Read the book: «The Perfume Collector»

Paris, Spring, 1955

The offices of Frank, Levin et Beaumont were located on the Rue de Rivoli, on the upper floors of one of the galleried arcades. Grace had the last appointment of the afternoon, and, after a somewhat confusing conversation with the secretary in her halting French, had been shown into Monsieur Tissot’s chambers, which occupied a corner, with two windows overlooking the north wing of the Musée du Louvre.

Grace sat, still in her overcoat, her handbag firmly anchored on her lap. It felt unreal to be here, like an overly vivid, slightly alarming dream.

She wasn’t used to travelling on her own. Mallory had insisted that she stay at the Hôtel Raphael, where she’d been with her mother before the war. Located near the Champs-Élysées, it was discreet and quietly grand; much nicer than anything Grace would have chosen for herself. Her room wasn’t terribly large but it had high ceilings and was decorated in soft pink and the palest eau-de-Nil, feminine candyfloss colours mirrored in the silk taffeta swags and thick, embroidered bedspread. There was even a chandelier above her bed. Lying on her back last night, she’d stared at it, amazed. Clearly the French expected something rather more interesting to occur here than the English did.

There was a small balcony, barely a few feet wide. Grace opened the doors and stepped outside, gazing over the wide tree-lined street below.

The city seemed extravagantly, shamelessly beautiful. In London, entire blocks had been levelled in the war; whole neighborhoods gone. The landscape was punctuated by gaping concrete wounds and piles of charred rubble; grotesque monuments to once great structures. But here, the pavements were smooth and even, the skyline intact. Whatever damage the occupation had done, Paris had put it behind her.

Even the air smelled more refined; not full of damp, oily coal but clear, fragrant with continental sunlight and warmth.

The coffee at breakfast had been shockingly strong, the croissant flaky and buttery – more like a biscuit or a cake. How decadent that people ate them every day! It was only the potential shame at being caught that prevented Grace from jamming an extra one into her handbag.

Later that afternoon, walking across the Jardin des Tuileries to her appointment, a kind of giddiness came over her, accompanied by a sudden realization: no one knew her here. Her anonymity both thrilled and disorientated her.

The concierge had given her a street map, but she found herself unable to concentrate on the neat little labelled lines when the city itself surrounded her. She’d always heard that Paris was elegant but had struggled to imagine how. She’d assumed it would be rigid; the demanding intolerance of perfection. But, being here, she was struck by the easy naturalness of everything. From the tall, slender trees, their leaves rustling high above her, to the chalky gravel that crunched beneath her feet or the classically proportioned buildings that rose, uniformly constructed from the same blonde stone, it was all orchestrated to hold the light. The entire city was enveloped in a halo of glowing softness.

The French were fluent in the language of beauty, just as she’d been told. But it was a more subtly encompassing comprehension than she’d anticipated. In fact, it made sense. Who wouldn’t construct the corners of buildings to curve gently rather than meet in a point if they had the means and inclination? And who wouldn’t match all the roof tiles in the city radius to create a harmonious landscape of sloping shades of bluey-grey, augmented with squat terracotta chimney pots? Anything else seemed careless.

Likewise, while the men and women were no more naturally attractive than their English counterparts, they dressed with an assurance and attention to detail that would have been considered the height of arrogance in England. Here, maintaining a certain chic was apparently nothing less than a civic duty.

Even now, in the lawyers’ chambers, there was a unity and precision in the colours, shapes and sizes of the furniture, as if an editor had walked through earlier, removing any distractions.

The door opened and two men walked in.

The first one was an elderly gentleman with stiff, formal bearing and a neat white moustache. A younger man stood respectfully behind him.

‘Madame Munroe?’ The elderly gentleman greeted her unsmilingly, with a curt nod of his head. ‘I am Henri Levin,’ he announced in heavily accented English. ‘This is my firm. And this is Edouard Tissot, my associate. He will look after you. I trust his service will be satisfactory.’

With that he gave a brisk little bow, turned on his heel and left.

Grace didn’t know quite what to make of this abrupt introduction.

‘Please forgive him.’ Monsieur Tissot stepped forward. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties; tall and slender, a feature highlighted by his traditional pinstriped suit. His dark hair matched his black eyes; his expression was both reserved and intelligent. ‘He’s not used to speaking English,’ he explained, his voice lowering discreetly. ‘He’s terrified you will ask him something he won’t understand.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, nodding.

He held out his hand. ‘Allow me to welcome you to Paris, madame.’

‘Thank you.’ Grace extended her own, expecting him to shake it.

However, instead he held it lightly, his lips hovering just above the white flesh of her wrist, before releasing it.

It was both a quietly formal and yet intimate gesture; he hadn’t actually touched his lips to her skin. But still her skin tingled where they might have been.

‘And let me begin,’ Monsieur Tissot continued, ‘by saying that I am very sorry for your loss. Please allow me to assist you in any way possible during your stay.’

‘Thank you very much,’ Grace murmured, averting her eyes. She’d decided in advance it was best to say little or nothing until she knew more. Instead, she moved the subject on to safer ground. ‘Your English is very accomplished, Monsieur Tissot.’

