The Perfume Collector(47)

Suddenly he grabbed her wrist. ‘Hush!’ And, still in a fog of sleep, he pulled her close.

Eva pitched forward, into his arms.

Valmont inhaled.

At first her natural scent seemed straightforward, simple; the slightly acrid, almost creamy aroma of a child’s damp skin. But underneath that, a rich, musky element seeped through, unfolding slowly; widening and expanding to a profound, primitive animalistic essence. The sheer range and complexity of her odour was astonishing. The effect, intensely arousing. It was the most compelling, deeply sensual thing Valmont had ever encountered.

Eva pushed him away, horrified. ‘What are you doing?’

‘You smell . . .’ he murmured.

‘Yes, thank you!’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘I hardly need you to tell me that!’ she hissed. ‘Madame wants to see you . . .’

‘No, you don’t understand.’ He reached for her again; short sharp intakes now, savouring the notes, rolling them round on his olfactory palette. ‘It’s unique. Completely unique.’

‘Get off!’ Eva swatted him.

Suddenly something shifted in the bed; a body. The person next to him stretched out and rolled over onto their stomach.

It was another man.

Eva recoiled. Stumbling backward, she blundered towards the interconnecting door.

‘Well?’ Madame opened her eyes. ‘You appear to be alone,’ she observed flatly.

Reeling, Eva focused at the floor. ‘He is asleep, madam.’

‘Well then, wake him!’ Madame gasped in exasperation, running her hand wearily across her eyes. ‘I need him!’

This was dreadful, truly dreadful.

Eva tried to stall her. ‘He’s not dressed, madam. I can help you. Would you like me to fetch you something from the drug store?’

With another heavy sigh, Madame forced herself up from her chair and marched into Valmont’s room. Eva hovered in the doorway, watching in shameful fascination.

Madame stopped; she stood in the darkness a moment. Then she turned back on her heel.

And with more moans and sighs, she dug through one of her handbags until she pulled out some loose coins. She shoved them into Eva’s hand. ‘I need aspirin. And some Woolcott’s, please. I have the most blinding headache known to mankind.’

Eva stared at her. Had Madame seen what she’d seen? Did she have any comprehension of what a mortal sin it was?

It was as if her thoughts could be heard aloud.

Madame turned to her. ‘You know,’ she began, ‘there are many stages in a man’s life. Young men especially are very easily excitable. They need more variety, more experiences than girls. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, madam,’ she lied.

‘These little dalliances are merely preludes to the real interludes. They fade over time. Of course,’ she added, returning back to her chair, ‘I do worry about Andre. Gossip is the plague of the idle and insecure. I’m relying upon your discretion.’

‘Yes, madam. Of course.’

‘Then we shall speak no more about. And do close that door.’ She pressed her eyes closed again. ‘I suppose we never should have opened it in the first place.’



Andre Valmont lay on his back, fully awake now, staring into the darkness. Beside him the boy he’d met in the club in Harlem snored softly.

He closed his eyes.

He could see her smell; it glowed against the backs of his eyelids, pure shimmering gold to deep undulating amber. And he could taste each note; savour the melting progression on his tongue, the shocking, perfect combination of contrasts, underpinned by a creamy, intensely carnal core of raw sexuality. He wanted to bury himself deep in her flesh; to consume each molecule of her, one breath at a time.

And that wasn’t the way he normally felt about girls.

He pulled the sheet back. He was stiff; erect to an almost painful degree. Spitting into the palm of his hand, he closed his eyes again.

He imagined peeling off her uniform, each layer of clothing saturated more densely with her warm sweat, until there was nothing between them but skin; emanating, covering them both with the shimmering dark dew of her incredible odour . . . he trembled, ecstasy surging, shuddering through him.

Here at last was a story he understood. A song of youth; of burgeoning, ripe sexuality; of frustration and longing . . . of a nymph and a femme fatal, both trapped in the body of an graceless young girl . . . a mythic parable that could only really be captured in perfume.

And above all, her natural odour radiated. As though it were issuing from the top of a high peak. In its velvet glow, the dim landscape of his creative gifts finally came into focus.

Valmont got up, washed himself; lit a cigarette. Then he woke up the boy from Harlem and sent him home.