Книга - The Perfume Collector

The Perfume Collector
Kathleen Tessaro


A secret history of scent, memory and desire from the Sunday Times bestselling author of ELEGANCE and THE DEBUTANTE.One letter will turn newly-married Grace Munroe’s life upside down:‘Our firm is handling the estate of the deceased Mrs Eva D’Orsey and it is our duty to inform you that you are named as the chief beneficiary in her will.’So begins a journey which leads Grace through the streets of Paris and into the seductive world of perfumers and their muses. An abandoned perfume shop on the Left Bank will lead her to unravel the heartbreaking story of her mysterious benefactor, an extraordinary woman who bewitched high society in 1920s New York and Paris.




















Copyright (#ulink_33133f79-c9c4-5add-a417-4e3cfac1bf0c)


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Kathleen Tessaro 2013

Kathleen Tessaro asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007419845

Ebook Edition © April 2013 ISBN: 9780007419838

Version: 2017-11-29


Contents

Title Page (#u313779bc-db01-5722-90d5-d84438e935ac)

Copyright (#uf982a321-e04f-58ca-9f7f-7bee66ada046)

Dedication (#uf3611230-8f94-573c-ad23-acf3d72547d5)

Paris, Winter 1954 (#ub3256b9b-e341-5293-9694-3ea523c67139)

London, Spring 1955 (#u7db5512f-5f48-5a49-bd71-5b43e4fc3a4f)

New York City, 1927 (#u5476d334-6d4a-5050-b539-163bf1557ac6)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u5ae284a1-2334-5d9a-840c-52b47de552b7)

New York, 1927 (#ua0d08b71-e471-5303-ab87-166ebbbbdbf4)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#ue27ba032-e7b0-591f-8a8b-e1c4d1528e32)

New York, 1927 (#u8204842e-2144-5a4c-8793-99d3f6fc1520)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u9d0bb334-c3f5-5a80-9156-457221970420)

New York, 1927 (#u26200dbf-3c3d-5e5f-a819-be9305812b47)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#uc42f14b6-bb52-5312-b01a-92b0b7711f3d)

New York, 1927 (#u868279fb-9500-5b4a-a880-9157cbb69c68)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#udce8fe0f-17e2-5837-b705-2ffa0e828ba3)

New York, 1927 (#uc954446b-7140-5a04-86a6-85c2d51897e5)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u6d4afaaf-0748-5181-96e2-482f7ade5054)

New York, 1927 (#u8d0b046a-7edf-50a6-adfd-12637e7bef4d)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#ub034c85d-370d-561f-bdf8-05da228b4511)

New York, 1927 (#u9031d118-6970-5c4d-a1f4-32a62aca546f)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u65bab21e-a29d-556f-af1d-11ca57ef8ae4)

Hôtel Hermitage, Monte Carlo, 1932 (#udca3282a-b58e-5968-a165-bb054f5e84c7)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u8ab77b47-e444-563e-a752-71b7841893bd)

Crawley, West London, 1928 (#u59e9d90a-712e-5564-9ad9-ad0ba2209005)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u52ff5ff4-ba0e-5902-abbe-2f20cd0b0771)

West Challow, Oxfordshire, England, 1935 (#u3963afd3-8be7-5eb4-a249-bfe357ad80ab)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u92bce4c5-b87e-5fc3-9711-0bce6b3c7557)

Paris, September 1942, during the Nazi occupation (#u90a23239-eabf-5f39-ad01-2403d136d0e3)

Paris, Spring, 1955 (#u4a1e6931-eb3d-51fe-8b87-054474f40288)

Paris, Winter, 1954 (#ubf581a48-7aee-5f40-a0f0-668a354b8b39)

Acknowledgements (#u56f82b50-d3a5-5c70-9fac-d5a4b9faebb6)

Keep Reading – Rare Objects (#ub18e821a-6229-5809-8f91-2646ec02c222)

Also by Kathleen Tessaro (#u8dc5160e-20d2-5b12-baaf-6ebc75fe2fb3)

About the Publisher (#u16843994-32f8-53b7-a966-0f20d4ccd1d8)


For my son EddieAlways, evermore … and then some




Paris, Winter 1954 (#ulink_c91cefab-3b32-587f-92f8-7e1ac23257a9)







Eva d’Orsey sat at the kitchen table, listening to the ticking clock, a copy of Le Figaro in front of her. This was the sound of time, moving away from her.

Taking another drag from a cigarette, she looked out of the window, into the cold misty morning. Paris was waking now, the grey dawn, streaked with orange, seeping slowly into a navy sky. She’d been up for hours, since four. Sleep had inched away from her these past years as the pain increased, shooting up along the left side of her body.

The doctor had given up on her months ago. His diagnosis: she was not a good patient; arrogant, refused to follow directions. The cirrhosis was spreading rapidly now, pitting her liver like a sponge. For him it was simple: she had to stop drinking.

‘You’re not even trying,’ he’d reprimanded her at the last appointment.

She was buttoning her blouse, on top of the examination table. ‘I’m having difficulty sleeping.’

‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ he sighed. ‘Your liver is completely inflamed.’

She caught his eye. ‘I need something to help me.’

Shaking his head, he crossed to his desk; scribbled out a prescription. ‘I shouldn’t even give you these, you know. Take only one, they’re very strong,’ he warned, handing her the script.

‘Thank you.’

Still, he couldn’t resist one last try. ‘Why don’t you at least cut down on smoking?’

Why indeed?

Exhaling, Eva stubbed the Gitanes cigarette out in the ashtray. They were common – too strong. Unladylike. But that suited her. She could only taste strong flavours now. Cheap chocolate, coarse pâté, black coffee. What she ate didn’t matter anyway; she had no appetite left.

There was something naïve, sweetly arrogant about the doctor’s assumption that everyone wanted to live forever.

Picking up a pen, she traced a ring of even circles along the border of the newspaper.

There were still a few more details to be arranged. She’d been to the lawyer weeks ago, a diligent, rather aloof young man. And she’d left the box with the sour-faced concierge, Madame Assange, for safe keeping. But last night, when she couldn’t sleep, another idea occurred to her. There was the passage, from London to Paris. The idea of an aeroplane intrigued her. It was extravagant and unnecessary. But there were a few things a person should experience in life; air travel was definitely one of them. She smiled to herself, imagining the approach to Paris, the miles of cold, blue sea and then the first sighting of the city.

