Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

They stood a while. She had wanted so badly to see him again, to speak to him. Now she didn’t know what to say. The wind had picked up, cold gusts pushing up from the river. Grace turned the lighter round and round in her pocket.

‘My husband is measuring the floor plan,’ she said stupidly.

He nodded again. ‘How very thorough your husband is.’

‘I behaved very badly the other night,’ she blundered.

‘Really? Well,’ he frowned, looking down at the pavement, ‘I suppose everyone does things they regret.’

Her heart tightened. ‘Do you regret it?’

He looked up at her, his face suddenly stony. ‘What would you have me say?’

‘You’re angry at me.’

‘Yes. No.’ He sighed. ‘I’m angry with myself.’ He shifted, took a deep breath. ‘In any case, this is probably the last time that we will see each other. Your husband prefers to have this matter handled by an English firm.’

She shook her head. ‘This isn’t what I want.’

‘What do you want, Grace?’

Roger came out of the building, paused on the steps, still jotting notes in his notebook.

Grace glanced over her shoulder then turned back to Edouard. ‘I want to go to a café and sit with you. I want you to order something I’ve never eaten before and then tease me about it. And I want to walk, anywhere, nowhere in particular, and for us to disagree.’

His eyes softened. ‘Are you sure? What if the food has too much flavour?’

She nodded. ‘I want too much flavour. From now on that’s all I want.’

Roger stopped in front of them. He looked from one to the other and smiled. ‘I’m done. Shall we go back to the hotel?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Grace touched Roger’s hand lightly. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be coming with you.’

A week later, Grace unlocked the door and Mallory walked inside.

‘So, this is it!’ Mallory strolled into the empty drawing room. ‘You weren’t joking, were you?’ She whistled. ‘It’s huge! Now I can see why you want to keep it.’ She held up the cardboard box she was carrying. ‘Where shall I put this?’

‘Oh, anywhere.’ Grace lugged her suitcase in.

‘I hate to be the one to point it out, but you have no furniture.’

‘Yes, I had noticed that.’ Grace opened up the French doors. A warm breeze wafted in, tousled the girls’ hair.

They walked out on the balcony.

‘I have a whole speech prepared, you know.’ Mallory leaned her elbows on the railing. ‘About how you really ought to reconsider. Think of your family, your friends. That’s me by the way.’

‘Yes.’

‘But the truth is,’ she sighed, ‘I envy you, Grace.’

‘Really? I don’t know what I’m doing, Mal. Or how I’m going to manage.’

‘You’ll manage just fine. I’m not worried about you.’ She looked across at her friend. ‘But what am I going to do in London without you?’

Grace reached out, took Mallory’s hand. ‘I’ll probably be back in two weeks, with my tail between my legs.’

‘Then I’ll march you right back to the airport and put you on the plane again. I want you to be happy, really I do. I just wish you didn’t have to do it so far away.’

‘You can come and stay.’

‘Don’t think I won’t. And just for the record,’ Mallory wiped a tear from her eye, ‘I have a real bone to pick with this Eva d’Orsey. How dare she leave you a fortune!’

Grace smiled, gave her hand a squeeze.

‘So, seeing as I’m here,’ Mallory walked back inside and opened the cardboard box, ‘let me help you unpack.’ She unwrapped the tissue paper from the little china figures, lining them in a row on the wooden floor. ‘My God!’ she laughed, shaking her head. ‘They’re even more ghastly than I remembered! What are you going to do with them?’

‘I don’t know.’ Grace picked one up. A shepherdess with a lamb, sitting on a tree stump covered in ivy. ‘They sort of grow on you, don’t you think?’

‘No.’ Mallory passed her another one – a little girl with long blonde hair, picking daffodils. ‘I can’t believe she went out of her way to make sure you got these.’

Grace looked over at her. ‘What did you say?’

‘Well, it’s just so odd that she saved these for you, gave them to the concierge, put your name on the box. You would’ve thought it was the family jewels, for God’s sake!’

The family jewels.

Of course…

Grace picked another one up. The tree stump was wood, the lamb was wool, the daffodils were paperwhites…

‘My God, Mallory! You’re a genius!’

‘Really? I’ve never been accused of that before.’

Grace turned the figure over. It had a hole at the bottom; the figures were hollow inside. She poked her fingers into the recess.

Nothing.

She turned over the shepherdess.

Empty.

But when she looked in the bottom of the woman with the veil and fan, lounging on a chair with her cheek in her hand, she found it. A tightly rolled scroll of paper, tucked deep inside.

‘What is that?’ Mallory peered over her shoulder.

Grace unravelled it. The paper was covered with very fine writing; a long list of chemical ingredients, very specific measurements.

‘It’s the family jewels.’ Grace passed it to her. Malloy’s eyes widened.

La Formule Originale de Ce Soir , it read.

She was standing in his office, by the window overlooking the Louvre, when he came in that morning.

‘I’m sorry,’ his secretary whispered, taking his briefcase and coat by the door, ‘but she was early. I didn’t know what to do with her, so I showed her in.’

‘It’s fine,’ he told her, though slightly irritated to be caught off guard. He walked in, positioning himself behind his desk. ‘Madame Hiver?’

The woman turned to face him. She was attractive, perhaps in her early forties, with dark greying hair and rather surprising pale green eyes. She was wearing a deep navy suit, a hat and gloves, and on the desk, lying across her handbag was a small Latin prayer book. When she crossed to greet him she moved slowly, carefully, as if with some effort. And he could see, as she came closer, that her skin was sallow; her remarkable eyes ringed with bluey circles. Removing her gloves, she held out her hand. ‘Monsieur Tissot, how kind of you to meet with me so early.’

‘My pleasure,’ he assured her, indicating a chair opposite. ‘What may I do for you?’

Sitting down across from him, she opened her handbag and took out an envelope. ‘I am here today to draw up a will.’ She passed it to him. ‘I have included a list of my assests and the name and address of the recipient. And I have chosen you, because I’m assured you have an excellent grasp of English.’

‘Thank you.’

He opened it. Inside was a letter, outlining the sale of a property and a considerable amount of equity retained in shares by an investment firm in Les Halles. On a second sheet, there was the name and address of a woman in England.

Madame d’Orsey opened her handbag, took out a cigarette case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Please.’

Opening the case, she took one out and lit it. Then exhaling, she leaned back in her chair. ‘I want you to help her. The beneficiary, I mean.’ She nodded to the paper in his hand. ‘She’s not from this country and will need advice.’

She was speaking as if her demise was imminent – not years in the future but months.

‘Of course,’ he agreed.

‘And promise me you’ll meet with her alone. If anyone else comes with her, ask them to please wait outside. I want…’ she paused a moment, ‘I want the bequest to be read privately.’

He nodded, made a note on a pad in front of him. ‘As you wish.’