The Perfume Collector(89)

‘Andre, the second thing you need to understand is that you’re not selling perfume – you’re selling yourself. The idea of you as an eccentric genius. You can’t afford to blend in – you must look distinctive.’ Hands on her hips. ‘How can I help you if you don’t take my advice?’

Valmont stared at her. She was familiar and yet completely unknown to him. ‘You’re not the same girl at all.’

Crossing the room, she opened the door. Light from the hallway illuminated her from behind; her face was shadowy, yet her black hair shone as though it was on fire.

‘We are none of us the same girl, are we?’



The Grand Casino at Monte Carlo was a triumph of elaborate Belle Époque design, a golden canopy of gleaming gilt and elaborate flourishes. In the evening, under its vast domed ceiling, all of Monte Carlo society could be observed, including one delightful, wayward young woman and her tragically debauched English guardian.

Valmont watched from a remote seat at the bar as Eva worked her charms.

Her role at the tables was just as she had outlined. She seemed to pay little if any attention to Lamb, acting instead like a very sexy, tempestuous child. Occasionally she’d steal a sip from his drink or tap out an impatient little rhythm while he was glowering over his cards. More often she’d flirt, dance, tell rude jokes. Sometimes Lamb would beg her to be quiet or try to get her to leave. But she always ignored him. Only Valmont guessed that her well-timed interruptions were, in fact, carefully orchestrated signals.

Lamb’s reputation was crucial to the success of their venture. An alcoholic of heroic proportions, he regularly lost staggering amounts of money on sloppily played hands, ensuring that few devoted gamblers ever took him seriously. But then, after everyone had long written him off, and Eva was begging him to give up, he would place some magnificent bet and the tables would turn.

Shortly afterwards, she would haul him back to the hotel in a stupor.

That night he kept his distance. But Valmont couldn’t help but notice a seamless affinity between the two of them, an instinctual rhythm only he was aware of. Eva was so charming, outrageous, and seemingly oblivious of anything but herself. And Lamb so perfectly dismissive of her; it was almost impossible to imagine that together they were pulling off these nightly coups. And never once did Eva ever do anything that betrayed her level of true concentration and focus.

When next her saw her, he complimented her on her skill.

‘You’re the only one who knows, Andre,’ she sighed. ‘But I’m bored with playing the fool. I want a new conquest. Let’s make you famous, shall we?’

She was true to her word.

Over the next week, Eva found ways of taking very public notice of Valmont, planting an air of mystery around him. She whispered to her companions as soon as he appeared in the lobby or at dinner and since he was under orders to ignore everyone, he would register her with nothing more than disdain, retiring to a table in the far corner on his own.

She took him to a young tailor in the hills of Monte Carlo who made him a pair of very simply cut, clean-lined black gabardine trousers and two shirts of dark grey silk. ‘If you cannot fit into the mould, then you must step out of it,’ Eva smiled approvingly, running her fingers along the smooth fabric across his shoulders. The dark colours and simple silhouette made him seem taller, chicer and far more modern. ‘Anyone can wear a suit, but casual clothing is the great equalizer. What I adore is that you look as if you’re not taking anything too seriously. That makes everyone else appear overdressed.’

In return, he repaid her in the only way he could. ‘I want to take you somewhere; to show you something miraculous.’ He took her by train one day to the jasmine fields of Grasse. They travelled third class, slipping away in the early morning like two teenagers playing truant.

To Valmont, Grasse was like a sacred shrine.

‘I’m going to teach you how to smell,’ he told her, as soon as they got on the train. ‘Most people judge scents and they avoid looking into the heart of them.’ He found seats for them across from a couple of farm workers who were heading to market.

‘Inhale the sweat, the dirt, the oil from their unwashed hair,’ he whispered in her ear.

She shot him a look. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ she whispered back.

‘Because this is the root of all perfume creation. To change the way we smell. It could be argued that all perfume is born out of shame; a self-consciousness of our natural odour. We want to hide it.’

‘Or change it,’ she murmured.

‘That’s right. In that way, fragrance is an aspiration. A goal. Not just a tool of seduction but of power and status. Do you realize how much the ancients used to pay for francinsense or myrrh? Whole empires were built on the trade of these commodities. You see, even then, when life was short and cruel, people wanted to smell differently. To be transported. But these coarse natural odours – filthy hair, pungent skin, unwashed women – they’re the root of everything – of our disgrace and desire. That’s what I meant by people judge them.’