Finding Margo
Page 18
“What time is it?” she asked. “Is the party over?”
“No, I left early. I couldn’t stand any more of the crap. So, when I had wished the birthday boy many happy returns and kissed all the old bags on the cheek, I sneaked off.”
“And your mother?”
“Still there, having a good time. She won’t notice I’m gone, until it’s time to go, and then I’ll miraculously appear at her side, ready to escort her home. That way, I can relax here at home, have dinner, watch the news, and avoid being bored to death. Clever, eh?” He grinned, showing his uneven, almost wolfish white teeth.
“You’re a genius,” Margo said flatly, trying to unravel her legs that seemed to have gone to sleep under her.
“You seem in a bad mood. Still tired?”
“No, I’m fine.” Margo had managed to get her legs free and her feet on the floor.
“You don’t seem fine to me. You look as if you were a little annoyed with me?” He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Was it that little argument you walked into earlier?”
“OK.” Margo looked at him coolly. “I know this is not any of my business, but I think you were horrible to your mother. She was very upset, even though she did her best not to show it.”
“You’re right. It is not your business.”
“Fine.” Margo started to get up.
“No.” Jacques’ tone was serious. He put a hand on her arm. “Just a minute. I want to explain. I don’t want you to think I—” He paused.
“Think what?” Margo sat down again and turned to look at him.
“I don’t want to be cast in the role of some kind of monster.”
“I don’t think you’re a monster,” Margo said. “I just think you behaved like a bad- tempered two-year-old. There is no excuse to speak to your mother the way you did, just because you didn’t want to go to a family party. If that is the way you behave every time things don’t go your way, I feel deeply sorry for her.”
“Deeply sorry?” He gave a little snort. “There is no need to feel the slightest bit sorry for her.”
“How do you mean?” Margo said, puzzled by his expression.
Jacques shook his head. “Never mind,” he murmured. “It is, as you said, none of your business.”
“Exactly.” Margo looked at him coldly. “I’d prefer to forget the whole thing, to be honest. Maybe it was my own fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I have a terrible temper,” Jacques said. “And sometimes I can’t control it.”
“Maybe you need therapy?” Margo suggested, touched by the contrition in his voice.
“Are you volunteering?” Jacques asked in a lighter voice.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“It would take a long time to straighten me out.”
“I’m sure it would.”
“But it might be a lot of fun.” Jacques laughed softly and sat back in the sofa with his arm draped along the back of it. He looked at Margo intently with an expression in his eyes she couldn’t quite interpret.
“I doubt it.”
“Maybe not.” Jacques sighed. “So,” he continued, “what happened to your girlfriend? The butch one from Ireland?”
“Gráinne? She’s gone to—” Margo stopped and stared at him, surprised by his tone. “Butch? What do you mean?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You must. Everyone knows what she is.”
“Everyone?”
“People talk, you know,” Jacques said, looking smug. “The horse world is very small. Everyone knows everyone else. There is a lot of talk all the time.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her through narrow eyes. “They talk. About that girl. That she is not a real woman. That she likes other girls, I mean.”
“Are you saying that people think Gráinne is gay?”
“That’s it. I know I’m right. And I thought maybe you and she—”
“Hold on a minute,” Margo said. “Just a second here.”
“Yes?”
“What business is this of yours?” she demanded. “So what if Gráinne is gay? Isn’t that her affair?”
“Uh—”
“And if she and I are having a relationship, what does that have to do with you? Why would that make you so angry?”
“Well, I—because...” Jacques’ voice faltered.
“Scares you, does it? The idea of two women—well, you know. Makes you feel a little inadequate?” Margo couldn’t help feeling a certain vicious satisfaction. He suddenly looked so foolish.
The expression in Jacques’ eyes changed, and he seemed to recover his poise.
“Oh,” he said coolly, resuming his position and putting his arm along the back of the sofa again, lightly touching Margo’s shoulder with his hand. “It’s just that I think it would be a shame. A waste of a beautiful woman.”
Margo sat up straighter to avoid his touch. “Why would it be a waste? If I was gay and had a relationship with another woman and we really loved each other, why would that be wasteful? Don’t you believe that love between two people, whatever their... inclinations, is always beautiful?” What am I saying, she asked herself. Why don’t I just walk out of here?
“Isn’t it love that is important, not the gender thing?” She ended with more passion in her voice than she had intended, but she felt suddenly disappointed that he was so narrow-minded.
“Ah oui, l’amour,” he murmured, lightly touching the back of her neck with his fingers, making her shiver. “I don’t really care,” he continued. “I have never felt that strongly about it. Until now.”
“Why now?” Margo asked, even though she knew what he was going to say. It was as if she suddenly had a compulsion to feed him his lines.
“Because I am interested in you, Mademoiselle Marguerite.” His arm was now lightly around her shoulder, but she didn’t move, didn’t try to get away from his touch. “If you are, well, that way inclined,” he continued, “I would like to know, so—”
“So you won’t waste your time flirting with me?” Margo said, turning to look at him. Their faces were so close, their lips nearly met, and she pulled away slightly.