‘Thank you.’ He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. ‘That’s precisely why I was chosen to meet with you.’ Taking a seat behind his desk, he searched through a stack of legal files. ‘I’m sorry to make you come all this way, Madame Munroe. However, the terms of the will are quite specific. And of course there are a great many signatures required and other details to attend to.’ He pulled the correct file out, scanning the documents enclosed. ‘Here we are. The inheritance comprises largely the likely proceeds from the sale of a property, as well as a portfolio of stocks which are currently managed by the stockbroking firm of Lancelot et Delp.’

She must’ve misheard him. ‘Pardon me, did you say a property?’

‘Yes. An apartment. Or a flat, as you English say. The deceased was living in it up to the point of her death and therefore unable to liquidate the funds earlier. We’ve had the property assessed and I can assure you, it’s quite valuable.’ He took some official-looking papers out and arranged them on the desk. ‘Madame d’Orsey had a power of attorney prepared, so that we could oversee the sale on your behalf. I only await your signature in order to proceed.’ He looked up. ‘I’m making the assumption, perhaps mistakenly, that you would prefer to have us deal with this matter rather than handle it yourself.’

Grace leaned forward to look at the papers, only the words made no sense. ‘They’re in French. Aren’t they?’

‘Ah! Yes,’ he admitted, shaking his head. ‘I apologize. I would be happy to go through them with you. Or if you prefer, you may have your English lawyer approve them. I can arrange to have them translated—’

‘I’m sorry,’ Grace interrupted, ‘but I’m not entirely certain I understand. Would you mind explaining everything to me again? Slowly?’

‘Yes, of course. Maybe I’m not being very clear. You see, according to the terms of the will, you’re to have the entire proceeds, minus the transaction fees, of the purchase price of Madame d’Orsey’s property holdings. We’re planning to accept bids from several different leading estate agents and then, with your permission of course, we’ll be able to market it. In addition, a portfolio of stocks also comes into your possession. However, they are being managed elsewhere.’

Grace’s mouth was open but she was unable to close it. ‘I’ve inherited stocks and a … an apartment? In Paris?’

‘Well,’ Monsieur Tissot paused, ‘not quite. The will specifies that you are to receive the proceeds of the sale of the property. It’s my understanding that Madame d’Orsey wanted you to have the funds, rather than the property itself. It was always her intention to provide you with a lump sum for your personal use.’

‘A lump sum? For my use?’ It was unnerving to imagine a stranger planning her future in such detail; even a benevolent stranger.

‘Yes, and quite a considerable one at that.’

‘But surely she didn’t intend for the money to go to me, directly?’

‘On the contrary, that’s precisely what she intended. My understanding was that she wanted you to have financial independence. Le droit de choisir was how she put it. The right to choose.’

Grace felt light headed; her hands were tingling with pins and needles. ‘But not for me, personally. What I mean to say is, am I not inheriting this by default, as it were?’

‘Default?’ He frowned.

‘Yes, I mean, surely this was originally meant for someone else, wasn’t it?’

‘Madame, you are the named recipient in the will.’

‘Are you sure?’

Monsieur Tissot’s frown deepened.

Grace tried to swallow but her mouth felt dry, as if her tongue was made of felt. Financial independence. A lump sum. ‘May I trouble you, Monsieur Tissot, for a glass of water, please?’

‘Of course.’ He went to the door and said something to the secretary.

A moment later, he handed her a glass. ‘Are you quite all right? Your cheeks are white. Perhaps you should lie down, Madame Munroe.’

Grace took a sip. ‘I’m a little tired, that’s all. I’m not used to travelling by myself and this, this has come as something of a shock to me.’

‘Of course.’

‘Did …?’ She stopped; started again. ‘I’m sorry, did you know her? Madame d’Orsey?’ She tried to sound casual.

‘I drew up the will with her. But that was all. She was quite a strong personality. It’s a shame that she died so young.’ His face shadowed with concern. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some time alone? I would be more than happy to leave the room.’

‘No, thank you. I feel better now.’ She put the glass down, forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘Monsieur Tissot, are you quite certain … Is it at all possible that you have the wrong Grace Munroe?’

Monsieur Tissot regarded her warily. ‘Why would you ask that?’

‘Are you certain,’ she repeated, ‘that I am the right woman?’

He reached again for the file, taking out an envelope. He handed it to her. ‘Is this you?’

Grace opened it. There was an old newspaper photograph cut out from the society section of The Times. It showed Grace and two other young debutantes in long white strapless ball gowns, standing on the massive sweeping marble staircase at Grosvenor House. The caption underneath read, ‘Miss Grace Maudley, Lady Sophia Hapswood and Miss Daphne Sherbourne attend the Grosvenor House Ball’. There was also a piece of paper, folded. Grace opened it. It was written in a woman’s handwriting, flowing, slanted letters.

Grace Jane Munroe (née Maudley)

39 Woburn Square

London, NW1

Born: 30 May 1928

Only child of Jonathan and Catherine Maudley of The Great Hall, West Challow, Oxfordshire, England

Grace stared at it.

The words seemed to float, blurring together on the page.

‘Madame Munroe?’

Suddenly the room was too hot; too close. The papers slipped through her fingers, drifting to the floor.

