The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro
navy dress. ‘There’s a lighter in there, isn’t there?’
Mallory rifled round in the cigarette box. ‘Not that I can see. Here.’ She popped the cigarette into the corner of her perfectly rouged mouth. ‘Let me do you up.’
Grace stood in front of her while Mallory zipped up the back of her dress. ‘Roger must’ve taken it. We’re always losing lighters. That one’s my favourite though. I’ll kill him if he’s lost it.’
Mallory tugged at a good two inches of fabric that should have been fitted closely to Grace’s waist. ‘This is too big. You’ve lost weight again.’ There was an accusatory tone in her voice.
Grace crossed to her dressing table, opened a drawer and took out a box of matches. She tossed them to Mallory, who caught them midair, with the hidden athletic reflexes of a childhood tomboy. ‘Light me one too, will you?’
‘With pleasure. After all, you are my date tonight.’
‘Thank you for that.’ Grace caught her eye in the mirror and winked, as she put a pair of pearl clips on. It wasn’t lost on her that Mal was actually trying to help her. ‘It was good of you to invite me.’
‘We can’t have you wasting away while Roger’s out of town.’ Mallory lit two cigarettes and passed one to Grace. ‘Besides, it’s not often I get to ditch my husband for someone who actually listens to what I say. He can’t bear Vanessa anyway, thinks she’s a bad influence.’
‘Is she?’
‘Of course.’ Mallory picked up a pamphlet lying on top of a stack of books on the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘Nothing.’ Grace wished she’d had the foresight to put them away now. ‘Just a schedule of classes.’
‘The Oxford and County Secretarial College?’ Mallory flipped through; it naturally fell open to the pages Grace had already dog-eared. ‘Advanced Typing and Office Management? Bookkeeping?’ She made a face. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘You never know,’ Grace slipped on the navy pumps, ‘it might be quite helpful. Roger may well open his own offices one day. I could be a valuable asset to him; organize his appointments, type letters …’
‘But Grace, you have a job,’ Mallory pointed out. ‘You’re his wife.’
‘That’s not a job, Mal.’
Mallory flashed her a look. ‘Really? I wonder if you’ve read the fine print on your marriage certificate. It’s up to you to create a home, a family, a vision of where you all fit in the world and where you’re going. Think about it – the children’s schools, where you spend the weekends, your entire social circle – it’s all down to you.’ She put on an exaggerated accent. ‘Oh, the Munroes? Of course I know them! Isn’t she wonderful? Her son is at Harrow with our eldest. And I love what she’s done with the house, don’t you?’ Mallory took another drag, tossing the leaflet down. ‘Believe me, Ducky, you have a job. Besides, this place is in Oxford. How many times do I have to remind you that you live in London now?’
‘Yes, but the courses only last a few months.’
‘A few months? Are you mad? What’s Roger supposed to do while you’re gone?’ Mallory exhaled. ‘Honestly, you should learn something useful in your spare time.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know …’ The whole idea of self-improvement was alien to her. ‘Flower arranging. Or the harp, perhaps.’
‘The harp? What’s useful about a harp?’
Mallory thought a moment. ‘It’s soothing. Isn’t it? And you get to stroke something between your legs in public!’
‘Good God, you’re depraved!’ Grace laughed. ‘I’ll tell you what’s soothing — rearranging a filing cabinet, ordering new stationery or getting the books to balance.’
‘Grace …’ Mallory threw her hands up in despair. ‘Do you listen to anything I say? Honestly, you’re not in Oxford now. And I’ll tell you a little secret,’ she dropped her voice to a stage whisper, ‘men don’t like clever wives, they like charming ones!’
‘No!’ Grace gasped in pretend shock. ‘You don’t think I’m charming?’
Mallory rolled her eyes. ‘You’re delightful. I’m only saying—’
‘I understand,’ Grace cut her off. Mallory wasn’t about to be persuaded. Every time they met, she had new suggestions for enhancing her homemaking skills; talents she clearly felt Grace was lacking. Why should tonight be any different?
Mallory checked her lipstick in her compact mirror. ‘When’s Roger coming home anyway?’
‘In a week. Maybe sooner.’
‘He’s been away on business a long time. You must miss him.’
Grace said nothing.
‘When he’s home, you’ll forget all that nonsense. Now, have you got a belt you can wear?’ She rustled up behind her. ‘Really! Didn’t anyone explain to you that you’re meant to gain weight in the first few years of marriage? How am I meant to become the spoiling godmother if you don’t get down to the business of fattening up?’
Something changed in Grace’s eyes. Inhaling hard, she turned away. ‘I don’t think I have a belt,’ she said quietly, looking through the dresses hanging in her wardrobe.
Mallory stared at Grace’s slim back.
She’d obviously hit a nerve.
‘Here,’ Mallory reached across, tugging a cummerbund of black velvet from another evening gown. ‘This one will do just fine,’ she said, fitting it round Grace’s waist.
Grace looked small tonight, even younger than usual. She reminded Mallory of a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes. It was the hairstyle, so conservative and staid; it would’ve suited an older woman but on Grace it only accentuated her youth. It made her eyes look even larger than normal; they were a very clear grey-green colour, wide set and almond-shaped.
‘Do you think this is all right?’ Grace examined her reflection in the mirror, tense.
It wasn’t like Grace to care too much what others thought. Suddenly Mallory realized it was one of the things that secretly she’d admired about her friend, despite their constant sparring.
‘It’s perfect,’ she assured her. ‘Now let’s go or we shall miss the whole thing.’
Coming down the stairs, Grace paused to check the second post on the hall table.
‘Oh look!’ She held up an envelope. ‘I’ve got airmail! From France. How exciting!’ She tore it open. ‘Who do I know in France?’
‘Is it from your uncle?’ Mallory pulled her coat on.
‘No, he’s in America, lecturing.’ Grace unfolded the letter, began reading.
Mallory waited; tapped her foot impatiently. ‘We must go.’ She took out her car keys. ‘What is it anyway?’
‘This doesn’t make sense.’
‘Is it in French?’
‘No. No, it’s in English.’ Grace sat down on the hall chair. ‘There’s an aeroplane ticket.’
‘An aeroplane ticket? For where?’
‘To Paris.’ Grace looked up, handing her the letter. ‘This is a mistake. Some sort of very bizarre mistake.’
Mallory took it.
It was typed on the kind of heavy, good quality paper that signaled official correspondence. In the corner she noted the name and address of a law firm in central Paris: Frank, Levin et Beaumont.