The Perfume Collector

They drove along, down past Holland Park Underground station and into Shepherd’s Bush. London was a Turner watercolour this morning; rendered in dreamy, shifting blues and dusky greens, wet, melting, only ever half finished.

Mallory tossed her cigarette butt out of the window and looked across at Grace; at the deep frown line that cut down the centre of her brow; at her lips, tightly pursed.

She wanted to apologize; to reach out and hold Grace’s hand and reassure her. But she didn’t know how. If only she’d had the gumption to wrestle Vanessa to the ground on behalf of her friend.

Instead, she did what her mother used to do; one of the only signs of affection that ever passed between them. Mallory took a fresh handkerchief out of her coat pocket. It smelled faintly of Yardley Lily of the Valley toilet water, the perfume that haunted the bedrooms of her childhood. She pressed it into Grace’s hand.

‘Take this, darling. Just in case.’

Folding it over, Grace slipped it into her handbag. ‘Thank you.’

‘Who knows?’ Mallory forced a smile, trying to remain positive. ‘Perhaps a change of scenery will do you a world of good.’

‘May I help you find your seat, madam?’

The air hostess was attractive and smiling, with a model’s figure. Her soft brunette hair was tucked into a neat pillbox hat and her lipstick matched exactly the shade of her smart red uniform.

‘Yes, please.’ Grace glanced around uneasily, taking in the layout of the main cabin, the other passengers already comfortably seated, reading magazines and chatting.

The hostess looked at her ticket. ‘You’re just here, on the left. Allow me to hang up your coat.’

‘Thank you.’

Sitting down, Grace peered out of the odd little window, at the ground staff piling the luggage into the hold, at the row of shining silver planes parked like enormous long motor cars, one after the other, in a line. She felt almost queasy with the combination of nerves and excitement.

The hostess was back. ‘Is this your first trip to Paris?’

‘Yes. And I’ve never been on an aeroplane before.’

‘It’s perfectly safe,’ the girl reassured her. ‘May I bring you a glass of champagne to help you relax?’

‘Are you sure? I mean, won’t it spill?’

The hostess laughed. ‘It’s not like that. You’ll see. The whole thing is much smoother than you imagine. Sit back and try not to think too much. We’ll be there in no time.’

Grace watched as she slipped into the narrow galley, which appeared to be little more than a series of metal boxes and drawers. Soon the distinctive pop of a champagne cork could be heard. A little while later, she moved easily down the aisle with a tray, handing out glasses like a hostess at a dinner party.

And it began to feel like a party, with laughing and drinking, people chatting across the aisle to one another. The pilot, handsome in his uniform, paused before climbing into the cockpit to welcome them all aboard, even joking about how strange it felt to fly across the English Channel without being shot at, which got a spontaneous round of applause.

Then the doors were shut. The engines started and the whole plane shuddered and trembled. They rumbled along the runway, building up speed.

Grace looked out of window trying to discern the moment when the wheels left the ground. And then, without her really feeling it, they were airborne, climbing at a steep angle before banking to the left.

London, with its little winding rows of identical brick houses, rendered in a thousand shades of grey, receded rapidly as they flew into the dark, wet fog. Then, quite suddenly, a sparkling blue strip of horizon appeared, high above the thick cloud cover; a golden place removed from the blanket of bad weather below.

Leaning back, Grace took a sip of the cold champagne and, opening her handbag, took out the letter.

She’d read it many times since it first arrived but she still had the compulsion to reread it, as if this time she would finally spot something she’d missed.

Madame Eva d’Orsey.

Eva d’Orsey.

The name meant nothing to her.

But there was a kind of poetry in it, a soft, lilting rhythm that captured her imagination.

Perhaps she’d been a friend of her parents. A fellow writer like her mother or a colleague of her father’s.

Or maybe she would travel all the way to Paris just to discover that in fact the whole thing had been nothing but a misunderstanding after all.

In any case, England had disappeared now entirely from view. And only a vast, empty canopy of sky lay ahead.

New York City, 1927 (#ulink_68694986-da67-57c7-8aed-a664a3930404)

Mrs Ronald, the Head of Housekeeping, leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘This is very unusual. We normally go through an agency. This is not how it’s done at all, Mr Dorsey. Not at all.’

Antoine d’Orsey, the Senior Sous-chef, stood very still but said nothing, staring patiently at the space between his feet on the floor. He was making an awkward request and, in his experience, the most effective way to get what he wanted was to simply wait it out. Years of marriage had taught him that; say what you want and then hold your ground. Also, after working at the Hotel (as the Warwick was known to the staff who ran it) since it opened, he was familiar enough with Mrs Ronald to know that her tough exterior masked a sentimental disposition, along with a keen, practical mind. It was well known that she was short of staff and the summer season was only beginning. In the end, she needed his help too.

Not that she was willing to admit as much. ‘Does she even speak any English?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He shifted slightly. ‘You see, my wife has taken a job with a family in Westchester. There is nowhere else for her to go.’

Mrs Ronald considered this, sucking hard on her back teeth. She felt for Antoine. She knew him to be hard working, quiet, stubborn; perhaps a little too fastidious. His nickname was ‘Escargot’ because the Head Chef claimed he moved at a snail’s pace. However, he was always one of the first people to arrive and one of the last to leave; a cornerstone of the kitchen staff.

Sighing again, she surveyed the young girl who stood in front of her.

Small and thin, she had dark hair that hung lankly to her shoulders. Her face was more unfortunate than pretty, with wide-set, oddly coloured eyes that curved upwards like a cat’s and a rather long, narrow nose. They were aquiline features, with a sensual, curving mouth that struck Mrs Ronald as somehow obscene; far too large for her face. She was dressed very plainly, in a simple navy skirt and white blouse, the inexpensive fabrics worn from use but neatly pressed. She kept her eyes on the floor.

Mrs Ronald turned back to Antoine. ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’

‘She’s fourteen,’ he said. ‘She’s just small for her age. She’s already been working for two years – she has references from a family in Brooklyn.’

‘And why did she leave their employ?’

‘They were from Austria and were only here for a short time.’

He nodded to her and the girl took an envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Mrs Ronald.

‘Eva,’ Mrs Ronald read aloud, her lip curling. ‘That’s an odd name. Eva Dorsey.’ She managed to make it sound ugly.

Antoine was straining to correct her, only it did no good. Mostly he was used to his family name being butchered, flattened out to its nearest American counterpart. Today, however, it grated.

‘She’s my wife’s sister’s child. Both her parents are dead now. I gave her my family name when we came over.’

There was hardness in his voice. He resented his niece’s history and there was a lot of it he avoided recounting to people like Mrs Ronald. But the last thing he wanted was anyone mistaking Eva for his own child.

She was a quiet girl, conscientious and obedient, but he mistrusted her instinctively. Her mother had been pregnant out of wedlock and died of tuberculosis. Eva was invariably cut from the same cloth; an unwelcome drain on both his time and his resources.