The Perfume Collector(99)

He stared down at the hat in his hands. ‘I have an illness – a little gift from the war. I can’t take a lovely young wife. At least not without risking her contamination too. And I’d rather kill myself than let it take me slowly. I made up my mind about that a long time ago.’

‘Is that why—’

‘Yes,’ he cut her off. ‘That’s why you have nothing to fear from me. But let’s be clear – I’m not your Prince Charming. I live by my wits, such as they are, and I intend to die that way too. Face it,’ he took another drag, ‘we’re both in a pickle, you and I, with not a lot to offer anyone.’

She said nothing.

‘Let me do this. This baby doesn’t belong with us. Not now. Let my sister help us. The child will be safe, well looked after.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the nursery. ‘That poor child deserves better than this, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

His voice softened. ‘But one thing’s for certain – of all the people I could drag around Europe with me, I’m glad I chose you.’

Another tear worked its way down. ‘Why?’

‘You’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. Truth is, I’m in awe of you. Not that I believe in God, but if I did, you’d be on the list of things that proves his existence.’

It was as close to a compliment as he’d ever come.

Her head throbbed; the room was shifting, the edges around things smudging. She closed her eyes, trying to make it stop. ‘It wouldn’t be for long, would it?’

‘No. The faster we get on with it, the shorter it will be.’

‘And your sister, she’d give her back to me, wouldn’t she? You’d explain it all to her?’

‘I’ll arrange everything.’ He stood up.

She tried to sit up again but her arms felt shaky and weak. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Eva, trust me.’ He pressed his hand to her cheek, then frowned. ‘You’re hot. Too hot. I’m going to speak to the doctor. I’ll be back.’

She sank down once more, drifting in and out of sleep. After a while, she couldn’t tell how long, the nurse came back and took her temperature; her face lined with concern. ‘You have a fever, Mrs Lamb.’

‘Where did . . . where did he go?’

‘Your husband? He’s gone, dear.’

‘Gone?’

The nurse adjusted her pillows. ‘I’m going to give you an injection. It will prick a bit.’ She took out a needle.

‘It’s cold,’ Eva shivered. ‘I feel so cold.’

‘Be still now. Don’t move.’ Eva winced as she injected the morphine into her arm.

‘When can I see my baby?’ she murmured. ‘I haven’t seen her yet. I want to look at her.’

‘Well, just as soon as you go home, dear. She’ll be there waiting for you. Here,’ the nurse laid an extra blanket over her. ‘You have an infection, you need to rest.’

Eva took her hand. ‘But I want to see her now.’

‘My dear, your husband took her. It’s for the best. You don’t want her to be ill too now, do you?’ She gently but firmly extracted Eva’s hand. ‘Besides, you cannot look after the baby when you’re ill. She’s in good hands. Sleep now. She’ll be back in your arms in no time.’





Paris, Spring, 1955

Madame Zed looked across at Grace, ‘You do understand, don’t you?’

Grace opened her mouth to speak but stopped. The knot tightened in her stomach, as if someone were pulling, playing tug-of-war with her insides. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked numbly.

Instead of answering, Madame reached over, pulled open the drawer of a small end table next to her and took out a photograph.

‘Have you ever seen a picture of Eva?’

Grace shook her head.

She passed it to Grace. ‘That was taken many years ago.’

It was an old black-and-white photograph, taken in a studio. The girl in the picture was very young; she had a heart-shaped face, radiant clear eyes. Her hair was a shining black helmet, her skin pale. The Cupid’s bow lips were curved into a knowing half-smile. The eyes, lined in thick charcoal, looked challengingly into the very centre of the camera lens, daring it to blink before she did. A kind of sexual heat radiated from her, a sultry, defiant sophistication.

Madame Zed had taken out a silver cigarette case. ‘She’s beautiful, don’t you think?’

Grace nodded, unable to stop staring.

This wasn’t the woman she’d expected. Nothing like her at all. She tried to match the picture with Monsieur Tissot’s description of a woman whose face was changed by pain; with the sharp, sophisticated perfume that lingered in the apartment.