Chapter 9
Nine
Romy sipped her rosé and watched the professor’s face as Isabelle launched into her story about the discovery of the letter.
He was clearly mesmerised, and no wonder, for Isabelle told it very well, painting a vivid picture of that cloudy morning at the brocante market, complete with colourful characters like her fellow traders and that loopy fellow she called Moustique, with his bizarre technique to ensure he got what he wanted.
Romy had heard the story yesterday, but that recounting had been short and to the point, not like the vivid retelling that came out of Isabelle’s mouth now.
And Cazenave was certainly transfixed. Was it just from academic excitement?
Isabelle was certainly a striking, stylish woman, and her extraordinary story must only enhance her appeal to anyone who was even a little susceptible.
And Romy suspected it wasn’t just going one way, either, judging by the animation in Isabelle’s expression.
She pulled her thoughts away from such speculations as Isabelle, reaching the point at which she had discovered what was in the box, slid the plastic wallet containing the letter out from her pouch.
It was done for dramatic effect—you almost expected a roll of drums—and Romy couldn’t help smiling.
But Cazenave reacted exactly as intended, leaning forward, with a flattering air of holding his breath.
His eyes never left Isabelle’s face as she slipped on the white gloves and took the letter out from its envelope, placing it very carefully on top of her pouch, angled so that the professor could easily read it.
She also took a small fold-up magnifying glass from her pocket and put it beside the envelope.
There was a brief silence while Cazenave read the letter, then took his glasses off, picked up the magnifying glass, and examined the letter through it. He glanced at Isabelle, his face alight with excitement. ‘My God, what a find! What an eye you must have, Isabelle!’
‘I was lucky,’ said Isabelle, shrugging, but looking pleased.
‘Not just lucky. You knew what you were looking at. A lot of people wouldn’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘May I?’ he added, gesturing at her gloves.
Isabelle nodded. ‘They’ll be a bit small for you,’ she said, ‘but if you pick the letter up with the gloves, without putting them on, it should be fine.’
Gently, using the gloves, he lifted the letter up from both sides and looked at it intently, then, in an unexpected move, lifted it to his nose. Isabelle made a small involuntary movement at that, but she said nothing, and the two women watched as he took first one sniff, then another.
Romy had a sudden desire to giggle. Cazenave doing that reminded her of one of her previous boyfriends, an inveterate wine snob, always picking up glasses in restaurants and at parties, giving them a sniff and then reeling off a list of what he claimed he could smell in the wines.
It wasn’t that Romy couldn’t smell anything in them—she definitely could, and it brought up vivid pictures in her mind, of sunlit southern villages on the edges of hills, or cool misty mornings in northern vineyards.
But what her boyfriend claimed he could smell was nothing like that, and he used what he called his superior understanding to make her feel like a fool.
That was unfair, she thought, Professor Cazenave was nothing like that.
He had never to her knowledge tried to make anyone feel like a fool.
Maybe it was some arcane way of judging the age of a letter—perhaps paper smelled of its time?
Cazenave stopped sniffing and looked at Isabelle, his eyes shining. ‘It’s joy.’ He pronounced the word not in the French way, joie, but in the English way. ‘Very faint. But I am sure.’
Romy was completely confused. What was he talking about? Then she saw Isabelle’s expression. Isabelle had clearly understood. ‘It was her favourite, wasn’t it?’ she replied, her gaze locking with Cazenave’s.
He nodded. ‘Her fiancé bought it for her when it was first released, in 1929. He knew Patou himself.’
It was then that the penny dropped for Romy.
It wasn’t the emotion of joy that they were talking about, it was Joy, with a capital J—Joy, by Jean Patou.
The most expensive perfume in the world at the time it was released, and second most popular, after Chanel No 5.
Created by the famous couturier’s friend and master perfumer, Henri Alméras, Joy was released almost as an act of defiance at the time of the great crash of 1929 and, perhaps counterintuitively, immediately became a success.
It was that and other Patou perfumes which helped the couture house to weather the Great Depression, as orders for designer clothing had steeply declined.
‘You mean,’ Romy said, a slight note of incredulity in her voice, ‘that you can still smell that perfume on the paper even though it’s so old?’
He smiled. ‘Yes. I’ve always had an excellent sense of smell, and when I was young I was interested in a career in perfume.
In fact, I worked for a while for Fragonard, in Grasse and Paris.
And then my career direction changed.’ He shrugged.
‘But I’ve never lost interest in perfume.
Joy is a very strong and lingering scent, and the fact that the envelope was not opened till Isabelle found it meant the smell was still there, even if it was faint. ’
Isabelle shook her head in wonder. ‘Wow. I had no idea. It’s amazing, Pierre.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but it’s a bit of a sidetrack, I’m afraid. Have you found anything that might point to the identity of this Mademoiselle Houssaye?’
‘Only one thing,’ said Romy, and she explained about the department store catalogue she’d discovered in the flat, with the scrawled name of Houssaye.
