The Perfume Collector (4 page)
There was silence.
Grace rolled down the window; she wanted fresh air on her face.
‘Sometime afterwards,’ she went on, ‘Roger took me out to dinner. He booked the same restaurant he proposed in. All the regular staff were there, shaking his hand, welcoming us back. Alfonse, the maître d’, took us to our favourite table, the one where Roger had got down on one knee two years earlier. Do you remember that?’
Mallory nodded. ‘He gave you a diamond ring the likes of which I have yet to see again.’
‘Yes. Well, we sat down, ordered champagne cocktails and rib roast. It had been a long time since we’d been out together, just the two of us. We raised our glasses to toast one another and Roger looked at me and shook his head. He had this strange, empty expression on his face. “You’ll never be the same, will you?” he said. “You’ll never be the same lovely girl I married.” I didn’t understand. I thought he was making some bad joke. But he wasn’t. He took a drink and said, “So, now what are we going to do?”’
Mallory looked across at her, stunned.
‘I suppose in his mind, that was the end. He hasn’t been with me, you know, slept with me, since.’
‘But what happened wasn’t your fault, Grace!’
Grace wiped a tear away with her gloved fingertip. ‘It doesn’t make any difference, Mal. I’m broken, defective. I can’t give him what he wants. Now he regrets that he married me at all.’
It began to rain, a fine misty shower, sending rivulets snaking down the windows as they wove through the London morning traffic.
Mallory turned on the windscreen wipers.
She was out of her depth. Any difficulties in her marriage had been swiftly negotiated with extra cocktails and placating trips to the jewellers.
But from the very beginning, everything about Grace and Roger’s romance had been extreme; the vivid Technicolor version of everyone else’s black-and-white lives. From their first meeting at the Grosvenor Square Ball, Roger had been almost frighteningly in love with her. Grace was new to London, unaffected and artlessly charming. His attentions were obsessive, extending to lavish gifts and very public displays of adoration. There was the surprise birthday party he’d thrown her at Scott’s, after only a few months of knowing her, complete with a pearl necklace and fifty of his closest friends. Mallory remembered being slightly jealous; wondering why Geoffrey couldn’t make more of an effort.
And Grace had been dazzled. By the time their engagement was announced, it was already a foregone conclusion.
It struck her as strange that such violent affections could be reduced to utter indifference.
Mallory tried to kept her voice light and calm, as if she were talking to a child or an invalid. ‘Perhaps it’s just a stage. Maybe he simply needs to adjust. Get used to the idea.’
‘I think he
has
adjusted, Mal. And he’s apparently doing very well without me.’
Grace’s confidences appeared to have cost her; she leaned her head against the window.
‘I have dreams . . .’ she said after a while. ‘Nightmares. I’m running in a wood, looking for something or someone. But no matter how fast I run, I cannot find it. Sometimes I think it’s just ahead of me, and then it disappears again. Then I start to fall, into some black, hideous abyss and I wake up. I used to have them all the time when I was a child. And now I only have them when something’s wrong, terribly wrong.’ She looked across at Mallory. ‘I had that dream again the night of the party.’
‘Grace—’
‘It’s hopeless, Mal,’ Grace sighed, cutting her off before she could continue. She wasn’t in the mood to be placated. ‘I used to think it would get better, that over time he would see me again the way he used to. But the opposite is true. It’s only become worse.’ She stared blankly out of the window, at the grey fog settling in thick filmy layers across Hyde Park. ‘I suppose it was only a matter of time before something happened.’
Mallory didn’t know what to say. She thought about the leaflet for the Secretarial College in Oxford. How Grace had been searching for a purpose; a way to be useful. And then she recalled, to her shame, how she’d dismissed the idea out of hand.
They drove along, down past Holland Park Underground station and into Shepherd’s Bush. London was a Turner watercolour this morning; rendered in dreamy, shifting blues and dusky greens, wet, melting, only ever half finished.
Mallory tossed her cigarette butt out of the window and looked across at Grace; at the deep frown line that cut down the centre of her brow; at her lips, tightly pursed.
