Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “Go back to him?” Margo filled in.

  “Yes.” Fiona looked down at her plate and picked up one of the oysters. “You can’t possibly want to continue working like some kind of maid for ever.” She put an oyster into her mouth and swallowed quickly. “I understand that you wanted to get away, that you wanted to be free and do your own thing for a while. God knows we all need to do that. But for goodness’ sake, Margo, think about it! Alan is a perfectly nice man, and you had a life most women would give their eye teeth for. Don’t tell me you’re not tempted to go back!” Fiona’s huge dark eyes bored into Margo’s as she looked across the table.

  Margo thought for a moment. “No,” she said. “I’m not going to tell you that. Of course it’s very tempting to go back and pick up my life again, to have the comfortable lifestyle. But I hadn’t really thought about all this for a while, and that has been a great relief. I have been so caught up with the Coligny family and all their problems that my own situation hasn’t really seemed very important. I suppose I’ve been running away from my own life, and now I have to confront it. But there is one small problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Alan. I can’t remember what he looks like.”

  Fiona stared at Margo, her mouth half open as if she had momentarily lost the power of speech.

  “His face is a blank,” Margo said. “I have tried and tried but it won’t come to me.”

  Fiona took a deep breath, and suddenly, she was able to speak again very rapidly. “You stood in front of a minister once,” she said, pointing at Margo with her fork. “And in front of a lot of people publicly declared your love for each other. You swore to love Alan for better or worse, in sickness and in health until death did you part.” She put down her fork, leaned back in her chair and looked triumphantly at Margo. “You can’t deny that, can you?”

  “I didn’t know you were so hung up on marriage vows,” Margo said.

  “Well, I truly believe—”

  “Rubbish.”

  “What?”

  “Rubbish,” Margo said again. “It’s just a last, desperate attempt to get me back with what’s his name. What is his name? I forgot.”

  “Alan.” Fiona said flatly. “And you didn’t forget.”

  “I’m trying my best. And I really don’t want to talk about this now.”

  “Why not? You have to come to a decision sometime.”

  Margo put down her knife and fork with a bang. “Listen Fiona, leave this alone. You’re like a dog with bone. This is nobody’s business but mine and Alan’s. And to be honest, I have to tell you that these past few months, I have come to realise that freedom is worth a lot more than comfort, or money or—” She waved her fork vaguely. “Doing lunch in an expensive restaurant. Before I left Alan, I had a feeling that life was passing me by, that I had made all the wrong choices and was stuck with them. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No,” Fiona said.

  “You do know. I can tell by the look in your eyes. All married women feel like that some time or another. Stuck. We’re all stuck.”

  “Not me. I think you have some nerve to talk like this Margo, I really do. You have to make up your mind, you know. It’s not fair to carry on like this.”

  Margo looked at Fiona across the table as she started to reply, and suddenly, it was as if Fiona had shrunk and Margo was looking at her through the wrong end of a telescope. Fiona’s mouth moved, but Margo couldn’t quite make out the words, as if Fiona was speaking a language that was impossible to understand. Suddenly, as if hit by lightning, she understood what had happened to her that day she walked out on Alan. She had stepped out of her normal life into a kind of bubble or vacuum, where a metamorphosis had taken place, and she had become something other than the woman she was then. Now, she was no longer Margo, but Marguerite, a free spirit, a woman who knew her own mind and had the courage to do what she wanted, not what other people thought she should. Fiona’s mouth was still moving and Margo was beginning to hear her again.

  “It can’t go on much longer,” Fiona said.

  Margo shook her head to clear her mind. “What did you say?”

  “You have to decide what to do,” Fiona said very slowly as if she was talking to a child.

  “I have,” Margo said. “Just now, this very minute.”

  ***

  “Plaisir d’amour,” the voice sang, “ne dure qu’un moment. Chagrin d’amour, dure toute la vie.”

  How true, Margo thought as she listened to the old song a woman’s voice was singing somewhere nearby. The pleasure of love lasts only a moment, the sorrow of love lasts your whole life. Will my sorrow last the rest of my life? Margo sighed and went back to her work. It was very late, and she was in the dining room, tidying up the debris from a dinner party that had continued into the early hours of the morning. We only knew each other a few short weeks, Margo thought as she brushed the crumbs off the table, but it feels like a lifetime. My marriage to Alan is like a journey that started well but ended badly. But it was another time, another life, and now I have to keep going, keep living. She sighed and turned her attention back to her chores. It had been a nice evening; the guests seemed very close friends of Milady’s, and the conversation had been lively and cheerful.

  But who is singing that song? She walked to the window she had opened to let out the smoke from many cigarettes and leaned out to find out where the voice was coming from. Somewhere in the street. A car radio maybe? But the street was dark and empty. The only sound came from tyres occasionally swishing on the wet tarmac. The song ended. What a lovely voice, Margo thought. Deep, yet feminine and very sexy. Where had it come from? Somebody’s CD player in the apartment next door? Funny how noise in these old buildings carries through walls and floors like this. She closed the window and pulled the heavy brocade curtains across it.

  “Are you still up?” François looked in through the half-opened door of the dining room.

