The Perfume Collector

‘It’s in my handbag.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Go ahead.’

Grace opened Mallory’s handbag and took out the mother-of-pearl-and-gold lighter. She wanted not to ask the question but couldn’t help herself. ‘What did Vanessa say when you asked for it back?’

Mallory concentrated on the road. ‘Nothing. She just gave it to me.’

‘Nothing?’ This wasn’t at all what Grace had expected. ‘Well, what did you say?’

Mallory made a sharp turn, narrowly avoiding hitting the back of a number 19 bus. Bracing herself, she took a deep breath. ‘I told her that I believed she had something that didn’t belong to her and that I would appreciate it if I could have it back, on behalf of the original owner.’

‘Oh.’

Grace had imagined something more heated; for sides to be taken, honour defended. The polite civility of Mallory’s interchange felt like a slap in the face.

Mallory sensed this. But she didn’t want to tell Grace the truth; that Vanessa had barely even acknowledged the request at all. In fact, her nonchalance had been nothing short of magnificent.

She’d merely raised a black eyebrow. ‘Oh? And what might that be?’ she’d asked coolly.

It was Mallory who’d been embarrassed, unable to meet her gaze. ‘A lighter,’ she’d mumbled. ‘With mother-of-pearl on it.’

Vanessa had obligingly searched through her handbag, handing the lighter over with an easy, open smile. ‘One hardly knows where one picks these things up!’

That was it.

No guilty looks, no pretend surprise. If anything, Mallory was the one left feeling apologetic for taking up her time.

It only struck her later that Vanessa didn’t bother to ask to whom the lighter belonged.

She didn’t have to.

Still, Grace’s disappointment hit a nerve. Mallory knew she’d been unable to rise to the occasion. And to her shame, part of her had even been secretly impressed with Vanessa’s subtle blend of poise and audacity.

‘What did you want me to say?’ Mallory’s voice was brittle.

Grace looked out of the window. ‘I don’t know.’

She was being unfair to Mallory. She’d got the lighter back, after all.

Grace slipped it into the pocket of her coat, where she often kept it; within easy reach. It had already begun to wear a hole in the silk lining.

‘It was bloody awkward, I can tell you. We were at the Royal Horticultural Society Spring Luncheon,’ Mallory added, as if that made her efforts more heroic. ‘Do me a favour. Light me a cigarette, will you?’

Grace lit two.

They smoked for a while.

Mallory turned on the radio, moving from one station to the next, then turned it off again.

The tension remained.

Soon she reverted to her favourite subject. ‘So, what are you going to do about Roger anyway?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Bloody fool!’ Mallory exhaled. It was easier to talk about his failings than hers; they were, after all, so glaring. ‘Men are so stupid, you just want to strangle them.’

Grace said nothing.

‘What was he thinking of?’ She was building up momentum now. ‘Or was he thinking at all? I doubt it. How could he do this to you?’

Grace turned the lighter over and over again in her pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of it in her hand. ‘It’s not entirely his fault, I suppose,’ she said quietly.

‘Not his fault?’ Mallory turned to look at her. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Grace paused, shifted uneasily. ‘There are other factors, Mal. Things you don’t know about.’

‘What factors? You can’t possibly be defending him.’

‘I’m not. Not really.’

‘It sounds like you are.’

‘It’s just … well, the thing is …’ Grace stopped. She longed to confide in someone. And sitting here, side by side with Mallory in the car, felt safe; she wouldn’t have to look directly at her … she could just say it. ‘Our marriage has been difficult for some time.’

Mallory looked at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

Grace avoided her gaze. ‘The truth is, I’m something of a disappointment to Roger.’

‘A disappointment?’ Mallory felt her temper soar. ‘He’s the one who’s a disappointment! Why, there was a time when you could do no wrong – he used to worship you!’

Mallory’s use of the past tense stung Grace’s ears – used to.

She took another drag for courage. ‘I became pregnant, Mal. When we were first married.’

‘What? You never told me.’

‘I didn’t tell anyone. The truth is, I got pregnant before the wedding.’

‘Oh.’ She blinked at Grace in surprise, as if seeing her for the first time. She didn’t seem the type – so controlled and naïve.

‘And then I lost it,’ Grace added numbly.

‘Why didn’t you ever tell me? I could’ve helped you.’

‘Because it was over before it had really begun. Four months in, I woke up in terrible pain. There was blood … everywhere. It was a dreadful night.’

‘I’m so sorry, darling. But you know,’ Mallory added gently, ‘that’s not uncommon with the first try. Sometimes it takes a few goes before you last full term.’