‘Would you be so kind as to call me a taxi?’ she heard herself say. ‘I think perhaps I’m a little unwell after all.’

Monsieur Tissot drove her back to her Hotel. They didn’t bother to talk. Instead, Grace stared out of the window at the winding narrow streets and the people, so much more vivid than in London, pushing in and out of shops and businesses. They seemed to be removed from her by more than just language. French people leading French lives. Why was it that anything you couldn’t readily understand became mysterious and glamorous?

When they pulled up at her Hotel, her hand was already on the door handle, pushing it open. ‘Thank you.’

‘Madame Munroe.’ Monsieur Tissot turned off the ignition and faced her. ‘I don’t mean to be intrusive, however, I’m curious. What was your relationship to Madame d’Orsey?’

‘Well, Monsieur Tissot …’ Grace stiffened, assuming her loftiest tone. ‘I’m … I’m not really certain that it’s any of your business.’

He was disturbingly immune to her rudeness, looking at her with a distinctly French mixture of amusement and indulgence. ‘Of that I’m certain.’

She reached again for the door handle.

‘You’ve never met her,’ he guessed.

Grace glared at him. ‘That’s preposterous!’

‘It is preposterous. However I’m right, aren’t I?’

She frowned, pursing her lips tightly together. She should have taken a cab.

Easing back in his seat, he continued, ‘I’ve overseen countless will readings. Never before have I witnessed a beneficiary as perplexed as you are. Is it true, Madame Munroe?’

Grace hesitated. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘So,’ he crossed his arms in front of his chest, ‘you’ve received an inheritance from a woman you’ve never met. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘A woman, if I’m right, you’ve never even heard of.’

She flashed him a look. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Am I right?’ he asked again, ignoring her question.

‘Yes.’

‘Well then,’ he shrugged, ‘why didn’t you say so?’

‘I … I don’t know,’ she faltered. In her panic, she’d imagined more dramatic consequences – possibly a trip to the local police station or the British Embassy. ‘I wasn’t sure what would happen.’

‘Nothing can happen. The inheritance is yours, regardless of whether you knew her or not. You’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘It feels as if I’m stealing,’ she admitted, loosening her grip on the door handle.

‘It is unusual.’

‘Yes. But she had my name and address; that photograph from the newspaper.’

‘Is she a friend of the family?’

‘I suppose she might have known my parents before they died. Still, what kind of person gives her money to a complete stranger? And what kind of stranger just takes it?’

‘I don’t know.’ The whole idea appeared to interest rather than disturb him.

‘Did she ever explain the bequest to you?’

‘No. I only met her once, when she composed the will. She came through another client of ours, Jacques Hiver.’

‘Hiver?’ Grace repeated, trying to place the name. ‘Where have I seen that name before?’

‘In every chemist’s window in the city. He’s the owner of one of the biggest cosmetics companies in France.’

‘Yes, of course!’

Hiver rouge – the advertisement featured a drawing of a beautiful dark-haired woman, blindfolded with a black silk scarf, wearing the deepest shade of red lipstick. Underneath it read simply, Embrasse-moi – kiss me. She’d noticed it because the image seemed so daring; not at all the type of poster one would ever see in England.

‘So,’ she tried to fit the pieces together, ‘Madame d’Orsey was his wife?’

‘Well, no …’ He looked at her sideways. ‘He passed away earlier this year. His wife is still alive. You see, we didn’t handle Monsieur Hiver’s – how do you put it? – legitimate affairs. He had another, much bigger firm for that. We dealt with those matters that required a more delicate legal approach.’

‘In what way delicate?’

‘I believe she was his mistress.’

‘Oh!’

Grace stared at the cobbled street in front of her. Her first inclination was to judge. And yet it wasn’t so easy, when you were on the receiving end of such generosity.

They sat a moment.

‘Did she give you any indication … any clue when she drew up the will, as to why she was giving the money to me?’

He shook his head. ‘The question never arose. She had the information I showed you, which she handed to me as soon as we began. I don’t recall that we ever discussed any personal aspects of the will. She came fully prepared. I remember being very impressed with how clearly she’d outlined her wishes and how straightforward everything was. Her main concern seemed to be that the assets should be liquidized as quickly as possible. And that you should receive the bequest in person. On your own.’

‘Really?’ That was an odd caveat.

He nodded. ‘If you’d come with someone else, I was to ask that they wait outside.’

‘I see.’ It sent a chill through her to think of the care and planning this stranger had expended on her behalf.

It began to rain a little, a soft misting that settled silently on the windscreen.

‘What did she look like?’ she asked quietly.

‘Very striking, with dark hair. She must have only been in her early forties and she was quite attractive. But one could see that she seemed to be in some sort of pain, and I think it wore on her; it showed in her face.’

Grace continued to stare at the cobblestones, now damp and glistening in the flickering lamplight, as the afternoon drew to a close. ‘I have no idea of what to do.’

‘But there’s no need for you to do anything. I can assure you, the will is perfectly legal and binding. Once you sign the papers, you can simply take the proceeds and return to London.’

‘But how?’ Couldn’t he see how impossible that was? ‘I couldn’t live my life without even knowing who she was or why she gave it to me. It would drive me mad!’

