Menna has gone. She slipped away in the night. I was on my way to breakfast just now when I noticed her door ajar, her bed undisturbed, her suitcase gone. I came back to my room and sat on my bed and cried. I expect she had her reasons and I couldn’t hope to understand them. I am certain I shall never see her again.
Mrs K kindly drove me down to the station in Cannes this morning and when my train pulled into Nice, William stood waiting on the platform, heartbreakingly handsome in a double-breasted suit and trilby. He kissed my cheek and guided me out into the street and into a small café near the station. We sat down and ordered coffee. It was just us, face-to-face, no distractions, but all I could pick up was a prickling discomfort between us. The air was thick with the unsaid, perhaps the unsayable. I explained that Mr Brooke had died and without going into too much detail, told the story of Vivian’s final explosion at which he was highly indignant on my behalf.
‘It will certainly be interesting to find out the terms of the will,’ he said. ‘It’s fortunate they have no children. Vivian could have found herself evicted by her nearest and dearest.’
‘She would have tamed them into submission long before now,’ I said, and we shared a smile. Something hung in the air between us, something we couldn’t address. Although we chatted amiably, I couldn’t help but be saddened that this was our last time together and yet we couldn’t crack the surface tension. I was struck by the thought that I will never meet a man as good as William again. I sense in him almost untold depths of kindness and I so longed to love him. He had to get back to his office and I said briskly that I too must be off.
He walked me back to Gare de Nice in silence and took the trouble to come onto the platform to wait for the train. There were ten painfully awkward minutes of diminishing small talk but still he stayed and I didn’t want him to leave. As my train approached, he ducked in for a goodbye peck but our lips met in a passionate kiss and we were clinging to one another for dear life and I didn’t even care if I missed this train or the next – or spent the rest of my life on that platform held tight in his arms. He pulled away abruptly and hurried off down the platform without another word or parting glance.
Now here I am on the train going toward Monaco, blind to the blue beauty of the Mediterranean as it slides past. I feel nothing but pain as the miles separate us and the thread that binds us unspools. I have left something so precious behind.
Leaving everything and everyone has been frenetic. I haven’t had a moment for my journal until now, alone on the train to Paris with plenty of time to record the extraordinary happenings of the last few days.
After leaving William last Thursday, I arrived in Monte Carlo feeling confused and upset. Whenever we met, he appeared every bit as besotted as myself. I had made the assumption that Topsy’s boredom was the catalyst for their liaison – a theory for which I had no proof. I wondered if perhaps she had a stronger hold on his heart than I thought? I cursed myself for not being one of these wily types with the ability to lure men away from other women – I would do it! William is a man worth fighting for.
I had no interest in being in Monte Carlo other than my mission. In different circumstances, I would have liked to wander the streets brushing shoulders with the wealthy and celebrated, hoping to catch a glimpse of Princess Grace. But as it was, I took myself directly to the bank.
It wasn’t the type of high-street bank with which I was familiar; more grand and hushed, with a doorman. Beyond a marble foyer was a large room with a reception desk attended by a woman in a smart business suit. I approached her and presented my letter of authority. She left her desk and consulted a man in an adjacent office. The man read the letter and came straight out.
He introduced himself as Monsieur Dufour and (in impeccable English) invited me into his office. He asked if I had any form of identification, apologising for the necessary formality. Fortunately I had my passport with me in preparation for my departure, which he glanced over and handed back. The woman returned and placed a manila folder on his desk. He read some notes in the folder and finally said, ‘I understand that you will take the entire contents of the safe deposit box and it will subsequently no longer be required.’
I wasn’t sure about that but explained that Monsieur Brooke had passed away and I was now carrying out his wishes.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that news. The Rousseau family have been valued clients of the bank for many years,’ he said.
He escorted me to a stately room with a heavy vault door. He withdrew the box itself and placed it on the desk, explaining that the door would be locked and, until such time as I pressed the button, I would have complete privacy.
