The Perfume Collector(71)

‘Grace!’ Her uncle’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘What are you doing?’

He was standing at the end of the path, rigid with indignation.

Even after all these years, her whole body still withered with mortification at the thought of it.

She never saw Theo Lund again. Was unsure if he ever graduated or not.

It was odd now, looking back . . . she’d been only a girl then. But her lasting impression was that he’d been the vulnerable one, the one whose innocence had been lost and led astray.

And then later, there was Roger.

That night after her birthday party at Scott’s, she was meant to be staying with Mallory but instead she and Roger had taken a room in a small hotel in Mayfair. She’d wanted to make love, couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

Once the door was locked, she went to him immediately.

‘You’re like a wild animal,’ he teased, extracting himself to make them both drinks. ‘Take it easy!’

‘But I don’t want to take it easy.’

Later, in bed, he manoeuvred her from one position to another; he had more experience and enjoyed instructing her. However, her willingness, her talent as a student, threw him.

‘Have you done this before?’ he accused.

‘No, but I want to please you.’

‘Relax,’ he said firmly, pushing her arms down by her side. ‘Let me.’

But by relax, he meant, ‘Be still.’

Grace had unladylike appetites; aggressive lusts. And a grasping emptiness in her soul. She should be ashamed of herself. It was painful to her, in the same way that certain high-pitched noises are unbearable to the ears, to even acknowledge this part of her nature.

Climbing the steps to the hotel, Grace paused, taking a long look at Paris, in all its shimmering, enigmatic elegance, wearing the night as a beautiful woman wears diamonds.

Madame Zed was right; one is not always sure who seduces whom.



Back in the rich, warm glow of the hotel lobby, piano music played, soft and melodious; the scent of white hyacinths, massed together in great brass urns near the front desk, perfumed the air with a sharp green sweetness. And the vast marble foyer echoed with conversation, laughter and the clinking of glasses.

It was cocktail hour.

‘Madame Munroe!’ The concierge bustled out from behind his desk. ‘You have a message, madame. A gentleman, Monsieur Tissot, has telephoned for you today.’ He handed her a slip of paper. ‘Here is his number. And also your husband has rung.’

‘My husband?’

‘Yes, madame. He has asked if you might be so good as to return his call.’ He handed her a second slip. ‘He is staying at his London club. This is the number.’

Her heart lifted. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’



Upstairs in her room, Grace lit a cigarette and stood smoking by the window, looking out over the city skyline.

Every day she’d expected something; a letter or flowers, perhaps?

As the days dragged out, her hope withered.

But sure enough, in his own time, here it was.

Closing her eyes, Grace took another drag, gathering her nerve.

Mallory must’ve given him the name of the hotel.

She hated the thought of a strained, long-distance conversation. But perhaps it was for the best. He could apologize and they could move on with their lives, though the idea of him explaining his behavior; of being vulnerable in any way, made her cringe inwardly. They simply needed to get past this episode. And she told herself she could bear anything as long as he didn’t go into details; she didn’t want to imagine the affair any more vividly than she already had.

As long as Roger understood that it was over, for ever, they could carry on.

Resolved, Grace stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the receiver.

‘Yes, I’d like to place a trunk call please, to the East India Club in St James’s.’ She waited, gnawing on her fingernails while the operator connected her, eventually being transferred via the club switchboard to his room.

‘Hello? Hello?’ Roger’s voice crackled on the other end of the line. He sounded as if he were speaking through a tin can, and very far away.

Automatically, Grace’s spine stiffened. ‘Hello? Hello, Roger . . . it’s me.’

‘Who? I’m sorry? Who is this?’

‘It’s Grace,’ she said, louder. Who was he expecting?

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ There was silence. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m . . . I’m in Paris,’ she said stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘Yes, so I gather. I’ve spoken to Mallory.’

‘Really.’

‘And how was the trip?’

‘The trip? Fine. It’s a nice hotel.’