The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro
He unlocked the door, swung it open.
‘After you.’
‘Thank you.’ Grace pulled her shoulders back, trying to appear more confident than she felt. ‘But I think I’d like to go in alone, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Certainly. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’
Grace waited until he’d gone. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked inside.
Her heels clicked on the smooth surface of the parquet floor in the entranceway, echoing throughout the empty flat. It led into a large, formal drawing room, with three sets of French windows opening on to a balcony overlooking the square below. It was an enormous room, easily thirty-five feet in length, with high ceilings and detailed moulding. The sheer scale of it was breathtaking. An imposing black marble mantelpiece dominated; above, a glass chandelier sparkled. Grace could make out, from the faded markings on the toile wallpaper, the outlines where clusters of paintings had hung; the shadows where chair backs and tables had once stood against the walls.
No, this wasn’t what she’d imagined at all. Perhaps not a garret but something much more modest in size, discreet. But this was a vast reception room, capable of entertaining on a grand scale. It seemed not just extravagant but somehow audacious to keep a mistress in such opulent style.
She moved into the room beyond.
Here was the bedroom, smaller, yet still luxurious in its proportions. As soon as she entered, the smell of perfume hit her. Not flowery or whimsical but sophisticated, strong. Like a hand reaching out across the impossible distance to pierce the veil that separated them, it pressed hard against her solar plexus, stopping her in her tracks. It had a metallic sharpness, almost intrusive in its originality.
The hairs on the back of Grace’s neck rose. This woman was real, not some soft, benevolent, fairy godmother from a children’s story. Grace was on her territory now.
A carved double wooden bed frame stood in the centre of the room. It was a lit bateau style frame, with an intricate inlaid-wood design on the headboard, the only piece of furniture left in the whole apartment.
Grace looked up.
The ceiling was painted a very pale blue, illuminated with an inner golden light. It mimicked, very cleverly, the delicate shades of a summer’s sky.
This is where Madame d’Orsey entertained her lover, practised her art.
The thought sent a chill through Grace’s spine. She couldn’t help but think of Vanessa; her ghost seemed to drift soundlessly through these rooms, self-possessed, unapologetic, padding across the wooden floor in bare feet and pearls.
Love was an art, a game teased out and manipulated by skilled players.
A game Grace didn’t know how to play.
Turning away, she peered into the bathroom, with its roll-top bath and mysterious, low bidet. The cabinets were open and empty; the plumbing reassuringly noisy, the cistern tank of the toilet filling and refilling again and again.
She went through to the kitchen.
It was tiny. The smallest, most ordinary room in the whole apartment, with a green Formica counter top and a deep, square butler’s sink. There was a simple built-in table with benches against one wall, with an ashtray and a morning paper on it.
Grace sat down. This room was dark, warm and womblike, the ceiling low. A cheap plastic clock ticked above the oven. The newspaper, Le Figaro, had been refolded after it had been read. She turned it over, looking at the date. It was more than a month old. Along the bottom of the page was a series of even circles, drawn in pen – the idle doodles of an otherwise engaged mind.
She traced her finger lightly across the rim of the ashtray. It was an inexpensive design, reminiscent of the styles of the 1920s; a simple square in heavy pottery china. It had been broken and then glued back together. But it wasn’t the kind of object that seemed worth saving. She turned it over. Just visible in the lower right-hand corner was the faded inscription, Riker’s Drug Store, New York City.
The other rooms felt unreal, like part of a stage set. But this room was intimate, quiet. The mysterious Madame d’Orsey had sat here, listening to the ticking clock, the dull hum of the refrigerator; smoking, reading the paper. A middle-aged woman, a woman whose face, as Monsieur Tissot had put it, was changed by pain.
Grace stared at the broken ashtray.
Le droit de choisir.
The phrase repeated itself again and again in her mind.
No one had ever advocated her independence before. The entire success of her marriage, her whole career as a woman, depended largely upon her cheerful, uncomplicated dependence, first on her family and then on her husband. But now this stranger was challenging her; asking her to make choices, take responsibility.
Why?
It supposed an intimacy; expectations. But Grace didn’t even know her, let alone approve of Eva d’Orsey.
Opening her handbag she took out a crumpled pack of Chesterfields and lit one.
Pretty girls didn’t lead independent lives; didn’t Eva d’Orsey know that? Their triumphs were measured in the swiftness with which they moved from one pair of waiting arms to another. It was the less fortunate girls – the ‘sensible’ and ‘clever’ ones – who had to face the world on their own. (When she was young, if the word ‘intelligent’ was used when describing a girl, it was always a criticism; nothing signalled more completely the hopelessness of their future situation than the label of ‘clever’.)
Exhaling slowly, Grace watched the smoke gather just above her head.
And yet their handicap bought them freedom – just the sort of liberty and responsibility this unknown woman was demanding of her now.
Leaning her chin in her palm, Grace opened the newspaper.
If she were truly the beneficiary, why did it feel as if Madame d’Orsey were taking something away from her rather than giving it?
Turning the pages, she tried to string together the few words she recognized. There was a sale at the Galeries Lafayette, with the promise of a new season of architecturally engineered girdles and brassieres outlined in bold drawings … a photograph of some sort of sporting disaster involving a young man and a racing car … obituaries … classified ads … here was something circled in black pen …
Avis de saisie vente de boutique, 23 Rue Christine, Saint-Germain, Paris.
Boutique … that meant shop, didn’t it? Avais de saisie vente … Her French wasn’t good enough to make out the rest.
Grace stared out of the window above the sink, at the shadow of the sun creeping across the wall opposite.
The little kitchen was soothing, familiar in its domesticity. The clock ticked; here the city felt removed.
I don’t know what I’m doing, she thought, pulling the cracked ashtray closer, taking another drag. I’m completely out of my depth.
Le droit de choisir.
But the right to choose what?
Grace wasn’t used to making choices on her own; wasn’t certain she liked it. How would she know if she’d made the right ones?
Sighing, she flicked a bit of ash off the end of her cigarette.
There was a knock at the door.
Grace started, hurrying to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray.
‘Monsieur Tissot? Monsieur Tissot, is that you?’ She stood up.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте