Finding Margo (12 page)

“Well, it’s about something I saw. Or somebody, to be precise.”

“Somebody?” Justine swung the heavy door open and switched on the light inside the door.

Margo forgot what she was going to ask as she stared in awe at the jumble in the storage room. It looked like a very disorganised antique shop. Old chairs and tables, worn rugs, pictures with broken frames, heaps of old velvet and silk curtains, cots, old toys, trunks, leather suitcases with hotel labels, and other assorted items were piled together in ragged heaps, some of the piles nearly toppling over.

“My God,” she said.

“I know. Should all be thrown out if you ask me,” Justine grunted as she squeezed her heavy frame inside. “But you were saying?”

“Oh, it was nothing really,” Margo mumbled as she fingered a deep red velvet curtain. “Lovely material.”

“Used to hang in the dining room,” Justine said, pushing further in. “Where are those suitcases? Could have sworn I put them—oh, here they are.” She started to pull down a leather suitcase from a pile on top of a chest of drawers.

“Here. Let me.” Margo took the suitcase and put it on the floor, watching Justine take down the next one. “How many do we need?”

“Four. She always takes four when she goes to the country.”

“They are really beautiful,” Margo said as she looked closely at the next one. “Real leather and such workmanship. Look, they were made by Hermès.”

“So?”

“Well, you know. It’s not that common to see this kind of luggage these days.”

“
Ah bon
?” Justine swung the last case down onto the floor. “We’ll take two each. And you might as well take some of the red velvet. Might make nice curtains for your room if you know how to sew.”

“Really?” Margo grabbed the curtain and sneezed as a cloud of dust hit her nose. “That’s really kind. I was just thinking I needed to get something better than that broken blind. I’m not very good at sewing, but—”

“Not much needed. The hooks are still in, see? All you have to do is hook them up on the rail and take them up a little.”

“Oh, I see. Well that should be—”

“That rug over there might do you as well,” Justine interrupted, lifting up the corner of a worn needlepoint rug in warms hues of red and pink. “And those tapestry cushions are not really any use to anybody, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Oh, but they are really darling,” Margo said as she admired the faded roses and bluebells on the cushions. “Thank you. That’s so kind, Justine.”

“Harumph,” Justine grunted. “Put it all inside the cases, then we can bring it all up in one go.”

“Good idea.” Margo opened one of the suitcases and proceeded to stuff the red velvet inside. “I’ll start on the curtains straight away.”

“Why the rush?” Justine asked. “Aren’t you going to the château in a few days?”

“Yes, I know, but if I improve my room a little bit now, it will be nice to come back to in September.”

“If we’re all still alive,” Justine said darkly as she helped Margo stuff the last of the curtain into the suitcase.

Margo looked at her. “What do you mean, if we’re all still alive?”

“I never take anything for granted,” Justine said. “And the château – it’s a strange place.”

“Strange? How?” Margo said with a little laugh. Justine was so melodramatic sometimes.

Justine just shrugged. “You’ll see.”

“Sounds interesting. I’m looking forward to seeing it and meeting the people who work there. Milady told me there’s a housekeeper and her husband.”

“Agnès and Bernard,” Justine nodded. “A very nice couple. You’ll like them.”

“And Milady’s youngest son, what’s he like?”

“Monsieur Jacques?” There was suddenly a dreamy look in Justine’s eyes. “A nice young man. A little spoiled, a little temperamental, but a real gentleman.”

“Charming?” Margo asked mischievously.

Justine coloured slightly. “A nice boy. Always remembers me at Christmas. And he loves animals. Horses and dogs, you know?”

“He sounds very nice. Can’t wait to meet him.”

Justine’s expression changed, and she looked sternly at Margo. “You be careful with him, Mademoiselle. He can turn a woman’s head and make a real fool out of her.”

“Don’t worry,” Margo said. “I know what men are like. It would be difficult to make a fool out of me.”

“Good. But what was it you said earlier?” Justine asked, folding the rug carefully. “About seeing somebody?”

“Oh, yes.” Margo looked up from her task. “I nearly forgot. It was the other night. Sunday night. I was going up in the lift, the servant’s lift. And I saw this woman.”

“A woman?” Justine sounded oddly alarmed.

“Yes. She was standing by the kitchen door of the apartment.”

