The Perfume Collector(84)

Standing back, Valmont registered their particular mixture of indolence and petulance with dread. These were the women he’d come to conquer. The moneyed, idle, voracious wives and mistresses of the Paris elite. Monte Carlo was the place to gamble, gossip and sunbathe, exchange an old lover for a newer one, and acquire next season’s fashion statement a full three months before the rest of Paris. And now that he had arrived, it would also become the place to purchase yourself the rarest of fashionable distinctions, a personal perfume; one that set you apart from anyone else in the room.

At least, that was the plan.

Valmont took a deep breath and pushed his hands into his pockets, hoping his nerves didn’t show.

He loathed these sort of places, almost as much as he loathed the people who frequented them. Here was a club it was almost impossible to get into, even with wealth and breeding. But for someone like him, it was equivalent to jumping off a cliff in the blind hope that he might be able to sprout wings and fly.

It was only out of desperation that he’d come at all. But his new shop in Saint-Germain, as small as it was, was already floundering; he was unable to make any inroads into the clientele he needed to secure a lasting reputation. And he was in debt. If some dramatic steps weren’t taken quickly, he’d have failed before he’d even begun.

Coming to Monte Carlo was Madame Zed’s idea. Despite her financial backing and considerable connections in Paris, Valmont had failed to make the right impression. Worse, it was his own fault and he knew it.

‘Why must you be so rude?’ Madame Zed had fretted, to no avail. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot insult someone who is giving you money!’

She was right, of course.

But Valmont was quite unwilling to hide his annoyance for anyone who couldn’t immediately appreciate his talent. And if he were honest, his arrogance was nothing more than a defence against the inevitable rejection he felt certain was coming his way. It was easier, if considerably less profitable, to reject clients as being too stupid to comprehend his vision. But in truth, he was terrified. He couldn’t seem to find his place in this rarefied world of fashion, style and, most of all, money.

And now he was here, alone. In perhaps the most famous, shallowest pool in all the world.

The bellhop carried his bag over to the front desk and Valmont followed, overwhelmed and irritated by the noise of the cavernous marble lobby. He’d been up well into the early hours of the morning, debating whether to come or not. Although it was not a long journey, he was tired now and eager to get to his room.

He could feel the stares of the other hotel guests burning into his back as he made his way across the lobby. The cut of his suit was dated; the fabric had gone shiny in places from too much pressing and his suitcase was inexpensive and battered. Worse, he could smell the perfumes of his rivals wafting up from the pillow-strewn settees in a noxious cacophony of odours – the orange blossom of L’Heure Bleue battling next to the hesperidic top notes and deep jasmine heart of Coty’s Chypre; both of them drowning in a sickening mixture of Arpège’s twisted adelphic cocktail clashing against the lush overstated orientalism of Mitsouko. To him, it was as discordant as four orchestras sitting side by side, playing warring symphonies.

It never ceased to amaze him that anyone would be so pedestrian as to wear the same scent as someone else. They might as well be appearing in public in an identical dress. And yet women did it all the time. It also baffled him that they would happily wear the same perfume every day; it was like eating the same meal, day in and day out, for breakfast, luncheon and dinner.

These creatures were idiots! He should turn round, head back to the train station now.

‘May I help you?’ The receptionist regarded him coolly.

‘Yes. I’m Andre Valmont. I’ve booked with you for a fortnight.’

‘Really.’ He glanced at the register in front of him. ‘Oh, yes, here it is. One of the smaller rooms. Without a sea view.’

Valmont’s eyes narrowed. He was on the verge of saying something but just managed to hold his tongue.

‘I’ll be a moment while I see if your room is ready yet.’

The man left and Valmont sank into despondence, staring blankly into the middle distance. Already he was receding into the familiar, private world of his imagination.

Across the lobby, the lift doors opened and a young woman walked out. Without being entirely conscious of it, Valmont found himself staring at her. At the easy, languid way in which she crossed the floor; of the taut perfection of her figure, which, without being conspicuously on show beneath the soft folds of her white summer dress, was not entirely hidden by it either. It struck him as a calculated statement; both ambiguous and provocative without being obvious. This subtlety pleased him. Although finely boned and petite, she possessed bearing and composure; a certain reckless enjoyment of her own body. And her face was equally striking, with large feline eyes and full lips, poised on the verge of a smile, as if she were recalling a private joke. Her hair was black. It was brushed back from her face and arranged like a soft dusky halo round her head. A little straw handbag dangled from her wrist and she frowned slightly as she made her way up to the front desk.