The Perfume Collector(69)

Grace couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Are you defending him?’

Madame Zed shrugged. ‘I’m not defending anyone. Or condemning anyone.’ She looked at Grace thoughtfully. ‘Are you a prude, Mrs Munroe?’

‘A prude? Well, no. I don’t think so,’ Grace fumbled, offended.

‘I only ask because this is not a fairy tale, my dear.’ Taking out a long black cigarette holder, Madame Zed fitted a cigarette into it and lit it. She looked across at Grace, staring at her from beneath her heavily lidded dark eyes. ‘You came to me. You wanted to know more. But I can’t change the story to put you at ease.’

‘No. I don’t want you to do that,’ Grace relented. ‘I just suppose it’s a bit shocking that she would go off with a . . . a grown man like Lambert.’

Madame exhaled. ‘Lambert took her to Europe, introduced her into society, gave her an education of sorts. Some of us, no matter how hard we try, aren’t meant to lead ordinary lives. Fate finds us. Gives us a shove.’ She drew the holder to her lips and inhaled slowly. ‘Fate has given you a little push, hasn’t it?’

‘Me?’

Madame nodded. ‘Here you are, in a foreign city, with a strange legacy.’ She exhaled through her nose. ‘Perhaps, Madam Munroe, you weren’t meant for a mundane life either. Perhaps you’re considerably more exciting than you realize.’

‘Me? Oh no, I’m as dull as ditchwater.’

‘Really?’ Madame tilted her head to one side. ‘Tell me, where did you grow up again?’

‘In Oxfordshire. A small village called West Challow.’

‘And you lost your family in the war?’

‘My mother died in the Blitz. But my father died before the war, of a heart attack.’

‘Yes, I remember now,’ she nodded to herself. ‘You told me that. And what was she like, your mother?’

‘My mother?’ Grace frowned, laughing a little. She hadn’t expected to be the topic of conversation between them. ‘Well, let’s see . . .’ She tried to concentrate. ‘She was small, very energetic and had that kind of deep auburn hair I’ve always wanted myself but wasn’t lucky enough to inherit.’ She smiled to herself. ‘She seemed very beautiful and charming to me. She was also the author of several rather badly written romantic novels published under the pen name Irene Worthing.’

‘Really?’ Madame seemed fascinated. ‘How extraordinary. Have you read them?’

‘Of course. A thousand times.’

‘What about your father?’

‘It’s difficult for me to remember him at all, to be honest. He was a botanist. He came back a hero from the Great War . . . he was quite deaf from all the shelling and had suffered terribly from mustard gas poisoning. He was unable to be comfortable for any period of time.’

‘Do you miss them?’

Grace looked across at her. It was an odd thing to ask.

‘It’s been so long,’ she said after while. ‘At least, I think I miss the idea of them. I have to admit that I’ve forgotten almost everything about them or it’s been distorted. For example, my mother used to smell a certain way – of rose-water perhaps, or of soap, I can’t remember which. I don’t know if she smelled like that all the time or just once.’ She paused. ‘We lived on my mother’s family estate. But we didn’t live in the Great Hall – we had a smaller, separate house on the grounds where my father could work on his research as a botanist. He was always brooding, distracted. He didn’t speak much because of his hearing. I think he was actually extremely shy. He drew a lot, took notes. He preferred to make things.’

Madame inhaled slowly. ‘Like what?’

‘He made a three-storey house for the hens that was heated by a row of light bulbs under a wire mesh floor in the winter and that was always perfectly snug.’

‘How funny!’

‘Yes,’ Grace smiled. ‘And he built my mother a series of rotating pantry shelves and a wringer for the laundry that was operated by using a pedal on the floor rather than a handle so her arms wouldn’t grow tired.’

‘Did she like that?’

‘Well, she wasn’t very domestic – not much of a cook. She was more involved with her writing. Besides, we always had help for the housekeeping duties. They must have liked his inventions. But my father liked solving problems, I think, and my mother let him. I don’t think . . . I’m sorry.’ Suddenly Grace found it hard to concentrate on what she was trying to say. ‘I think something’s burning, isn’t it?’