“Our apartment?”

“That’s right. She was tall and blonde and quite beautiful, I think. I couldn’t see her clearly, but she had huge dark eyes, and she wore a red dress.”

“Go on,” Justine urged, her hands still on the rug.

“Well, she took out a key and let herself in.”

“Into the apartment?”

Margo nodded. “That’s right.” She peered at Justine. “Who was she? Do you know?”

Suddenly, there was a guarded look in Justine’s eyes. “Must have been another floor. It’s very dark in the stairwell. Easy to make the mistake.”

“No,” Margo said. “I’m sure I’m right.”

Justine looked sternly at Margo. “There are certain things...” she paused.

Margo stared at the old woman, waiting for her to finish her sentence. But Justine suddenly closed her mouth tightly, and her eyes were expressionless again.

“Things are not always what they seem,” she muttered. “Especially in this family.”

M
argo struggled with the heavy velvet as she tried to attach the rusty hooks to the curtain rail. Three more to go. Two. One. There. Finally. She smoothed the velvet and stood back to admire her handiwork. What a difference, she thought as she looked, first at the view of the rooftops and the tall shape of the Eiffel Tower behind them, framed in the soft red velvet, then around the room. The rug on the worn lino and the cushions on the bed made the small room infinitely more inviting, the warm colours enhancing the rich brown mahogany of the bed head and the big old wardrobe. Even the old-fashioned wallpaper with the tiny rosebuds was suddenly more attractive. Now, maybe a print or two and a nice bedspread.

A sudden, hard knock on the door made her jump. Nobody had ever knocked on her door. Who could it be? Margo wondered if Milady had come home early from her session at the beauty parlour. But she had said she would dine with friends afterwards and then go straight to bed. Margo had packed Milady’s four suitcases, and they would be setting off early the next morning for the country. No, it couldn’t be Milady. She wouldn’t come up here herself; she would send Justine, and she, Margo knew, was busy packing to go on her annual holiday at her cousin’s in Tours.

There was another hard knock.

“Who is it?” Margo called. There was no reply, only a faint rustling sound. Margo walked to the door and peered through the spy hole. She could see nothing at first, then the top of someone’s head, then an eye squinting at her.

“
Qui est la
?” Margo called, her heart beginning to race in her chest. She felt suddenly nervous and very aware that she was all alone here in this small room, with nobody nearby who would hear, or even care, if she was attacked.

“Jesus Christ, Margo,” a familiar voice shouted. “Will you open the door! There’s this strange man staring at me.”

“Fiona,” Margo breathed, at once weak with relief. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

“I did,” Fiona panted and nearly fell into the room. “Please, lock the door, quickly,” she begged as Margo slammed the door shut.

“What’s the matter with you?” Margo demanded, looking at Fiona’s red face. “And how on earth did you find me?”

Fiona collapsed on the bed, her hand on her chest. “I thought he was—oh God.”

“Who? What?”

“That man out there,” Fiona breathed and gestured vaguely at the door. “A big, dark man with a beard. He was dressed in some kind of, I don’t know, caftan or something, and he was staring at me and tried to touch my—”

“Your what?”

“My arm. He said something, but I couldn’t understand. I was so frightened. Oh, Margo, what are you doing here in this, this
ghetto
?”

Margo sat on the bed beside Fiona. “Stop babbling for a minute. Calm down. Nobody is going to attack you. That was probably my neighbour you saw. I think he’s Moroccan or something. He lives in the room next door with his wife and small baby, and I imagine that he just wanted to be helpful.”

“Oh. I see.” Fiona breathed deeply, her hand still on her chest. “Could I have a glass of water?”

“Of course.”

Fiona looked around the room while Margo filled a glass from the tap. “So this is where you live now.”

“That’s right. How did you manage to find me?” Margo asked, handing Fiona the glass.

“Oh, that was easy,” Fiona said, sounding a little calmer as she sipped the water. “I just used my head.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you said that you were working as some kind of secretary or something.”

“PA.”

“Whatever. Then I remembered that you were at the fashion show with, well you know ”

“Know what? Stop talking in riddles.”

“You know who she is, don’t you?”

“You mean the Comtesse?”

“That’s right. Otherwise known as Marie-Jo. Very well-known model in the late nineteen fifties and early sixties. A real fashion icon. But you must know that, of course.”

