The Perfume Collector(32)

‘Oh, sir! You shouldn’t say such things about your own mother.’

He flicked a bit of ash in the ashtray. ‘If you only knew her. She’s the one who disinherited me. But that’s another story entirely.’ He pointed his cigarette at her. ‘I’m bad luck. I’ve been given every opportunity and squandered it. I lack self-control, moral-fibre, character – “The expense of spirit in a waste of shame!’’’ He looked over at her, staring at him, wide-eyed. ‘Shakespeare, my child. If you’re going to rant, do it in iambic pentameter. What’s wrong?’

‘Please, sir . . .’ It wasn’t her place, but she carried on regardless, ‘please don’t say those things about yourself.’

Mr Lambert, frowned, his eyes softening. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Eva, sir.’

He bowed his head a little. ‘Very nice to make your acquaintance, Eva.’ Opening a drawer, he took out a new pack of cards and handed it to her. ‘Here. I think you’d better have these.’

She wasn’t meant to take gifts. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Eva left, walking in a daze, back out into the hallway. Her heart was thumping, her palms sweating. She was having trouble catching her breath, as though she’d been running.

Sis came round the corner carrying a breakfast tray. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

Eva jammed the cards into her apron pocket. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your face is all red.’

Eva pressed her hands to her cheeks. They felt hot. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Here.’ Sis took the glass of iced water from the tray. ‘Have some. You look sick.’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘You better not throw up on the carpet.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Sis shrugged, continuing down the hall. ‘But you look like a beet.’



Eva sat alone on the fire escape that wound round the back of the building, holding the pack of cards. They were beautiful, with bees on them.

She never showed anyone what she could do with numbers. It was secret; something private that she did, to calm herself, to take her mind away from anything that made her anxious, or to ease her boredom. And the puzzles were her own guilty pleasure; the only form of entertainment she’d had in that sombre, silent house. In fact, she couldn’t recall a time when numbers hadn’t appeared like vivid colourful shapes, carving through the chaos in her mind, bringing order.

It felt strange to think that now Mr Lambert knew, of all people. But he hadn’t ridiculed her or teased her. Instead he’d given her a gift.

It was wrong to keep them. Against the rules. What would Sis say if she knew?

That she was being corrupted; that it was the beginning of a rapid descent into depravity.

Eva thought of the family she’d worked for in Brooklyn. The way the Professor’s wife used to follow her around, checking her work. How ferocious she was about every little detail and the way she used to stare at Eva, when she didn’t think anyone was looking, as if she hated her. Frau Brohemer had lost her baby son shortly after they arrived in America, from pneumonia, presumably contracted on the journey. It had made her bitter and mean.

The Hotel was much better than that. She should be grateful for what she had and leave well enough alone.

But Mr Lambert was only being kind to her. What was wrong with kindness? She just wanted to see the cards, to look at them for a few minutes.

Eva broke the seal on the box and fanned them out.

Already the numbers and suits were arranging themselves in intricate patterns in her head and she felt a warm, familiar surge of contentment in her chest.

After a few minutes, she knew she was never going to give them back.



Eva didn’t see Mr Lambert for the next few days but she carried the pack of cards with her at all times, in the pocket of her uniform apron. She was afraid to leave them in the room she shared with Sis but she also wanted them close. He had given them to her.

When she finally did see him again, he was escorting a laughing blonde to his room, whispering in her ear.

Eva froze at the other end of the corridor, standing rigid in the hallway with her bucket and mop.

They swayed and reeled, clutching one another and giggling; sharing a private joke.

Mr Lambert unlocked his door, arm round the blonde’s waist, and pushed it open.

She in turn threw her arms round his neck, tilting her face towards his as they fell inside.

The door shut.

The Laughing Blonde was wearing the same un fortunate shade of lipstick that Eva had found on the glasses.

Wrapping her fingers round the cards in her pocket, Eva stared at the closed door.