Grace moved closer, fascinated. Each vial had handwritten notations on a small card underneath. She pointed to one. ‘What does this say?’
‘“Diminishes”,’ he read, moving on to the next one. ‘“Wears well”. Look at this one! “Caution! Overstays its welcome”.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve sat next to women in the theatre wearing that one. And there’s more.’ He gestured to other clusters of vials. ‘“Romantic”, “Realist”, “Vain”, “Sophisticate”, “Sensualist”, “Timid”. “Extreme”, “Calm”, “Nervous”, “Talkative”, “Bright”, “Soft” . . . and here are the names of gods and goddesses – “Aphrodite”, “Artemis”, “Narcissus”, “Hera”.’
‘How could anyone come up with all of this?’ she wondered. ‘It’s more like a laboratory or a wizard’s workshop.’
She took down one of the vials from the self. Jasmin de la Mer, the label said. Opening it, she sniffed the cork. Its contents had long since evaporated, leaving a slightly grainy amber residue at the bottom of the bottle. But there was a ghost of the intensely white bloom, undercut by a coolness, an almost metallic airiness, slicing through the depth and lushness that lingered still.
It was disturbing how quickly the scent transported her; she felt a fleeting sense of euphoria and vastness completely unrelated to her surroundings. It was as though someone was playing a trick on her. It was a long way from the staid, single-note fragrances she was used to – Penhaligon’s talcum powder and spray, with a dainty little drawing of a bluebell on the label.
Monsieur Tissot leaned over and smelled it too. ‘Remarkable!’
She put the lid back on. ‘Is this a collection? I don’t recognize any of the names. Not that I’m an expert, but there are no familiar perfume brands here. But . . . but,’ she turned, gazing at the thousands of bottles, ‘that’s impossible, isn’t it? A person would have to be completely obsessed to create such a comprehensive library of scent!’
They continued to pick their way through the derelict surroundings.
There was a slender black lacquer oriental cabinet to one side. With some difficulty, Grace managed to open its doors. Inside was shelf upon shelf filled with easily several hundred much more elaborate perfume bottles. Each had a specific name on it: commissions. Underneath each bottle was a card and notation. Others were clearly works in progress, distinguished only by numbers. Grace reached up to the top shelf. There were stacks of ledgers, leather-bound journals filled, when she opened them, with clients’ details, dates and long lists of ingredients, presumably formulations for scent.
‘Look at this!’ she called excitedly.
Monsieur Tissot came, leaning over her shoulder to read what was written.
Certain pages were devoted each to a single client. For example, in 1932 Mademoiselle Dallois commissioned a perfume. There was a list next to her name. Grace tried to make out the words. ‘“Pink roses”, “clean hair” . . .’ She pointed to the next line. ‘What’s that?’
‘“Papa’s pipe. And cake”!’ he read. ‘My God, this sounds like a child!’
Grace scanned the hundreds of bottles. ‘Do you think it’s here?’
‘What?’
‘Mademoiselle Dallois’s perfume.’
She stood on her tiptoes, reaching further on the shelf to the bottles at the back.
Had someone managed to create a fragrance equivalent to cake and pink roses?
‘Here, let me,’ Monsieur Tissot offered.
Something fell to the floor – a faded, yellowed note card.
Grace bent to pick it up when suddenly there was a sharp crack on the counter behind them.
They both whirled round.
‘Dehors! Sortez!’ It was an elderly woman, tall and very thin, dressed in a rather old-fashioned black wool dress that hung from her gaunt frame, a walking stick poised like a weapon in the air between them. ‘Sortez!’
‘I’m . . . I’m so, so sorry.’ Grace backed away, stumbling into Monsieur Tissot, who steadied her.
A small terrier ran into the room, yapping wildly around its owner’s feet.
‘Je ne crois pas!’ the old woman asserted, waving the walking stick menacingly, taking another step forward.
‘Doucement! Doucement!’ Monsieur Tissot intervened. ‘C’est ma faute! Ne vous en faites pas!’
‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’ the old woman turned on him, fiercely. ‘Allez-vous en! C’est mon accueil! Balayeur de rue!’