She wanted to apologize; to reach out and hold Grace’s hand and reassure her. But she didn’t know how. If only she’d had the gumption to wrestle Vanessa to the ground on behalf of her friend.
Instead, she did what her mother used to do; one of the only signs of affection that ever passed between them. Mallory took a fresh handkerchief out of her coat pocket. It smelled faintly of Yardley
Lily of the Valley
toilet water, the perfume that haunted the bedrooms of her childhood. She pressed it into Grace’s hand.
‘Take this, darling. Just in case.’
Folding it over, Grace slipped it into her handbag. ‘Thank you.’
‘Who knows?’ Mallory forced a smile, trying to remain positive. ‘Perhaps a change of scenery will do you a world of good.’
‘May I help you find your seat, madam?’
The air hostess was attractive and smiling, with a model’s figure. Her soft brunette hair was tucked into a neat pillbox hat and her lipstick matched exactly the shade of her smart red uniform.
‘Yes, please.’ Grace glanced around uneasily, taking in the layout of the main cabin, the other passengers already comfortably seated, reading magazines and chatting.
The hostess looked at her ticket. ‘You’re just here, on the left. Allow me to hang up your coat.’
‘Thank you.’
Sitting down, Grace peered out of the odd little window, at the ground staff piling the luggage into the hold, at the row of shining silver planes parked like enormous long motor cars, one after the other, in a line. She felt almost queasy with the combination of nerves and excitement.
The hostess was back. ‘Is this your first trip to Paris?’
‘Yes. And I’ve never been on an aeroplane before.’
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ the girl reassured her. ‘May I bring you a glass of champagne to help you relax?’
‘Are you sure? I mean, won’t it spill?’
The hostess laughed. ‘It’s not like that. You’ll see. The whole thing is much smoother than you imagine. Sit back and try not to think too much. We’ll be there in no time.’
Grace watched as she slipped into the narrow galley, which appeared to be little more than a series of metal boxes and drawers. Soon the distinctive pop of a champagne cork could be heard. A little while later, she moved easily down the aisle with a tray, handing out glasses like a hostess at a dinner party.
And it began to feel like a party, with laughing and drinking, people chatting across the aisle to one another. The pilot, handsome in his uniform, paused before climbing into the cockpit to welcome them all aboard, even joking about how strange it felt to fly across the English Channel without being shot at, which got a spontaneous round of applause.
Then the doors were shut. The engines started and the whole plane shuddered and trembled. They rumbled along the runway, building up speed.
Grace looked out of window trying to discern the moment when the wheels left the ground. And then, without her really feeling it, they were airborne, climbing at a steep angle before banking to the left.
London, with its little winding rows of identical brick houses, rendered in a thousand shades of grey, receded rapidly as they flew into the dark, wet fog. Then, quite suddenly, a sparkling blue strip of horizon appeared, high above the thick cloud cover; a golden place removed from the blanket of bad weather below.
Leaning back, Grace took a sip of the cold champagne and, opening her handbag, took out the letter.
She’d read it many times since it first arrived but she still had the compulsion to reread it, as if this time she would finally spot something she’d missed.
Madame Eva d’Orsey.
Eva d’Orsey.
The name meant nothing to her.
But there was a kind of poetry in it, a soft, lilting rhythm that captured her imagination.
Perhaps she’d been a friend of her parents. A fellow writer like her mother or a colleague of her father’s.
Or maybe she would travel all the way to Paris just to discover that in fact the whole thing had been nothing but a misunderstanding after all.
In any case, England had disappeared now entirely from view. And only a vast, empty canopy of sky lay ahead.
Mrs Ronald, the Head of Housekeeping, leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘This is very unusual. We normally go through an agency. This is not how it’s done at all, Mr Dorsey. Not at all.’
Antoine d’Orsey, the Senior Sous-chef, stood very still but said nothing, staring patiently at the space between his feet on the floor. He was making an awkward request and, in his experience, the most effective way to get what he wanted was to simply wait it out. Years of marriage had taught him that; say what you want and then hold your ground. Also, after working at the Hotel (as the Warwick was known to the staff who ran it) since it opened, he was familiar enough with Mrs Ronald to know that her tough exterior masked a sentimental disposition, along with a keen, practical mind. It was well known that she was short of staff and the summer season was only beginning. In the end, she needed his help too.
