The Perfume Collector(82)

Grace turned her father’s lighter round and round inside her pocket. She wasn’t immune to the disdainful note in Madame Hiver’s voice or the subtle insistence of her request. Madame Hiver did her best to downplay her urgency but it was there just the same.

‘I appreciate your candour,’ Grace said. ‘Thank you for taking the time to explain. I’ve not yet decided exactly what I will do, however I can assure you that I will certainly consider your offer very seriously.’

Madame Hiver’s face hardened. She’d obviously hoped for more. But all she said was, ‘You’re too kind. It means a great deal to me to be able to ensure my son inherits the traditional family estate, intact.’ Then, pulling the black net veil over her face, she adjusted it beneath her chin. ‘Au revoir, madame.’

‘May I escort you to your car?’ Monsieur Tissot offered, opening the door.

‘Of course.’

As she reached the doorway, Madame Hiver turned once more. ‘All terms are negotiable. If the offer isn’t quite what you’d hoped to achieve . . .’

‘I can assure you, you are more than generous.’

‘How right you are to consider all your options,’ Madame Hiver conceded with a terse flash of teeth. ‘Although I hope you realize, an offer like this cannot be available indefinitely.’ And with a brisk nod of the head, she left.

Grace felt her shoulders relax as soon as Madame Hiver was gone. Suddenly her mouth was dry and she realized she’d been holding her hands in fists by her side. Walking into the kitchen, she leaned over the sink to drink handfuls of cool water from the tap. Groping for a tea towel, she turned.

Then she stopped.

Invisible fingers, like cold wind, brushed against the back of her neck, sending a shiver up her spine.

Each of the cupboards was just slightly ajar, the drawers not quite closed, the closet door off the latch, as if someone had been looking through them; someone in a hurry.

Grace went through to the drawing room, looking out of the window onto the courtyard below.

The chauffeur was climbing back in the front seat, closing the car door, turning on the engine. Then the big black Daimler turned out of the courtyard and sped away.



It was late in the afternoon when Grace knocked again on the narrow red door in the alleyway behind Rue Christine.

There was the sound of the dog barking and then the slow descent. The door opened a crack, a black eye appeared.

‘Good afternoon, Madame Zed.’

‘Good afternoon.’ Madame Zed opened the door wider. ‘I almost didn’t recognize you – you have had your hair done!’

Grace smiled, self-conscious. ‘Yes. I have.’

‘Well!’ Madame took her in, nodding approvingly. ‘What an interesting counter-attack!’

‘A counter-attack? Against what?’

‘Against fate, my dear.’ She stepped back and Grace came in, following her upstairs, into the drawing room.

‘Are we at war with fate?’

‘It’s a tango, don’t you find? Sometimes dramatic, sometimes quiet, but always with a few good hard slaps thrown in.’ Madame Zed gestured for her to sit. ‘That’s what fashion is, really. A way of renegotiating the terms that life deals you. When a woman changes her hair what she’s really saying to fate is, no. I refuse to be defined by those terms.’ She settled into her favourite chair. ‘You’ve obviously decided your past no longer serves you.’

‘Perhaps,’ Grace admitted.

‘It’s a good thing. A woman who no longer cares about how she looks has given up on more than fashion – she’s given up on life.’

There was the high-pitched whistle of a kettle coming to the boil.

‘I’m just making tea.’ Madame Zed stood up. ‘Would you like some?’

‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ Grace said, taking off her coat.

After a few minutes, Madame came back again with a tray, setting it on the low table between them. Pouring out a cup, she handed it to Grace, then another one for herself. ‘Do you take lemon or milk?’ she asked, lifting a slice of lemon into her cup.

‘Milk, please.’

‘Paris becomes you.’ Madame passed her the creamer.

‘Thank you. I’m sorry to trouble you.’ Grace poured in some milk. ‘I know I’m disturbing you. But I still have so many questions. I wondered, you mentioned the other day about some men, who’d broken into the shop downstairs . . . in a black car?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did they take anything?’

‘It’s hard to tell. I think I disturbed them before they found what they were looking for.’

‘Found what they were looking for?’ Grace sat forward. ‘What makes you say that?’