The Perfume Collector(103)

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.