When he had gone, I opened the box to find four items inside. The first was a thick cream envelope with the words Testament de Hammond Auguste Brooke typed on it. The second was a book-shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper. The third was a small package addressed to me; the fourth an envelope also addressed to me, which I opened. Inside was a wad of francs and a letter in his spidery script:
My dear Iris,
You have no doubt realised by now that you are in possession of something precious, beyond monetary value. I know you understand the vital importance of these two items which is why I have entrusted you alone to carry out my last wishes.
Do not let anyone know these items are in your possession.
Please deliver my will and the ledger to Sylvie Moreau, Université Paris Descartes, Rue de l’École-de-Médecine, Quartier de l’Odéon, Paris.
I have enclosed some cash to cover expenses and have also left you a small gift, the proceeds of which may be helpful to you.
Once you have completed that task, you are free of all obligation but I hope you will think of me fondly from time to time.
All my best, yours Hammond
The writing swerved and swooped across several pages. It was heartbreaking to realise that these last weeks Mr Brooke had been quietly preparing for his death. But most of all, I felt honoured to be chosen for the task.
I opened the large package. While I was not in a laughing mood, I couldn’t help myself. I joined Hammond Brooke in having the last laugh. It was a bulky leather-bound ledger, the cover scuffed and worn from the hands of three generations of Rousseau perfumers. Its pages released an exquisite combination of scents, as though working in fragrant accord.
The old devil. I wondered what else he had in store but decided to wait to open my gift in my own time. I rewrapped the ledger, tucked the other items in my handbag and pressed the button.
Monsieur Dufour came and released me. ‘Just out of curiosity,’ I asked him, ‘can you tell me when this was deposited?’ He looked a little affronted, so perhaps one is not supposed to ask that question. Nevertheless, he bid me wait a moment and went back to his office. He returned a few minutes later. ‘Monsieur Brooke secured that particular box in April 1949 and the only access since that date was two weeks ago.’ I thanked him and went on my way.
Monte Carlo is constructed like an amphitheatre facing the harbour, and that day a cool breeze whipped through the twisting streets, threatening rain. On the way back to the station, I bought a small attaché case to keep my precious cargo safe and dry.
I wanted to set off to Paris immediately. Mr Brooke had provided more than enough funds to cover my travel and accommodation so I would not bother Mr Hubert. I had thought I would attend the funeral, which must be any day, but now I had the holy grail in my possession that seemed unwise. When I arrived back in Cannes I bought a ticket for Paris to leave the next morning.
As soon as I got back to Alexander’s I went straight to my room and opened the gift from Mr Brooke. Inside the first wrapping was a box and inside that was an item carefully wrapped in one of his fine linen monogrammed handkerchiefs. It was a 100-gram flask of his rose absolute. I knew from my audit that this was an extraordinarily generous gift – worth hundreds of pounds. Tucked into the box was a Document de Certification.
I found Alexander and let him kno
w that I would depart the next day. He immediately conceived a plan for a farewell dinner and before I could protest, rushed off to make the arrangements. I had a long bath but hardly felt equal to the task of entertaining guests – let alone as the centre of attention. Fortunately Freddy arrived in high spirits with his violin (quite recovered from its soaking) so I was off that particular hook. Topsy and Sebastian turned up. William sent apologies.
Alexander went all out to create a night to remember. The weather had held and the dining table outside was splendidly set by Mrs K and we sipped champagne looking out over the garden and pool. I already felt nostalgia for the gauzy dusk of Riviera summers that would never be mine again. As night fell the most beautiful illuminations lit up the tall palms around the perimeter of the property. It was touching to see how proud Alexander was of his house. He is so often dismissive of these things but I expect that’s because of the associated sting of his exile in paradise.
Mrs K seemed to be held in high esteem by all present and had no problem delivering an extravagant spread at short notice. Over the meal there was a great deal of speculation about Mr Brooke that I didn’t participate in, not quite trusting myself. According to Sebastian, his death had been kept quiet. The expat community had heard about it through the grapevine but it had somehow been kept from the press. The funeral was to be a private service.