  “Just finishing tidying up,” Margo replied.

  “Good party?” François said as he strolled into the room.

  “Very good.” Margo piled the linen napkins onto a chair. “I think your mother went to bed happy for a change.”

  “Formidable.” François went to the mahogany sideboard and picked up a bottle of cognac. He looked at her and held up the bottle but Margo shook her head.

  “Are you feeling all right?” François suddenly asked. “You have been looking really tired and pale lately.”

  “No, I’m not a hundred per cent,” Margo replied. “I’ve been feeling quite ill, I have to tell you. I don’t know what the matter is. Some kind of bug, I think.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “No, but I’m going to if this doesn’t clear up.”

  “Yes, I think you should. And you shouldn’t work this late if you’re not feeling well.”

  “You’re up very late yourself,” Margo said, studying him critically, having suddenly noticed his appearance. He was dressed in navy velvet trousers and an open pink shirt, and he wore his hair longer than before, which made him look younger but less masculine, somehow.

  “I’ve been out with some friends,” François said, swirling the cognac around in the Baccarat brandy snifter. He put his nose into the glass. “Mmm. Lovely stuff.” He took a sip and then looked at Margo. “I had a pretty good night. Very enjoyable.”

  “Did you? That’s nice.” Margo yawned. “I’d better go to bed. I’ll just put the dirty linen away.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” François offered. “And I’ll stack the dishwasher. You go off to bed.”

  “Thanks.” Margo switched off the big floor lamp. “Oh, by the way, did you hear that voice just now? That woman singing ‘Plaisir d’amour’?”

  “No.”

  “Lovely voice,” Margo said dreamily. “Like dark rich velvet. Don’t know where it came from. Maybe someone’s CD?”

  “You think it was good enough to be on a CD?” François asked, looking curiously ex
cited.

  “Definitely.” Margo nodded. “And if I could find out who the singer is, I’d buy a copy.”

  “You would? That’s very interesting,” François said as if to himself. “Very interesting indeed.”

  ***

  “Bonjour, Madame,” the white-coated receptionist said.

  “Bonjour,” Margo replied. “I have an appointment with Doctor Marchand at nine o’clock.”

  The woman scanned a huge diary on the desk. “Ah oui, Madame—?”

  “Hunter.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” the receptionist nodded. “I see your appointment here. Take a seat in the waiting room through there, and a nurse will come and get you for the blood test. You have been fasting since last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you brought a urine sample?”

  “Yes,” Margo said. “I have it right here.” She handed the receptionist the small plastic container and went across the polished parquet floor, through the double doors, into the elegant waiting room, and sat down on a chair upholstered in cream silk. A Mozart sonata played softly from a hi-fi system, and the green silk curtains swayed in the gentle breeze from the half-open window. The hustle and bustle of Paris seemed so far away here in this genteel environment, and it was difficult to imagine that this place had anything at all to do with illness.

  Margo took a copy of Vogue from the pile of magazines on the glass table and idly leafed through it, feeling more than a little apprehensive. She was almost regretting having made the appointment and wouldn’t have been here if she hadn’t been feeling so ill. The nausea and fatigue had not improved in the two weeks since she had seen Fiona, and out of a feeling of desperation, Margo had finally taken the card out of her handbag and called the clinic. They had said there had been a cancellation, and she could come the following day. Margo tried to stop herself feeling nervous as she flicked through the pages of the magazine and stared absentmindedly at the latest fashions. This season’s look is ladylike, she read. Tweed mixed with silk, twinsets, and pearls. Margo flicked through the pages with pictures of stick-thin models dressed in tweedy rags with pearls dripping down their fronts, her mind drifting. She worried about the tests and what they might reveal. Maybe I have something really serious, she thought. Something fatal, even? No, of course not, I don’t feel that bad. Oh God, what if it’s something I picked up from Jacques! How stupid I was, I should have—oh no, what if... Margo swallowed, panic rising in her chest. She jumped and dropped the magazine as the door opened and a nurse stuck her head in.

  “Madame Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s time for your blood test.”

  ***

  Four hours, two blood tests, a mammogram, a bone scan and several examinations by various doctors later, Margo was sitting on a cold examining table dressed in a hospital gown made of paper, waiting for the final verdict. The doctor came through the curtain, a bland expression on his face.

  “Well, Madame, that’s it. We’re finished.”

  “Oh good,” Margo said, desperately trying to clasp the gown together at the back. “So,” she started, “what have you, I mean, can you tell me—?”

  “Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll talk in my office,” the doctor suggested.

  “No!’ Margo grabbed the front of his white coat, forgetting the gown. “Tell me now. I have to know. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  The doctor lifted her hands gently from his coat and stepped back. “Now, calm down, chère Madame. What I have to tell you is serious, yes, but not in any way—”

  “Is it Aids?” Margo whispered. “Don’t try to hide anything from me. I have to know the truth.”

  The doctor folded his arms across his chest and looked levelly at Margo. “But my dear girl,” he said with a little smile, “you must know what it is. I mean most women would—”

  “Cancer,” Margo whispered. “Oh God, I knew it.” She put a hand on her lower abdomen. “There is a tumour here, isn’t there?” She looked up at the doctor with huge tearful eyes.