She winced. Pain again, knife stabs, followed by numbness down the side of her body.

She thought about the bottle of cognac. She didn’t want to drink during the day. After 6 p.m. was her new rule. At least that’s what she planned. But her hands were shaking now; her stomach lurched.

No. She would run a bath. Dress. And go to 7.30 Mass at Eglise de la Madeleine. Of all the churches in Paris, this was her favourite. There, Mary Magdalene, that wayward, difficult daughter of the Church, ascended regally into heaven on the arms of angels all day, every day.

Mass was like grand opera, a magic show with the most expensive props in town. And faith, a sleight of hand trick, in which one was both the magician and the audience; the deceiver and the deceived. Still, who could resist a good magic trick?

Folding over the paper, Eva pushed out her chair and stood up.

She would wear her best navy suit, sit in the front pew with the faithful. Together they’d listen to the young priest, Father Paul, struggle to make sense of the scripture, try with all his considerable intellect to apply it to the present day. He didn’t always succeed. He didn’t know how to justify the inconsistencies; hadn’t yet realized that they themselves were the mystery. Still, his mental adroitness pleased her, almost as much as it pleased him. Frequently he was reduced to searching through layers of various possible Hebrew translations for an unexpected verb form to finally shed light on some vast spiritual contradiction. But his heroism in trying wasn’t lost on her. And she valued those who tried, especially those whose struggles were public and obvious.

Of course he didn’t see it that way. Only a few years out of seminary, he imagined he was imparting spiritual sustenance and guidance to his flock. What he didn’t understand was that his elderly parishioners, mostly women, were there for him, rather than the other way around. Father Paul was at the start of life. His glassy convictions needed protection. They waited patiently until he too succumbed to the unbearable unevenness of God’s will, the sureness of his grace, the darkness of his mercy.

These thoughts calmed her. Her mind was off, whirring again on a familiar track: the paradoxes of faith and doubt. Like a worn piece of fabric, made soft by much handling, comforting to the touch.

Mass and then, yes, the travel agent.

Taking the ashtray to the sink, she emptied it, rinsed it out. Below, in the alleyway, something moved … a looming shadow – shifting, cutting. Black wings beating, wheeling as one, until they filled the entire wall opposite, blotting out the pale rays of the winter sun.

Suddenly another memory took hold. A breathless, stumbling terror; the smell of green fields and damp woodland – and a massive flock of ravens, reeling across the open sky, wings glistening like ebony, beaks like razors – crying, shrieking.

Eva grasped the counter, pressed her eyes closed. The ashtray dropped, clattering into the porcelain sink.

It shattered.

‘Damn!’

Eva peered warily out the window, her heart still pounding. The shadow was gone. A flock of common city pigeons most likely.

Picking up the pieces, she lined them up on the counter top. It was an old, inexpensive object. But it reminded her of another time, when life was full of beginnings.

The clock ticked loudly.

She wavered only a moment.

Reaching for a glass, Eva took down the bottle of cheap cognac and poured with unsteady hands, gulping it down. Instantly the alcohol warmed her, radiating out through her limbs; taking the edge off.

That doctor understood nothing.

He didn’t know what it was like to live between memory and regret with nothing to numb it.

Pouring another, Eva ran her finger over the rough edge of the broken porcelain.

She would glue it.

Bathe.

Wear her navy suit.

Tilting her head back, she took another swallow.

It didn’t matter any more if the cracks showed.




London, Spring 1955 (#ulink_e0e0be1e-f335-5026-809e-dc1669fe4f92)







Grace Munroe woke up with a start, gasping for breath.

She’d been running, stumbling, over uneven ground, in a thick, dense forest; searching, calling out. But the harder she ran the more impenetrable the woodland became. Vines grew, twisting beneath her feet, branches whipped against her face, arms and legs. And there was the panicky feeling that time was running out. She was chasing someone or something. But it was always just ahead, out of reach. Suddenly she lost her footing, tumbling head over heels into a deep, rocky ravine.

Heart pounding in her chest, Grace took a moment, blinking in the dusky half-light, to realize that she was in her own bedroom, lying on top of her bed.

It was a dream.

Only a dream.

Reaching across, she turned on the bedside lamp, falling back against the pillows. Her heart was still galloping, hands trembling. It was an old nightmare, from her childhood. She thought she’d grown out of it. But now, after years, it was back.

How long had she been asleep anyway? She looked across at the alarm clock. Nearly 6.30. Damn.

She’d only meant to take fifteen minutes. But it had been nearly an hour.

Mallory would be here any minute and she still had to dress. Grace didn’t want to go tonight, only she’d promised her friend.

Going to the window overlooking Woburn Square below, Grace pulled back the heavy curtains.

It was late afternoon in April, the time of year when the daylight hours stretched eagerly towards summer and the early evening light was a delicate Wedgwood blue, gilded with the promise of future warmth. The plane trees lining the square bore the very beginnings of tender, bright green buds on their branches that in the summer would form a thick emerald canopy. Only now they were just twigs, shaking violently with each gust of icy wind.

The central garden had been dug and planted with produce during the war; its railings had been melted down and had yet to be restored. The buildings that survived in the area were blackened by smoke and pitted from shrapnel.

There was a sense of quickening in the air, the change of seasons, of hope tempered by the impending nightfall. Outside, the birds sang, green shoots of hyacinth and narcissus swayed in the wind. Warm in the sun, freezing in the shade, it was a season of extremes.

Grace had a fondness for the sharpness of this time of year; for the muted, shifting light that played tricks on her eyes. It was a time of mysterious, yet dramatic metamorphosis. One minute there was nothing but storms and rain; a moment later a field of daffodils appeared, exploding triumphantly into a fanfare of colour.

Grace pressed her fingertips against the cold glass of the window. This was not, as her husband Roger put it, their real house. He had more ambitious plans for something grander, closer to Belgravia. But Grace liked it here; being in the centre of Bloomsbury, close to London University and King’s College, it reminded her of Oxford, where she’d lived with her uncle until only a few years ago. It was filled with activity; businesses and offices, and students rushing to class. In the street below, a current of office workers, wrapped in raincoats, heads bent against the wind, moved in a steady stream towards the Underground station after work.

Grace leaned her head against the window frame.

It must be nice to have a job. A neatly arranged desk. A well-organized filing cabinet. And most of all, purpose.

Now that she was married, her days had a weary open-endedness about them; she floated like a balloon from one social obligation to another.

