The Perfume Collector(113)

Andre reached for her hand. ‘I need you. Your place is here. You need to face the truth; you were never meant to be a mother. You haven’t got it in you. That child is better off without you.’

She pulled away. ‘How do you know? Who’s to say I haven’t got it in me? And what does that leave me with, Andre? A job as your sales girl? A life with a man who will not touch me?’

He looked away.

He’d ceased to be her lover a while ago, a rejection they never spoke of, that left her embarrassed and confused. Talk of an engagement had faded too. More and more the relationship assumed a purely business-like focus. His business. His focus.

‘Is that all that matters to you?’ he asked. ‘Do you think that’s all love is? A crude groping in the dark?’

‘You tell me what love is, Andre!’ she shot back.

He picked up a teaspoon and twirled it impatiently in his fingers, glaring down at the table.

Eva hadn’t forgotten the body in his bed in New York or the new friends, attractive young men, who occupied his evenings now.

‘So, you think you’re just a sales girl?’ he surmised quietly, shaking his head. ‘That if I’m not grabbing at you and thrusting, you have no place in my life?’

‘What place do I have? What do you need me for?’ The floor seemed to disappear beneath Eva’s feet. The world she’d invested in was false, built on little more than wishful thinking. She was falling now, into an unseen abyss. ‘What place do I really have anywhere?’

Across from her, Andre sat silently, spinning the spoon round and round.

He wouldn’t even look at her.

‘You don’t love me.’ Pushing her chair back from the table, she stood up. Her head was reeling; the very tips of her fingers throbbed, so acute was her sense of betrayal. ‘In fact, I don’t think you’re capable of love!’

He didn’t stop her as she walked away.

That was the last time they ever spoke about it.

But in spite of these disappointments or perhaps because of them, a foolish improbable dream took hold, rooting itself deep in Eva’s heart. She refused to believe that there was no way to make contact with her child without compromising her; she obsessed, turning the problem round in her head, gnawing round its edges day and night. She enjoyed a life of independence and excitement. Almost every evening she was out, as part of a set of bohemian artists, designers, and thinkers – dining in cafés, going to the theatre, dancing in the many nightclubs that made Paris famous. But even then or when she was overseeing a client in the perfumery, her mind never stopped. How could she penetrate the invisible barrier that separated her from her child? In what way might she slip through the fence posts of breeding and class to gain even the smallest glimpse of her little girl?

She cradled this hope, nurtured it, fed it for three years.

And then one day, quite accidently, the answer came to her.

It was an autumn afternoon. A woman entered the shop, accompanied by a small boy. It was clear from her dress that she was in service and when she addressed Eva, she stumbled and started, unused to being in such an exclusive establishment.

‘I’m sorry, madam, pardon me. But I am here . . .’ she opened her pocketbook, took out a piece of paper, which she passed across the counter to Eva, ‘I am here to collect an order for my mistress.’

‘Certainly.’ Eva collected the parcel from the black Chinese cabinet and looked across to where the little boy was climbing on top of the leopard ottoman.

‘Charles, get down!’ the woman hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him off.

‘That’s all right,’ Eva smiled.

‘I apologize,’ the woman said stiffly, putting the package into a basket on her arm. ‘We have been given some errands to do and he’s not yet been to the park. But I can assure you, his mother will hear of this when we return home.’

With that, she took the little boy’s hand and dragged him out of the shop.

Eva leaned her elbows of the counter, watching as they rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

The girl was the child’s nanny.

A domestic servant, who spent more hours of the day with her charge than the mother did.

Suddenly the puzzle cracked wide open.



A week later, Eva visited a pawn shop in Montmartre and sold anything she had of value. Instead, she purchased simple, functional clothes – shapeless cotton dresses, a pair of sturdy second-hand shoes. Off came the dark red nail varnish and matching lipstick; she combed her hair back from her face, arranged it in a heavy net. Any spare money she stitched into the lining of her brassiere. She exchanged her luggage for an inexpensive travel case, her reputation for forged references.