Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “Ten thousand euros’ worth of a dress? First of all, I can’t believe you spent that amount of money on a dress!”

  “No,” Milady said coolly, draining her glass. “I didn’t pay for it. It was a gift. From Monsieur Galliano himself. He gave it to me to wear at the fashion gala last spring, and then he told me I could keep it.”

  “But, Maman,” Jacques sighed. “Why did you call the police? What are they going to think?

  Milady looked up at her son with a puzzled look in her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, putting the now empty brandy glass on the table beside her chair and taking a cigarette from an inlaid box.

  “But don’t you see?” Jacques groaned. “We have an awful lot of things in this house that are very valuable. Paintings, furniture, silver. Not to mention my horses and all the equipment in the stables. If we were to have a real emergency and needed the police, they will think twice about coming here next time we call them. They might decide not to turn up at all.”

  Milady lit her cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. “Calm down, chéri. I don’t know why you get so upset about it.”

  “Nom d’un chien,” Jacques moaned. “Why do I bother?”

  “Oh, put a sock in it,” Margo snapped in English. “Can’t you see that your mother is very upset? She’s had a bad shock. You seem to forget that her dress was stolen. I think that’s a very serious matter.”

  “A serious matter? Somebody stole a dress. Big deal. Maybe it was Agnès? She might have wanted to impress her relatives at that wedding she’s going to next Saturday. Or maybe it was you? Did you want to wear it to go out with your girlfriend when you go back to Paris?”

  “I don’t have a—” Margo stopped. She wanted to hit him. “You’re a bully,” she said.

  “And you’re a prissy old maid,” he retorted. “And I’m wasting time standing here talking rubbish with women.” He turned and started to walk out of the room.

  “Oh Jacques,” Milady said in a sad voice. “You’re becoming more like your father every day.”

  Jacques stopped and turned to look at his mother. “Which one?” he asked.

  His words startled Margo. But not as much as the bitterness in his voice.

  ***

  “Are you serious?” Gráinne exclaimed as she handed Margo a plate of food in the cabin of the truck. “She called the police because she couldn’t find a dress? Is she a bit of a fruitcake?”

  “No,” Margo said, suddenly regretting she had told Gráinne the whole story. “You don’t understand. Fashion is her life. A dress like that is worth a lot more than just the money to her. It’s a statement. It’s telling the world she is still to be reckoned with and that she’s still young and attractive.”

  “But she isn’t?” Gráinne sat down on the seat opposite Margo and picked up a pork chop with her fingers.

  “Not young, no. I think she must be around sixty, but she is very elegant and well preserved. And she has great guts. She went out to that dinner party tonight despite the fright she must have had. I suggested that she should go to bed and that I would bring her a nice cup of tea, but she snapped at me not to be silly and ordered me to tidy up her room and help her get ready.”

  “No sign of the missing dress?”

  Margo shrugged. “No. I have no idea what happened to it. I know it was in the wardrobe because I put it there myself when I unpacked Milady’s luggage. But maybe she lost it. Took it out and then put it away somewhere and forgot about it. It’s such a huge place that it could easily happen. But she was really upset. White as a sheet and shaking like a leaf until she got that cognac into her. I felt really sorry for her.”

  “But she pulled herself together?”

  “Oh, yes. She put on another dress, did her hair and makeup, and then off she went to the party like a ship in full sail in Bernard’s old jalopy.” Margo smiled. “She’s a real trooper, I have to say. And the way she changed from frightened old woman to elegant society lady in just a few minutes was amazing.”

  “But why did she have to go in an old jalopy?” Gráinne bit a chunk of meat off her chop.

  “Because Jacques’ car is too messy and smells of dogs. And François has taken the Jaguar to Paris.”

  “The other son?” Gráinne mumbled her mouth full of meat.

  “That’s right.” Margo sawed at the chop on her plate.

  “What’s he like? Just as big a bastard as his brother?” Gráinne asked, taking a slug of beer from her can. “Go on, pick it up with your fingers. This isn’t Buckingham Palace, you know.”