Roger took each engagement very seriously. ‘Did you speak to anyone at the Conservative Ladies Club luncheon? Whom did you sit next to? Tell me who was there.’

He was uncannily skilled at dissecting hidden meaning behind every interaction.

‘They put you at the first table, near the front. That’s good. Make certain you write to Mona Riley and thank her for the invitation. Perhaps you could arrange an informal dinner? Or better yet, invite her for tea somewhere and see if you can wangle a dinner party out of her. It would be better if they asked us first. One doesn’t want to seem eager.’

He was counting on her to grease the wheels, only Grace wasn’t much of a social mechanic. And she lacked any pleasure in the game.

Still, she needed to hurry, she reminded herself, if she didn’t want to keep Mallory waiting.

Opening the bedroom door, she called down the steps to the housekeeper, who was cleaning downstairs. ‘Mrs Deller!’

‘Yes?’ came a voice from the kitchen, two flights below.

‘Would you mind terribly bringing me a cup of tea, please?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Grace hurried into the bathroom, splashed her face with cold water and dabbed it dry, examining her features in the mirror. She really should make more of an effort – buy some blue eyeshadow and black liquid eyeliner; learn to pencil in her eyebrows with the bold, stylized make-up that was all the rage. Instead, she patted her nose and cheeks with a bit of face powder and applied a fresh coat of red lipstick. Her hair was long, just below her shoulders. Without bothering to brush it out, and with the deftness of much practice, she arranged it into a chignon, pinning it back with hairpins. Downstairs the doorbell rang.

‘Damn!’

Of all the times for Mallory to actually be on time!

Flinging open the wardrobe doors, Grace grabbed a blue shantung silk cocktail dress and tossed it on the bed. She stepped out of her tweed skirt and pulled her blouse up over her head without undoing the buttons.

Where were the matching navy shoes?

She scanned the bottom of the wardrobe. Bending down, she felt the heel of her stocking begin to ladder up the back of her calf.

‘Oh, bugger!’

Unfastening her suspenders, she could hear Mrs Deller answering the door; the soft inflections of women’s voices as she took Mallory’s coat. And then the steps of the old Georgian staircase creaking in protest as Mallory made her way upstairs.

Grace yanked a fresh pair of stockings from her chest of drawers and sat down on the edge of the bed to put them on.

There was a knock. ‘It’s only me. Are you decent?’

‘If you consider a petticoat decent.’

Mallory poked her head round the door. Her deep auburn hair was arranged in low curls and a string of pearls set off her pale skin. ‘Haven’t you changed yet? It’s already started, Grace!’

Grace hooked the tops of her stockings and stood up. ‘Isn’t it fashionable to be late?’

‘Since when are you concerned with what’s fashionable?’

Grace pivoted round. ‘Are my seams straight?’

‘Yes. Here.’ Mallory handed her the cup of tea she was carrying. ‘Your housekeeper asked me to give you this.’

‘Thank you.’ Grace took a sip as Mallory rustled across the room in her full-skirted evening dress, perching delicately on the edge of the armchair, so as not to crease the fabric.

‘What have you been doing all afternoon, anyway?’ Mallory chided.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Grace didn’t like to admit to sleeping during the day; it felt like the thin edge of the wedge. ‘And what about you? What did you do?’

‘I’ve only just got back from the hairdresser’s an hour ago.’ Mallory turned her head, showcasing both her lovely profile and the result of their handiwork. ‘I swear, Mr Hugo is the only person in London I’ll let touch my hair. You should go to him. He’s a miracle worker. Have you got a spare ciggie?’

‘Just there.’ Grace nodded to a silver cigarette box on the table. She took another gulp of tea and put it down on the dresser.

Mallory took one out. ‘What are you wearing tonight?’

‘The blue taffeta.’

‘Old faithful!’ Mallory smiled, shaking her head. ‘We have to take you shopping, my dear. There are such beautiful things out at the moment.’

At thirty, Mallory was only three years older than Grace but already established on the London social scene as one of the fashionable young women. Married to Grace’s cousin, Geoffrey, she tried to take Grace under her wing. However, Grace proved frustratingly immune to her instruction.

‘You don’t like this dress?’ Grace asked.

Mallory shrugged. ‘It’s perfectly fine.’

Grace held it up again. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It’s just, oh, I don’t know. You know what Vanessa’s like. Everything’s always cutting edge, up to the minute. The very latest look of 1956 …’

‘Which is remarkable because it’s only 1955, Mal.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean! She’s ahead of her time.’

‘Yes, but I don’t have to compete with Vanessa, do I? We can’t all be trendsetters. That woman has far too much time on her hands and far too much money.’

‘Perhaps, but nobody wants to miss one of her parties, do they? You need to start entertaining properly too. Tonight will be a good opportunity to steal some names from Vanessa’s guest list. I’ve got a little notebook and pencil in my handbag if you need it.’

‘Oh God!’ Grace shuddered. ‘I can’t bear the thought of it!’

‘Honestly!’ Mallory rolled her eyes. ‘What did you do up in Oxford for entertainment anyway?’

‘My uncle is a don. We had people round for cauliflower cheese and played bridge.’

‘How ghastly!’ Mallory laughed. ‘You’re going to have to get over this aversion to speaking to other people if you want to be an asset to your husband. He’s not going to be promoted on his good looks alone.’ She smiled. ‘You haven’t got a light, have you? Do you like this?’ She stood up, twirling round, showing off the full skirt of the deep red off-the-shoulder dress she was wearing. ‘It’s new. From Simpson’s.’

‘Very fetching.’ Grace stepped into her 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.

Dear Mrs Munroe,

Please accept our sincere sympathies for your recent loss. Our firm is handling the estate of the deceased Madame Eva d’Orsey, and it is our duty to inform you that you are named as the chief beneficiary in her will. We request your presence at our offices at your earliest convenience, so that we may go through the details of your inheritance.

Again, we apologize for this intrusion on your time of grief and look forward to being of service to you in the near future.

Yours sincerely,

Edouard A. Tissot, Esquire

‘Oh!’ Mallory looked up. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea you’d recently lost someone, Grace.’

Grace’s face was unchanging. ‘Neither had I.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mallory, I’ve never met any Eva d’Orsey. I have no idea who this woman is.’






Vanessa Maxwell knew how to throw a party. It was her greatest contribution and would doubtless be her lasting legacy to those who had known, if not loved her, long after she was gone.

