Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “It was a long time ago,” Alan said impatiently, as if she was fussing over nothing. “Just a few times, really.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was around the time when we were trying to have a child,” Alan continued. “When I found out, I was upset. I couldn’t face you. I needed someone who didn’t judge me, whom I didn’t really care much about. Just straight sex, no strings. You know what I mean?” He looked at her as if he was willing her to understand, to agree that it had been very important for him to forget his troubles by sleeping around.

  “I see.” Margo was quiet again. As she was trying to digest what he had just told her, she felt suddenly very sad. “You were so sweet at that time,” she whispered, “so caring and gentle. I loved you more than any other time then because I thought you were so kind. You seemed to really understand what I was going through. And of course you did,” she added bitterly. “You knew what it felt like to know you would never have a child of your own.” Margo rose from her chair with all the dignity she could muster. “I have to go,” she said. “I can’t stay here with you any longer.”

  “But,” Alan protested. “I want to tell you... We have to—”

  “No.” Margo buttoned up her coat and walked to the door. “There’s nothing more to say. Except—”

  “What?” Alan asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “Goodbye,” Margo said softly and walked out.

  CHAPTER 23

  Dean Martin was still singing in the lift, but Margo didn’t hear him this time. She rode down to the ground floor, feeling utterly exhausted, so exhausted she had to sit down in one of the leather chairs by the reception desk and catch her breath.

  “Are you feeling all right, Madame?” The young female receptionist looked at Margo’s pale face with concern. “Can I get you a glass of water, perhaps?”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.”

  Margo gratefully sipped the water when it arrived, trying to gather enough strength to get going again. She was surprised at how deeply sad she felt. As if someone had died. But it wasn’t the death of a person, only the end of a marriage, she thought. The end of Alan and Margo, a couple, a life – a part of her gone forever. She didn’t want to think about the way they had parted; she didn’t feel triumphant about having exposed his lies and his affair with Fiona. And, although she was now vindicated, and Alan’s last words of apology were still ringing in her ears, she didn’t have a sense of victory, only a certain tired satisfaction. And pity for Alan. How miserable, she thought, to have lived a lie all these years.

  “Are you feeling better, Madame?” the receptionist asked, now looking as if Margo’s presence was beginning to annoy her. “Maybe I could call you a taxi?”

  I’d better go, Margo thought. They probably don’t want sickly looking pregnant women lowering the tone of their establishment.

  “Yes please,” she said. “Get me a taxi.”

  She suddenly remembered she had promised to meet Gráinne for a drink in her hotel around seven. Now I have to tell her about this, Margo thought as she walked into the busy street. What on earth is she going to say?

  ***

  Gráinne stared at Margo. “Well, I’ll be fucked. Sorry, didn’t mean to sound rough but you really took me by surprise.” They were sitting in a brasserie near Gráinne’s hotel, and Margo had just broken the news. “Jesus, Mary and Josef,” Gráinne continued. “You really know how to startle a girl.”

  “I was pretty startled myself when I found out,” Margo said with a little smile.

  “I bet you were. But being pregnant is one thing. What caused it is even freakier.”

  “Freaky? What do you mean?”

  “Well, you and what’s-his-name. I never thought you would want to do it with someone like that. Not that he isn’t great looking,” Gráinne added, when she saw the expression in Margo’s eyes, “but he’s such a—” She stopped. “OK, I won’t go into it. You did it and here you are. Pregnant.” Gráinne looked at Margo disapprovingly. “What were you thinking? You must have known about babies and how they’re made and all that.”

  “But you see, I thought I couldn’t get pregnant. My husband and I had tried for years and then he told me that—well, that I would never be able to have a baby. He made me think it was because there was something wrong with me, when all the time—”

  “He was shooting blanks?” Gráinne shook her head in disgust. “What a fucking creep. And look at the trouble it caused. But he probably never thought you would try it with someone else.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Have you told him?”

  “Alan? Yes, I—”

  “Not him, you dope, Jacques. Have you told him he’s going to be a daddy? I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when you broke that particular piece of news.”

  “I haven’t told him yet,” Margo said bleakly. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “What?” Gráinne stared incredulously at Margo. “He’s done a bunk?”

  “No, not really. He had to leave the château after—well, a family row. Long before I knew about—” Margo gestured at her stomach. “And nobody seems to know where he is. Not that they’ve been trying very hard,” she added.

  “Why wouldn’t they? Haven’t you told them yet?”

  “Well yes. I told Milady.”

  “I bet that made her sit up and take notice.”

  “She was really shocked at first,” Margo said. “But then, when she was used to the idea, she seemed delighted. A bit too delighted, actually.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She has become obsessed with me and the baby. And she seems to think I’m going to live with her forever or something. It’s getting really scary, to tell you the truth. She has bought piles of baby clothes from Baby Dior and only in pink. She says she knows it’s going to be a girl and that we’ll call her Josephine after her.”

  “Hmm,” Gráinne said, looking thoughtful. “I’ve seen that a lot. An older mare getting possessive about the foal of a younger mare. And if it’s a filly—”

  “What are you going on about now?” Margo laughed. “I’m not a horse. Oh, shut up. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about you.”

