Читать книгу The Perfume Collector - Kathleen Tessaro - Страница 7

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.