The first rule was that they were almost always held on the spur of the moment. Unlike some hostesses who sent out invitations a month in advance, Vanessa understood that the success of the entire venture depended upon the delicate relationship between anticipation and fulfilment; too long a wait between one and the other resulted only in indifference and boredom. And any event that didn’t demand the frantic re-juggling of previous commitments, a trail of white lies and the testing of long-held personal loyalties wasn’t worth attending.

Secondly, she was ruthless about whom she invited. She almost never returned an invitation with one of her own. In fact, she was famous for picking people she’d only just met, pairing them up in unlikely, possibly incendiary ways. She tossed elder statesmen next to starlets, seated royalty across from working-class playwrights; once she sent her chauffeur to the Florida Club only to return with an entire jazz ensemble plucked off stage and half a dozen dancers from an all-male burlesque review in Soho to ‘liven things up a bit’.

Lastly, her events were held in rooms far too small, far too bright. People rubbed up against one another, jostled for space, occasionally landed in one another’s laps. While any other hostess would lull her guests into a coma with soft lights and deep comfortable sofas, Vanessa demanded that everyone, regardless of age or position, wedge themselves into a cramped pub in Shepherd Market, around the slippery border of a public swimming pool or onto the balcony of a private club. People shouted to be heard, grabbed at the drinks floating by on silver trays, eavesdropped shamelessly on intimate conversations as they allowed their hands to wander, brushing up against the warm limbs of strangers.

There was an air of danger to her gatherings; the frisson of mischief. At her most famous dinner party she hired a sprinkling of actors to pose as staff and one as an unfortunate guest who was then dramatically poisoned during the first course. It was then up to the remaining guests to solve the mystery before the police arrived or they themselves were eliminated through one heinous end or another.

It was just this kind of daring enterprise that had catapulted her and, by default, her husband, businessman and tobacconist Phillip Maxwell, to the top of the London social scene.

Grace had never been invited to one of Vanessa’s parties before; to say they didn’t travel in the same circles was putting it kindly. Grace’s husband Roger knew Phillip Maxwell professionally and had known Vanessa before either of them were married. But Grace, coming from Oxford, was still an outsider.

Mallory, however, had been twice before; a distinction she both relished and pretended not to notice. She’d been the first to fall into the water at the famous midnight pool party and charmed everyone with the nonchalance with which she proceeded to wear her sopping wet gown, transparent and clinging to her admirable figure, for the rest of the evening.

Tonight, however, was a relatively simple affair by comparison. As loyal members of the Tory Party, the Maxwells were hosting a campaign fundraiser aimed at securing Anthony Eden as prime minister. Eden, appointed Churchill’s natural successor upon his resignation, had called a general election for 26 May and his pledge that ‘Peace comes first, always,’ struck a chord with a nation weary from sacrifice and loss.

To highlight this dawning age of prosperity, Vanessa had organized an impromptu ‘Summer Fete’ in the Orangery of Kensington Palace, with traditional entertainment and food, including a coconut shy, dunk tank, horseshoes, egg-and-spoon races, jugglers and even pony rides, while vats of Pimm’s, strawberry ice, caviar tarts and champagne made the rounds. The only difference was that the tickets were purchased in pounds rather than pennies, and the stalls were manned by famous faces from the stage and screen.

As soon as they entered it was clear from the crush of bodies that most of fashionable London was in attendance. A large banner with the slogan ‘United for Peace and Progress’ hung across the entrance. People were shouting and waving to one another across a sea of faces; smoke clouds hung thick and heavy; the constant throbbing tempo of a brass band could be heard pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the general roar.

Holding each other’s hands, the two girls slipped through the crowds.

‘Can you see her?’ Grace scanned the long gallery.

‘She’s over there!’ Mallory shouted back, waving to a small, dark-haired woman, surrounded by people on the other side of the room.

She dragged Grace through the throng.

‘Vanessa!’

Vanessa turned round. Dressed in a gauzy evening gown of layered black chiffon, she had sharp, even features and rather small, deep brown eyes. Although not very tall, she was so delicate and perfectly proportioned that despite her unremarkable face she could only be described as exquisite. Next to her, other women appeared suddenly bedraggled and bovine. Her manner was relaxed; almost bored, as if she weren’t greeting her guests so much as auditioning them. And every detail of her person was flawlessly finished – from the smooth centre-parting of her hair drawn back behind her ears to reveal a pair of magnificent emerald clips, to her long, slender fingers, accented with creamy, pale polish, the precise translucent shade of the small cluster of rosebuds that adorned her waist. Vanessa smiled, taking a long, slow drag of her cigarette. ‘Welcome, ladies! I hope you’re feeling lucky. There’s a tombola that includes a ladies’ gold watch from Asprey and the tickets are going like hot cakes. That new comedian Benny Hill is hosting the auction.’

‘The one from the television?’ Mallory’s eyes widened.

‘The very same. And let me tell you, he’s nothing like that in real life!’

‘How did you manage it?’

‘The same way I manage anything – through sheer unrelenting gall.’ She turned to Grace, looking at her steadily from beneath hooded lids. ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.’

‘Oh, I want you to meet my friend, Grace Munroe. Roger’s wife.’

‘Hello,’ Grace held out her hand. ‘And thank you for having me. This is simply … well … incredible!’

Vanessa received Grace’s fingertips with a squeeze, tilting her head to one side, ‘So, you’re Roger’s wife. We were all wondering where he’d disappeared to.’ Taking another deep drag, she regarded Grace with frank curiosity, as if she were a rare specimen on display in a museum. ‘You’re related to Lord Royce, aren’t you?’

‘He’s my second cousin on my mother’s side. He inherited the title when my grandfather died.’

‘I see.’ Vanessa exhaled, a long thin stream of smoke shooting from her nose. ‘You’re quite pretty, aren’t you?’

Grace blushed a little, feeling suddenly gauche; like a child who’d been trotted out before bedtime to entertain older relatives with their good manners. ‘Thank you.’

‘And where is your husband tonight?’ Vanessa asked

‘In Scotland. On business.’

‘How terrible for you. Or,’ she arched an eyebrow, ‘perhaps lucky. I know I’d be euphoric if Phillip went away.’

‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’ Grace shifted the conversation away from herself. ‘I’m sure the fundraiser will be a grand success.’