As Mrs K served the dessert, which I recall was rice pudding, she murmured discreetly that there was someone to see me. I excused myself and hurried inside, thinking perhaps Menna had returned. Who should I find waiting at the front door but William!
He was clearly nervous and ill at ease, very unlike his normal self. Apologising, he beckoned me to come outside and led me down the path beside the house into the shadows of the back garden. He stopped and took my hands in his. Then, just as quickly, he dropped them as if not appropriate.
‘I wanted to tell you the truth today but my courage failed me,’ he began. ‘I don’t know what you’ll think of me.’
‘Nothing could change my opinion of you, William.’
‘I doubt that.’ He plunged his hands gloomily into his pockets. The suspense was unbearable.
‘Is it related to Topsy, by any chance?’ I asked.
‘You knew? Of course. Nothing escapes you.’
‘I sensed something, that’s all.’
‘The truth is, while I was sent out here by my firm, through a complicated series of blunders – not of my creation – I was dismissed. Rather than return to London under a cloud and find another job, Topsy suggested I go out on my own, as a sort of financial consultant. She introduced me to one of her wealthy friends and I did some cost analysis work. Nothing groundbreaking, but the fellow seemed happy enough. He referred me to a chum of his and, quite quickly, there was pressure on me to appear as successful as my potential clients. Topsy insisted I needed better clothes and a snazzy car that she financed to get things rolling.’ He paused, although this clearly wasn’t the end of the story. ‘She was bored and lonely – I was a diversion. A project, I suppose. I’ve never been in love with her but I wouldn’t hurt her for the world. I’m grateful to her. I feel beholden.’
‘She doesn’t own you, though. You could still come back to England and start again.’
William gave a dry laugh. ‘If I walk away now it’s with the clothes on my back. My earnings have never kept pace. But that’s not it. My real concern is that she’s very emotional. She knows how I feel about you.’
I was flattered by this admission. ‘You told her?’
‘I talked to her, you know, after that evening we spent in Valbonne. She was much more upset than I imagined. She insisted she would leave Sebastian, bring it all out in the open —’
‘She doesn’t want to lose you.’
He turned away angrily. ‘Perhaps, but somehow I don’t think so. She doesn’t like having things taken from her. Sebastian is my cousin. Our mothers are sisters. The fallout would be catastrophic for everyone. Besides, I don’t want to marry her. I should never have got involved in the first place. I’m entirely to blame. I despise myself. I’m shackled through my own foolishness.’
‘And that’s what you came here to tell me?’
‘I didn’t want you to go back to England thinking it was something else, something you did or said. Some imperfection. Nothing could be further from the truth, Iris. I wanted you to know.’
Despite the warm evening, I felt chilled. I wanted to go inside and take my suitcase and leave. Not even say goodbye to any of them. I realised Alexander and Freddy probably knew the situation and thought me silly and naïve. But that wasn’t so important. I felt nothing but compassion for William, who had been blinded, as one can so easily be, by the wealth and glamour that was all around us. Neither he nor I belong in that world. We were meant for some simpler, more wholesome, life – but that is clearly not to be.
When I first saw him waiting there at the door, I secretly hoped he had come to declare himself. As though I imagined myself as the heroine in the final scene of a romantic film. How foolish and presumptuous of me. I thanked him and told him that I appreciated his honesty. He wished me a good voyage. We said goodbye like strangers. I won’t write or speak of William ever again but I will never forget a single moment of our time together.
I was able to slip back to my place almost unnoticed under the cover of a riotous conversation relating to the slippery sisters. I had told Alexander the story the previous day and he was regaling the group with an exaggerated version of this tale.
Freddy was familiar with the duo. ‘Ladies of the night in every sense of the expression, so I understand. Although business must be slow these days; only the most undiscerning gentleman wants to get naughty with a nag.’
