Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Do I have to remind you how far I’ve gone for you?’ Her voice turned vicious. ‘How much I sacrificed? Don’t tell me you can’t remember!’

‘Dorsey, don’t!’

‘There are only two people I hate in this world. And she’s one of them!’

There was a taut silence. ‘I did what was best. It was best for all concerned. Eva, please…’

Her voice caught. ‘Don’t touch me! And don’t fail me! And don’t ever pretend to know what is best again. I’ve kept my side of the bargain and it’s time you kept yours.’

She ran in through the open French doors, eyes blinded with tears, past the entrance to the dining room which was filling up for the last dinner service.

When Lamb came in to supper, he looked tired and visibly shaken.

He drank more than usual that night.

Only he didn’t do it alone.

Dorsey was out of her league. When a woman like Kay Waverley took you on over a man, you were done for. It was the scandal of the season and all of Monte Carlo agreed; poor little Dorsey wasn’t handling it well.

One night, right in the middle of the piazza in front of the Grand Casino, she confronted Lamb as he escorted Waverley to her car.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She grabbed his arm.

‘Dorsey, stop it!’ He pulled away. ‘Go back to the hotel, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Not without you.’

Kay had stepped aside. She knew when to play the star and when to slip into a supporting role. ‘I can make my own way.’ She waved to the valet. ‘After all, I don’t need a babysitter.’

‘I said go back to the hotel!’ Lamb hissed to Eva.

Kay’s silver Bentley pulled up and Kay slid into the driver’s seat.

‘Not without you!’ Dorsey’s voice had reached fever pitch. She was pathetic, clinging to him.

‘Damn it! Leave me alone.’ He gave her a shove.

She stumbled backwards, almost falling.

‘Don’t! I’m warning you,’ she threatened.

A small crowd was gathering, clusters of well-dressed patrons, spilling out of the casino, eager to watch the drama unfold.

‘Stop making a scene.’ Lamb regarded her with unveiled disdain.

Kay rolled down the window. ‘Hey sailor, can I drop you somewhere?’

‘Yes,’ he decided firmly, ‘as a matter of fact, you can.’

Kay opened the door and moved over into the passenger seat. ‘In that case, you can drive. A man’s place is behind the wheel.’

Lamb climbed in and she curled up next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘Maybe we should do some skinny dipping of our own. What do you think?’

She laughed as the car pulled off, making its way up the winding streets to the villa on the hillside. And Dorsey, humiliated and sobbing, ran off alone into the dark narrow streets.

‘Didn’t you hear? She made the most ridiculous scene last night.’

Valmont was sitting at breakfast across from the Lyonesse Sisters. Both widows in their seventies, they came to Monte Carlo every year at the same time; a permanent feature of the social hierarchy. Their father had owned the Lyon Sugar factory and so they were known by their maiden name and considerable fortune.

‘She’s a pretty girl.’

‘A very pretty girl,’ the other agreed.

‘But she’s out of her depth.’

‘Completely.’

‘Kay Waverley is a woman of the world. And so is Lord Lambert.’

‘Lord?’ Valmont looked up, surprised. ‘I didn’t know he was titled.’

‘He never uses it. But we know all about him – we know his father, in fact. But young Dorsey made such a scene.’ The old woman sighed, stirring an extra lump of her family’s sugar into her coffee. ‘And that will never do.’

‘Not the way to impress a man like Lamb,’ her sister surmised. ‘Shouting, grabbing at him.’

‘Like some sort of fishwife. Right in the middle of the courtyard.’

‘I almost felt sorry for Kay. And for Lord Lambert.’

‘I suppose they’re in love.’ Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. ‘I hear he hasn’t been back to the hotel yet.’

‘That young girl has no mother,’ the other concluded. ‘A mother would have instructed her in how to handle the situation. One should never give the other woman the satisfaction.’

‘It’s best to simply ignore it,’ her sister agreed. ‘And of course to find a lover of your own.’

(They were both old campaigners and had survived many marital skirmishes in their time.)

‘Yes,’ the old woman chuckled, reaching for another slice of fresh brioche, ‘men can only focus on one lover – either yours or theirs. And after they’ve made their conquest, yours becomes considerably more interesting.’

Valmont sipped his coffee too, but inside he felt lacerated by the strength of Eva’s feeling for Lamb. Ever since Kay Waverley had arrived in Monte Carlo, she’d been distracted and elusive. The woman who was once his keenest advocate could barely spare him a few words. The conversation moved on, but he sat miserably.

After they’d parted company, he tried to send a message to Eva’s room but was informed that Mademoiselle Dorsey had left the hotel that morning, without leaving a forwarding address.

Valmont sat on his bed, staring out at his newly acquired sea view.

She was gone. And it had never even occurred to her to let him know.

His hatred of Lamb hardened into a knife in his heart. He found himself searching the casino and bars for him, unsure of what he would do when he found him, only that it would be as violent as he was capable of making it. But with no luck.

Lamb had not emerged from the pink villa in the hills.

In fact, Valmont never saw him again.

Two days later he received a telegram from Paris.

YOUR SHOP INTERIOR IS HIDEOUS STOP ARE YOU PLANNING TO SELL PERFUME OR RAW MEAT STOP

Within the hour, he was on a train.

It was months later that Valmont read, quite by chance, of the death of an Englishman in the South of France. The body of Viscount Charles Lamb, aka Charles Alexander Haveston Lambert, only son of the Earl of Royce, and the recipient of the British Victory Medal for his service in the Great War, was discovered early one morning reclining in a deckchair on the beach at Cap Ferrat, staring out towards the sea. The coroner concluded that he’d gone there deliberately to overdose, which he’d accomplished with a substantial amount of morphine, to which he’d been addicted ever since he’d suffered a serious leg injury in the war.

He’d just won 20,000 francs at roulette a few hours earlier. The money was nowhere to be found. Theft was ruled out when it was discovered that he’d posted a letter in the early hours of that morning, a fact that had been noted by the night receptionist at the hotel.

During the post-mortem that took place in Cap Ferrat shortly afterwards, when the medical examiner was asked if he suspected any foul play, he surprised the court by answering an unequivocal ‘no’. When pressed as to what reason Lord Lambert might have had for taking his own life, he paused, looking around the crowded courtroom, before he answered.

‘I’m afraid that the man known as Charles Lamb was very seriously ill, Your Honour.’

‘Really?’ The Coroner adjusted his glasses. ‘Can you elaborate? What was the nature of his illness?’

Again, the medical examiner hesitated. Then, clearing his throat, he continued. ‘Mr Lamb, or rather, Lord Lambert, suffered from an advanced case of syphilis. His liver was already inflamed, indicating hepatitis, peritonitis, and possible kidney disease. His prognosis would not have been good. And he probably suffered a great deal of pain. Further manifestations would most likely include seizure, meningitis, dementia, not to mention horrendous pains in the lower extremities and possible deformity.’