‘I do my best. Wander round,’ Vanessa suggested with a wave of her hand, turning back to greet some other guests. ‘And buy lots of tickets, girls. It’s for the good of Britain.’ She flashed Grace a little smile. ‘So nice to meet you. Really.’

‘Let’s get a drink,’ Mallory decided, heading for the refreshments table. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, I have designs on that gold watch.’

Grace put a hand on Mallory’s arm. ‘How did Vanessa know about my family?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s common knowledge. Why?’

‘Nothing.’ Grace frowned. ‘Only there’s a family rumour my cousin is going to be forced to sell the estate soon. Roger’s quite upset about it. But those old places simply burn money and there’s so much debt.’

Mallory gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Don’t think about that tonight, darling. It’s probably just a coincidence that she brought it up.’

Grace hadn’t expected to enjoy herself but the evening was surprisingly entertaining. Vanessa’s cattle car policy meant that conversation was immediate and the carnival games created a raucous sense of competitive camaraderie. Mallory lost almost five pounds on the coconut shy before finally landing an up-and-coming Rank starlet in the dunk tank, to the extreme delight of all the men nearby. Grace excelled at horseshoes, eventually being outplayed by the Duchess of Kent. Neither of the girls won the gold watch. Grace discovered a few familiar faces amidst the throng and both she and Mallory devoured several caviar tarts washed down with champagne.

Then Mallory spotted the Mr Memory stall, manned by Phillip Maxwell himself in a top hat and tails, and became even more excited.

‘Look! We used to play this game all the time as children.’ She grabbed Grace’s arm and dragged her across the hall. ‘I’m an expert at this. Come on. I’ll go against you, one on one.’

‘I’ve never played.’ Grace stared at the row of increasingly larger trays lined up on the stall counter. Each was covered with a cloth. ‘What do you do?’

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world, ladies!’ Phillip Maxwell tipped his hat, giving them an exaggerated bow. ‘Each tray has upwards of fifteen objects on it. I remove the cloth for a minute, cover it again, and you have another minute to record as many objects as you can remember. The person who’s able to remember the most objects correctly is the winner.’

‘That’s all?’ It sounded straightforward enough. ‘All right, Mal. You’re on.’

Phillip Maxwell handed them each a pencil and a piece of paper. ‘Now, you can’t begin writing your answers until the tray has been completely re-covered, understand? Ready, steady, go!’

He lifted the cloth, timing the minute with a stopwatch, then replaced it.

Mallory began furiously jotting down her list.

Grace, however, didn’t move.

‘Time!’ Maxwell called. ‘Pass me your papers!’

Mallory handed hers across then looked at Grace. ‘But you haven’t written anything.’

Grace smiled. ‘I don’t need to.’

‘Oh really? And why is that?’

‘I remember,’ Grace said.

Maxwell and Mallory exchanged a look.

‘Well, go on then!’ Mallory crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘Prove it!’

Grace took a deep breath. ‘One thimble; four needles of various sizes stuck into a pincushion in the shape of a green tomato; a small red rubber ball; a box of Bromo; two shillings, one heads side up, one tails; a glass ring, emerald cut; a letter opener with an ivory handle; a letter addressed to the leader of the Labour Party, unopened; a tortoiseshell comb; a leather hunting flask; a bill of sale from Ogden’s bookshop in Bloomsbury for two books, totalling one pound, two shillings; a folded road map for Dorset; a used packet of Chesterfields; a token from a fairground ride; a china salt shaker in the shape of a duck; a nail file; and a teaspoon with the letters “VM” engraved on the handle.’

Mallory blinked. She turned to Maxwell, who examined the contents of the tray.

‘My God, that’s uncanny!’ he said, looking back up.

‘How can you do that?’ Mallory asked.

Grace shook her head, her cheeks colouring. ‘I don’t know. It’s a rather useless talent, actually.’

‘Go on,’ Mallory pointed to the next larger tray. ‘Do that one.’

Again, the tray was uncovered for a minute and then re-covered.

Grace flashed Mallory a smile. ‘Do I get another drink for this?’

‘Absolutely!’

‘A small black leather notebook and a gold pencil; a ball of twine; two horn buttons probably from a sweater …’ Again, Grace proceeded to reel off another twenty objects, in great detail, with eerie accuracy.

By now a small crowd had gathered around them.

‘What’s she doing?’

‘She doesn’t even need to write them down!’

‘She’s cheating!’ someone shouted out.

‘Impossible!’ Mallory turned on them. ‘She’s never even played the game before.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ someone else chimed in. ‘This is a set-up.’

‘Have you hired her, Maxwell? Is this a joke?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he assured them. ‘Everything’s on the up and up.’

‘Like your candidates?’

A roar of laughter.

The crowd continued to swell.

‘Make her do another one!’

‘Make it harder this time!’

Grace reached out for Mallory’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ she whispered.

‘We can’t go now. You’ve been accused of cheating. It will look like you’re guilty. Besides, you’re winning,’ she added with a grin.

Phillip Maxwell was enjoying the high drama of the occasion too.

‘Fine,’ he agreed, tipping the contents of one of the trays out on the counter. ‘We shall give this young woman a real challenge!’ He whispered in the ear of one of the waiters, who hurried away, returning moments later with an evening bag ornamented with black jet beads.

Maxwell held it up with a flourish. ‘My wife Vanessa’s handbag, ladies and gentlemen! Who knows what mysteries lurk in its dark depths!’

Laughter.

‘There is no possible way that this girl could know the contents – not even I know the contents and, quite frankly, I’m not certain I want to!’

More laughter and a smattering of applause.

‘And just to up the stakes, this time I’ll uncover the tray for only half a minute! Now, turn around,’ he instructed Grace, who did as she was told, turning to face the crowd of people who had gathered behind her. She could hear Maxwell emptying the handbag, arranging the objects on the tray.

Finally he gave her the go-ahead.

Mallory took her by the shoulders. ‘Are you ready?’

Grace nodded.

Mallory turned her round and Maxwell unveiled the tray. After only thirty seconds he covered it again.

‘Your time starts – now!’ he said, looking at his stopwatch.

Grace concentrated. ‘A linen handkerchief with the letters “VM” embroidered in one corner in white silk thread; a green enamel and gold powder compact; a tube of Hiver lipstick; an alligator change purse; a small tin of Wilson’s headache pills; a silver cigarette case; a torn Cadbury’s wrapper with half a piece of chocolate; an empty matchbox from the Carlisle Hotel; a ticket stub for the seven-twenty showing at the Regent Cinema in Edinburgh; a latchkey; a mother-of-pearl-and-gold cigarette lighter …’

She stopped, her face suddenly draining of colour.

