Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

He came to the house every week, while working on his thesis, for private tutorials.

And she made a point of being the one to answer the door, showing him into her uncle’s study. She took care with her dress, her hair; lingering, allowing him to make conversation with her. And her answers to his questions were always evasive, teasing. Week after week, she felt his interest and admiration grow.

In private, she dreamed of his hands on her skin; of the pressure of his mouth on hers. She yearned for a physical pleasure she couldn’t quite imagine, didn’t understand.

Then she’d offered to show him the garden one late spring evening, with the magnolia tress in full bloom.

He’d followed her into the grove, talking too fast, too much. The trees had formed a canopy of rich blooms, waxy petals of deep pink, exploding with colour and perfume. She’d stood, quite still, while he admired them, looking everywhere but at her. And then finally he stopped. His hands shook a little as he reached for her.

She had met him more than halfway, tilting her face up, wrapping her arms around his neck. Tentative, tight-lipped kisses became urgent, hands travelled…

‘Grace!’ Her uncle’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘What are you doing?’

He was standing at the end of the path, rigid with indignation.

Even after all these years, her whole body still withered with mortification at the thought of it.

She never saw Theo Lund again. Was unsure if he ever graduated or not.

It was odd now, looking back… she’d been only a girl then. But her lasting impression was that he’d been the vulnerable one, the one whose innocence had been lost and led astray.

And then later, there was Roger.

That night after her birthday party at Scott’s, she was meant to be staying with Mallory but instead she and Roger had taken a room in a small hotel in Mayfair. She’d wanted to make love, couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

Once the door was locked, she went to him immediately.

‘You’re like a wild animal,’ he teased, extracting himself to make them both drinks. ‘Take it easy!’

‘But I don’t want to take it easy.’

Later, in bed, he manoeuvred her from one position to another; he had more experience and enjoyed instructing her. However, her willingness, her talent as a student, threw him.

‘Have you done this before?’ he accused.

‘No, but I want to please you.’

‘Relax,’ he said firmly, pushing her arms down by her side. ‘Let me.’

But by relax, he meant, ‘Be still.’

Grace had unladylike appetites; aggressive lusts. And a grasping emptiness in her soul. She should be ashamed of herself. It was painful to her, in the same way that certain high-pitched noises are unbearable to the ears, to even acknowledge this part of her nature.

Climbing the steps to the hotel, Grace paused, taking a long look at Paris, in all its shimmering, enigmatic elegance, wearing the night as a beautiful woman wears diamonds.

Madame Zed was right; one is not always sure who seduces whom.

Back in the rich, warm glow of the hotel lobby, piano music played, soft and melodious; the scent of white hyacinths, massed together in great brass urns near the front desk, perfumed the air with a sharp green sweetness. And the vast marble foyer echoed with conversation, laughter and the clinking of glasses.

It was cocktail hour.

‘Madame Munroe!’ The concierge bustled out from behind his desk. ‘You have a message, madame. A gentleman, Monsieur Tissot, has telephoned for you today.’ He handed her a slip of paper. ‘Here is his number. And also your husband has rung.’

‘My husband?’

‘Yes, madame. He has asked if you might be so good as to return his call.’ He handed her a second slip. ‘He is staying at his London club. This is the number.’

Her heart lifted. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

Upstairs in her room, Grace lit a cigarette and stood smoking by the window, looking out over the city skyline.

Every day she’d expected something; a letter or flowers, perhaps?

As the days dragged out, her hope withered.

But sure enough, in his own time, here it was.

Closing her eyes, Grace took another drag, gathering her nerve.

Mallory must’ve given him the name of the hotel.

She hated the thought of a strained, long-distance conversation. But perhaps it was for the best. He could apologize and they could move on with their lives, though the idea of him explaining his behavior; of being vulnerable in any way, made her cringe inwardly. They simply needed to get past this episode. And she told herself she could bear anything as long as he didn’t go into details; she didn’t want to imagine the affair any more vividly than she already had.

As long as Roger understood that it was over, for ever, they could carry on.

Resolved, Grace stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the receiver.

‘Yes, I’d like to place a trunk call please, to the East India Club in St James’s.’ She waited, gnawing on her fingernails while the operator connected her, eventually being transferred via the club switchboard to his room.

‘Hello? Hello?’ Roger’s voice crackled on the other end of the line. He sounded as if he were speaking through a tin can, and very far away.

Automatically, Grace’s spine stiffened. ‘Hello? Hello, Roger… it’s me.’

‘Who? I’m sorry? Who is this?’

‘It’s Grace,’ she said, louder. Who was he expecting?

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ There was silence. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m… I’m in Paris,’ she said stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘Yes, so I gather. I’ve spoken to Mallory.’

‘Really.’

‘And how was the trip?’

‘The trip? Fine. It’s a nice hotel.’

‘Good.’

More silence.

Her mind raced, tripping over itself for something, anything, to fill in the void. She could tell him about the will, explain the extraordinary inheritance of Madame d’Orsey… but she didn’t. His transgression was the matter at hand. However, she couldn’t help notice, with a sense of growing misgiving, that he hadn’t even asked as to the nature of her business.

‘And you?’ she fumbled. ‘Are you well?’

‘Well,’ he paused, ‘as well as can be expected. I can’t say I was thrilled to return from Scotland to empty house.’ He sounded petulant, put-upon. ‘There wasn’t a single thing to eat, Grace.’

It was amazing how he managed to twist things, to imply that he was being stoic in the face of her abandonment. She could hear him shifting, changing position. ‘How are you bearing up? Can you stomach the food?’

Grace’s skin went cold. Was this it? Was he just going to make pleasant conversation and pretend that nothing had happened? ‘It’s quite good really,’ she answered numbly. ‘I like it.’

‘You either love or hate it. Too much garlic for my taste. But it’s worse in Rome.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s what they say.’

Pause.

‘Well, good. I just wanted to ring and see if you were all right. After all,’ his words assumed a pointed tone, ‘you left so abruptly. Also I wanted to know when you planned to return home. People have been asking after you. I can’t put them off for ever.’

Grace blinked, amazed by his dexterity.

He’d simply sidestepped the entire thing. As far as he was concerned, she was the one leaving him in the lurch. And suddenly it struck her, clearly, that he had no intention of ever acknowledging his affair.

And he expected her to behave in the same way.

Grace sat down hard on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath. ‘What about Vanessa?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Vanessa.’ Grace’s heart was beating so hard, she felt as though she was going to be sick. ‘What about her?’