The Perfume Collector(19)

There was a small balcony, barely a few feet wide. Grace opened the doors and stepped outside, gazing over the wide tree-lined street below.

The city seemed extravagantly, shamelessly beautiful. In London, entire blocks had been levelled in the war; whole neighborhoods gone. The landscape was punctuated by gaping concrete wounds and piles of charred rubble; grotesque monuments to once great structures. But here, the pavements were smooth and even, the skyline intact. Whatever damage the occupation had done, Paris had put it behind her.

Even the air smelled more refined; not full of damp, oily coal but clear, fragrant with continental sunlight and warmth.

The coffee at breakfast had been shockingly strong, the croissant flaky and buttery – more like a biscuit or a cake. How decadent that people ate them every day! It was only the potential shame at being caught that prevented Grace from jamming an extra one into her handbag.

Later that afternoon, walking across the Jardin des Tuileries to her appointment, a kind of giddiness came over her, accompanied by a sudden realization: no one knew her here. Her anonymity both thrilled and disorientated her.

The concierge had given her a street map, but she found herself unable to concentrate on the neat little labelled lines when the city itself surrounded her. She’d always heard that Paris was elegant but had struggled to imagine how. She’d assumed it would be rigid; the demanding intolerance of perfection. But, being here, she was struck by the easy naturalness of everything. From the tall, slender trees, their leaves rustling high above her, to the chalky gravel that crunched beneath her feet or the classically proportioned buildings that rose, uniformly constructed from the same blonde stone, it was all orchestrated to hold the light. The entire city was enveloped in a halo of glowing softness.

The French were fluent in the language of beauty, just as she’d been told. But it was a more subtly encompassing comprehension than she’d anticipated. In fact, it made sense. Who wouldn’t construct the corners of buildings to curve gently rather than meet in a point if they had the means and inclination? And who wouldn’t match all the roof tiles in the city radius to create a harmonious landscape of sloping shades of bluey-grey, augmented with squat terracotta chimney pots? Anything else seemed careless.

Likewise, while the men and women were no more naturally attractive than their English counterparts, they dressed with an assurance and attention to detail that would have been considered the height of arrogance in England. Here, maintaining a certain chic was apparently nothing less than a civic duty.

Even now, in the lawyers’ chambers, there was a unity and precision in the colours, shapes and sizes of the furniture, as if an editor had walked through earlier, removing any distractions.

The door opened and two men walked in.

The first one was an elderly gentleman with stiff, formal bearing and a neat white moustache. A younger man stood respectfully behind him.

‘Madame Munroe?’ The elderly gentleman greeted her unsmilingly, with a curt nod of his head. ‘I am Henri Levin,’ he announced in heavily accented English. ‘This is my firm. And this is Edouard Tissot, my associate. He will look after you. I trust his service will be satisfactory.’

With that he gave a brisk little bow, turned on his heel and left.

Grace didn’t know quite what to make of this abrupt introduction.

‘Please forgive him.’ Monsieur Tissot stepped forward. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties; tall and slender, a feature highlighted by his traditional pinstriped suit. His dark hair matched his black eyes; his expression was both reserved and intelligent. ‘He’s not used to speaking English,’ he explained, his voice lowering discreetly. ‘He’s terrified you will ask him something he won’t understand.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, nodding.

He held out his hand. ‘Allow me to welcome you to Paris, madame.’

‘Thank you.’ Grace extended her own, expecting him to shake it.

However, instead he held it lightly, his lips hovering just above the white flesh of her wrist, before releasing it.

It was both a quietly formal and yet intimate gesture; he hadn’t actually touched his lips to her skin. But still her skin tingled where they might have been.

‘And let me begin,’ Monsieur Tissot continued, ‘by saying that I am very sorry for your loss. Please allow me to assist you in any way possible during your stay.’

‘Thank you very much,’ Grace murmured, averting her eyes. She’d decided in advance it was best to say little or nothing until she knew more. Instead, she moved the subject on to safer ground. ‘Your English is very accomplished, Monsieur Tissot.’