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The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro
Читать онлайн.Название The Perfume Collector
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007419838
Автор произведения Kathleen Tessaro
Жанр Контркультура
Издательство HarperCollins
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright © Kathleen Tessaro 2013
Kathleen Tessaro asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Source ISBN: 9780007419845
Ebook Edition © April 2013 ISBN: 9780007419838
Version: 2019-03-01
Contents
Hôtel Hermitage, Monte Carlo, 1932
West Challow, Oxfordshire, England, 1935
Paris, September 1942, during the Nazi occupation
For my son Eddie Always, evermore … and then some
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.
‘You’re not even trying,’ he’d reprimanded her at the last appointment.
She was buttoning her blouse, on top of the examination table. ‘I’m having difficulty sleeping.’
‘Well,