

He waited.

‘Eva d’Orsey was my mother,’ she said. ‘Did you know that?’

His expression changed to one of concern. ‘No, I didn’t. How did you find out?’

‘Madame Zed told me. Showed me a photograph. . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘It must be a little disorientating.’

‘I feel very bizarre. Like I don’t know myself any more.’

They stood a while. She had wanted so badly to see him again, to speak to him. Now she didn’t know what to say. The wind had picked up, cold gusts pushing up from the river. Grace turned the lighter round and round in her pocket.

‘My husband is measuring the floor plan,’ she said stupidly.

He nodded again. ‘How very thorough your husband is.’

‘I behaved very badly the other night,’ she blundered.

‘Really? Well,’ he frowned, looking down at the pavement, ‘I suppose everyone does things they regret.’

Her heart tightened. ‘Do you regret it?’

He looked up at her, his face suddenly stony. ‘What would you have me say?’

‘You’re angry at me.’

‘Yes. No.’ He sighed. ‘I’m angry with myself.’ He shifted, took a deep breath. ‘In any case, this is probably the last time that we will see each other. Your husband prefers to have this matter handled by an English firm.’

She shook her head. ‘This isn’t what I want.’

‘What do you want, Grace?’

Roger came out of the building, paused on the steps, still jotting notes in his notebook.

Grace glanced over her shoulder then turned back to Edouard. ‘I want to go to a café and sit with you. I want you to order something I’ve never eaten before and then tease me about it. And I want to walk, anywhere, nowhere in particular, and for us to disagree.’

His eyes softened. ‘Are you sure? What if the food has too much flavour?’

She nodded. ‘I want too much flavour. From now on that’s all I want.’

Roger stopped in front of them. He looked from one to the other and smiled. ‘I’m done. Shall we go back to the hotel?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Grace touched Roger’s hand lightly. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be coming with you.’

A week later, Grace unlocked the door and Mallory walked inside.

‘So, this is it!’ Mallory strolled into the empty drawing room. ‘You weren’t joking, were you?’ She whistled. ‘It’s huge! Now I can see why you want to keep it.’ She held up the cardboard box she was carrying. ‘Where shall I put this?’

‘Oh, anywhere.’ Grace lugged her suitcase in.

‘I hate to be the one to point it out, but you have no furniture.’

‘Yes, I had noticed that.’ Grace opened up the French doors. A warm breeze wafted in, tousled the girls’ hair.

They walked out on the balcony.

‘I have a whole speech prepared, you know.’ Mallory leaned her elbows on the railing. ‘About how you really ought to reconsider. Think of your family, your friends. That’s me by the way.’

‘Yes.’

‘But the truth is,’ she sighed, ‘I envy you, Grace.’

‘Really? I don’t know what I’m doing, Mal. Or how I’m going to manage.’

‘You’ll manage just fine. I’m not worried about you.’ She looked across at her friend. ‘But what am I going to do in London without you?’

Grace reached out, took Mallory’s hand. ‘I’ll probably be back in two weeks, with my tail between my legs.’

‘Then I’ll march you right back to the airport and put you on the plane again. I want you to be happy, really I do. I just wish you didn’t have to do it so far away.’

‘You can come and stay.’

‘Don’t think I won’t. And just for the record,’ Mallory wiped a tear from her eye, ‘I have a real bone to pick with this Eva d’Orsey. How dare she leave you a fortune!’

Grace smiled, gave her hand a squeeze.

‘So, seeing as I’m here,’ Mallory walked back inside and opened the cardboard box, ‘let me help you unpack.’ She unwrapped the tissue paper from the little china figures, lining them in a row on the wooden floor. ‘My God!’ she laughed, shaking her head. ‘They’re even more ghastly than I remembered! What are you going to do with them?’

‘I don’t know.’ Grace picked one up. A shepherdess with a lamb, sitting on a tree stump covered in ivy. ‘They sort of grow on you, don’t you think?’

‘No.’ Mallory passed her another one – a little girl with long blonde hair, picking daffodils. ‘I can’t believe she went out of her way to make sure you got these.’

Grace looked over at her. ‘What did you say?’

‘Well, it’s just so odd that she saved these for you, gave them to the concierge, put your name on the box. You would’ve thought it was the family jewels, for God’s sake!’

The family jewels.

Of course . . .

Grace picked another one up. The tree stump was wood, the lamb was wool, the daffodils were paperwhites . . .

‘My God, Mallory! You’re a genius!’

‘Really? I’ve never been accused of that before.’

Grace turned the figure over. It had a hole at the bottom; the figures were hollow inside. She poked her fingers into the recess.

Nothing.

She turned over the shepherdess.

Empty.

But when she looked in the bottom of the woman with the veil and fan, lounging on a chair with her cheek in her hand, she found it. A tightly rolled scroll of paper, tucked deep inside.

‘What is that?’ Mallory peered over her shoulder.

Grace unravelled it. The paper was covered with very fine writing; a long list of chemical ingredients, very specific measurements.

‘It’s the family jewels.’ Grace passed it to her. Malloy’s eyes widened.

La Formule Originale de Ce Soir
, it read.