Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

She stiffened, withdrew her hand. Somewhere behind the thick black mascara he could see in her eyes that he’d hit his mark. ‘You wanted me to sign the papers, didn’t you?’

‘Yes but I… I was trying…’ He stopped, thrown back on himself. ‘I was simply trying to advise you, in a professional capacity, on the most reasonable course of action.’

‘And so you have.’ She picked up her handbag from the table. ‘Your responsibilities to me are finally ended.’

She slid past him, through the busy bar.

He grabbed his briefcase and coat, heading after her into the foyer.

‘I don’t understand. What has happened to you?’ he demanded, catching her up.

‘Nothing.’ She made her way down the main corridor to the lift at the end. The doors opened and she stepped inside. He got in too.

‘What are you doing?’

The doors closed.

‘I’m following you.’

‘Why?’

Suddenly, he stopped, sniffed the air. ‘Are you wearing perfume?’

‘Why not? All women like perfume,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

‘Not you. You don’t. What is that anyway?’

She kept her eyes trained straight ahead, on the lift doors. ‘Something my friend bought me. From Hiver.’ She gave a hard little laugh. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think?’

The doors opened and she got off. Again, he kept pace with her.

In the middle of the corridor she stopped, turned on him. ‘What are you planning to do? Follow me to my room?’

‘Why are you wearing perfume? Where did you get this dress?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t like the way I look?’

‘I liked the way you looked before!’

‘Oh really?’ She turned away, her pace quickening. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘Besides, that’s not the point.’

‘What is the point?’ She took out her key, unlocked the door to her room.

‘Something’s happened and you’re not telling me what it is.’ He reached out, grabbed her arm.

‘What difference does it make to you? Oh I know!’ Suddenly she laughed. ‘You think I’m broken and you want to fix me – that’s right, isn’t it?’

Her words stung him, but still he held fast. ‘You’re not yourself tonight.’

She stopped laughing. ‘Now there’s a concept. No, monsieur, am most definitely not myself.’ She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go.

‘Why?’

Suddenly she stopped resisting, relaxed back against the door frame. ‘You don’t like the way I look?’ she asked again, looking at him challengingly.

His eyes met hers. ‘I always like the way you look,’ he answered truthfully.

‘Do you?’

He nodded, let go of her arm. ‘It has little to do with what dress you’re wearing, or the style of your hair.’

She moved closer, until he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. ‘What does it have to do with?’

‘It has to do with who you are.’

He let his briefcase and coat fall to the floor. Reaching out, he took her face in his hands.

She closed her eyes. ‘And who am I?’

Leaning in, he grazed his lips ever so lightly over hers. ‘Surely you’re the creature who’s been sent to drive me mad,’ he whispered.

He pulled her closer and kissed her. Her mouth was soft, tender. She yielded, responding slowly, teasingly. The smooth contours of her body softened against his. The strange perfume clung to her hair, her neck; it blended into her skin, lent her an earthy, green freshness. He kissed her harder now, running his hands down her back, along the swell of her breast, over the curve of her hips.

Then suddenly she pulled away.

He reached for her again but she stepped back; eyes now wide and frightened.

‘Forgive me. I’m not myself tonight.’

Before he could respond, she had slipped inside the room and shut the door.

‘Darling, it’s me!’ Someone was knocking on her door. ‘Let me in. It’s me, Mallory.’

Opening her eyes, Grace could see the bright sunshine slicing through the break in the curtains, a beam of white light on the carpet.

Getting up, she staggered across the room, unlocking the door.

‘Oh!’ Mallory looked at her in surprise. ‘You’re not even dressed. I thought you wanted to go sightseeing. Are you all right?’

‘I’m a little hungover,’ Grace lied. ‘I need some more sleep. Can you manage without me?’

‘Of course. Can I get you anything? Some aspirin, or perhaps,’ she grinned slyly, ‘a pick-me-up? You know, I might be persuaded to join you.’

‘No,’ Grace shook her head. ‘I can’t bear the thought.’

‘Spoilsport! I suppose I have that French lawyer to blame for getting you drunk.’ She took out her gloves from her handbag. ‘I’ll go to Notre Dame and Montmartre but I’ll save the Eiffel Tower for when you feel better, all right?’

Mallory headed off and Grace closed the door.

Somewhere around four, she awoke again. The air in the room was warm; the weather had turned almost summery. But her head hurt. There was a tenderness, like an ache, across her chest.

Feeling shaky, she rang down for something to eat – in the end deciding upon tarte au citron and tea. She had no real appetite but wanted something sweet.

When room service delivered her food, she found an envelope on the floor that had been slipped under the door. It contained the signed documents along with a note.

I recommend that you reconsider. Please, at least meet me before you leave.

E. Tissot

Grace left the letter on the table and pulled back the curtains.

She didn’t want to talk to him today. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

She just wanted silence.

Whatever it was that she’d thought of as herself had shattered. In its wake was only emptiness. It was as if her parents had died all over again; only this time, all the memories she had were eradicated too. Suddenly every single one of them was tainted.

Eva d’Orsey hadn’t given her anything.

Instead she’d taken away the only life she’d ever known.

The hollowness inside Grace deepened into a dull, senseless exhaustion.

She left the tea and tart untouched and closed the curtains.

And fell once more into a heavy, deep sleep.

She had been dreaming.

The room was dark. It was night now.

His arms enfolded her warm skin; his jacket smelled of wet wool, as if he’d been caught in a sudden shower. ‘Come to your senses.’ His lips on her neck, fingers slipping through her hair. ‘Come.’

Grace rolled over.

There was a knocking at the door. Not Mallory again.

But she wouldn’t go away.

The knocking persisted.

Grace sat up.

It was pitch black. She staggered across the room, fumbling with the latch.

The door opened, the glare of lights from the hallway flooding in, blinding her.

‘Good God!’ She stepped back, blinking. ‘Roger?’

‘Well it’s about time,’ he said. ‘I’d nearly given up on you.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wanted to see you. After all, I am your husband.’ He smiled. Roger had a charming smile, one that illuminated his whole face; wrinkling his nose, crinkling the skin around his hazel eyes. ‘My God!’ he laughed. ‘Whatever in the world have you done to your hair? Never mind – I suppose it will grow back.’ Tossing his overcoat over the back of the desk chair, he settled into the settee, took out his cigarettes.

Grace remained standing, still stunned; arms folded protectively across her chest over her white cotton nightdress.

‘Come on, now!’ He laughed at her sternness, tilting his head sideways. ‘Are you really going to tell me you’re not even a little bit pleased to see me?’ He pushed his fingers through his sandy blond hair. ‘I’ve come all this way. Want one?’ He held out a packet of Chesterfields.