I’m a married woman, she said to herself, but it didn’t seem real somehow; it was as if she was another person, not Margo, Alan’s wife, but Marguerite, young and free and available. That was what she felt at that moment, with Jacques’ arm around her and his warm breath tickling her neck. She glanced at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to kiss him and looked away, afraid he would guess what she was thinking.
“That’s right,” he said with a little laugh. “I don’t like wasting time. Life is far too short for that. Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose,” she murmured, looking away from his burning eyes. She felt trapped, but couldn’t get away – didn’t really want to, if she was really honest with herself.
“You smell nice,” he said, leaning forward, touching her neck with his nose. “What is that perfume?”
“No perfume,” she said, her voice oddly hoarse. “Just soap. Lily of the valley.”
“And the scent of your skin,” he said, turning her face and kissing her so suddenly she jumped. She could smell his aftershave and feel his hot, slightly damp skin through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. Unable to stop herself, she slid her arms around his neck.
His arms came around her waist, and he held her gently while he kissed her again, this time sliding his tongue into her mouth. She gasped with shock and pleasure. He kissed her again and again with such skill, she could not help being carried away; she didn’t want him to stop. What am I doing? she thought. I must be mad. She had never been kissed like this before, never felt like this in any man’s arms, not even Alan’s. The thought of her husband made her stiffen slightly, and Jacques pulled away, looking searchingly into her eyes. Unable to speak, Margo leaned her head against his shoulder, trying to catch her breath and still her racing heart.
A phone rang somewhere in the house. “Oh God,” she murmured and, momentarily coming to her senses, pulled his hands away. “No, please. Stop.”
“Why?”
“The phone,” she said. “It’s ringing.”
“So? Let it ring.”
She tried to push him away. “We can’t. We mustn’t.”
He sat up. “You’re right. Not here. We can’t do it here.”
“Not anywhere,” Margo said buttoning her dress. “This is crazy.”
“What’s crazy about it? Didn’t you just say that when two people love each other—”
“Love?” Margo said. “We hardly know each other. This is not love. And I’m a—” The phone started ringing again. Margo lifted her head and listened. It stopped and then, after a few minutes, rang again. She looked at Jacques. “It’s late. Your mother—the party.”
“Merde, you’re right.” He pulled away from her and glanced out the window. “It’s dark. What time is it?” In answer to his question, the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chimed. “Oh God, it’s one o’clock,” he said, getting up. “She’ll be spitting nails by now.”
Margo stood up and pulled up the straps of her dress. “Well, we can’t stay here all night in any case.”
“No, Mademoiselle Marguerite, we can’t,” Jacques minced. He put his arms around her. “Will I see you later? When I have picked up my mother and—”
“No, please,” Margo said, pulling out of his arms. “Please don’t.”
The phone rang again.
“My mother is getting impatient,” Jacques said. “I’d better go.”
“Be nice to her.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do better,” she ordered.
“I’ll be back,” Jacques said, putting on his jacket and retying his bow tie. He kissed his fingers to her and left.
Margo slowly buttoned up her dress. She looked at her reflection in the antique mirror above the sofa and suddenly laughed at her dishevelled appearance.
“Margo Hunter, you’re a slut,” she told her reflection. She thought she could hear faint laughter in the room and turned around to meet the mischievous eyes of the woman in the blue dress, smiling at her from the portrait above the fireplace.
CHAPTER 16
Feeling restless, Margo went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She heard footsteps on the gravel outside. He’s back, she thought, pure joy flooding through her. Will I wait for him to come here or should I just go to him right now? No, what am I thinking? This must not continue. Despite herself, she smiled mischievously as the door opened. But it wasn’t Jacques.
“François? You’re back,” Margo said trying to compose herself.
“Yes, I just arrived.”
“But I thought you were going to stay in Paris until—”
“I know. I wasn’t going to drive down until the weekend, but then I managed to take care of things at the ministry and get some time off. I didn’t know I would until quite late, otherwise you could have driven down with me. But never mind that.” François wiped his normally cool forehead with a big white handkerchief. “There is—” he started. “Something terrible has just happened.”
Margo stared at him. “What?”
“Someone has died. My mother—”
“Your mother?” Margo gasped. “Good God, no.”
“No, not my mother. But she’s very upset. She was there, you see, when he died. He just dropped dead suddenly. Oh, my poor Maman.”
Margo felt herself go ice cold, and the colour drained from her face.
“Jacques?” she whispered. “Jacques is—?”
“No, don’t be silly.” François pulled out a chair and sat down. “I had better explain. My mother was attending that party.”
“The sixtieth birthday party?”
“Yes. It was a very big event. Lots of prominent people, some of whom had interrupted their holiday and flown in from their various villas on the Riviera. One of them was Jean-Jacques Gengoux, former president of France. Do you know who I mean?”