  The doctor laughed. “Don’t be melodramatic. The news is very good, and I think you will be delighted when I tell you.”

  “Oh. It’s benign.” Margo sighed, feeling limp with relief.

  “It’s a baby.” The doctor beamed.

  “I’m sorry?” Margo stared at him. Was she hearing right? “A b-baby?” she stammered. “But that can’t be!’

  “But it is,” the doctor said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Congratulations, Madame Hunter. You’re pregnant.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Margo didn’t know how she got back. She couldn’t even remember going up in the lift. She just suddenly seemed to have been catapulted into her small attic room and was sitting on her bed, her hand on her stomach. A baby, she thought. There is a baby in there. I can’t believe it. I must be dreaming, and I’ll wake up, and it will be gone. But she knew it was true. It all fell into place – the nausea, the fatigue, and the mood swings. Pregnant! She lay back on her bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to take it all in.

  Margo had felt a little embarrassed about seeming so stupid when talking to the doctor. But then she had explained that she had thought it was impossible for her to ever get pregnant, that she had been told there would never be the slightest chance. The doctor shook his head.

  “I don’t know who told you this,” he said. “There is nothing at all wrong with you. And I have to say that, on the contrary, you are very fertile and one of those women who will have no problems conceiving in years to come. In fact,” he added with a little smile, “I would say that you will have to be very careful about birth control in the future.” He went on to tell her she was at least ten weeks pregnant, if not more, it was difficult to tell, as her periods were so irregular. An ultrasound scan in a few weeks would establish the exact date of birth. But she knew, of course she knew. Jacques, she thought. Oh, Jacques. What would he say? How would he react when she told him? I don’t care, she thought. It’s my baby.

  It became clear to her that Alan had lied to her all these years and that it must have been his fault that they hadn’t been able to conceive a child. But it didn’t make her angry because she knew now that she didn’t owe him anything anymore, and she was finally free of all obligations toward him. “I’m having a baby,” she said to herself again. “It’s mine, all mine, to care for and love and watch grow up. I’ll never be alone again.” She suddenly laughed a happy, joyous laugh, feeling at the same time that she had been given a wonderful gift and that life would never be the same again.

  ***

  “Milady?”

  “Yes, Marguerite?” Milady looked up from the book she was reading on the chaise lounge in her bedroom.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  “Is this important? I was hoping to have a little siesta after lunch so I’m rested before this evening. You know I have a cocktail and then a dinner.”

  “Yes, I know,” Margo said, walking into the room. “But I have to speak to you.”

  Milady sighed, took off her glasses, and put down her book. “All right, then, if it’s not too long-winded.”

  “No, I’ll try to make it brief.” Margo stood in front of her, trying to think of how to break the news.

  “Sit down,” Milady ordered, indicating an embroidered stool beside her. “You’re making me nervous standing there, twisting your hands.”

  “All right.” Margo sank down on the stool. “There is a bit of a problem I want to discuss with you.”

  Milady’s head shot up. “Are you trying to tell me you’re leaving?”

  “No, it’s not that.” Margo twisted her hands in her lap.

  “Good. That would be terrible. The autumn season is very busy, and I can’t manage without you for even a minute.”

  “I know.”

  “So what is it then? I thought you were going to hand in your notice, but as you’re not, I can’t think of anything else that would cause
a problem.”

  “I’m pregnant,” Margo blurted out.

  “You’re what?” Milady exclaimed in shrill voice. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t know,” Margo stammered. “I thought I couldn’t, but it seems that—well, that I am—”

  “Pregnant?”

  “That’s right.”

  Milady sat up fully and swung her legs over the edge of the chaise lounge. “And now you’re going back to your husband?”

  “No.”

  “No? But I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not his baby.”

  “Oh.” Milady stared silently at Margo. “Do you know who the father is?”

  “Of course I know,” Margo snapped. “What do you take me for?”

  “Please,” Milady soothed. “I don’t think anything at all. I just assume that you have had an affair, and now you are pregnant as a result. So you must tell the man who is the real father about the baby. Come and sit here next to me,” Milady said, patting the chaise lounge. “That stool is very hard.”

  Margo got up from the stool and sat down beside Milady.

  “You must tell him,” Milady said.

  Margo sighed. “I can’t.”

  “But you have to,” Milady exclaimed passionately. She looked at Margo with sad eyes. “You must not make the mistake I made. You must tell him. You must!’

  “But I don’t know where he is.”

  “Where who is?”

  “Jacques,” Margo said before she could stop herself.

  Milady gasped and stared in shock at Margo. “Jacques?” she said. “Jacques is the father of your baby?”

  “Yes, Milady,” Margo mumbled.

  There was silence in the room while Milady tried to come to terms with this latest revelation. She put her hand on Margo’s and squeezed it. They looked at each other and, in that moment, all they had learned about each other that summer, their sadness and disappointments, their deepest feelings, seemed to pass wordlessly between them.

  “So, how do you feel about this?” Milady finally asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” Margo said. “I’m still trying to get used to it.”