  “OK.” Margo gnawed at her chop. “This is good,” she added. “Really nice, Gráinne.”

  “Glad you like it. Not like some of that fancy French stuff you must be used to but quite tasty, even though I say so myself. But go on, what about the brother?”

  “François?” Margo stopped eating. “Oh, he’s a real gentleman. Very considerate. Good-looking too. And so well dressed. Always perfectly turned out.”

  “A bit of a hothouse flower?”

  “I suppose you could call him that. But he’s a real Parisian and very intelligent and well educated.”

  “Just your kind of guy?” Gráinne enquired.

  “No. I mean—” Margo paused and picked up the pork chop again. She laughed suddenly, thinking how wrong Gráinne was. “He’s a total contrast to his brother.”

  “I’m sure he is. I hope you stay out of his way. Jacques, I mean.”

  “Oh I will, don’t you worry,” Margo said hotly, sipping the beer Gráinne had poured into a glass for her. “I thought he was quite nice but I have just seen him treat his mother like shit. You have no idea how mean he was.”

  “Must have been if he makes you say things like ‘shit’.” Gráinne laughed.

  They ate in silence until they had both cleared their plates.

  “This was lovely,” Margo sighed, licking her fingers. “A real treat.”

  “Yeah, the pork wasn’t bad.”

  “The black pudding was very good too.”

  “Should be. It’s from Clonakilty. They make the best black pudding in the world there. So how do you like the new truck, then? A bit of all right, don’t you think?”

  “Fantastic,” Margo agreed, looking around the cabin. “And the little kitchen is great. Stove, microwave, fridge.” She burped loudly. “Excuse me. Not used to drinking all that beer.”

  “I know. Kind of recurs on you.”

  “You have everything anyone could possibly want in here,” Margo said.

  “Want to try the jacks?”

  “No thanks, I don’t really need to.”

  “OK. But when you do—”

  “Looking forward to it,” Margo said, thinking that beer was a little strong. “Anyway, it’s a great truck.”

  “Yeah. You could go around the world in this.” Gráinne looked at Margo with a sudden glint in her eyes. “Hey, why don’t we do just that?”

  “What?” Margo stared at Gráinne.

  “Why don’t we take off just the two of us? Go down south, all the way to Italy. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Then what?” Margo laughed. “We’ll get arrested for stealing this thing. It must be worth a lot of money. We wouldn’t get far before your boss would get word you hadn’t arrived to pick up those horses and then—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Gráinne sighed, “I know. It was fun just thinking about it for a while. It would be a laugh, wouldn’t it?” She looked wistfully at Margo.

  “I suppose it would for a while,” Margo agreed. “To just drive around and see the sights and have a holiday. But then, we would run out of money.”

  “You’re so sensible,” Gráinne said with a tinge of criticism in her voice. “Why don’t you take a walk on the wild side sometimes?”

  “I’m wild enough as it is right now,” Margo said. “I don’t think I want to get any wilder.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The shrill sound of the alarm clock cut through the early morning
peace. Margo buried her face in the pillow. I’m not going to do this, she thought. I’ll just go back to sleep and ignore what he said. If I don’t turn up, he’ll think I’m a wimp, but what do I care what he thinks? I’m not getting up at dawn to prove anything to that creep.

  ***

  “Bonjour.” Jacques beamed as she rounded the corner to the stables. “Right on time. The horses are ready. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  “Sublime,” Margo said, looking up at the blue cloudless sky. “And so fresh still.” She shrank back as the two big Labradors trotted forward with lolling tongues and started sniffing at her legs.

  “Be careful,” Jacques warned. They might bite. They can sniff a town girl from miles away.”

  “What?” Margo took a step back. Then she noticed the look on his face. “Very funny. I’m sure they’re quite friendly.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt a fly, as they say.”

  “Are they coming on the ride?”