‘I thought Madame Brooke only accepted Debrett-sanctioned guests,’ said Topsy, only half joking. She gave me a stiff smile and I was almost certain she knew William had been there. It really didn’t matter any more. I felt some sympathy for her. I have come to realise that Sebastian is one of those men who are full of boyish enthusiasms and his pampered life reads like an extended list to Santa. He is frivolous and insubstantial. Everything William is not.
Discussion about the sisters fired Freddy’s imagination. He leapt to his feet, seized his violin and launched into an amusing rendition of Elvis Presley’s ‘One Night with You’ concerning the sisters’ nocturnal activities. It became increasingly vulgar and I hoped Mrs K couldn’t hear from the kitchen. I crept away and went to bed.
I had a wretched night and woke early. The house was silent; all signs of the dinner party – including the guests – had vanished. Mrs K was still at the helm and made me porridge topped with a crust of brown sugar and a lick of butter. It tasted like home and I almost wept with homesickness. Alexander and the gang had all gone out late last night, she told me, and not returned as yet, which was really too bad.
She drove me down to the train, my new attaché case gripped tightly on my lap. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation but, out of courtesy, asked her how she came to be there. She explained that she had been the housekeeper at Alexander’s family’s estate in the Scottish border county of Berwickshire for many years. ‘The family lived in London but they would come up two or three times a year. Christmas always. I got to know Alexander very well over the years. He’s a lovely lad. In my line of work, you need to curb your curiosity. There’s nothing worse than a nosy housekeeper but when people argue and shout, you can’t help but overhear things you shouldn’t. So I knew he had been sent away. Not long after he arrived here, he wrote me a fair tragic letter, begged me to come and take care of him. So here I am.’
‘He’s lucky to have you.’
‘Of course he is,’ she said. ‘He has many admirable traits but common sense is not among them.’
As I got out of the car at the station she said, ‘He’ll be sad to have missed saying goodbye. He’s very fond of you.’
And so I departed, without goodbyes, leaving behind some
who meant nothing to me and one or two for whom I held a real fondness. And one I loved with all my heart. None of whom I will ever see again. To be honest, the one I was quite delighted to leave behind was Madame Bovary.
I had no hotel booking in Paris but took a taxi from Gare de Lyon to the Rue de l’École-de-Médecine. It was late afternoon and my plan was to check into a hotel near to the university so I could locate Sylvie Moreau the next morning and, with any luck, take an afternoon train to Calais. The taxi driver helpfully located a little hotel not far from the university and I took a room there.
I freshened up and sat on the bed and thought about everything that had happened. It was actually too much to take in. I desperately wanted to complete this final task and go home to the familiarity of England. I yearned for the musty old smells of home that I had been so dismissive of a few months earlier. Rather than wasting away the time in my room, it seemed advisable to at least make some enquiries. Taking the attaché case with me, I walked down to the Université Paris Descartes.
The exterior of the university gave no hint of the grandeur of the interior with its wide hallways and vaulted stone ceilings and I felt increasingly intimidated by the task of finding Sylvie Moreau in this imposing building. I stopped several people and made enquiries without success.
Finally an older man directed me to an administrative office where a woman was in the process of locking up for the night. After several attempts she grasped what I was saying and explained something in such rapid-fire French I couldn’t understand a single word. With obvious irritation she tried more slowly and this time I understood that Sylvie had gone. She no longer worked there. Until that moment I thought this transaction would be relatively simple. Suddenly it was impossible and (to both our surprise) I burst into tears.
Alarmed by this turn of events, the woman patted my arm and made soothing sounds. Unlocking the door, she beckoned me inside, sat me down and poured me a small brandy. She chatted on, presumably reassuring me that all was recoverable, while she rattled through various filing drawers. Finally locating the correct file, she flipped through until she found a folder and, muttering under her breath, examined the contents. She picked up the phone and dialled. We waited. Then she began to speak. Given we only met five minutes ago she found an awful lot to say to the person on the other end. She handed me the phone and, like a miracle, a voice said, ‘Yes? I am Sylvie.’
The French Perfumer Page 17