‘Think of it like winning a lottery,’ he suggested.

‘I don’t believe in gambling, Monsieur Tissot. To me, chance isn’t random. The universe is bound by unseen threads. We have only to untangle them a little to see a pattern unfold.’ She turned to face him. ‘Are you certain there hasn’t been a mistake?’

He straightened, clearly irritated at the inference. ‘I can assure you, I’m not in the habit of making mistakes. And I have no evidence that Eva d’Orsey did either. On the contrary, all the information she has provided has been correct so far.’

Grace sighed, running her hand across her eyes. There were no answers, only more questions. Now her head was beginning to ache. ‘I’m completely at a loss. I honestly have no idea of where to begin.’

He thought a moment.

He’d been instructed by the senior partners to deal with this case as quickly and discreetly as possible. They were eager to prevent any scandal that might impact on the remaining Hiver family members. But he hadn’t expected Madame Munroe to be quite so baffled by the situation. And he found her reluctance to simply accept the bequest intriguing. Her insistence to know more hinted at some measure of character; a quality he found increasingly rare these days. And so, despite his instructions, Monsieur Tissot made an unorthodox decision. ‘Well, then.’ He turned on the ignition. ‘You need help,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Madame Munroe, I’d like to be of assistance but I can’t do anything until I’ve had my supper.’ He pulled out. ‘There’s a bistro round the corner.’

She looked at him in surprise. ‘And you’re taking me with you?’

‘Do you have plans?’

‘I … No.’

‘Then it seems the kindest thing to do.’ And for the first time he smiled; a rather surprising, angular grin, punctuated by two dimples. ‘I cannot solve your mystery, but at least I can feed you.’

Monsieur Tissot took Grace to a café with a bistro on one side and a more formal restaurant on the other. The staff seemed to know him there and quickly seated them at a corner table, where they sat, side by side, looking out on to the rest of the room. Grace hadn’t dined alone with a man who wasn’t her husband since her marriage. But perhaps because of the circumstances, or the strangeness of the country, it was easier than she imagined. Monsieur Tissot didn’t seem to require or expect conversation. Instead they sat, watching the other diners – a fascinating occupation in itself.

Grace surveyed the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the ragout de cou d’agneau,’ she decided, closing it.

‘The lamb’s neck stew? Excellent choice.’

‘Lamb’s neck?’ She picked up the menu again.

He grinned. ‘Shall I order for both of us?’

‘Well …’ She scanned the entrées again, searching for something familiar. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a very sophisticated palate. By French standards, that is.’

‘Well then,’ he leaned back, stretching out his long legs, ‘tell me what you like to eat at home and I will advise you.’

‘Well, I suppose I eat a great deal of … toast.’

‘Toast?’ He cocked his head, as if perhaps he hadn’t heard her correctly. ‘I’m sorry. Out of choice?’

‘The thing is, I’m not used to anything too … too French.’

‘You are in Paris, madame.’

‘Yes, but you know what I mean, don’t you? Dishes with too much flavour?’

‘How can anything possibly have too much flavour?’

‘What I mean is too many strong flavours, like onions and garlic …’

They gazed at each other across a great cultural divide.

Grace gave up; put the menu down. ‘Yes. I trust you.’

The waiter came up and Monsieur Tissot ordered for both of them – salade mixte, poule au pot, and a bottle of vin rouge.

He poured her a glass, passing the bread. And she realized that she was very hungry. Lunch had passed and she’d forgotten about it. She tore off a piece of baguette; it was both crusty and soft, still warm in the centre. It was amazing how something so simple, so basic could be this delicious. And so completely different from its counterpart in England.

‘Who is this woman?’ Grace wondered aloud, devouring the bread. ‘That’s the question. And why on earth is she giving me this money?’

‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘But what I’d like to know is – what do you propose to do with it?’

She hadn’t considered that, perhaps because she didn’t really believe the money belonged to her.

‘I’m not sure.’ She took a sip of wine.

‘You could buy a new house, travel, collect art, invest …’

‘Perhaps.’ She wasn’t familiar with making financial decisions. ‘I suppose the best thing would be to discuss it with a professional lawyer.’

He folded his hands in front of him. ‘I’m lawyer.’

‘Well, yes, but I need one versed in English law.’

‘Yes but they can only advise you. What would you like to do with it?’ he pressed.

Grace thought a moment. ‘Live, Monsieur Tissot. I’d like to live in great comfort. And peace.’ And then she added, quite to her surprise, ‘With no one to tell me what to do or how to do it.’

He raised his glass. ‘An admirable aspiration!’

‘Are you making fun of me?’

‘No, I’m quite serious. People take for granted what is in fact an art. To live well, to live comfortably by one’s own standards takes a certain maturity of spirit, exceptional character, truly refined taste, and—’

‘And money.’ She tore off another piece of bread.

‘It helps.’

She looked at him sideways. Perhaps it was being in Paris or the bizarre situation but she felt free to ask, ‘Do you live by your own standards?’

He thought a moment. ‘I believe it’s a privilege, madam. One that’s earned through a certain amount of courage and adversity.’

She laughed, shook her head. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Sometimes,’ he smiled. ‘Sometimes I do and other times I do what’s expected of me.’