Not that she was willing to admit as much. ‘Does she even speak any English?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He shifted slightly. ‘You see, my wife has taken a job with a family in Westchester. There is nowhere else for her to go.’
Mrs Ronald considered this, sucking hard on her back teeth. She felt for Antoine. She knew him to be hard working, quiet, stubborn; perhaps a little too fastidious. His nickname was ‘Escargot’ because the Head Chef claimed he moved at a snail’s pace. However, he was always one of the first people to arrive and one of the last to leave; a cornerstone of the kitchen staff.
Sighing again, she surveyed the young girl who stood in front of her.
Small and thin, she had dark hair that hung lankly to her shoulders. Her face was more unfortunate than pretty, with wide-set, oddly coloured eyes that curved upwards like a cat’s and a rather long, narrow nose. They were aquiline features, with a sensual, curving mouth that struck Mrs Ronald as somehow obscene; far too large for her face. She was dressed very plainly, in a simple navy skirt and white blouse, the inexpensive fabrics worn from use but neatly pressed. She kept her eyes on the floor.
Mrs Ronald turned back to Antoine. ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’
‘She’s fourteen,’ he said. ‘She’s just small for her age. She’s already been working for two years – she has references from a family in Brooklyn.’
‘And why did she leave their employ?’
‘They were from Austria and were only here for a short time.’
He nodded to her and the girl took an envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Mrs Ronald.
‘Eva,’ Mrs Ronald read aloud, her lip curling ‘That’s an odd name. Eva Dorsey.’ She managed to make it sound ugly.
Antoine was straining to correct her, only it did no good. Mostly he was used to his family name being butchered, flattened out to its nearest American counterpart. Today, however, it grated.
‘She’s my wife’s sister’s child. Both her parents are dead now. I gave her my family name when we came over.’
There was hardness in his voice. He resented his niece’s history and there was a lot of it he avoided recounting to people like Mrs Ronald. But the last thing he wanted was anyone mistaking Eva for his own child.
She was a quiet girl, conscientious and obedient, but he mistrusted her instinctively. Her mother had been pregnant out of wedlock and died of tuberculosis. Eva was invariably cut from the same cloth; an unwelcome drain on both his time and his resources.
Mrs Ronald raised an eyebrow. ‘I see you worked as a lady’s maid. That might be useful.’ She handed the letter back to her. ‘We have several female guests who fancy themselves as ladies, though nothing could be further from the truth. Come here,’ she ordered. ‘Let’s see your hair.’
Eva bent her head down while Mrs Ronald searched her scalp. ‘No sign of lice. Good. Show me your hands.’
Eva did as she was told.
‘She’s clean,’ Antoine assured her. ‘My wife is very strict about that. And in good health.’
Mrs Ronald crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘Still, it’s hard graft. I’m not convinced you could handle the work.’ (She didn’t like to give in too easily.) ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’
Eva paused, looking from one to the other. ‘I think, ma’am, that you know best. However, I would be grateful for the opportunity to try.’
The girl was smart and polite. And she knew how to address a superior.
Mrs Ronald nodded. ‘I appreciate your confidence in my judgement.’
Antoine’s shoulders relaxed.
‘I will take her on trial,’ Mrs Ronald decided, looking across at him. ‘I can’t promise beyond that. Now,’ she made a quick notation in the ledger in front of her, ‘there are things you need to know about working here. Be warned, Miss Dorsey. The Warwick is different from any other hotel in New York City. And with good reason. Mr Hearst built this hotel at the same time he built the Zeigfeld Theater. The stars from the Follies depend on us; above all, they want somewhere comfortable and discreet to stay. We are their home away from home. Everything you see, everyone you encounter, stays here, within these walls. Do you understand?’
Eva nodded.