“Yes, of course. I read about him in Le Figaro only the other day.”
“Well, he was there with his wife. He seemed to have recovered very well from his slight heart problem, and I’m told he looked to be in very good form. But after dinner, as he was talking to my mother on the terrace, he suddenly collapsed. His wife rushed to his side and then, within minutes, he died in her arms.”
“In your mother’s?”
“No, in the arms of his wife, of course. Poor Maman.” François shook his head.
“It must have been a horrible shock to witness it all,” Margo said.
“Yes, she is very shaken. Jacques brought her home, and I was just driving up when they arrived. She was nearly hysterical. I’ve called the doctor, and he’ll be here soon.”
“Good. Is she in bed?”
“No, not yet. Jacques took her upstairs, but he’s not able to handle her at all. He’s too rough. So, Marguerite, I’m asking you if you could possibly go upstairs and see if you can.”
“But I don’t see what I could do,” Margo protested. “This is really a family matter.”
“She trusts you. You’re very gentle and kind. See if you can calm her until the doctor comes.”
“All right. I’ll go and see if I can do anything,” Margo said.
“Thank you so much.”
They made their way together through the hall and up the big staircase, walking quickly toward Milady’s bedroom. Margo was about to knock on the door, when it burst open and Jacques came out. His face was white and he looked at them as if he had never seen them before.
“Toi?” he snapped, glaring at François. “Qu’est-que tu fais là ?”
“I brought Marguerite to see if she could help Maman,” François explained. “Get her into bed before the doctor arrives.”
“Well, you can try. I have had no luck at all with her. But—” he stopped and breathed deeply. “She has just told me something that I—that I find impossible to accept.”
“What?” Margo asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
He shook her hand off. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He stumbled past them.
François looked at his brother’s figure as he rushed down the corridor. “Poor Jacques,” he mumbled. “Poor bastard.”
“François?” Milady called weakly from the bedroom. “Is that you mon chéri?”
“Yes,” François called back. “I brought Marguerite.”
They walked into the room and found Milady sitting on the bed trying to undo the tiny mother of pearl buttons of her cream silk jacket. Her hands were shaking. and her face was the colour of putty. She looked up at them with eyes so full of despair, Margo felt tears welling up in her own eyes.
“I can’t,” Milady whispered. “The buttons. Please, help me.”
Margo flew to her side. “Of course, my dear Milady,” she exclaimed. “I’ll help you. Don’t fret. We’ll soon have you comfortable. The doctor is on his way.”
“Doctor?” Milady said bitterly. “What good is a doctor? Can he heal a broken heart? Can he make the dead come alive? Of course not. Nobody can. Nobody can ever undo the hurt or the pain.”
Margo helped remove the rest of Milady’s clothes and got her into her night gown. With François’ help, she managed to get the agitated woman into bed. She propped some pillows under her head and tucked the light cotton cover around her.
There was a faint crunch on the gravel below. François turned his head
and listened. “That’ll be the doctor,” he said. “I’ll go and show him up. Stay with my mother, Marguerite.”
“Of course,” Margo said, taking the hanger with the cream silk suit and opening the wardrobe. As she pushed the clothes aside to hang it up, she spotted something eerily familiar. The black silk dress – the one that had been stolen. Margo peered at it, wondering if she was mistaken. But no, there it was. She lifted the hem and sniffed it. Yes, a slight touch of perfume still lingered on the fabric. Of course, she thought, suddenly realising what had been going on. The last piece of the jigsaw fell into place. How stupid of me not to understand it at once. But never mind. Let’s leave it for now. She hung up the suit and quickly closed the wardrobe.
“François?” Milady said weakly. “Where has he gone?”
“To show the doctor up,” Margo said, smoothing the hair from Milady’s forehead. “He won’t be a minute. Try to rest now.”
Milady’s hand’s shook as she plucked at the lace on the sheet. “He died in her arms,” she muttered. “In the arms of that—that prune-faced bitch. Dressed in the most horrible outfit. And her hair—” She stopped and looked up at Margo with eyes full of pain. “I loved him,” she whispered. “Oh God, how I loved him. I just wanted him to know—to know about—”
“Shh,” Margo whispered. “Try to relax.”
“Relax?” Milady’s voice was shrill. “My heart is broken. My poor love is dead, and you’re telling me to relax?”
At that moment, the doctor walked into the room, followed by François.
“Chère Madame, so sorry to hear we are not well,” the doctor boomed. “Let’s have a look at you and see what we can do to make you feel more comfortable.”
The doctor gave Milady a shot and she seemed instantly calmer, lying limply against the pillows, her eyes half-closed. François left with the doctor, and Margo was about to tiptoe out when Milady said something.
“What?” Margo walked closer to the big bed.
“Close the shutters. The light – it’s too bright.”
“But it’s dark outside.”