“Of course,” Margo said, trying not to look surprised.

“And that she married into the French aristocracy and became one of those society hostesses, and well, all that.” Fiona drew breath. “Anyway,” she continued when Margo didn’t reply, “I just looked up the address and found the apartment. I called in and asked for you, and some old dragon told me you were up here, so
voilá
, here I am.” Fiona put the empty glass on the bedside table.

“So you are.” Margo folded her arms across her chest. “And what, if I may be so rude to ask, do you want?”

“Want? I don’t want anything. I just thought I’d come and—”

“Spy on me? See if you could persuade me to behave and go back to Alan? Or maybe you just came to gloat?”

Fiona folded her skirt over her knees. “I don’t know what you mean,” she mumbled and flicked an imaginary piece of fluff off the fabric.

There was silence in the small room. Margo didn’t know what to say. She wanted Fiona to leave and never come back. She didn’t want to be reminded of her life in London, and she didn’t want to apologise or explain to anyone for anything.

“This is actually rather nice,” Fiona muttered to herself as she looked around the room.

“What?”

“The room. It’s sort of quaint. Not that I would like to live here, but it has a rather shabby-chic charm.”

“How sweet of you to say so,” Margo said sourly, watching as Fiona walked to the window and looked out.

“Nice view,” Fiona said. She touched the curtain. “Lovely old piece of velvet.” She walked to the wardrobe and opened the door, fingering the clothes. “Nice things. Yours?” Without waiting for a reply, she took out the grey dress and peered at the label. “Chanel. My goodness. And it’s one of those classics. How on earth—” Fiona looked at Margo with a touch of envy in her eyes. “And that shirt you’re wearing is definitively a Dior vintage. Is she giving you her old clothes? Got to say, darling, these are the best hand-me-downs I’ve ever—”

“Stop snooping.” Margo snatched the dress away, hung it back in the wardrobe and slammed the door shut.

“All right. Don’t be so bloody jumpy. Look, I just came for a little chat. Just to see, well, to find out—”

“Fiona. Please.” Margo sat down on the bed again, her legs oddly weak. “I’d like you to leave now. I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t care. I want to be left alone.”

They looked at each other in silence.

“Why do I have the feeling I have never really known you?” Fiona said, standing in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips. “I know we’ve never really been close friends, but I get the impression right now that you have been playing the part of someone else all these years. It really frightens me, you know. How is it possible that someone like you can suddenly just walk away from a life like that to—” she gestured vaguely around the room, “this?”

“Someone like me?” Margo asked. “What do you mean?”

“Someone from your background I mean.”

“What’s wrong with my background?”

“You grew up over a
shop
,” Fiona sneered.

“Yes, but it was an antiques shop,” Margo countered.

“Still a bloody shop,” Fiona sniffed. “I would have thought you would thank your lucky stars to have bagged a man like Alan and hang onto him no matter what...” Fiona’s voice trailed away.

“He isn’t exactly Prince Charming in private, you know,” Margo said.

“Well yes, I can see that but—” Fiona took a deep breath and looked at Margo squarely. “Just tell me this. If he was so horrible to live with, why on earth did you marry him?”

“Not because I wanted to ‘bag’ a rich husband, in any case,” Margo said hotly. “We fell in love. It’s as simple as that. We got married and...” She paused. “Well you know. We were fine. Very happy. And when there were problems, we were able to work them out. Even when—” she stopped.

“When—?” Fiona said.

“I found out I couldn’t have a baby,” Margo said flatly. “I was so upset.” More than upset, she thought as she remembered how the longing to be a mother had been so bad, it was like a physical pain. She had felt she had no future if she couldn’t have a child, but how could she explain that to Fiona or any woman who had been able to have children?

“It took me a long time to accept that there would never be a baby,” Margo continued. “And then I was worried that Alan would leave me, try to find someone else who could. But he took it really well. He was so kind and sweet, then. He took care of everything. He was in charge of all the tests so I didn’t have to sit in some doctor’s office and get the bad news from a stranger. And when he found out that I wasn’t a candidate for IVF, he was very good about that too and said that we would try to adopt a baby as soon as his surgery was off the ground and he would have more time to spend with a family. But that never seemed to happen,” she mumbled. “I don’t think he really meant it.”