‘Yes, but there won’t be any more tries,’ Grace said quietly. ‘There was an infection; it scarred me. I can’t have children.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘But have you been to see a doctor?’ Mallory pressed.

‘I’ve been to see three.’

There was silence.

Grace rolled down the window; she wanted fresh air on her face.

‘Sometime afterwards,’ she went on, ‘Roger took me out to dinner. He booked the same restaurant he proposed in. All the regular staff were there, shaking his hand, welcoming us back. Alfonse, the maître d’, took us to our favourite table, the one where Roger had got down on one knee two years earlier. Do you remember that?’

Mallory nodded. ‘He gave you a diamond ring the likes of which I have yet to see again.’

‘Yes. Well, we sat down, ordered champagne cocktails and rib roast. It had been a long time since we’d been out together, just the two of us. We raised our glasses to toast one another and Roger looked at me and shook his head. He had this strange, empty expression on his face. “You’ll never be the same, will you?” he said. “You’ll never be the same lovely girl I married.” I didn’t understand. I thought he was making some bad joke. But he wasn’t. He took a drink and said, “So, now what are we going to do?”’

Mallory looked across at her, stunned.

‘I suppose in his mind, that was the end. He hasn’t been with me, you know, slept with me, since.’

‘But what happened wasn’t your fault, Grace!’

Grace wiped a tear away with her gloved fingertip. ‘It doesn’t make any difference, Mal. I’m broken, defective. I can’t give him what he wants. Now he regrets that he married me at all.’

It began to rain, a fine misty shower, sending rivulets snaking down the windows as they wove through the London morning traffic.

Mallory turned on the windscreen wipers.

She was out of her depth. Any difficulties in her marriage had been swiftly negotiated with extra cocktails and placating trips to the jewellers.

But from the very beginning, everything about Grace and Roger’s romance had been extreme; the vivid Technicolor version of everyone else’s black-and-white lives. From their first meeting at the Grosvenor Square Ball, Roger had been almost frighteningly in love with her. Grace was new to London, unaffected and artlessly charming. His attentions were obsessive, extending to lavish gifts and very public displays of adoration. There was the surprise birthday party he’d thrown her at Scott’s, after only a few months of knowing her, complete with a pearl necklace and fifty of his closest friends. Mallory remembered being slightly jealous; wondering why Geoffrey couldn’t make more of an effort.

And Grace had been dazzled. By the time their engagement was announced, it was already a foregone conclusion.

It struck her as strange that such violent affections could be reduced to utter indifference.

Mallory tried to kept her voice light and calm, as if she were talking to a child or an invalid. ‘Perhaps it’s just a stage. Maybe he simply needs to adjust. Get used to the idea.’

‘I think he has adjusted, Mal. And he’s apparently doing very well without me.’

Grace’s confidences appeared to have cost her; she leaned her head against the window.

‘I have dreams …’ she said after a while. ‘Nightmares. I’m running in a wood, looking for something or someone. But no matter how fast I run, I cannot find it. Sometimes I think it’s just ahead of me, and then it disappears again. Then I start to fall, into some black, hideous abyss and I wake up. I used to have them all the time when I was a child. And now I only have them when something’s wrong, terribly wrong.’ She looked across at Mallory. ‘I had that dream again the night of the party.’

‘Grace—’

‘It’s hopeless, Mal.’ Grace sighed, cutting her off before she could continue. She wasn’t in the mood to be placated. ‘I used to think it would get better, that over time he would see me again the way he used to. But the opposite is true. It’s only become worse.’ She stared blankly out of the window, at the grey fog settling in thick filmy layers across Hyde Park. ‘I suppose it was only a matter of time before something happened.’

Mallory didn’t know what to say. She thought about the leaflet for the Secretarial College in Oxford. How Grace had been searching for a purpose; a way to be useful. And then she recalled, to her shame, how she’d dismissed the idea out of hand.

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

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.

Mrs Ronald raised an eyebrow. ‘I see you worked as a lady’s maid. That might be useful.’ She handed the letter back to her. ‘We have several female guests who fancy themselves as ladies, though nothing could be further from the truth. Come here,’ she ordered. ‘Let’s see your hair.’

Eva bent her head down while Mrs Ronald searched her scalp. ‘No sign of lice. Good. Show me your hands.’

Eva did as she was told.

‘She’s clean,’ Antoine assured her. ‘My wife is very strict about that. And in good health.’

Mrs Ronald crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘Still, it’s hard graft. I’m not convinced you could handle the work.’ (She didn’t like to give in too easily.) ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

Eva paused, looking from one to the other. ‘I think, ma’am, that you know best. However, I would be grateful for the opportunity to try.’

