Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Oh, then I must have a bottle!’ Mallory opened her handbag and took out her purse.

‘But you said this was their most popular fragrance.’ Grace picked up the bottle. ‘If Hiver can’t reproduce it, then they’ll have a crisis on their hands.’

‘Precisely,’ the girl agreed. ‘When Jacques Hiver died, the company suffered. But you see, while there are many lovely perfumes, there are only a few great ones.’

‘In that case, we’ll both have one.’ Mallory pulled a stack of French francs from her purse.

‘Mal… where did you get all that?’

‘Coutts, silly. I ordered them in advance. I’ve been planning this trip since the day I drove you to the airport. And I want to treat you,’ she insisted. ‘A woman who buys her own perfume is a sorry creature.’

‘You just bought yourself a bottle.’

‘I’m the exception to every rule,’ she smiled. ‘Especially my own.’

Grace watched as the assistant wrapped up their purchases.

‘Why would someone create a perfume for a company like Hiver and then not sell them the formula?’ she wondered. ‘Surely it would be in their best interests financially to do so.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t about money,’ Mallory said.

‘It’s a business. What other motivation could they possibly have?’

‘Who knows?’ Mallory tucked the bag with her latest acquisition over her arm, with all her other bags. ‘Perhaps it was out of sheer spite.’

The woman’s name was Paulette and she spoke no English at all.

Not that it would have mattered. From the moment Grace and Mallory appeared in the famous Carita beauty salon on Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré for their scheduled appointments the next day, their fate was clearly out of their hands.

The salon itself was a sparkling white monastery of beauty, featuring staff of both sexes, neatly dressed in white uniforms that looked like scientists’ lab coats over their suits and dresses. And indeed, the whole ethos of the salon was ‘the science of beauty’; a solemn pursuit, a long way from the local hairdresser’s Grace was used to. The salon not only styled hair but offered a range of beauty treatments neither of the girls had ever even heard of – including le drainage , a procedure involving half a day, a vast quantity of various creams and lotions and what looked like a small vacuum cleaner.

After a brief review of the schedule, the receptionist whisked Grace into one changing room and Mallory into another, where each was given a clean white gown to put over her street clothes and then introduced to her stylist. While Mallory babbled away to hers in unbroken French, Grace sat silent as the woman walked slowly around her.

Fiercely groomed and compact, Paulette regarded Grace with aloof curiosity, as if she were something between an unsightly stain on the floor and an exotic pet.

Grace, in turn, smiled nervously and laughed, then gestured to her head, doing a little mime performance meant to illustrate the way she normally liked to style her hair.

Paulette watched with a blank expression.

When Grace had finished, she opened a drawer and took out a pair of razor-sharp scissors.

‘ Coupez les cheveaux .’

Grace stared at the scissors in horror. ‘Off? You mean, cut it off?’

‘ Absolument .’ Paulette took down Grace’s long hair from the knot on top of her head and began brushing it out. ‘Off.’

It was decided.

Paulette was a singularly focused woman. After she’d cut at least six inches from Grace’s hair, she applied a lather of colour and popped her under a hairdryer. Then she began filing Grace’s fingernails. Without further consultation, she finished them off with a coat of deep red lacquer. Then she rinsed Grace’s head, and, having towel dried it, she took her by the shoulders and placed her in front of one of the many salon mirrors.

‘ Voilà !’ she declared, proudly.

Grace stared back at herself, amazed. Her hair shone, a tussled glossy black bob. Suddenly her features appeared delicate and pixieish, her skin white, her eyes clear and vividly green. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and she was illuminated, only from within.

Paulette bustled her into the next room where she wound her hair into curlers and popped her under another hairdryer. The final effect was softer, more feminine, yet still striking.

An hour and a half later, Grace met Mallory again in the salon foyer.

Mallory froze in astonishment. ‘Grace! Is that you?’ she gasped. ‘Why, there was a sophisticated woman lurking underneath that woolly Oxford jumper this whole time!’

‘Thank you, I think,’ Grace laughed.

‘Well,’ Mallory pivoted round. ‘ Et moi ? What do you think? Am I not transformed?’

Mallory’s hair looked like a slightly pouffy version of what Mr Hugo usually did for her.

‘Wonderful,’ Grace smiled.

‘It’s miles better, isn’t it?’ Mallory admired herself again in the mirror. ‘I’m going to have one of those drainage treatments tomorrow. I’ve arranged supper for us with the Prescotts who are in Paris until next Thursday. Daphne’s always whippet thin – and now I know why. I’m just going to get my coat.’

While Grace waited, she spotted the silent Paulette hovering by the door.

Digging through her handbag for a suitable tip, Grace handed her a note (either far too much or far too little) which Paulette slid into her white uniform pocket without so much as a glance. Then, taking a deep breath, Paulette placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. ‘ Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes .’

‘ Pardon ?’

Paulette tried again. ‘ Vous êtes belle .’ Her tone was firm.

It took Grace a moment to realize it wasn’t a compliment, but a reproach.

‘ Comprenez-vous ?’ Paulette eyed her sternly.

Grace nodded, afraid to argue.

Paulette shook her head and sighed. In her world Grace had failed to meet the responsibility of her own beauty. This was not just a waste but a sin.

‘ Belle .’ She repeated the word, as a warning against future infractions.

By the time they got back to the hotel, both girls were exhausted. ‘Let’s meet in the lobby for a drink before supper,’ Mallory suggested. ‘But now I need a lie down!’

Upstairs, Grace closed her bedroom door, kicked off her shoes and lit a cigarette.

Then she reached for her French phrasebook, trying to remember exactly what Paulette had said. ‘ Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes …’

Tucking the cigarette into the side of her mouth, she sat down on the edge of the bed and flipped through the pages.

Vous ne savez pas qui vous êtes .

Savez … from savoir …

… to know…

Exhaling, Grace closed the book. She collapsed backwards into the soft pillows and closed her eyes.

You don’t know who you are.

At breakfast the next morning, Grace was drinking her coffee alone when Monsieur Tissot suddenly appeared in the dining room. He scanned the faces. She waved to him and he came over.

‘You are avoiding me, Madame Munroe,’ he announced, pulling out the chair opposite her. ‘May I?’

She gave a little nod.

‘And you have changed your hair.’ He sat down. ‘Is this part of your plan to elude me?’

‘And good morning to you.’ She signalled to the waiter to bring another cup. ‘Yes, I think of you constantly and every single thing I do is born out of a desire to thwart you. Coffee?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve been leaving messages for you which the concierge assures me he’s delivered.’

‘It’s reassuring, isn’t it? To know they take their obligations so seriously.’ The waiter brought another cup and she poured him some coffee. ‘Cream?’