‘Many of these people are dancers, performers; they behave like cattle sometimes, believe me. However, they are still Mr Hearst’s guests. Whatever a client wants, he or she gets. And we do things here in the old-fashioned way – your presence is felt, not seen. You’re here to be part of the woodwork. That means no face powder, no jewellery, no lip rouge; caps must be worn at all times. If a guest notices you, especially a male, you’ve failed in your duties.’
She stood up, taking a heavy set of keys from her pocket, and unlocked a closet on the far side of the office, hanging with spare uniforms. ‘I expect you to be early rather than late, to anticipate your guests’ needs rather than waiting to be called, and above all, you must be polite.’ She rummaged through, searching for the correct size as she continued, ‘We take a very serious view of stealing. Everyone is always prosecuted. No exceptions.’ She held up a grey cotton uniform. ‘This is going to be too big but I’m afraid it will have to do. Can you sew?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Then take it in. Not too tight, mind you.’ She locked the closet again. ‘And if I hear that you’ve spoken to the press or to a gossip columnist, you can expect to pack your bags immediately. Do you understand?’
Eva nodded.
‘Each chambermaid is responsible for cleaning and maintaining fifteen rooms. However, when you’re on duty, you’re entirely at the clients’ command. No request is to be denied if at all possible. We have standards here, much higher, much more obliging than other establishments.’
She turned to Antoine. ‘I suppose she’ll need accommodation.’
‘Well, if it’s not too much—’
‘She’ll have to share,’ Mrs Ronald cut him off. ‘And I want it understood that there are to be no guests, male or female, at any time in this hotel. Have I made myself clear?’
Again, Eva nodded.
‘If you’d like to get your things, you can start this afternoon.’
‘These are my things, ma’am.’
Mrs Ronald looked down. There was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, by the girl’s feet.
‘I see. Then I’ll ring for one of the girls to come down and show you your room. Mrs Crane will instruct you in your duties. That will be all.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
She left the office.
Antoine hesitated a moment by the door.
‘I appreciate this,’ he said.
‘Yes, well,’ Mrs Ronald moved back behind her desk, ‘mind she makes you proud, Mr Dorsey. I’d have no pleasure in firing her but I’d have no problem doing it either.’
He went out into the hallway, where Eva was waiting.
She watched as he took a hand-rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket, and lit it. He looked at her hard, as if she’d already done something wrong.
Eva lowered her eyes, concentrating on the floor. Where other people only saw different-coloured tiles, she saw comforting patterns and equations. There were twenty-nine black tiles to every eighty-seven white. Three white to every one black. A whole hidden world of order and symmetry appeared if you only looked closely enough.
‘If you have any trouble, you’re on your own. Do you understand? You’re old enough to answer for yourself from now on.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Then he turned and walked away, towards the lower kitchen, disappearing into the long maze of corridors that ran underneath the main hotel.
Eva exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.
The weight that had been pressing into the centre of her chest all morning was finally beginning to ease. She folded her uniform on top of the small parcel of her belongings and waited with her back pressed against the wall.
The only thing she’d had all morning was coffee, black and strong. Her uncle ate at work and now that her aunt had gone, there was no reason, in his mind, to keep food in the apartment or, in fact, an apartment at all. Her stomach knotted and growled.
She didn’t want to share a room with a stranger. She wasn’t even certain she wanted a job as a chambermaid. But what she wanted didn’t matter.
Eva pressed her eyes together.
There had been 778 tiles on the floor of Mrs Ronald’s office. 426 grey and 352 white. If you multiplied them together you got 149,952. If you subtracted 352 from 426 you ended up with 74 and if you added 4 plus 2 plus 6 you got 12 and if you added 3 plus 5 plus 2 you got 10 and if you divided 12 into 778 . . .
‘Already asleep on the job, eh?
She flicked her eyes open to see a blonde-haired girl standing in front of her, also a maid, only her uniform fitted. Hand on her hip, the girl had somehow contrived to position her cap at a fetching angle, just between two of the blonde kiss curls that adorned her wide forehead. There was a neatness and a compactness about her; a sureness in the swagger of her movements.
