Free The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro Page B

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