The Perfume Collector

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I would like to thank the following people: my agents Jonny Geller and Jennifer Joel, my editors Katie Espiner, Maya Ziv and Lorissa Sengara, as well as Cassie Browne, Jaime Frost, Louisa Joyner and Katherine Beitner. I’m especially grateful for the notes and encouragement of Jo Rodgers, the support of my husband Gregory Liberi and the editorial comments of my friend and mentor, Jill Robinson.

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.

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