It was an oddly frank thing to say; one that, nevertheless, Grace understood. Only she’d never heard anyone say it out loud. He looked away, moving the subject back to safer territory. ‘And where would you live this life of comfort?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe by the sea. But wherever it is, they would make this bread.’

‘And your husband? What does he make of all this?’

He caught her off guard. It was the first time in hours she’d even thought of Roger. And now, to her surprise, she wasn’t certain what to say. ‘My husband?’

‘Yes. What does he think?’

Looking down, she brushed a few crumbs carefully off the tablecloth, ‘I don’t know. The truth is, I haven’t had the opportunity to discuss it with him.’

‘I see.’ He looked as if he didn’t entirely believe this. ‘Well, he’s bound to have some ideas of his own.’

‘Yes, that’s for certain.’

There was a polite silence.

‘There are some magnificent coastlines in the South of France,’ Monsieur Tissot said after a while.

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed, grateful he wasn’t pursuing the subject of her husband. ‘I’ve never been but that’s what I’ve been told.’

The chicken was served in a thick red clay pot with a lid, simmered with vegetables and small new potatoes. Warm and succulent, the meat fell from the bone. It was a simple dish yet filled with subtle layers of flavour. It struck her as lavish and exotic. When Monsieur Tissot explained that it was essentially peasant fare, she was amazed.

‘Chicken in a pot,’ he explained, with a little shrug. ‘You said you wanted something plain.’

‘It’s delicious.’

Customers came and went, some for supper, some just for coffee. The small café was the centre of its own little universe, swirling with its own local population. Everyone seemed to know each other, and to have passionate views they never even considered keeping to themselves. They spoke freely, tossing unsolicited advice and opinions across tables. A family came in, several married couples, a pair of quite nicely dressed elderly women, a pile of young men on their way to a club, a single old man reading the paper, a couple of middle-aged women … They watched and ate and, to Grace’s delight, Monsieur Tissot would occasionally interpret for her.

He nodded in the direction of the two women, now sitting tête-à-tête. ‘They’ve been to the cinema,’ his voice was low. ‘This one says she didn’t like the mother. And the leading man was too fat but had a nice face.’

‘What film was it?’

‘Humm,’ he strained to hear. ‘Marty? Apparently they both cried at the end. And now they’re having a drink to make themselves feel better.’

‘Oh, yes! I want to see that. I’ve heard it’s quite good.’

‘And over there.’ He pointed to an elderly couple involved in a heated discussion – he was shaking his head and she was folding her napkin, planting it firmly on the table, preparing to walk out. ‘He says he thinks the veal is fine. She knows it’s got too many capers and not enough lemon.’

Grace couldn’t believe it. ‘They’re fighting like that about food?’

He nodded.

‘That would never happen in England.’

‘I know,’ he smiled.

Afterwards, since the rain had stopped, he walked her the short distance back to the Hotel.

She stopped outside. ‘Monsieur Tissot, am I correct in assuming from what you’ve said that you have access to Madame d’Orsey’s apartment?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And that it’s not been sold yet?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’ Grace folded her arms across her chest. ‘Then I would like to see it, please.’

He hesitated. ‘My instructions were to ensure you were in receipt of the proceeds from the sale. I don’t believe it was ever Madame d’Orsey’s intention that you should visit the property.’

‘Perhaps,’ Grace countered, ‘but without my signature on the power of attorney, there will be no sale. Am I right?’

‘Yeees …’ he said slowly. ‘That’s true.’

‘And this is a situation which requires a delicate legal approach.’

His eyes narrowed ‘You’re quite tenacious, aren’t you?’

‘And I believe you’re stalling.’

Rocking back on his heels, Monsieur Tissot pushed his hands deep into his pockets. She was more resourceful than he’d given her credit for. And she was also intelligent and amusing in a very particular English way. He could easily show her the apartment and still complete this business quickly. ‘Very well, Madame Munroe. What time tomorrow would you like me to collect you?’

New York, 1927

Almost every night there was some sort of party at the Hotel. Many started in the bar then worked their way up into the rooms. But often there were simply outbreaks of dancing and drunkenness which flared up, taking over whole floors without warning like a kind of impromptu orgy. Doors would be propped open, and guests who formerly hadn’t even been on nodding terms gathered in hallways, collecting in doorways, laughing and shouting, music and smoke filling the air. Illegal liquor appeared, bottles were passed; more ice and glasses were in constant demand. Within the hour, cars pulled up outside, from the opposite end of town or the suburbs, laden with fresh recruits; girls piled on each other’s laps, shrieking with delight and young men wearing evening jackets, as if they’d been permanently on call for just such an occasion. Racing past the doorman, they followed the noise like bloodhounds tracking a scent, fearful of missing ‘the best bits’.

The chorus girls were famous for these ongoing revelries; interrupted only briefly by bouts of sobriety and the occasional comatose slumber. The entire cast of the Follies seemed to be condemned to the Sisyphean fate of forever reeling from room to room, floor to floor, searching for the next cocktail, the next dance partner, the next eruption of intensity. The following morning, or more often late in the afternoon, survivors could be found wandering bleary-eyed round the corridors and lobby; girls without shoes and missing their handbags, men clutching car keys, with only the vaguest memory of where they might have parked, politely enquiring as to where they were before heading off again.

