Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

He nodded to the file. ‘This portfolio was Madame d’Orsey’s sole means of income. And she was very savvy – with every excess profit, she bought more stocks. What this means,’ he explained with a gleam in his eye, ‘is that you’re quite a wealthy woman, Mrs Munroe.’

Grace turned to Monsieur Tissot as they left the offices of Lancelot et Delp. ‘This is mad! Some sort of bizarre mistake.’ She felt giddy, slightly light-headed from the news. ‘I’ll wake up any minute now – the real Grace Munroe will suddenly appear, probably from Australia or something, and I’ll be sent packing back to London.’

‘You are the real Grace Munroe. You’re just in shock.’ He offered her his arm as they crossed to where the car was parked on the other side of the street. ‘You need to eat something.’

She shook her head, smiling. ‘You know, food isn’t the answer to everything.’

‘Spoken like a true Englishwoman.’ He opened up the car door. ‘I know the perfect place.’

‘You cannot keep taking me out to eat,’ she protested. ‘It’s too… too extravagant.’

‘Calm yourself: I wasn’t suggesting Maxim’s,’ he said. ‘But this is a cause for celebration. And, as I’m the only person you know in Paris, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’

They drove back into the city and he pulled up in front of Fouquet, on the Champs-Élysées.

Grace looked up at the sky as they climbed out of the car. The clouds had grown dark and heavy; the temperature was dropping. ‘Do you mind if we sit outside?’

‘Not at all,’

They dined under the distinctive red awning and before she could stop him, Monsieur Tissot ordered them both oysters and champagne.

‘Have you ever had oysters before?’ he asked as the waiter set a platter down in front of them.

She bit her lower lip. ‘No.’ They were a great deal wetter and more raw than she’d imagined. This went far beyond the confines of her normal luncheon of tea and toast.

‘Don’t be frightened. They’re not nearly as difficult as they seem,’

‘I’m not frightened.’

‘You’re terrified.’ He poured the champagne. ‘And your lip is curling.’

‘They look like something one would avoid stepping on in the street.’

‘Don’t be bourgeois.’

‘Bourgeois!’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Well, then, explain this to me – how is one meant to eat them without looking foolish?’

‘Simple.’ He demonstrated, taking one. ‘You just let it slide down.’

She watched in horror. ‘You don’t chew?’

‘No. I like a squirt of lemon, that’s all.’ Taking a slice, he squeezed the fresh juice on to them.

‘But what if I choke?’

‘Then I’ll move to another table. Go on,’ he dared. ‘Tilt your head back and relax your throat!’

Taking off her gloves, Grace picked one up warily. ‘You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Playing “Torment the English Girl”.’

‘Trust me, if I wanted to torment you, there are cheaper ways.’

‘Fine.’ Closing her eyes, she braced herself; swallowed. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped, wide-eyed.

‘Now,’ he handed her a glass, ‘have a sip of champagne – quickly.’

The crisp, icy bubbles exploded against the back of her palate. ‘Oh, yes,’ she laughed, surprised. ‘That is good!’

‘Bravo! To the English Heiress!’ he toasted.

‘To the Impostor!’ she toasted back. ‘How many of these am I allowed to eat?’

‘As many as you like. As long as you don’t eat these six, which are mine and completely off-limits.’

‘Spoilsport.’

He sat back and lit a cigarette, watching as she squeezed the lemon carefully on each one and devoured them.

‘Do you feel better now?’ he asked after a while.

‘Yes, thank you, I do.’

He smiled, exhaled.

‘Actually,’ she went on, ‘I feel like a sheet of paper that someone’s torn into tiny pieces and thrown to the wind. But the wind in Paris is rather nice.’ Grace downed another oyster. It was sinful, how delicious they were. ‘See, you can’t call me bourgeois now.’

‘I could,’ he corrected her, taking a drink, ‘but it would be inaccurate.’

‘ Mon Dieu ! Have you always been so pedantic?’

‘Always. And please don’t speak French – it’s nails across a chalkboard.’

‘I suppose splitting hairs is quite useful in your profession.’ She sat back, opened her handbag and took out a pack of Chesterfields. Leaning across the table, he gave her a light. As she inhaled, the thick acrid smoke mixed with the salty brine of the oysters and the cool, moist air – an unexpected, earthy combination. She took another sip of champagne. ‘So, is the law your life, Monsieur Tissot?’

‘Not entirely.’

‘Do you spend much time with your family?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m a bachelor.’

‘Oh!’ The shock in her voice was unmistakable. For some reason she’d naturally assumed he was married.

He caught this, and, looking down, smiled. ‘Not everyone is suited to a domestic life,’ he pointed out.

‘No, of course not,’ she agreed quickly. ‘I’ve often wondered if I’m not one of them.’

‘Also, I’ve never had the luck of finding anyone who could tolerate my glittering personality.’

She laughed. ‘They must be dazzled by the light. You should provide sunglasses.’

‘Actually,’ he flicked a bit of ash into the ashtray. ‘I like to repair things in my spare time.’

‘Really?’ She was relieved the subject had changed. ‘Like what?’

‘Bicycles, toys, clocks. I managed to fix a revolver once but nearly blew my ear off in the process.’ He made a whistling noise. ‘It went right past. Gave me the shock of my life. I have a garage behind my building. There’s a work table, tools, all manner of spare parts hanging from the ceiling.’ Looking down, he smiled to himself. ‘I’m very popular with the children on my street. Also, I play the guitar.’

‘Are you any good?’

He picked up another oyster. ‘I’m an exceptional artist. Trapped in the body of man with no musical ability.’ He tilted his head back and swallowed. ‘But I don’t let that stop me.’

‘I don’t envy your neighbours,’ she smiled

‘Neither do I. And you, do you have children, madam?’

Grace shook her head. ‘No. No I don’t.’

A barely perceptible shadow passed across her eyes. Taking another drag, she looked away, into the busy avenue crowded with traffic and passersby. He could sense, by her silence, this wasn’t a topic she wanted to continue.

‘The description of your workshop reminds me of my father,’ she said, after a minute or two. ‘He loved making things.’

‘Making requires more vision. I’m a fixer. For me the challenge comes in spotting the flaw and eliminating it.’ He refilled their glasses. ‘Is your father still alive?’

‘No, he died of a heart attack when I was very young.’

‘I’m sorry.’

There was a low growl of thunder, a flash of lightning and the skies erupted in a sudden downpour, emptying the streets of people; sending them scattering. Beyond the shelter of the awning, pedestrians rushed past, heads bowed, ducking into doorways and crowding onto the front steps of buildings for refuge. Most of the café customers moved to tables inside.

They alone remained.

Grace leaned forward, resting her chin in her elbow, watching the rain pour from the red awning in a sheer, translucent veil. On the other side, Paris became a distant, muted place. ‘It’s kind of you to bring me here. I’m very grateful for your consideration.’

It wasn’t often that he was accused of being thoughtful.

‘My pleasure, madam. Your business is nearly at a conclusion. And you’ve had the best possible results,’ he reminded her gently.