The Perfume Collector(112)

Upstairs the front door closed; Catherine and Grace had left.

Down here, the low ceiling of the kitchen pressed in on them, trapping the heat of the oven, the air warm and moist. A cloud passed over the sun; the room fell into shadow.

Eva reached for the milk. The pain that a minute ago had been a release was now an obstacle. She poured a little into the bowl, mixing the ingredients together, methodically.

She felt his eyes following her movements.

‘You’ve hurt yourself,’ he said.

Eva looked up.

The veil dropped from his features; gone was the public face of a distracted intellectual. Suddenly she saw in him a comprehension of loss that was terrible to behold.

Unnerved, she turned away.

When next she looked round, he was gone.



There had been no plan. The idea had begun with a simple wish; just to see her daughter.

Three years earlier, after Lambert’s death, a letter had arrived. And for the first time, Eva knew where her daughter lived; knew her name.

But when she looked up the address Lambert had given her, her hopes plummeted. The Great Hall, West Challow, Oxfordshire was no ordinary home. In fact, she found an etching of it in a library book entitled The Stately Homes of England. Her child was living on an estate, surrounded by thousands of acres, the legal daughter of landed aristocracy. Eva wouldn’t be able to even gain access to the grounds, let alone her little girl.

Still, she paid a considerable amount to see a well-known lawyer, hoping he could offer advice. Instead, he dismissed her claim completely. ‘You have no proof,’ he interrupted her, halfway through her explanation. ‘If you are the child’s mother,’ he gave her a look that made it clear he seriously doubted it, ‘then why would you remove her from a life of privilege and opportunity? From what you’ve told me, she’ll have a social position, possibly an inheritance. . . . am I mistaken? What kind of parent would wish to destroy their child’s chances in this world simply to satisfy their curiosity?’

Folding his hands in front of him on the desk, he waited for her to respond. When Eva didn’t, he shook his head. ‘What did you say your position was again?’

‘I’m a manageress, that is, a clerk. A sales girl in a store,’ she answered, meekly.

‘No,’ he corrected her. ‘You’re an unmarried sales girl. Let me be frank, mademoiselle. Do you honestly believe that your daughter would want to even know that you exist? Consider this carefully,’ he cautioned. ‘Once the information, such as it is, is revealed, she can never return to her former ignorance. You will have tainted her by your history and your inferior circumstances.’ He looked at her hard. ‘In my professional opinion, you would be stealing from her a life of infinitely greater possibility. And you would have nothing to offer in its stead.’

Her attempts to convince Andre fared no better. He’d taken the news of her child badly. Now he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist.

‘You see, I have the address now,’ she explained over supper one day to him. ‘Perhaps we might go together to visit the village. It’s of a reasonable size – right near Oxford. Anyone might go there as a tourist!’ she added excitedly.

He put his fork down. ‘What are you going to do when you arrive – knock on the front door? Hide in the bushes until she appears?’

His sarcasm stung her. ‘This isn’t a joke Andre.’

‘And I’m not treating it as one.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘You have a life. Your place is here with me. Our work is what matters. That . . . that girl is fine without you.’

‘You don’t understand.’

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. ‘Then explain it to me.’

He waited, crossed his legs, smoothing down the wool fabric of his trousers with his hand. He was savvy now, having fully adopted the character she’d created for him – the avant-guarde virtuoso of scent. He was taking Paris by storm, while she stood by him, beautifully dressed, endlessly encouraging.

Explain what? she thought. What could be more obvious than the desire to see your own child?

Still, Eva tried. ‘Andre, she’s the only person in this world connected to me, who is truly mine.’

‘I’m connected to you. Doesn’t that matter?’ He ran his hand over his eyes. ‘Eva, who is to say that seeing her might not be worse than never seeing her? You cannot simply run up and grab her! This is a dream. An illusion. You must wake up now.’

She’d imagined that he would come with her, as her husband, perhaps accompanying her to the authorities to advocate her case. But instead he thought her deluded, capable of hiding in bushes and snatching the child like a madwoman.