  “Me? But I’m not half as interesting.”

  “Of course you are. I want to know what you’re doing in Paris.”

  “OK, just a minute. I just wanted to say one more thing. About him. The daddy-to-be. I know—”

  “No, not another word,” Margo interrupted. “I don’t want to hear what you think of him.”

  “But I—”

  “No,” Margo said. “Stop it or I’m leaving.”

  “OK, keep your hair on. What was it you wanted to know about me?”

  “I want to know,” Margo said, leaning forward, staring at Gráinne, “what you are doing here, and how come you look so well and so happy.”

  “I look well?” Gráinne smiled. “Really?”

  “Yes. You’ve lost weight, and your hair is a bit longer, and you look—” Margo studied Gráinne for a while. “Softer,” she ended. “Prettier. Happier.”

  Gráinne blushed. “I stopped smoking,” she said. “And well, it’s Seamus.”

  “Oooh,” Margo said, nodding. “I see. You’re in love.”

  Gráinne blushed even more until her face was crimson. “Yeah, well, you know.” She cleared her throat. “And I’m here in Paris with him, you see. We were at this international show jumping competition in England. I was there as groom, and he was the vet to the Irish team. And when the competition was over, he said why not jump on the ferry and go to Paris for a few days? He wanted to see the sights and stay in a nice hotel and he asked me—” Gráinne looked into her coffee cup.

  “Aha, a romantic weekend. And where is this wonderful man now? I’d love to meet him.”

  “He went to see some war museum,” Gráinne said. “Invalids, or something.”

  “Les Invalides,” Margo said. “That’s a great museum. Ve
ry interesting.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not really into that sort of thing, so I told him I wanted to see you and he said, of course, off you go and see you later. You see, that’s what’s so great about Seamus.”

  “What is?”

  “He lets me do my own thing. He actually pushes me to go off and do things on my own. He doesn’t like women who are doormats, he says, and he doesn’t think I should be his slave.”

  “Seems like a great guy,” Margo said.

  “Oh yes, he is.” Gráinne looked at her watch. “He should be back soon. Do you want to go back to the hotel and wait for him? I know you’ll like him.”

  “I’m sorry, I have to go,” Margo said, getting up. “I promised Milady I would be back for early supper.”

  “So you’re leaving now?”

  “Yes. But maybe we can get together before you go back?”

  “OK. But if you’re leaving anyway, I’m going to tell you what I was about to a while ago.”

  “What?” Margo sighed. “Go on, then. Tell me. Tell me he’s a bastard.”

  “No, that wasn’t it,” Gráinne protested. “Not that I wouldn’t say that too.”

  “OK but come on,” Margo urged, poised to walk out. “Spit it out.”

  “I know where he is,” Gráinne said. “I spoke to him two days ago.”

  ***

  “Could you tell Milady dinner is served?”

  “No, I can’t,” François said.

  “Why?” Margo turned around, expecting to see him dressed in the more casual clothes he had begun to change into whenever he came home from the ministry. Tonight, he was still in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and discreet silk tie, his hair neatly brushed.

  “Because my mother won’t be home in time for dinner. She just called and said she was stuck in a meeting with the Red Cross. They’re doing a report on that lunch the other day. She asked me to keep you company tonight.” He took the jug. “I’ll bring this in. Is there anything else?”

  “No, just the bread. I’ll take that.”

  “Fine. Where’s Justine?”

  “She has the evening off. She made the casserole before she left. But if there’s just the two of us, we can eat here in the kitchen,” Margo suggested.

  “The dining room is much nicer,” François said.

  “Of course.” Margo followed him down the corridor.

  In the dining room, François lifted the lid of the casserole dish. “This smells nice.”

  “Mmm, yes,” Margo said, sitting down at the round mahogany table. “Justine is a very good cook.”

  François took a bottle of red wine from the rack on the sideboard. “How are you feeling these days?” he asked, pulling the cork out of the bottle.

  “I’m feeling fine. Amazingly well, actually.”

  “Good. And you’re sleeping well?” François sniffed the cork and poured a small amount of wine into a glass.

  “Like the proverbial log. Do you want me to serve you some chicken?”

  “Yes please. I’m glad you’re feeling so well.” He stuck his nose into the glass, then twirled it around and examined the ruby red liquid critically before taking a mouthful and swirling it around in his mouth.

  “Is it all right?” Margo put a plate of food at his place.

  “Excellent.” François poured more wine into the glass and, bringing glass and bottle with him, sat down at the table with a satisfied look. He held out the bottle toward Margo. “Would you like a glass?”

  “I shouldn’t really,” Margo said, helping herself to some chicken.

  “Because of the baby?” François looked at her with a little smile.

  “Oh. She told you.” Margo blushed slightly.

  François put down the bottle and touched her hand. “Congratulations,” he said gently. “I’m really very pleased.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you know.”

  “Well, it would be a little difficult to keep it a secret for much longer.” He held up the bottle again. “How about a little wine to celebrate? Just a small glass?”

