The Perfume Collector(76)

Pausing, Grace looked helplessly at her reflection. It was always like this: she meant to change her wardrobe, take herself in hand, but as soon as she arrived in a shop, she lost her nerve. She was back on the bus, on her way home, before she’d so much as tried anything on.

She was just about to head back to check on Mallory when an older shop assistant spotted her wavering amidst a sea of taffeta and net. ‘Comment puis-je vous aider?’ she enquired with a polite smile.

‘J’ai besoin d’une robe,’ Grace blurted out, instantly regretting that she’d spoken at all.

‘Alors!’ The woman spread her arms wide, as if to say, ‘Here we are.’

‘Oui, ou je sais . . . non,’ Grace struggled, her limited French failing her, ‘une robe simple . . .’

‘Simple?’

‘Oui, ah, simple, noir . . .’

The assistant tapped her finger on her lips, looking Grace up and down. Then suddenly she smiled. ‘Voilà! Avec votre sèche, je sais que la chose!’

Grace didn’t understand. She watched as the woman bustled into the back room.

After a few minutes she came out with a very sculptured, simply cut black dress, which she held up proudly. ‘Elle est nouvelle. C’est Balenciaga!’

‘Balenciaga?’ Grace had never heard of this designer.

‘C’est très nouveau, très chic!’ the woman assured her.

And indeed, the dress was unlike anything Grace had ever seen before: architectural in shape, stark, restrained. It was the polar opposite of the elaborate gowns all around her.

‘May I try it on?’

‘Oui!’ the assistant agreed with a nod.

Holding the dress solemnly before her, she led Grace across the department to a fitting room on the other side. ‘Attention!’ she waved to the other assistants as they passed. ‘La Balenciaga!’

Soon three or four of them were gathered in their wake.

The fitting room was easily the size of her bedroom in London and far more glamorous, with a plush chaise longue and pinkish walls. The saleswoman hung the dress on a rail and closed the fitting-room curtain with a flourish.

As soon as Grace pulled the dress over her hips, she knew this was no ordinary design. And when she stepped out of the fitting room, the staff were waiting, greeting her with sighs of appreciation and soft flutters of applause. ‘C’est parfait!’ her assistant declared. ‘Ce n’est pas une robe – c’est le destin!’

‘Pardon?’ Grace flushed, shy yet delighted by all the attention.

‘This is not a dress,’ a younger assistant offered, ‘it is destiny!’

‘My God, Grace!’ Mallory emerged from a neigh-bouring fitting room, dressed in a floaty canary yellow ball gown, and looked Grace up and down. ‘Where did you get that?’ She turned to the saleswoman. ‘Does it come in other colours?’

‘Non. Elle est unique.’

‘Shame.’ Mallory put her hands on her hips. ‘Then again, so is my friend.’

The dress did cost the most extraordinary amount of money. More money than Grace had ever spent on anything in her life. But what woman turns her back on destiny?

Exhilarated and exhausted, the girls made their way downstairs, past the accessories department, through to handbags and finally into the make-up department on their way out in search of a taxi.

Grace paused before a counter with rows of perfume bottles on display. One bottle in particular caught her eye. It was perfectly round, filled with deep amber liquid, ornamented with a gold stopper. It was a bottle she was familiar with but had never really looked at.

Grace stopped, picked it up.

‘Oh, I love that one,’ said Mallory. ‘My Sin. My mother used to wear it.’ She held out her arm. ‘Here. Give me a squirt – for old times’ sake.’

Grace sprayed a little on Mallory’s wrist. ‘It’s strong.’

‘I know. Mummy only ever wore it on special occasions.’ Lifting her wrist, she sniffed. ‘Used to give me a headache, now that I think of it.’

‘It’s one of Madame Zed’s perfumes.’

Mallory looked at her, impressed. ‘Really?’

There was a picture, rendered in gold leaf on the glass – an abstract image of a mother, arms outstretched, bending to embrace her child. ‘Jeanne Lanvin’ was printed underneath. The two figures formed a single, seamless golden arch of affection.

A young sales girl came up. ‘Puis-je vous aider madame?’

‘Ah, oui, je pense . . .’

‘Are you English?’ the girl smiled.

‘Yes.’ Grace pointed to the picture on the label. ‘This is an unusual trademark. Do you know what it means? Where it comes from?’