The Perfume Collector(52)

‘Where did you get this?’

‘I made it.’

‘You . . .?’ She stared at him in disbelief.

His cheeks coloured a little. ‘I told you I could make perfume,’ he said, turning away from her, adjusting his hat in the mirror.

‘But this is . . . it’s beautiful!’

‘You didn’t believe me, did you?’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Well,’ he tried to appear nonchalant, ‘you can have it if you like.’

‘You can’t give this to me,’ she protested, putting the stopper in the vial and handing it back to him.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Yes, of course. But you mustn’t waste it.’

‘Waste it? What were you going to do? Pour it around the room?’

‘No, of course not. I don’t mean to be ungrateful—’

‘Then don’t be,’ he cut her off, pushing it back into her hand as he headed for the door. ‘Now you’ll know better than to doubt me,’ he added, on his way out.

Madame glanced sideways at Eva as she lit another cigarette. ‘He’s trying to impress you, you know.’

‘Me, ma’am?’

‘Yes, you,’ she laughed. ‘Men aren’t as complicated as they seem. They simply want to be admired by everyone. Also,’ she nodded to the vial in Eva’s hand, ‘that’s good. The first really good perfume he’s ever made. Who would’ve thought he’d find inspiration in the heat of New York City? Oh, damn. Look, he’s forgotten his key again.’ She pressed it into Eva’s hand. ‘Do run after him, will you? I don’t know where I’ll be when he gets back.’

Eva hurried down the hallway and caught up with Valmont just as he was about to get in the elevator.

‘Wait!’ she called. ‘You forgot your key.’

He stopped, the elevator doors closed. They were alone in the corridor.

‘I’ve been meaning to say something to you,’ he began, looking down at his feet.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, the thing is . . .’ he hesitated, frowning, ‘I just wanted to say you were probably right about the lavender.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You remember, the lavender in the cleaning solution you made?’

Had he really been thinking about that all this time? ‘I didn’t put any lavender in.’

‘Yes, but that’s what I meant. To not put it in. There were a number of notes one could’ve concentrated on, all equally interesting,’ he continued, assuming his familiar, lofty tone, ‘and, although I might well have used lavender to great effect, I appreciate that your . . . your . . .’ he searched the air around him for the right word, ‘your resolution of the problem had merit.’

‘Thank you.’ She was unsure of what she was actually thanking him for.

‘It seems you have an appreciation for scents.’

‘I guess.’

‘So, did you try it? I’ve never made a perfume for anyone specific before,’ he suddenly admitted. ‘Have you put any on?’

She nodded shyly. ‘Just a little.’

‘May I?’ He held out his hand.

Eva extended her arm. Valmont took it, pressing the white skin of her wrist to his lips.

The effect was beyond what he could have imagined. His perfume highlighted her youthful freshness and yet blended naturally with her rich, musky undertones. It ‘finished’ her, gave her a polished elegance, joining the fractured sides of her together. It was astonishing how she added so much to his composition; how the very fact of her fuelled his imagination. And he felt an inner quickening. Already his mind was whirring with half a dozen refinements and variations.

Eva watched him. The expression on his face was familiar; it was the same look of transcendence and ecstasy she saw every week on the stone faces of the martyred saints in St Boniface, that teetered precariously between pleasure and pain. It frightened her.

She pulled away. ‘Why did you make this for me?’

Valmont stared at her in astonishment. It was impossible to put into words the way her natural scent had inspired him; driven him, in fact, to devise a fragrance that would match the complexity of her skin.

‘I had to,’ he said.

‘What do you mean, “had to”? You don’t even like me.’ She took a step forward. ‘Do you?’

The elevator doors opened and closed again.

Neither of them moved.

‘You don’t understand,’ his expression was reverent, almost sad. ‘You’re extraordinary.’





Paris, Spring, 1955

Pushing his wire glasses further back on his nose, the man behind the counter frowned, turning the card over to read the other side.