The Perfume Collector(27)

She felt a closeness to him she didn’t feel for any of the other guests. A proximity that mimicked intimacy.

There were extra glasses in his room, one smeared in lipstick marks, a cheap waxy shade of bright pink. What kind of man wanted to look at that on a girl’s face?

Eva put the glasses in her cart and took out fresh ones. But as she dusted and hoovered, she spotted nothing more damning – no strange leaflets with slogans calling for the overthrow of Western civilisation, no foreign newspapers or telegrams in other languages; not even the odd book in Russian.

Eva opened the window to let air in and turned round. The room was clean.

Still, she lingered just a bit longer than she needed to. According to Sis, men were both stupid and dangerous, in much the same way that poison ivy is one of God’s worst ideas and all too easy to catch. But there was clearly a world of difference between Pots and Pans’s high-heeled shoes and the refined corruptions of Mr Lambert.

Fallen women were common; all you had to do was have sex before you were married to qualify. But for a man to fall required much more – a deliberate turning away from God, a conscious decision. Such decisions were rare. Religious sloppiness was easy. Rejection required moral and intellectual convictions.

For this reason, along with the way he tipped his hat and the unnatural blueness of his eyes, Eva decided that Mr Lambert was worthy of respect.





Paris, Spring, 1955

There was a chill in the air as they got out of Monsieur Tissot’s tiny red Citroën and walked across the park in the centre of the Place des Vosges, the oldest residential square in Paris. It was a vast, elegant enterprise, a triumph of early civic planning with an aesthetic unity rarely seen in a public structure. Imposing brick buildings bordered the central park on all sides, built over galleries which housed shops and restaurants.

Grace surveyed the symmetrically arranged park with its formal fountains, rows of thick, boxy yew trees and neat gravel paths. ‘This is very posh.’

‘Very posh indeed. It was first built in the early 1600s.’

‘I had no idea it would be so grand. It must be expensive.’

‘I believe the apartment was a gift.’

‘From whom?’

‘I understand that it’s been in the Hiver family for years.’

‘Is that usual?’ It struck Grace as particularly brazen to have the two worlds so closely intertwined. ‘I mean, to give a mistress a family property?’

‘The rich make their own rules.’

‘It isn’t at all what I was expecting.’ She bit her lower lip uncertainly.

Monsieur Tissot looked across at her. ‘Were you hoping for a garret?’

‘I don’t know . . . I suppose so.’

‘We don’t have to go in, if you’d rather not.’

‘I know.’ Pushing her hands deeper into her coat pockets, Grace slipped her fingers round her father’s old lighter for comfort. ‘But I want to.’

Monsieur Tissot led her through the galleries and into a narrow passageway with a wrought-iron gate. Pushing it open, they walked into a courtyard beyond, a kind of rectangular-shaped, cobblestone space with a small fountain in the middle. Ivy wound, reaching its long tendrils, thick and deep green, up the side of the building, which was classical in proportions, the red brick augmented by ivory stone. Large French windows, leading to balconies, looked out on to the courtyard from the first and second floors. Above, shutters covered the windows on the higher floors. The flagstone steps, with their curving wrought-iron handrail, were worn away in the centre from centuries of use. And the front door was stripped oak, two massive arched panels with gleaming brass knobs.

‘I’ll talk to the concierge. She has a set of keys.’ Monsieur Tissot walked round to a side passage and knocked on the concierge’s door. Grace waited, standing a little apart, out of sight. After a few minutes, he returned.

‘We’re in luck. The apartment is empty. It was cleared a few days ago. I explained that you were Madame d’Orsey’s heir and she was very obliging.’

He unlocked the outer door and Grace followed him in through the front entrance. A high spiral staircase wound above them.

A gust of wind sent a few dry leaves spinning round their feet. Grace pulled her coat around her. She had the uncomfortable feeling of trespassing. But it was too late now; her feet were already in motion, following Monsieur Tissot up to the first floor. He unlocked the door, swung it open.

‘After you.’

‘Thank you.’ Grace pulled her shoulders back, trying to appear more confident than she felt. ‘But I think I’d like to go in alone, if that’s all right with you.’