The Perfume Collector(65)

Eva reached for the lipstick, her hand trembling.

‘Here.’ Miss Waverley helped her to apply a slow smear of blood red. She stood behind her in the mirror. ‘You want to be with me, don’t you?’

Eva nodded.

‘Good. Just do what I do.’ Then, louder, she said, ‘Now, we look like sisters, don’t we?’ She ran her hands over Eva’s shoulders, slowly down her arms. ‘I like that idea, don’t you?’

Eva looked past Miss Waverley’s reflection, at the man smoking by the balcony door, staring. The embers of his cigarette glowed hot as he inhaled hard. Her legs felt rubbery, her head dizzy. ‘I think I’d better go. I’m not well.’

‘Really?’ Miss Waverley’s grip tightened on her arms. ‘I think someone deserves a thank-you, don’t you?’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Such a good girl.’ Miss Waverley’s dark eyes showed in the flickering light.

Suddenly Eva couldn’t speak. It was as if her mouth could move but she’d forgotten how to form words. Her limbs felt numb and heavy.

The man stepped out of the shadows. There was the distinctive thin moustache, the penetrating black eyes.

‘Only,’ Miss Waverley tilted her head, smiling softly at her in the mirror, ‘I’m not the person who paid for them.’



‘Get up.’ Someone was shaking her, gently at first and then more firmly. ‘Come on. It’s time to get up!’

Eva tried to open her eyes, but her lids were so heavy. Sleep pulled at her, tugging her under.

More shaking; harder this time. ‘Do you want to lose your job? Get up!’

Eva recognized that voice; the same voice that had scolded and berated her non-stop for two weeks. It was Rita.

She forced her eyes open. Rita was standing over her, hands on hips. It was daylight and Eva was lying in a bed; the wrong bed, not her narrow little cot but a wide soft mattress with piles of pillows. Her whole body hurt and her head throbbed. She tried to move, to sit up. The room started spinning. ‘I don’t feel well,’ she gagged.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Rita grabbed the waste-paper basket and then hauled Eva up with one powerful arm. ‘Be sick in here. And mind you don’t splatter!’

Eva threw up in the basket and Rita wiped her face with a wet washcloth. Then Eva sank down again, into the pillows. She heard Rita running the bath.

Her breathing slowed and she closed her eyes, slipping back down underneath the black waves of sleep.

‘Oh no, you don’t.’ Rita shook her arm again. ‘You’ve got to get up. Here,’ she handed her three aspirin and a shot of whisky from her rubbing alcohol bottle.

Eva tried to push them away. ‘Please, no!’

‘Don’t answer back. You take them or you won’t be able to walk across the floor let alone up the steps.’

Eva did as she was told. ‘What time is it?’ She had no idea how long she’d slept; if it had been a few hours or a whole day.

‘Just after nine in the bloody morning.’ Rita hoisted Eva up. The beautiful silk lingerie was twisted, torn and stained. The silk stockings ruined. ‘Good God! Look at the state of you!’ Rita peeled off the shredded stockings. ‘Don’t tell me this is what you’ve been wasting your wages on.’

‘Where is she? When did she say she would be back?’

‘Who?’ Rita shot her a look. ‘You mean that whore? Oh, you’ll never see her again, missy. I told you she was no good but you didn’t want to listen, did you?’

‘But she’s coming back for me. She said she would take me with her.’

Rita shook her head. ‘She’s checked out. First thing this morning with that Hun. That’s the only reason I’m cleaning this early. And what happens? I open the door and find you spread out on the bed like a corpse.’

‘No.’ Tears ran down Eva’s cheeks and chin. ‘I’m . . . I’m ruined!’

‘Well, if you want to swim with the sharks you’re going to get bit,’ Rita sighed. ‘And there’s no need to be dramatic. You’re not the first girl in the world to make a mistake. Now, get up.’

Rita undressed Eva and put her into the bath. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her uniform and bathed her, as gently as a baby.



‘She’s sick, ma’am.’

Mrs Ronald narrowed her eyes and searched Sis’s face. ‘Really. What kind of sick?’

‘She’s throwing up, ma’am. Some sort of fever, I think.’

‘I hope this isn’t the result of any alcoholic drink, Cecily?’

‘No, ma’am. I think, although I couldn’t say for certain, that she’s got some sort of influenza.’