‘We thought maybe she was a customer of the store, or someone who worked for them, but then I had another thought—maybe she was someone who worked in Fontaine’s workshop on Rue Bonaparte, one of the petites mains. ’
‘It’s a good possibility,’ said Cazenave, thoughtfully, ‘because I imagine that if Fontaine trusted her with keeping the copies safe, then she would have been someone who was not only a friend but also connected somehow to her business. Anyway, as part of my research, I have compiled a partial list of people who worked for her, not complete, you understand, but it’s possible we may find someone whose name could fit. ’
We, he’d said, Romy thought, he really is getting invested in this, and no wonder, it was right up his alley.
She watched as Isabelle slipped on the white gloves again, picked up the letter, gave it a tentative sniff without commenting, then folded it and put it back into its envelope and the wallet.
‘Would we be able to consult the list, Pierre?’ she asked.
‘Of course! And I have a lot of other research about Fontaine’s life if it turns out we need to consider other possibilities.’
‘Great!’ Isabelle’s eyes were shining. ‘It’s clear that the copies are from the sketches of the evening gown. But do you have any idea what the orphan box might refer to?’
‘None at all,’ he said, spreading his hands regretfully. ‘I’ve never heard the term before.’ He looked at them. ‘But if you like, you could both come now and have a look at the material I’ve gathered. My apartment is nearby and I promise not to bore you with too much stuff.’
Isabelle’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, that would be wonderful! If we aren’t disturbing your plans, that is.’
‘Not at all,’ said Cazenave, cheerfully. ‘I have no plans for tonight, and I live alone and have only myself to please. It would be a pleasure to talk more about one of my favourite subjects with you both.’
It was then Romy remembered she was booked for dinner with Alex. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I’d love to, but I have a prior engagement.’ She looked at the clock on the café wall. ‘In fact, I’d better be heading off now.’
‘Never mind, Romy,’ said Isabelle. ‘Maybe we can meet up tomorrow.’
At the restaurant an hour later, over a delicious entrée of roast eggplant and pomegranate salad, Romy told Alex the whole story about Isabelle, the letter, and their conversation with Cazenave, and he’d listened with every appearance of interest, putting in the odd question now and again.
Yet she had the impression he was also distracted in some way, and that was a little disappointing, as she’d looked forward to discussing it with him.
So she changed the subject to Audrey Oliver’s visit to the school, and this time, her words seemed to snap him sharply back into focus.
‘Audrey Oliver came to your school?’ he echoed. ‘Why?’
Romy looked at him in surprise. ‘She’s writing a book, and I think it’s part of her research. It was an impromptu visit. I didn’t even know it was happening until this morning. Anyway, I was rather nervous when I found out, but she was really nice.’
‘You spoke to her?’ he asked, his voice returning to its normal even tone.
‘Yes. I happened to run into her when she was talking to Mickael, a friend of mine from school, and she asked me about myself.’
‘She did?’ he replied, staring unblinkingly at her face, making her feel a little uncomfortable, and puzzled too.
‘Just about how I’d come to be studying there, because both Mickael and I had other careers beforehand, and she was interested in that.
But Alex—’ She stopped talking as the waiter came to their table with their main courses.
‘What’s up?’ she continued after the waiter had left.
‘You don’t seem … quite yourself. Please,’ she added gently, when it looked as though he wouldn’t answer.
He sighed. ‘Sorry, Romy. I didn’t mean to be—’ He looked at her, as if he was trying to decide something. ‘I had a bit of a shock yesterday, after leaving you … it’s affected me a good deal, I suppose.’
He went quiet for a moment and she thought that was it, but then he said, calmly yet somehow hollow, ‘I hadn’t seen her for twenty years, but I’d never forgotten her, had always regretted …
’ A pause. ‘And then there she was in the street … And well, it brought everything back, the way we were …’ He ran a hand absently through his hair.
‘And now you tell me she was there, in your school, that you talked to her and—’
‘Whoa. Stop, Alex,’ Romy interrupted sharply.
‘Are you saying you knew Audrey? That you and Audrey—you were together?’ He nodded mutely.
‘But you never told me,’ she accused. ‘You have never said a word about it. And you know I adore her writing. You know it is part of what inspired me to change my life. Why didn’t you tell me you knew her? ’
‘How could I? You were just a kid when it happened, and later the memory was too painful. I was trying so hard to put it behind me, to get on with the rest of my life.’
Romy knew he’d been engaged once, when he was very young, to someone called Valentine, or was it Valerie?
But they’d ended up breaking it off, which had caused quite a rift in the family, especially as it was followed by Alex turning down the role in the family business that had always been set for him and taking off to America for a couple of years.
Since then, she knew there had been other girlfriends, but none that had lasted.
As long as she could remember, he’d concentrated on his work, and his love life had taken a back seat to that.
She certainly had never heard him mention Audrey before.
‘When what happened?’ she asked. ‘You know you are going to have to tell me now.’
He smiled for the first time. A faint smile, but a real one. ‘Oh, I know I won’t be allowed to leave it at that.’
Romy thought about how much they’d shared over the years, how Alex had been the one member of her family to make her feel really seen, really listened to.
And she’d always known his laid-back manner was a protective shield for an inner vulnerability, which he wasn’t ashamed of but didn’t want to parade either.
She said, gently, ‘Only if you want to tell me, Alex.’
‘I do and I must,’ he said simply. ‘But first, let’s have our food, or it will get cold. And it looks and smells too good to bolt down, so let’s just enjoy it and I promise I’ll tell you afterwards.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘That’s a good plan.’