The Perfume Collector(124)

Yvonne nodded slowly. ‘You know, I think,’ she reflected, ‘that maybe the bottle could have a picture of the Eiffel Tower, but that the name should be something more neutral. Perhaps something like Ce Soir.’

Eva frowned. ‘Ce Soir doesn’t mean anything.’

‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘But products that carry the Hiver name don’t need anything else. Go on. Why not look around?’ she suggested, with a wave of her hand.

Eva walked back inside. Yvonne trailed in after her.

Eva inspected the apartment, moving slowly from room to room. When she came to the bedroom, she stopped. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a bed of course.’

‘It’s a little vulgar.’

Yvonne folded her arms across her chest defensively. ‘It’s a family heirloom.’

Eva shrugged.

When they were done, Yvonne Hiver took up her head-scarf, re-tied it around her head. ‘You know,’ she admitted, ‘there was a time when everyone was talking about that little shop of yours, about Andre Valmont. I was really quite envious. But now I wonder, is this Jew of yours really as talented as you say he is? Or has he lost his way?’ Reaching the doorway, she turned. ‘Only, for all the fuss, I thought you would smell better than you do.’





Paris, Spring, 1955

Grace walked into the empty apartment. Going to the window, she looked out over the Place des Vosges. An uninterrupted view of the Paris skyline was spread out before her, like a giant landscape painting rendered in shades of blue-grey, charcoal and purple-tinted umber; the dreamy palette of shifting shadows at twilight.

The blue hour.

Lightly, she pressed her fingertips against the cold window pane.

Le droit de choisir.

Freedom.

Eva d’Orsey had wanted her to have, above all, the ability to choose the kind of life she wanted for herself.

Behind her, she could hear footsteps, coming closer, stopping in the doorway.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Roger said

Grace turned. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find it?’

‘I was looking for you.’ He turned on the switch. A cold white light filled the room. ‘That’s better. Also, I met with that French lawyer this afternoon. He drove me here. I wanted to see this place for myself.’

Grace looked down into the courtyard below. Standing in the widening glow of the street lamp, Edouard Tissot was waiting, leaning against his car.

She turned back, suddenly self-conscience. Her heart sped up and her hands felt numb.

Roger was walking from room to room. ‘This place is enormous!’ he shouted from the bathroom. ‘It’s bound to be worth more than he’s letting on.’

‘She was my mother,’ Grace blurted out, unable to contain the information any more.

Roger came back into the drawing room. He looked at her carefully. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘Eva d’Orsey. The woman who left me all this.’ Her voice caught, her heart thundering in her chest. ‘I’m adopted, Roger.’

Roger stood very still for a moment, thinking. Then he came closer, took Grace firmly by the shoulders. ‘I’m glad you told me. That’s an end of it, do you understand?’ He pulled her to him, held her close. ‘No one ever needs to know.’

Without warning, Grace found that she was crying, sobbing. Her shoulders shook and she struggled to catch her breath between sobs. Roger stroked her hair tenderly, kissed the top of her head. ‘We can sell all this in a heartbeat,’ he assured her. ‘We can buy a house in Belgravia now. I promise you, this will all disappear, darling, like a bad dream. I’ll take care of it from now on. And we shall never speak of that woman again.’

After a while, when Grace had cried herself out, Roger handed her a handkerchief from his coat pocket. She blew her nose.

‘Now go and splash a little water on that face,’ he smiled. ‘Your nose is all red.’

Grace dutifully went into the bathroom and splashed her face with cool water. Only, looking at her reflection in the mirror, a different face stared back her, one she couldn’t un-see. It was Eva’s face.

When she walked back into the drawing room, Roger was pacing the room, counting out the approximate square footage. She stood in the corner, watching him.

‘Why did you say we would never mention her again?’ Grace asked.

He was calculating in his head and held up his hand, signalling for her to wait. ‘I’d say it’s easily thirty-five feet by twenty,’ he decided, taking a small notebook out of his breast pocket and making a notation.

Grace went back to the window.

Edouard was still there.

‘Why did you say we would never mention Eva d’Orsey?’ she asked again, wondering if Edouard would look up and see her.