The girl was smart and polite. And she knew how to address a superior.

Mrs Ronald nodded. ‘I appreciate your confidence in my judgement.’

Antoine’s shoulders relaxed.

‘I will take her on trial,’ Mrs Ronald decided, looking across at him. ‘I can’t promise beyond that. Now,’ she made a quick notation in the ledger in front of her, ‘there are things you need to know about working here. Be warned, Miss Dorsey. The Warwick is different from any other Hotel in New York City. And with good reason. Mr Hearst built this Hotel at the same time he built the Ziegfeld Theater. The stars from the Follies depend on us; above all, they want somewhere comfortable and discreet to stay. We are their home away from home. Everything you see, everyone you encounter, stays here, within these walls. Do you understand?’

Eva nodded.

‘Many of these people are dancers, performers; they behave like cattle sometimes, believe me. However, they are still Mr Hearst’s guests. Whatever a client wants, he or she gets. And we do things here in the old-fashioned way – your presence is felt, not seen. You’re here to be part of the woodwork. That means no face powder, no jewellery, no lip rouge; caps must be worn at all times. If a guest notices you, especially a male, you’ve failed in your duties.’

She stood up, taking a heavy set of keys from her pocket, and unlocked a closet on the far side of the office, hanging with spare uniforms. ‘I expect you to be early rather than late, to anticipate your guests’ needs rather than waiting to be called, and above all, you must be polite.’ She rummaged through, searching for the correct size as she continued, ‘We take a very serious view of stealing. Everyone is always prosecuted. No exceptions.’ She held up a grey cotton uniform. ‘This is going to be too big but I’m afraid it will have to do. Can you sew?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Then take it in. Not too tight, mind you.’ She locked the closet again. ‘And if I hear that you’ve spoken to the press or to a gossip columnist, you can expect to pack your bags immediately. Do you understand?’

Eva nodded.

‘Each chambermaid is responsible for cleaning and maintaining fifteen rooms. However, when you’re on duty, you’re entirely at the clients’ command. No request is to be denied if at all possible. We have standards here, much higher, much more obliging than other establishments.’

She turned to Antoine. ‘I suppose she’ll need accommodation.’

‘Well, if it’s not too much—’

‘She’ll have to share,’ Mrs Ronald cut him off. ‘And I want it understood that there are to be no guests, male or female, at any time in this Hotel. Have I made myself clear?’

Again, Eva nodded.

‘If you’d like to get your things, you can start this afternoon.’

‘These are my things, ma’am.’

Mrs Ronald looked down. There was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, by the girl’s feet.

‘I see. Then I’ll ring for one of the girls to come down and show you your room. Mrs Crane will instruct you in your duties. That will be all.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She left the office.

Antoine hesitated a moment by the door.

‘I appreciate this,’ he said.

‘Yes, well,’ Mrs Ronald moved back behind her desk, ‘mind she makes you proud, Mr Dorsey. I’d have no pleasure in firing her but I’d have no problem doing it either.’

He went out into the hallway, where Eva was waiting.

She watched as he took a hand-rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket, and lit it. He looked at her hard, as if she’d already done something wrong.

Eva lowered her eyes, concentrating on the floor. Where other people only saw different-coloured tiles, she saw comforting patterns and equations. There were twenty-nine black tiles to every eighty-seven white. Three white to every one black. A whole hidden world of order and symmetry appeared if you only looked closely enough.

‘If you have any trouble, you’re on your own. Do you understand? You’re old enough to answer for yourself from now on.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then he turned and walked away, towards the lower kitchen, disappearing into the long maze of corridors that ran underneath the main Hotel.

Eva exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.

The weight that had been pressing into the centre of her chest all morning was finally beginning to ease. She folded her uniform on top of the small parcel of her belongings and waited with her back pressed against the wall.

The only thing she’d had all morning was coffee, black and strong. Her uncle ate at work and now that her aunt had gone, there was no reason, in his mind, to keep food in the apartment or, in fact, an apartment at all. Her stomach knotted and growled.

She didn’t want to share a room with a stranger. She wasn’t even certain she wanted a job as a chambermaid. But what she wanted didn’t matter.

Eva pressed her eyes together.

There had been 778 tiles on the floor of Mrs Ronald’s office. 426 grey and 352 white. If you multiplied them together you got 149,952. If you subtracted 352 from 426 you ended up with 74 and if you added 4 plus 2 plus 6 you got 12 and if you added 3 plus 5 plus 2 you got 10 and if you divided 12 into 778 …