‘A mother-of-pearl-and-gold cigarette lighter,’ she repeated slowly, ‘with the words “Always and Evermore” engraved on the side.’

The crowd burst into a round of enthusiastic applause.

‘It’s amazing!’ Maxwell raved. ‘Absolutely incredible! How could you even see what was engraved on that lighter?’

But Grace didn’t seem to hear him. ‘I’m sorry, you said this is your wife’s handbag?’

‘The very same,’ he beamed back at her. ‘Another round of applause for our champion, ladies and gentlemen! I’ll be renaming this stall Mrs Memory from now on!’

Cheers and applause.

Unseen hands clapped Grace on the back as she pushed her way through the crowds, desperately searching for the exit.

‘Well done.’

‘Very impressive.’

‘What a clever girl!’

Head pounding, palms sweating, she felt unreal, as if she were moving through the distorted landscape of a dream; her mind shrinking in on itself, focusing down to a single terrible point.

It couldn’t be true.

It couldn’t.

She could see the door now. It was only a few steps away.

‘Well, you certainly showed them!’ Mallory caught up with her. ‘Where are you going?’ She took her arm. ‘Hold on a moment, I’m going to buy you a drink … Grace, what’s wrong?’

‘Let go of me.’ Grace pulled away. She made it through the doors and just managed to get clear of the pavement before she was sick.

‘Good God! What’s all this? A case of nerves?’ Mallory dug around in her evening bag and handed her a handkerchief. ‘Easy does it. And mind you don’t get it on your shoes.’ She stepped back gingerly. ‘Or mine.’

When Grace had finished, she wiped her mouth, sinking on to the front steps.

‘Do you think it was something you ate?’ Mallory sat down next to her.

‘No.’

‘Maybe you had too much champagne? Perhaps it was the tarts. Oh dear,’ she frowned. ‘I had them too.’

‘Mal …’ The words stuck in Grace’s throat. ‘That’s my lighter.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It belonged to my father. It’s one of the only things I have of his.’

‘What lighter? What are you talking about?’

‘The lighter on the tray.’

It took Mallory a minute to place it. ‘Really? What’s it doing in Vanessa’s handbag?’

Grace looked across at her. ‘There was a matchbox as well. From the Carlisle Hotel.’

Mallory stared at her blankly.

‘The Carlisle Hotel is in Scotland, Mal. So is the Regent Cinema.’ Her voice tightened. ‘Along with my husband.’

‘You mean … oh.’ Mallory finally got it. ‘Oh. I see.’

Grace rested her head against her knees.

It was a beautiful, crisp night. Inside, the band played, laughter soared, the party reached a glittering frenzy.

Outside, they sat in silence.

After a while, Mallory stood up. ‘Come on, darling. It’s cold. I’ll drive you home.’

Grace got up too. ‘I want it back.’

‘What?’

‘The lighter.’

Mallory stared at her in horror. ‘Grace, be sensible! Let it go!’

‘It was my father’s.’ Grace’s voice was steely. Mallory had never seen her so determined. ‘It’s the only thing I have left of his.’ She opened the door. ‘I want it back.’

Mallory stopped her, barring the way with her arm. ‘Then I’ll get it. Do you understand? Let me deal with it. You’ve had a terrible shock and you can only make matters worse for yourself. But right now, darling,’ she took Grace firmly by the shoulders, ‘I’m taking you home.’






‘I wish you’d let me go with you.’

Three days later, Mallory was standing in the front hallway at Woburn Square again, this time watching as Grace buttoned up her mackintosh and adjusted her hat in the mirror.

‘I’ll be fine.’ Grace pulled on her gloves.

Mallory looked worried. ‘I’m not so sure. Besides, my French is better than yours.’

‘A cat’s French is better than mine.’ Grace smiled. ‘Anyway, I appreciate you driving me to the airport.’

Grace opened the door and stepped outside, into the misty early morning fog. Mallory followed, taking the suitcase. She fitted it into the boot while Grace locked up the house. Then both girls climbed into Mallory’s car, a blue Aston Martin DB2.

‘Have you even spoken to him?’ Mallory asked.

‘Not really. I told him I had some unexpected business to attend to in France.’

‘And that was all?’

‘Yes. I didn’t go into the details.’ Then she added quietly, ‘And he didn’t ask.’

‘Humm.’ Mallory took in this final bit of information.

Matters were worse than she’d suspected.

She started the engine. ‘I don’t like you going on your own.’ Lurching into traffic, she pulled out directly in front of a slow-moving milk float. ‘It’s all so sudden. And, well, you’ve had a dreadful shock. Tell me again what they said when you rang the lawyers in Paris.’

Grace sighed. They’d already been over this half a dozen times.

‘I spoke to a man named Tissot. I told him I thought there must be a mistake, that they’d clearly sent the letter to the wrong person. But he was insistent. He said he was certain the information was correct and that I should examine the will and see for myself.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t understand you.’

‘No, he understood. His English was quite good.’ Grace shifted. ‘By the way,’ she tried to sound casual, ‘were you able to get it?’

‘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 (#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.

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 …

‘Already asleep on the job, eh?

She flicked her eyes open to see a blonde-haired girl standing in front of her, also a maid, only her uniform fitted. Hand on her hip, the girl had somehow contrived to position her cap at a fetching angle, just between two of the blonde kiss curls that adorned her wide forehead. There was a neatness and a compactness about her; a sureness in the swagger of her movements.

‘I’m Sis, short for Cecily.’ She thrust a hand out and pumped Eva’s palm hard. ‘I’m from Virginia, in case you hadn’t noticed. Looks like we’ll be sharing together. I knew my luck couldn’t hold out for ever. Had the room all to myself for nearly a week. Anyway,’ she sighed. ‘I guess I’m meant to show you around. Follow me.’

She led Eva down the long hallway and up a back staircase. When they got to the first floor she stopped. ‘Ever been in the front lobby?’

Eva shook her head, too nervous to speak. Already she was in awe of Sis; of her Southern drawl and her easy, careless attitude. She was afraid to speak in case Sis didn’t like her accent. It had happened to her in the house in Brooklyn, where the Scottish cook insisted on referring to her as ‘the Foreigner’ even though their employers spoke German and her own Glaswegian accent was only barely comprehensible.