Cleaning up after these affairs was far less glamorous. It wasn’t unusual to discover that someone had relieved themselves on the balcony, in a potted palm or an ice bucket; stray stockings and missing undergarments were wound about bedposts, jammed into dumb waiters and stuffed between sofa cushions; pools of vomit attracted flies and cockroaches and, along with blood and lipstick, required intense bouts of scrubbing to remove from the carpet. Almost once a week a body would turn up somewhere, sometimes quite dead looking, but usually in a state of extreme intoxication; a person no one knew or remembered, who was eventually carted off by the police to the local hospital.

At the same time, movie and Broadway stars were apt to manifest like sudden, dazzling apparitions. Douglas Fairbanks, Will Rogers, John Gilbert and W. C. Fields frequently charmed young women in the bar, while Ruth Etting, Marion Davies and Fanny Brice could be glimpsed, wrapped in furs, gliding through the lobby before disappearing into chauffeur-driven cars.

The air itself crackled with undercurrents of possibility. Fame, intoxication, sudden sexual encounters – both welcome and unwelcome – simply materialized, as unstoppable and unpredictable as the weather.

And in the summer time, it only got worse.

‘Mr Waxman has tried to commit suicide again,’ Sis sighed, when they were folding linens one stifling Tuesday morning.

‘What do you mean, again?’

‘He does it every once in a while. Gets too drunk, starts hollering and then goes out on the ledge and stands around a while. He’s gonna have to leave. They already asked him to leave once but they’re gonna have to get the police to do it this time.’

‘Why does he do it?’

‘Question is, why doesn’t he do it? I mean, if you’re gonna jump, jump! It’s all this in-and-out business that’s so upsetting. He’s meant to be writing some movie or something and every once in a while he just has to get out there and make a fuss. “There’s nothing to live for! This is it! There is no God! Nothing can save you!” Last year everyone panicked. This year they just let him go on and after a while he climbed back in and ran himself a bath.’

‘Doesn’t he know suicide is a sin?’

‘So’s standing around on a ledge upsetting everyone. Besides, Mr Waxman’s a Jew. They can do what they like.’

‘Who knows.’ Eva rearranged a row of fresh sheets. ‘Maybe he has a point.’

Sis glared at her. It was far too hot already, making everyone more irritable. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just saying …’

‘Oh, honestly!’ Sis shook out a bath towel with an imperious snap. ‘God has better things to do than float Mr Waxman down from the eleventh floor. And I’m not gonna let some crazy man dictate to me about the nature of the divine.’ Then she stopped. ‘Hey, heathen, where’d you get those shoes?’

‘Do you like them?’ Eva showcased the sophisticated t-bar design with a twirling dance move. They were only slightly too big around the heel.

‘Sure. But where’d you get them?’

‘Gino gave them to me. Said his sister outgrew them.’

‘You mean Pots and Pans?’

Eva nodded. Gino was a dish washer in the kitchen.

Sis put her hands on her hips. ‘And he gave you shoes? What’s his sister doing with a pair of shoes like that anyhow?’

‘I don’t know,’ Eva shrugged. Why was Sis making such a thing of it? ‘I thought it was nice of him.’

‘Humm,’ Sis frowned.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nobody ever gives anything away for free.’

‘You’re a cynic.’

‘And you’re too young to be wearing high-heeled shoes. He has designs on you.’

Eva wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s an old man! Besides, they’re hardly worn.’

Sis moved the stack of towels Eva had just arranged to the opposite side of the cupboard. ‘Old or not, he’s a man. Give ’em back or you’ll find yourself living in a two-room apartment in Brooklyn with his entire family.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Honey, to my knowledge, he doesn’t even have a sister.’

Eva’s heart sank. ‘He doesn’t?’

Sis shook her head. ‘Say they don’t fit you and give ’em back. Say your aunt is going to get you a new pair. You can’t be too careful.’ Sis turned out the light and closed the linen closet door. ‘Mr Waxman’s not the only crazy person around here.’

Eva looked wistfully down at her feet. They’d been without a doubt the most exciting thing she’d ever worn in her life. Then she thought of Pots and Pans; his balding head and the way the spit gathered in the side of his mouth, forming a little pocket of foam when he spoke. ‘I guess you’re right.’

‘Of course I am.’ Sis headed down the hallway. ‘And whatever you do, don’t talk to Mr Lambert in 313.’

‘Why not?’ Eva ran to catch up with her, which was more difficult than she thought in the new red shoes.

‘He’s a Dangerous Man. You know Otto, from reception?’

‘The one with the red moustache?’

‘That’s the one. He has it on good authority that Mr Lambert is a communist. Do you know what that is?’

‘Not really.’

Sis turned on her. ‘Oh, they’re just the worst! For example, they believe in common property. Do you know what that means? What I have would belong to you too and vice versa. Isn’t that barbaric?’

Eva thought about Sis’s bolt of Irish lace. ‘I guess so.’

‘Otto says he believes in blacks marrying whites, white people not marrying at all, everyone living in communes and the entire overthrow of democracy.’