  “Not today. They will jump into the river and frighten the birds. You weren’t thinking of riding in those shoes, were you?” Jacques continued, looking at her feet.

  “No, but that’s all I have. I thought there might be a pair of wellies or something.”

  “Let’s go and have a look in the tack room. I think there’s a pair of my mother’s old boots somewhere. And her riding hat too.”

  Half an hour later, Margo, wearing a pair of scuffed leather boots and a riding hat covered in worn black velvet, was sitting on top of an old grey mare, trying her best to stay on. Jacques, riding a frisky chestnut gelding that looked as if he was ready to burst out of its skin, studied her critically.

  “Just relax,” he said. “Let old Sophie do what she wants.”

  “What if she wants to throw me off?” Margo asked nervously.

  “Then there’s nothing you could do about it. But I don’t think she’d have the energy in this heat.”

  “Really? Oh!’ Margo squealed as the horse skipped suddenly. “What’s she doing now?”

  “Just kicking at a fly.”

  “But—oh no! What was that?”

  “She swished her tail. They do that sometimes.”

  Margo tightened her hands, sweaty with nervousness, on the reins. “I don’t know if this was such a good idea,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “Why not? Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

  Margo clenched her jaw. “No, of course not. I have ridden before, you know.”

  “I can tell.” Jacques rode up alongside her. “Try to relax,” he said. “If you’re tense, the horse can feel it.” The chestnut jumped suddenly and skipped sideways, but Jacques didn’t seem to notice. He just tightened his legs, and the horse settled again.

  “Your horse seems a little mean,” Margo said.

  “Mean? Not really. He’s just a little fresh. But I didn’t take any notice, and he calmed down. Now sit down deeper in the saddle, and relax your shoulders. Try not to grip so hard with your legs. That’s it,” Jacques said when Margo tried to do as she was told. “See? Sophie is much happier now.”

  “How can you tell?” Margo said, suppressing a gasp as Sophie swished her tail again.

  “Her ears are pointing forward, and she’s walking along quietly,” Jacques said as his own horse suddenly jumped sideways again. “But this one is a little impatient, so we’d better trot now.”

  “Trot?” Margo asked with more than a hint of panic in her voice. “I can’t trot!’

  “Of course you can,” Jacques said as he rode out in front of her, down the path from the stables.

  His horse broke into a trot in front of Margo. “Wait,” she called. “Hold on! Can’t we just walk for a bit?”

  “No,” Jacques said over his shoulder. “My horse is too fresh. Come on!’

  “But I—” Sophie started to trot slowly behind the prancing young horse. Margo found herself bouncing uncomfortably, her bottom hitting the saddle painfully at each step. The bastard, she thought, why can’t he wait for me? She tried desperately to grip with her legs in order to stop herself falling off.

  Jacques glanced over his shoulder. “All right?” he asked.

  “Y–y–e–es,” Margo said, trying desperately to stay on but feeling very much like a lump of butter on a hot potato. She gripped hard with her legs but felt herself sliding sideways with each painful step. Jacques was far ahead now, his horse bouncing and shying, fighting to break into canter, and Margo could hear him swear in French. This will end very badly, she thought. I will fall off and break something, my neck probably. Oh God, please help me.

  But God seemed busy with other things. Margo felt she was going to fall painfully to the ground when she suddenly remembered something from a long time ago, a phrase that had been repeated again and again. Rising trot, someone seemed to whisper in her ear, and at once, she knew what to do. Meet the horse’s movements, she said to herself, get into rhythm. She tried to remember what she had been taught all those years ago at pony camp, and she started to stand up and sit as the horse trotted on. It was like a kind of dance and the music was the movement of the horse. As she got used to the rhythm, she began to enjoy the feeling and her tension eased. Sophie had a lovely elastic gait, and it was quite easy to follow her movements. This is fun, Margo thought a few minutes later, feeling proud of herself as Sophie trotted on down the path. Jacques and his horse were still having arguments far away in the distance but Jacques seemed to be winning, and he managed to slow the horse down and wait for Margo. He turned around and smiled at her as she came closer. “ Ça va?” he asked. “Everything all right?”