‘Ever even seen it?’ Sis asked.

Again, Eva shook her head.

‘Figures. You have the look of someone who’s spent her entire life going round to the back service entrance. Come on.’ Sis pushed through the door at the top, and they peered out into the West Lobby.

By Hotel standards it was modest, intimate. But if it wasn’t the largest or grandest Hotel lobby in New York, it certainly was one of the most glamorous.

The marble floors shone beneath the oriental carpets, banks of settees were piled with velvet and silk pillows, and the bevelled mirrors which lined the walls reflected the beautiful profiles of the off-duty chorus girls parading through on their way to the bar.

Carefully chosen for the perfection of their figures, they were all the same height, with long shapely legs. Their laughter was punctuated by the clicking of their high-heeled shoes and the swishing of their daringly short skirts. A piano was playing and someone was singing.

A bellhop wove through the pockets of guests with a silver salver. ‘Madame Arpeggio,’ he called loudly. ‘Madame Arpeggio.’ The air smelled of brass polish, cigar smoke, and the lush, overripe sweetness of fresh-cut tiger lilies.

Eva watched as a small, round woman dressed entirely in black, her head crowned with a velvet turban fastened with a large ruby brooch, entered with a pair of enormous shaggy grey Irish wolfhounds. Their black leather collars were studded with pearls.

Instantly one of the doormen brought them water in china bowls, which they lapped loudly, creating puddles on the marble floor, while their mistress paused to light a cigarette and check her messages at reception.

‘Who’s that?’ Eva was so fascinated, she forgot about her resolution not to speak.

‘No one really.’ Sis sniffed. ‘Some filthy Prussian countess. Never bathes and doesn’t take those dogs out nearly as much as she ought to. Her room smells like a zoo. They’ve already changed the carpet once.’

The girls watched as she turned, and proceeded at a regal pace towards the elevator.

‘Thing is,’ Sis confided, ‘all the important people here look ordinary and the really fancy ones are usually broke or on the make. I’ll tell you, you’re in an upside-down world now,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Takes a while, but you’ll get used to it.’






Eva shared a room with Sis in the attic eaves of the building; it had a basin in one corner, a shallow closet and two narrow single beds. The window looked into the light well of the tall building opposite and the alleyway below. There was no view of the sky.

Not that it mattered. Both girls were up at six and eating in the lower kitchen, which also served as a staff canteen, by six-thirty. Then they stood in line waiting for Mrs Ronald to inspect their uniforms and appearance.

Eva had successfully managed to take her uniform in; however, the gauzy white apron and cap were still too big, bordering on ridiculous. It was a fine line between hiring girls who would not excite notice among the guests and making sure that they matched Mrs Ronald’s inner vision of the overall chic of the establishment. So Eva was assigned the less desirable lower floors, in the hopes that she would grow another few inches over the summer.

After inspecting the girls’ hair and nails, Mrs Ronald briefed them as to which guests were checking in and which were checking out that day, along with any special preferences.

These included the actress who required black velvet curtains hung in her suite so that she could sleep during the day and whose room must only be serviced at night, when she was on stage at the Ziegfeld Follies a block away. And the movie producer who had a horror of anything which had been used by other people; his bed, mattress and bedclothes had to be replaced, new each time he came and the sheets were to be washed separately from those of the other guests, a duty which he only trusted Mrs Ronald to perform (but which she regularly passed off to one of the other girls).

Then there were the more common requests: extra ice buckets, satin sheets, special requests for certain types of flowers – hothouse roses and gardenias were the most popular. Some guests requested that there be no paintings or artwork in their rooms while others couldn’t bear certain colours and had them banished from sight. Imported foods were provided at vast expense – chocolates from Paris, fresh pineapples from Mexico, black tea from India, and thick, long Cuban cigars. Extra pianos were delivered almost daily, as were exotic pets, new automobiles and hunting guns; and police guarded vans carrying jewellery, which was stored in the vaulted Hotel safe.

Dance floors were installed so that stage stars could practise their routines, furniture removed, massage tables and exercise equipment set up. One week the entire Grand Ballroom was turned into a championship boxing ring when Jack Dempsey was fighting Jack Sharkey at the Yankee Stadium.

Guests frequently brought their own staff as well. Extra valets and ladies’ maids hovered on the edges of the lobby, unsure of their place outside the dominion of their homeland. Not quite guests and yet not quite servants when their employers departed for the day, they were often both suspicious of and intoxicated by their new-found freedom.

The city itself had a dangerous effect on their normally restrained personalities. More than once they lost not only their heads, but their positions as well.

There was the valet who was found to be posing as his employer, the Prince of Wales, who ran up enormous gambling debts in Harlem before being discovered in flagrante with a black prostitute in his master’s bed. And the lady’s maid who had never tasted alcohol before and yielded to temptation, only to wake up somewhere near the waterfront next to an Italian dock worker who politely informed her, in broken English, that they were married and he would like to claim his conjugal rights.

Eva was assigned to learn her duties from Rita Crane, an older woman of indeterminate age and one of the world’s most unsuccessful secret drinkers. Rita kept a flask in the depths of her laundry cart, an old rubbing alcohol bottle filled with gin in her locker and a vial of morphine in her handbag that her doctor prescribed for her ever deteriorating nerves. Every morning she showed up, hands shaking, arms covered in bruises. Eva wondered if she’d been beaten with a stick but of course, couldn’t ask.

Rita had probably once been a beauty. But too much drinking, too many ex-husbands, and a fondness for good old-fashioned English cuisine had left her quite round; her bust large like the prow of a ship tapering to two hefty legs, ribboned with varicose veins. Her features were lost in the soft folds of her white skin, and her eyes had a curious downward slant which made them seem automatically sad. Her lips were so thin as to be nothing more than an idea for a mouth. Rita moved as if resentful of gravity; as though the whole idea of a physical body caused her untold inconvenience. On the whole she was like a creature raised underwater, without the benefit of light for which eyes were optional and a spine a positive luxury.

There was a violence to Rita’s scrubbing; a furious zeal to her bed making and a positive rage to her dusting which left Eva in no doubt that she was not only capable of murder but most likely experienced in it as well. Her last husband had died eleven years ago. Now she was married to her job. She hated and resented it, uttering a constant stream of profanities under her breath, the way a nun recites a rosary. Yet she was fiercely committed to performing each task to her own exacting standards. Over the years Rita had tailored her expectations of life and others accordingly – anticipating the worst at every turn and managing to find the damp, dark potential in any cloudless sky.