‘I’m Sis, short for Cecily.’ She thrust a hand out and pumped Eva’s palm hard. ‘I’m from Virginia, in case you hadn’t noticed. Looks like we’ll be sharing together. I knew my luck couldn’t hold out for ever. Had the room all to myself for nearly a week. Anyway,’ she sighed. ‘I guess I’m meant to show you around. Follow me.’
She led Eva down the long hallway and up a back staircase. When they got to the first floor she stopped. ‘Ever been in the front lobby?’
Eva shook her head, too nervous to speak. Already she was in awe of Sis; of her Southern drawl and her easy, careless attitude. She was afraid to speak in case Sis didn’t like her accent. It had happened to her in the house in Brooklyn, where the Scottish cook insisted on referring to her as ‘the Foreigner’ even though their employers spoke German and her own Glaswegian accent was only barely comprehensible.
‘Ever even seen it?’ Sis asked.
Again, Eva shook her head.
‘Figures. You have the look of someone who’s spent her entire life going round to the back service entrance. Come on.’ Sis pushed through the door at the top, and they peered out into the West Lobby.
By hotel standards it was modest, intimate. But if it wasn’t the largest or grandest hotel lobby in New York, it certainly was one of the most glamorous.
The marble floors shone beneath the oriental carpets, banks of settees were piled with velvet and silk pillows, and the bevelled mirrors which lined the walls reflected the beautiful profiles of the off-duty chorus girls parading through on their way to the bar.
Carefully chosen for the perfection of their figures, they were all the same height, with long shapely legs. Their laughter was punctuated by the clicking of their high-heeled shoes and the swishing of their daringly short skirts. A piano was playing and someone was singing.
A bellhop wove through the pockets of guests with a silver salver. ‘Madame Arpeggio,’ he called loudly. ‘Madame Arpeggio.’ The air smelled of brass polish, cigar smoke, and the lush, overripe sweetness of fresh-cut tiger lilies.
Eva watched as a small, round woman dressed entirely in black, her head crowned with a velvet turban fastened with a large ruby brooch, entered with a pair of enormous shaggy grey Irish wolfhounds. Their black leather collars were studded with pearls.
Instantly one of the doormen brought them water in china bowls, which they lapped loudly, creating puddles on the marble floor, while their mistress paused to light a cigarette and check her messages at reception.
‘Who’s that?’ Eva was so fascinated, she forgot about her resolution not to speak.
‘No one really.’ Sis sniffed. ‘Some filthy Prussian countess. Never bathes and doesn’t take those dogs out nearly as much as she ought to. Her room smells like a zoo. They’ve already changed the carpet once.’
The girls watched as she turned, and proceeded at a regal pace towards the elevator.
‘Thing is,’ Sis confided, ‘all the important people here look ordinary and the really fancy ones are usually broke or on the make. I’ll tell you, you’re in an upside-down world now,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Takes a while, but you’ll get used to it.’
Eva shared a room with Sis in the attic eaves of the building; it had a basin in one corner, a shallow closet and two narrow single beds. The window looked into the light well of the tall building opposite and the alleyway below. There was no view of the sky.
Not that it mattered. Both girls were up at six and eating in the lower kitchen, which also served as a staff canteen, by six-thirty. Then they stood in line waiting for Mrs Ronald to inspect their uniforms and appearance.
Eva had successfully managed to take her uniform in; however, the gauzy white apron and cap were still too big, bordering on ridiculous. It was a fine line between hiring girls who would not excite notice among the guests and making sure that they matched Mrs Ronald’s inner vision of the overall chic of the establishment. So Eva was assigned the less desirable lower floors, in the hopes that she would grow another few inches over the summer.
After inspecting the girls’ hair and nails, Mrs Ronald briefed them as to which guests were checking in and which were checking out that day, along with any special preferences.
These included the actress who required black velvet curtains hung in her suite so that she could sleep during the day and whose room must only be serviced at night, when she was on stage at the Ziegfeld Follies a block away. And the movie producer who had a horror of anything which had been used by other people; his bed, mattress and bedclothes had to be replaced, new each time he came and the sheets were to be washed separately from those of the other guests, a duty which he only trusted Mrs Ronald to perform (but which she regularly passed off to one of the other girls).
