The Perfume Collector(72)

‘Good.’

More silence.

Her mind raced, tripping over itself for something, anything, to fill in the void. She could tell him about the will, explain the extraordinary inheritance of Madame d’Orsey . . . but she didn’t. His transgression was the matter at hand. However, she couldn’t help notice, with a sense of growing misgiving, that he hadn’t even asked as to the nature of her business.

‘And you?’ she fumbled. ‘Are you well?’

‘Well,’ he paused, ‘as well as can be expected. I can’t say I was thrilled to return from Scotland to empty house.’ He sounded petulant, put-upon. ‘There wasn’t a single thing to eat, Grace.’

It was amazing how he managed to twist things, to imply that he was being stoic in the face of her abandonment. She could hear him shifting, changing position. ‘How are you bearing up? Can you stomach the food?’

Grace’s skin went cold. Was this it? Was he just going to make pleasant conversation and pretend that nothing had happened? ‘It’s quite good really,’ she answered numbly. ‘I like it.’

‘You either love or hate it. Too much garlic for my taste. But it’s worse in Rome.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s what they say.’

Pause.

‘Well, good. I just wanted to ring and see if you were all right. After all,’ his words assumed a pointed tone, ‘you left so abruptly. Also I wanted to know when you planned to return home. People have been asking after you. I can’t put them off for ever.’

Grace blinked, amazed by his dexterity.

He’d simply sidestepped the entire thing. As far as he was concerned, she was the one leaving him in the lurch. And suddenly it struck her, clearly, that he had no intention of ever acknowledging his affair.

And he expected her to behave in the same way.

Grace sat down hard on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath. ‘What about Vanessa?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Vanessa.’ Grace’s heart was beating so hard, she felt as though she was going to be sick. ‘What about her?’

It took her a moment to realize that the sound she was hearing was laughter. ‘What are you talking about? What has Vanessa Maxwell got to do with anything?’

Vanessa Maxwell. He said her full name, as if he wasn’t familiar enough to call her by her first name alone.

The shock of it was like iced water seeping through her veins.

‘Are you . . . are you having an affair?’ She forced the words out of her mouth.

‘An affair? What are you talking about? With whom?’

Grace couldn’t bring herself to say anything more.

‘Grace? Grace! What’s got into you?’ he demanded.

She reached for her cigarettes; her hand was shaking. ‘You deny it.’

‘Deny what? There’s nothing to deny.’

He had the power to dissolve reality. Suddenly she was falling, with nothing to hold on to.

‘I think you’ve lost your mind,’ he said coldly.

‘I need to go now. It’s late.’

‘You could at least do me the courtesy of letting me know when you plan to return.’

‘I . . . I don’t know. I need time.’

‘Time for what? For more ridiculous accusations?’

‘This call is costing a fortune. I really must go. Goodbye.’

She hung up abruptly, managed with some difficulty to light another cigarette.

The hopelessness of her situation pressed in around her, as thick and dark as the evening shadows that filled the room.

How could she make him give up a mistress who didn’t exist?



The telephone was ringing. Grace struggled to lift her head off the pillow but it felt as though it was made of marble. And the telephone didn’t sound right. It had a short, high ring; sharp and fast.

She opened her eyes. Blazing morning sunlight filled the room, blinding her.

Good God, what was that? A chandelier dangled precariously overhead. For a moment she thought it might fall. Then she remembered.

The telephone was a French telephone.

She was in Paris.

Slowly, Grace propped herself up on her elbows. She was still wearing her blouse and skirt from yesterday, now badly creased. She must’ve cried herself to sleep last night on top of the bedcovers.

Finally the ringing stopped.

Sinking down, she groped on the bedside table for her cigarettes. The packet was empty.

‘Damn it!’

She swung her legs out, the parquet floor cold beneath her feet. She made her way to the telephone and dialled the front desk.

‘Hello? Hello . . . I mean, bonjour, yes . . . this is Mrs Munroe. I need some aspirin, please. Yes, aspirin. And some toast and coffee. As soon as possible, please.’

Shuffling into the bathroom, Grace turned on the bath-water, then caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying, her nose red; half of her hair was standing straight up and the other lay flat, pressed against her head.