Eva tried to imagine a black man marrying a white woman. What colour would their children be?

‘And real communists, the ones in Russia, have no religion at all. It’s outlawed. There’s not a church for thousands of miles!’

‘What do they do on Sunday mornings?’

‘Nothing. No God, no heaven, no hell. I mean, that’s just asking for trouble.’ She sighed deeply. ‘He’s a Fallen Man, my friend. Forsaken. He only stays here because they won’t let him back into the Continental on account of the oyster incident.’

Eva’s eyes widened. ‘What’s the oyster incident?’

‘Believe me,’ Sis waggled a finger in Eva’s face, ‘you don’t want to know! But I’ll tell you this, the young lady involved was very offended.’

They’d reached the end of the corridor, where the service trolleys were kept.

‘You may have to clean his room,’ Sis continued, ‘but don’t talk to him. And don’t let him tell you about any of his ideas.’

‘OK.’ Eva pulled out her cart and adjusted her cap again, which kept falling down about her ears.

A jumper in room 1129 and an Enemy of the State in 313.

She was definitely going to need extra towels.

For the first week, Eva hardly saw Mr Lambert. Then one day she noticed him locking his room, heading down the hallway.

He was distracted; head down, in a hurry. He looked like any other middle-aged man; of average height, not fat or too slim, brown hair. His gait was awkward, as if one leg faltered, but it appeared not to bother him.

She stared hard.

He didn’t look fallen. Or did he?

‘Good morning, Mr Lambert.’

She didn’t know quite why she did it. And she said it softly, under her breath.

He hadn’t heard her.

So she said it again, a little louder.

‘Good morning, Mr Lambert.’

(Sis was going to kill her.)

Stopping, he turned and looked straight at her. He didn’t have the eager enthusiasm of an American but seemed to weigh up whether he would speak or not.

‘Good morning.’ His voice was low and cultured and he tipped his hat, ever so slightly, before heading down the hallway again.

Eva watched, terrified and thrilled, as he turned the corner.

He had eyes so blue they were almost navy and a thin dark moustache just like John Gilbert. Sis had neglected to mention he was handsome.

Eva let herself into his room.

There was that particular stillness which pervades after a flurry of activity; a palpable sense of energy settling. She walked into the bathroom; the air was still damp and humid, smelling of soap, warm flesh and aftershave.

Picking up the wet towels from the floor, she washed the dark hairs from the drain, wiped everything down, arranged his shaving kit and toothbrush at right angles on either side of the sink. Eva collected his laundry, retrieved stray socks from under the armchairs, and smoothed the rumpled sheets of his bed where he’d lain only twenty minutes before, propped up on one arm, reading the morning newspaper and drinking coffee. Was it her imagination or were they still almost warm?

She felt a closeness to him she didn’t feel for any of the other guests. A proximity that mimicked intimacy.

There were extra glasses in his room, one smeared in lipstick marks, a cheap waxy shade of bright pink. What kind of man wanted to look at that on a girl’s face?

Eva put the glasses in her cart and took out fresh ones. But as she dusted and hoovered, she spotted nothing more damning – no strange leaflets with slogans calling for the overthrow of Western civilisation, no foreign newspapers or telegrams in other languages; not even the odd book in Russian.

Eva opened the window to let air in and turned round. The room was clean.

Still, she lingered just a bit longer than she needed to.

According to Sis, men were both stupid and dangerous, in much the same way that poison ivy is one of God’s worst ideas and all too easy to catch. But there was clearly a world of difference between Pots and Pans’s high-heeled shoes and the refined corruptions of Mr Lambert.

Fallen women were common; all you had to do was have sex before you were married to qualify. But for a man to fall required much more – a deliberate turning away from God, a conscious decision. Such decisions were rare. Religious sloppiness was easy. Rejection required moral and intellectual convictions.

For this reason, along with the way he tipped his hat and the unnatural blueness of his eyes, Eva decided that Mr Lambert was worthy of respect.

Paris, Spring, 1955

There was a chill in the air as they got out of Monsieur Tissot’s tiny red Citroën and walked across the park in the centre of the Place des Vosges, the oldest residential square in Paris. It was a vast, elegant enterprise, a triumph of early civic planning with an aesthetic unity rarely seen in a public structure. Imposing brick buildings bordered the central park on all sides, built over galleries which housed shops and restaurants.

Grace surveyed the symmetrically arranged park with its formal fountains, rows of thick, boxy yew trees and neat gravel paths. ‘This is very posh.’

‘Very posh indeed. It was first built in the early 1600s.’

‘I had no idea it would be so grand. It must be expensive.’

‘I believe the apartment was a gift.’

‘From whom?’

‘I understand that it’s been in the Hiver family for years.’

‘Is that usual?’ It struck Grace as particularly brazen to have the two worlds so closely intertwined. ‘I mean, to give a mistress a family property?’

‘The rich make their own rules.’

‘It isn’t at all what I was expecting.’ She bit her lower lip uncertainly.

Monsieur Tissot looked across at her. ‘Were you hoping for a garret?’

‘I don’t know … I suppose so.’

‘We don’t have to go in, if you’d rather not.’