For an entire two weeks, Rita supervised every move Eva made; correcting her toilet-bowl cleaning technique, insisting that she sweep each carpet in perfectly straight vertical lines and then again horizontally, chastising her for the lack of artistry with which she arranged the linen hand towels, all the while attacking her youth, personal appearance and general foreignness as she felt appropriate.

Eva soon learned that when Rita was drunk she was much easier to handle. In fact, in the canteen after her shift she could be almost funny.

Back in Lille, Eva had a grandfather who was a drinker. When her grandmother needed him to be sober for an important event, she always treated him to his own personal supply of chocolates. ‘The sugar calms him,’ she used to say.

Eva couldn’t afford chocolates but she began to make Rita cups of very sugary tea throughout the day. Rita in turn grumbled and complained but drank them just the same. While it didn’t make her pleasant, at least it kept her from being downright vicious.

By the time Eva ended her training period, she had mastered all the arts of domestic service, including the proper display of hand towels.

Rita had gained seven pounds.






Soon Eva adapted to the regular rhythm of Hotel life. In the evenings the girls laundered and ironed their clothes, mended and gossiped. There was a radio in the pantry of the lower kitchen that the staff crowded round, listening to the Silvertown Cord Orchestra or the comedy antics of Amos ’n’ Andy. Drinking was out of the question; Mrs Ronald was very strict about that. And the only dancing they did was with each other. A tall, lanky black girl named Wallace was the recognized Charleston expert and willing to teach anyone for the price of a Coca-Cola, even though chances to use their new-found skills were next to nil. On Saturday evenings, they went to confession at St Boniface. On Sunday mornings, early, they went to Mass.

There were occasional treats – matinée performances tucked into the balcony at the Strand theatre, followed by a sandwich at the Riker’s Drug Store counter. Sometimes, they went to stare at the lights of Times Square, waiting to see the crowds leaving the theatres and discuss what the fashionable women were wearing.

Other times, they strolled across Central Park to Fifth Avenue, walking down past the grand department stores but never daring to go inside. There were places in the East End, small shops run by immigrants where fabric could be purchased, shoes traded, coats and jewellery pawned.

Sis took Eva to the public library and showed her how to get a card. Every week, Eva read her way through the works of Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Anthony Trollope, Henry James and Elizabeth Gaskell. She dreamed of heroines from modest backgrounds attracting unprecedented attentions, soaring tales of love across social divides and sudden unexpected reversals of fortunes. In these pages, anything was possible, even for a girl like her.

‘The trouble with you is, you’re a romantic,’ Sis pronounced one Sunday afternoon, as they all sat knitting by the radio in the kitchen. ‘That’s not going to get you anywhere. You need to be practical. Romantics get their hearts broken too easily.’

‘That’s true,’ Rita agreed for once, resting her swollen feet on an empty vegetable crate. ‘You need a man with a good solid job who doesn’t drink or gamble. One that won’t hit you or the kids too much and that goes to church. None of my husbands ever made it to Mass. Let that be a lesson to you,’ she warned. ‘Truth is they were never sober enough to make it out of bed on a Sunday morning.’

Sis considered. ‘Maybe my Charlie knows someone.’

She was already engaged to a young doorman from the Iroquois Hotel and was the supreme social architect of the backstairs staff. Sis treated marriage as a coup; a strategic overthrow of the natural male instincts which must be systematically attacked and maintained through military ruthlessness and fortitude.

At seventeen, she’d already vetted and refused more men than the rest of them combined. With her first month’s earnings she’d invested in a bolt of real lace from Ireland for her wedding dress. Sis knew which neighbourhood she wanted to live in, right down to what houses she would accept and had long decided on the names and professions of her future children (all of them boys). Despite her modest circumstances, she’d amassed a considerable collection of housewares, china and linens, stored in a trunk underneath her bed that she referred to as her ‘hope chest’.

Charlie was only a few years older than Sis and had yet to receive so much as a kiss from her. But Sis already managed his money and his career; she had him working extra shifts and taking an evening class in accounting with a view to heading up reception some day.

And he was in awe of her. Sometimes he came to meet them in the park or after a movie (Sis wouldn’t let him sit next to her in the dark in case he got the wrong idea), and Eva could see the mixture of fear and pride in his face when he was around her.

‘Pick a man with an overbearing mother,’ Sis advised. ‘Charlie’s mum is a widow with seven kids to feed and only a Bible to keep her warm. Charlie feels guilty from the moment he wakes up in the morning and what’s more, he’s used to taking orders from a woman.’

Eva nodded.

She never argued with Sis’s advice. It wasn’t sensible if you wanted a quiet evening.

‘Good God!’ Rita laughed, jerking her head towards Eva. ‘You’ve got your work cut out with that one! She’ll be a lot tougher to shift than you, Sis.’

Everyone turned to Eva.

She felt her cheeks colour.

‘She’s not done growing yet, is all!’ Sis shot back. ‘Besides, you managed to get a few husbands and you’re not exactly the Queen of Sheba!’

Still, when the conversation changed, Eva got up and went outside.

It was true: she was too thin, her face too long; her features seemed stretched out like a cartoon character from the Sunday papers.

Sis was tall and blonde, like a smiling Gibson Girl in an advertising poster.

Eva was short and dark and foreign-looking.

She wandered out into the back alleyway, sitting alone on the back steps. The warm humid air of New York clung to the night, unwilling to relinquish its suffocating hold. And yet to Eva, the city had an underlying hum of possibility; a constant forward motion that promised, no matter what, that change was on its way.

In every book she’d ever read, the heroine was subject to self-doubt and unjust criticism. And in every case, it only served to harden their resolve. Besides, what did Rita know? If Eva wanted a life scrubbing toilets, she could follow Rita’s advice. But she didn’t. She wanted something more.

She wasn’t certain what, exactly, or how she would get it. But for right now, she didn’t need to think about that. She could simply sit, basking in the glow of not-so-distant stars, which must be somewhere, blinking behind the thick layer of cloud that masked the evening sky.




Paris, Spring, 1955 (#ulink_fa0f9b9b-107e-587d-abdc-76da4e44fa03)







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 (#ulink_5abe88dd-d7ad-58fe-b6a2-638ee5ab47c9)







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.





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