Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Perhaps,’ Grace admitted.

‘It’s a good thing. A woman who no longer cares about how she looks has given up on more than fashion – she’s given up on life.’

There was the high-pitched whistle of a kettle coming to the boil.

‘I’m just making tea.’ Madame Zed stood up. ‘Would you like some?’

‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ Grace said, taking off her coat.

After a few minutes, Madame came back again with a tray, setting it on the low table between them. Pouring out a cup, she handed it to Grace, then another one for herself. ‘Do you take lemon or milk?’ she asked, lifting a slice of lemon into her cup.

‘Milk, please.’

‘Paris becomes you.’ Madame passed her the creamer.

‘Thank you. I’m sorry to trouble you.’ Grace poured in some milk. ‘I know I’m disturbing you. But I still have so many questions. I wondered, you mentioned the other day about some men, who’d broken into the shop downstairs… in a black car?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did they take anything?’

‘It’s hard to tell. I think I disturbed them before they found what they were looking for.’

‘Found what they were looking for?’ Grace sat forward. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘They were searching through the drawers and files. Common thieves would have simply taken as much as they could grab.’

‘Do you have any idea what they were looking for? Or who they were?’

‘It’s difficult to say. Though not many burglars can afford to drive to work in expensive motor cars. Your inheritance,’ she looked sideways at Grace, ‘does it include anything else besides the apartment?’

She’d asked her this before. ‘Well, yes, there are shares.’

‘But nothing else?’ she pressed. ‘No letters or correspondence?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I just wondered. It doesn’t surprise me that Eva invested,’ she said, sidestepping the question. ‘She had a good head for business. Even when she was at her worst, she could always turn a profit.’

Grace lifted her teacup to her lips and was about to take a sip when she noticed a pungent, sour smell. The milk was off. Discreetly, she put the cup down again. ‘What do you mean, “her worst”?’

Madame settled back into her chair. ‘She drank too much. “There’s a piece of glass digging into my brain,” she used to say. “And I can’t get it out.”’

‘I wonder if that’s what killed her?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. She was one of those people who could be perfectly civilized, though – never slur or stumble, carry on fairly normally even though she was drunk most of the time. But as I said, she was always good at business. Knew how to make money.’

‘I’d like to hear more about her.’

Madame took a sip. ‘My memory isn’t what it used to be.’

‘Last time, you told me that Eva had left New York, with Lambert,’ Grace prompted. ‘And you and Valmont had gone to Morocco.’

Madame put her teacup down. ‘Yes,’ she nodded, remembering. ‘We travelled for some time and lost touch with Eva entirely. But Valmont continued to grow and develop in his art. He seemed to have gained a sense of himself. We travelled around India, gathering rare absolutes. And then I became very ill.’ She shifted. ‘I had contracted meningitis. Eventually, we returned to Paris. I could no longer work with him and he, well, he was eager to set out on his own. Only,’ she sighed, ‘Andre wasn’t like other people.’

‘In what way?’

‘He had enormous difficulty being personable. Several times I arranged for him to have an interview at some of Paris’s finest perfumers but always his arrogance and pride would get in the way. He didn’t mean to be awkward, he simply had no social veneer. All he cared about was work. I gathered what money I had left and invested in this building, so he could open his own business. But even working for himself, he managed to upset people. He simply couldn’t get or keep customers. And he had no flair. The shop looked like a medical laboratory. In desperation, I finally sent him to the coast, to the Côte d’Azure, during the height of the season. I was still too weak to accompany him but I tried to impress upon him the importance of making connections with potential clients, of getting in with the right set of people.’

‘The whole thing most likely would have been a disaster, if it weren’t for Eva. She was travelling with Lambert, though now he went by the name Lamb. His debts kept him moving from place to place, assuming different identities. And like many Englishmen of his class he preferred nicknames; he called her Dorsey, which was, of course, a play on her surname. She’d grown. Filled out, I think is the expression.’ She paused, recalling an image from the past; summoning it to the forefront of her mind. ‘At that stage in her life, she was magnificent – there wasn’t one element about her that didn’t capture the erotic imagination. The way she moved, the clothes she wore. But she was the Englishman’s girl. His good-luck charm. And he was a hopeless alcoholic. Everyone knew it. She’d surpassed him in every possible way. But she was trapped.’

‘Trapped?’ Grace leaned forward. ‘In what way?’

Madame Zed reached for her cigarette holder, fitting one in, lighting it. She took a deep breath. ‘The Englishman had a hold on Eva that went beyond money or loyalty. Or, for that matter, love.’

‘Good morning, sir.’ The doorman bowed his head. ‘Welcome to the Hôtel Hermitage.’

‘Thank you.’ Valmont walked into the enormous golden lobby, bustling with the early morning activity of Monte Carlo society. Guests were checking in and out, flowers were being delivered, and valets were scurrying to procure tickets for luggage and dinner reservations while exquisite women lounged on the rose silk settees, pulling lazily at the fingers of their white gloves and smoking gold-tipped Russian cigarettes behind the veils of their hats.

Standing back, Valmont registered their particular mixture of indolence and petulance with dread. These were the women he’d come to conquer. The moneyed, idle, voracious wives and mistresses of the Paris elite. Monte Carlo was the place to gamble, gossip and sunbathe, exchange an old lover for a newer one, and acquire next season’s fashion statement a full three months before the rest of Paris. And now that he had arrived, it would also become the place to purchase yourself the rarest of fashionable distinctions, a personal perfume; one that set you apart from anyone else in the room.

At least, that was the plan.

Valmont took a deep breath and pushed his hands into his pockets, hoping his nerves didn’t show.

He loathed these sort of places, almost as much as he loathed the people who frequented them. Here was a club it was almost impossible to get into, even with wealth and breeding. But for someone like him, it was equivalent to jumping off a cliff in the blind hope that he might be able to sprout wings and fly.

It was only out of desperation that he’d come at all. But his new shop in Saint-Germain, as small as it was, was already floundering; he was unable to make any inroads into the clientele he needed to secure a lasting reputation. And he was in debt. If some dramatic steps weren’t taken quickly, he’d have failed before he’d even begun.

Coming to Monte Carlo was Madame Zed’s idea. Despite her financial backing and considerable connections in Paris, Valmont had failed to make the right impression. Worse, it was his own fault and he knew it.

‘Why must you be so rude?’ Madame Zed had fretted, to no avail. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot insult someone who is giving you money!’