‘I know.’ Pushing her hands deeper into her coat pockets, Grace slipped her fingers round her father’s old lighter for comfort. ‘But I want to.’

Monsieur Tissot led her through the galleries and into a narrow passageway with a wrought-iron gate. Pushing it open, they walked into a courtyard beyond, a kind of rectangular-shaped, cobblestone space with a small fountain in the middle. Ivy wound, reaching its long tendrils, thick and deep green, up the side of the building, which was classical in proportions, the red brick augmented by ivory stone. Large French windows, leading to balconies, looked out on to the courtyard from the first and second floors. Above, shutters covered the windows on the higher floors. The flagstone steps, with their curving wrought-iron handrail, were worn away in the centre from centuries of use. And the front door was stripped oak, two massive arched panels with gleaming brass knobs.

‘I’ll talk to the concierge. She has a set of keys.’ Monsieur Tissot walked round to a side passage and knocked on the concierge’s door. Grace waited, standing a little apart, out of sight. After a few minutes, he returned.

‘We’re in luck. The apartment is empty. It was cleared a few days ago. I explained that you were Madame d’Orsey’s heir and she was very obliging.’

He unlocked the outer door and Grace followed him in through the front entrance. A high spiral staircase wound above them.

A gust of wind sent a few dry leaves spinning round their feet. Grace pulled her coat around her. She had the uncomfortable feeling of trespassing. But it was too late now; her feet were already in motion, following Monsieur Tissot up to the first floor. 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.

There was no reply.

‘Hello?’

Again, another knock.

Grace went into the front hallway. Listened. If she did nothing, maybe they’d go away.

But they didn’t; the knocking continued.

Grace opened the door. ‘Oh, hello!’ She smiled in relief.

A young girl was standing on the landing, holding a cardboard box. She was maybe thirteen or fourteen, with even brown plaits and a serious face.

‘May I help you?’

‘Bonjour, madame. Parlez-vous français?’ she asked, pronouncing each word with exaggerated clarity.

‘Ah, well, oui … un peu … mais je ne parle pas très bien …’

‘I speak some English.’ (Obviously the answer to the girl’s question was ‘no’.) ‘The man downstairs said you were, ah, the heir? Is this true?’

‘Ah, yes. I suppose I am.’

‘Yes, um, my mother, she wanted you to have this.’ The girl handed her the box.

‘I’m sorry, who is your mother?’

‘Pardon.’ The girl was looking down at her shoes. ‘She is the concierge, Madame Assange. She says this is for you.’

‘Really?’

‘You’re English, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this is you, yes?’ She pointed to the top of the box.

Scrawled across one corner was her name: Grace Munroe.

Grace felt her skin go cold. It was written in the same, strong slanted hand she’d seen on the paper in Monsieur Tissot’s office. ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘That’s me.’

Grace opened the lid.

Inside was a collection of half a dozen small china figurines, wrapped in newspaper; delicate frolicking shepherdesses with white faces and flowered gowns, the kind of inexpensive, sentimental bric-a-brac she abhorred.

‘Madame d’Orsey gave them to Maman for you, to keep safe. She didn’t want Monsieur Migret to have them.’

‘Who is Monsieur Migret?’

‘Monsieur Migret owns … ah … l’antiquaire … Il vend … he sells les bibelots … um … les deuxième main …’ the girl pointed to her hand.

‘A second-hand shop?’ Grace guessed. (She’d always been good at charades.)

‘Yes,’ the girl nodded. ‘Second-hand. He clears the house when someone dies.’

‘And he cleared this apartment?’

‘Yes.’ The girl turned to go.

‘Wait,’ Grace stopped her. ‘This Monsieur Migret, do you know where his business is?’

‘He has a shop … um … on Rue Saint-Claude.’

‘Rue Saint-Claude,’ Grace repeated, committing it to memory. ‘Is that close?’

‘A few streets away.’

‘Thank you.’ Grace another took a step forward. ‘Do you think, perhaps, I could meet your mother? I would like to thank her and to speak to her, about Madame d’Orsey.’

The girl hesitated, her face suddenly guarded. ‘My mother does not speak English, madame.’

‘Yes, but maybe you could help me,’ Grace suggested, with a smile. ‘You could sit between us. Or Monsieur Tissot, the man you met downstairs, he would help.’

The girl’s brow furrowed. ‘She does not like gossip.’

‘But this wouldn’t be gossip. I just have a few questions about what Madame d’Orsey was like.’

‘Yes, well …’ The girl inched away from the door. ‘I will let her know. She is very busy though.’

She started back down the steps.

‘Did you know her?’ Grace called after her.

The girl turned. ‘Madame d’Orsey?’

‘Yes.’

She thought a moment. ‘She gave me a doll once for my birthday. I was five. It was very pretty – with blonde curls made from real hair and a china face. The nicest one I have ever owned.’

‘So she was a friend of the family?’

The girl looked at her blankly. ‘Oh no, madame. My mother would not let me keep it.’

‘Why not?’

The girl shifted. ‘You will have to ask her, madame.’

Grace watched as she slipped into the shadows of the hallway and down the stairs. Far below, she heard urgent, muted voices, speaking in French. Then a door closed and there was silence.