The Perfume Collector(100)
But the girl in the photograph was so surprising in her immediacy, and so terribly young.
Madame Zed opened the silver cigarette case, took the last one. ‘Here.’ She passed Grace the empty case.
Grace didn’t understand. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Go on,’ she nodded to it. ‘Look.’
Slowly, Grace lifted it up. Her face reflected back at her in its smooth surface.
‘Do you know why you are here, Mrs Munroe? In Paris?’
Grace struggled to see what was before her eyes. Here was the same heart-shaped face, the same clear, grey-green eyes.
‘My mother . . . my mother was Lady Catherine Maudley,’ she heard herself say.
‘Of course.’ Madame struck a match, the flame flared to life as she lit her cigarette. ‘Only, whom do people usually bequeath their property to?’
Grace swallowed hard, tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.
‘My mother died in the Blitz,’ she said, stupidly. Madame Zed didn’t bother to respond. Instead she got up, went to the sideboard, poured a glass of cognac, and handed it to her. ‘Go on. Drink.’
The sweet amber liquid burned down the back of Grace’s throat; the alcohol seeped slowly into her limbs. She took another drink, draining the glass.
Madame sat down. ‘You can’t have come all this way and not at least have had the thought cross your mind.’
Grace put the glass down. ‘You don’t absolutely know for certain . . . do you?’
She looked at Grace, not unkindly, then got up and filled the glass again.
Grace drank it, staring at the photograph yet unable to see it clearly any more. ‘How do you know?’ she asked, after a while.
‘You were born when Eva was just a teenager.’
Grace pressed her eyes close. ‘But how do you know?’
‘Because, drinkers talk too much.’
The dog twitched in his sleep, whimpering a little.
A shaft of sunlight shifted, moving almost imperceptibly across the floor.
‘I think I’d better go.’ Grace stood up, her legs oddly shaky underneath her.
‘Where?’
She stared at the old woman blankly. ‘I don’t know.’
Madame Zed looked up at her with those large black eyes. ‘You have nowhere else to go.’
She was right.
Grace sat down again, her body leaden and numb. ‘Why didn’t she try to contact me?’
Madame shook her head.
‘She knew where I lived and how to get in touch with me after her death!’ Grace heard her voice rising, like the panic inside her. ‘Why didn’t she bother to do it while she was alive?’
‘You’re angry.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be angry? What is the appropriate response when you discover your entire life has been built upon a lie?’
Madame Zed looked at her but said nothing.
Grace reached for another drink of cognac. ‘Why did she include me in her will?’
‘Because she was connected to you. Because even despite her absence, she existed and you existed. You are a fact in each other’s lives in the same way that the sea exists even if you never go to the seaside.’
Grace pushed her glass across the table. ‘I’d like some more.’
‘I think you’ve had enough.’
‘You’re wrong.’
Madame Zed got up and poured her a third.
Throwing her head back, she downed it in one.
‘Who is my father? Lambert?’ She spat the name out.
Taking a deep drag, Madame shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Then who?’
‘I don’t know his name. She never told me. Besides, I don’t think it’s important.’
‘Oh really?’ Grace laughed bitterly. ‘Apparently I’m not something important!’
‘Your mother—’
‘My mother? Don’t you dare call her that!’ Grace snapped angrily, surprised by her own strength of feeling. ‘You have no right to call her that! A mother is someone who is there – who stays.’ The words felt strangled in her throat. ‘Not someone who simply abandons you!’
Madame Zed inhaled slowly on her cigarette. ‘That wasn’t her intention.’
‘So what happened? Did it slip her mind? I don’t care who this woman is – Catherine Maudley is my real mother. Do you understand?’
Madame got up. ‘I think perhaps you’re right – maybe you should go back to the hotel now.’
Grace stood too; she felt unreal, as though she was floating, grounded only by her anger and rising fear. ‘I’m sorry I trespassed, madame. And I’m sorry I came back. In fact, I’m sorry I came to Paris at all.’
‘Allow me to help you find a taxi,’ she offered, holding Grace’s coat open for her; showing her to the door.