  “I’ve been told I have to stay off any alcohol.”

  François raised an eyebrow “Oh? By whom? My mother?”

  “Well yes. And I’m sure she’s right. Drinking would not be good for the baby.”

  “Half a glass of this really superb wine couldn’t do you or him any harm, I’m sure.”

  “Or her,” Margo said. “All right. Half a glass, then.”

  “That’s the spirit,” François said and poured the required amount into Margo’s glass.

  Margo sipped the wine, looking at him thoughtfully. He seemed ill at ease tonight, or was he nervous? “This is indeed very good.”

  “Should be. A very good Bordeaux. We might as well enjoy it, as my mother would never allow me to open such a bottle in the middle of the week.” He drank from his glass with the air of someone enjoying some extremely forbidden fruit. “Ah, that is truly excellent,” he sighed. He looked at her affectionally. “There is nothing better than good wine, good food, and good company. And here I am enjoying all three.”

  “Me too,” Margo nodded.

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all. I really enjoy your company, you know.”

  “Yes, we get on so well together, you and I,” François said, pouring himself yet another glass of wine. He held the bottle toward Margo, but she shook her head. “Wise,” he said. “Very wise.” He drank deeply from his glass.

  As the meal progressed, Margo watched with apprehension as François finished the bottle and proceeded to open another one. “Just to go with the cheese,” he said, noticing Margo’s expression.

  “There isn’t any,” Margo said. “Justine forgot to buy cheese today. There’s just a little bit of the apple tart left over from Sunday.”

  “Well then, the wine will go just as well with that,” François remarked. “Bring it in, and we’ll see if I’m right.”

  Margo fetched the apple tart from the kitchen, and François declared it and the wine a truly excellent combination. She looked at his slightly flushed face and thought he looked like a little boy bunking off school. Then he looked at her across the table, and as their eyes met, his expression changed.

  “Marguerite,” he said softly, “may I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, of course. What’s the question?”

  He put his hand on hers again. “Marguerite, I was wondering—if Jacques doesn’t come back and you find yourself alone when the baby comes, would you consider marrying me?”

  Margo stared at his kind face and, for just one second, toyed with the idea of marrying François and enjoying all the perks that would come with it. Then she came to her senses. “Oh, François,” she said, “that is so sweet of you.” She put her other hand over his. “I like you a lot, I really do. But—”

  “You don’t find me attractive?”

  “Oh, no,” she exclaimed. “I do. You’re a very handsome man, you really are. And so elegant and well dressed. And I’m sure you’d be a marvellous husband, and we’d get on really well, but—”

  He pulled his hand away. “I see.”

  “Please, don’t be hurt,” Margo said. “I know that a lot of women would jump at the chance of marrying you. It’s just that I think you and I—well, it wouldn’t work.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right.” François sighed, looking resigned and, to Margo’s surprise, relieved. “All right, there we are. No harm in asking.”

  “Of course not. It was sweet of you.” Something suddenly occurred to Margo. “But what about your girlfriend? Why are you asking me to marry you, when you’re already in love with someone else?”

  “In love?” François looked at her, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

  “Please, don’t pretend,” Margo begged. “I know all about her. I’ve seen her several times.”

  There was a brief silence while François looked down at his plate, then back at Margo. “All right then. I know you’ve seen eac
h other. She told me.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Beautiful? Do you really think so?”

  “Oh yes,” Margo assured him. “I’ve only seen her briefly, but I noticed her lovely figure, her blonde hair, and those legs. God, they’re fabulous.”

  “That’s very kind,” François said, looking a little shy.

  “But why the secrecy? Is it because your mother wouldn’t approve of her?

  “She certainly wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  François hesitated. “You see, Paquita, my girlfriend, is not at all the kind of girl my mother would like me to be associated with. She’s Brazilian and sings in a nightclub.”

  “I see. But if your mother met this Paquita and got to know her, don’t you think she would learn to accept her in time?”

  “No, that’s impossible,” François said flatly. “I don’t want to even imagine what she would do if she knew what was going on.”

  “You think she might try to have Paquita deported?” Margo asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “But why don’t you just do it? Marry Paquita, and tell your mother to get lost? It’s not as if you’re a minor or something. You can do what you want, surely?”

  “Marry her?” François said, suddenly making a noise that sounded strangely like a giggle.

  “Yes,” Margo said. “Why not?”

  François shook his head. “No, that is not possible, believe me.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s really sad for you, François.

  “You have no idea how sad it is.” François sighed and poured himself some more wine. “And I’m really sorry you don’t want to marry me. It would have solved a lot of problems. My mother would be so happy if—”

  “She put you up to it, didn’t she?” Margo said, feeling suddenly angry.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Milady told you to propose to me,” Margo said, nodding slowly. “I can see in your eyes that it’s true. And she stayed out tonight to give us a chance to be alone.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” François said, looking slightly shamefaced. “She said it would make her so happy. We would be this perfect family. My mother, the glamorous grandmother, you, me, and Josephine.”