  “Lovely.” Margo pulled on the reins, and they slowed to an easy walk along the fence toward the first gate which led to a field where a herd of cattle were contentedly chewing grass and flapping away the flies with their ears.

  “We’re going in here to check this herd,” Jacques said. “Then we trot up the hill to the next one, and then we can ride along the stream down to the river.”

  “Great.”

  “But we’ll take it easy.”

  “I’m managing very well, thank you,” Margo said, trying her best to look cool and unperturbed, despite her now very sore bottom and aching legs.

  They walked the horses among the cattle, and Jacques counted them to make sure they were all there and none of the calves were missing. “They can easily get into trouble,” he explained to Margo, “get stuck in a bush and choke or wander off and get themselves tangled up in barbed wire.”

  “This is a big herd.”

  “There are sixty head in this one and fifty-two in the one in the next field.” I have to do my best to keep the cattle in good condition and in this drought it’s quite hard work. I do it by moving the herds around and using the fields by the river where there is still some good grass. We were lucky to have taken in two crops of silage this year as well.”

  “I see,” Margo said, trying to look interested. “Seems like you’re managing very well.”

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” Jacques said with a broad smile.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “No, it isn’t. I can see you’re getting both hot and bored.” He turned his horse around. “Come on, let’s go and look at the other herd, and then we can ride down the stream to the river.”

  It became increasingly hotter as the morning wore on, and by the time they were walking the horses along the river, Margo felt both sweaty and sore in every muscle. But she forgot her discomfort as Jacques suddenly grabbed her arm.

  “Look,” he said. “There. The kingfisher, can you see it?”

  Margo looked along the river and, suddenly, there was a flash of brilliant blue as a small bird flew swiftly just a few inches above the water’s surface. Another flash and it was gone. “Oh,” Margo sighed. “How wonderful. So fast and so—so beautiful.”

  “Yes.” Jacques shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the river. “He’s gone. I think he went into those trees over there. If we sit quietly, we might see him again.”
<
br />   But the kingfisher didn’t reappear. Instead, they saw a pair of swans with five tiny cygnets. Margo watched in delight as the babies scrambled onto their mother’s back and the whole family slowly glided down the river.

  The horses shied suddenly as a heron flapped its wings on the opposite bank and rose gracefully above the trees. Margo followed its flight as the huge bird sailed away in the distance until it was a tiny dot against the blue sky.

  “OK?” Jacques asked, still steadying his horse.

  “What?” Margo turned. “Oh, sorry. I was looking at the heron. It’s such a graceful bird in flight.”

  “Sophie behaving herself?”

  “Beautifully,” Margo said, patting the horse’s neck.

  “Time to go back,” Jacques announced and turned his horse around.

  As they rode slowly home, Margo secretly studied Jacques, thinking he was so different from the night before when he had lost his temper with his mother. This morning, he looked perfectly calm, and there was an expression of contentment in his eyes that had been there all morning. She admired the ease with which he rode the hot-tempered young horse and realised she was in the presence of a superb horseman. She wanted to say something, tell him how much she had enjoyed the morning, thank him for inviting her to ride with him but found herself strangely tongue-tied. Jacques suddenly turned his head and met her gaze. They looked at each other for only a split second but Margo felt they said more to each other than if they had exchanged a thousand words.

  ***

  “They are forecasting thunder for this afternoon,” Milady said in a gloomy voice from her deckchair on the terrace. “And I know they are right. I can feel my migraine coming on.”

  She did look a little peaky, Margo thought, as if the events of the day before had drained her. She suddenly felt a stab of pity for the woman. She can’t have an easy life, trying to hang onto her youth and beauty, keeping up with the hectic social life, and maintaining her image as a fashion icon, never being allowed to let the mask slip.

  “How was the dinner last night?” Margo enquired, thinking it might cheer Milady up to talk about the party.