Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “Stop it,” Jacques ordered, taking her hand again and holding it in a tight grip.

  “Go away.” Margo pulled away. “Just get out of here, and leave me alone. I know what I’m doing and where I’m going, and I’ll get there a lot quicker if you just leave me alone.”

  “Oh, I see,” Jacques said. “You want to be independent. You want to be this heroic single mother, don’t you? You want the baby all to yourself, so that people can see how bloody marvellous you are. And you don’t want to share him with anyone, not even me, his father.”

  “You want to be a father?” Margo said. “How do you know you’ll be any good at it? Do you know anything at all about children?”

  “Do you?” Jacques demanded. “How do you know you’ll be any good as a mother?”

  “I’ll be all right,” Margo said. “Most mothers seem to cope very well, so don’t you worry.”

  “I’m not worried. I’m sure you’ll be an excellent mother. Really dedicated and caring.”

  “You bet I will,” Margo said. “I know I will. This is the biggest challenge of my whole life.”

  “Poor little baby.”

  “Why?”

  “How terrible to grow up as somebody’s challenge.”

  Margo stared at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Marguerite,” Jacques said. “Listen to me for a moment.”

  There was such sincerity and concern in his voice that Margo’s determination crumbled. She didn’t know what to do or say, and unable fight him anymore, she let him take her hand and lead her to the bed.

  “Sit down,” he said, “and listen.”

  “All right.” She sighed and sat down. “I’ll listen.”

  “I grew up without a father,” Jacques said, sitting down beside her. “I know what that is like. I didn’t plan it. This baby happened because we made love.”

  “Well yes, I have realised that,” Margo said, trying not to sound ironic. “Go on.”

  “It’s not his fault.”

  “Whose fault?” she asked, confused.

  “The baby’s,” Jacques said, pointing at Margo’s stomach. “Don’t you think it’s just a tiny bit selfish to want him all to yourself?”

  “Selfish?” Margo said.

  “Yes,” Jacques said, anger creeping into his voice. “You said you always wanted a baby. Why? So you could play with it and dress it up and show it off to your friends like a doll? And the child would love you and only you for the rest of your life? And what are you going to say when he asks where his father is? Have you thought of that?”

  “No, I—” Margo started.

  “No, of course not.” Jacques shrugged. He got off the bed and picked up his coat that he had left on the floor earlier. “You haven’t really thought of anybody but yourself.”

  “Where are you going?” Margo asked.

  “I’m leaving.” Jacques put on his coat. “You don’t want me, so what’s the point of staying? I’m not going to beg you. You don’t have the courage to leave everything and come with me, and maybe I didn’t have the right to ask you in the first place. I can’t promise you that life with me would be easy. So, maybe you should go and start a life on your own. At least, that way you won’t be disappointed.”

  “I suppose,” Margo said, feeling suddenly bleak.

  Jacques walked back to Margo and touched her cheek with his finger. “Marguerite,” he whispered. “Adieu, mon amour.”

  Unable to move or speak, Margo watched him walk away. But as he opened the door, she suddenly regained the power of speech.

  “Wait,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion.

  He stopped. “Yes?”

  “Don’t go.”

  ***

  The room was in darkness. Margo tiptoed across the carpet to the big bed. “Milady?” she murmured softly. “Are you awake?”

  The shape in the bed stirred. “Comment? Qui est la?”

  “C’est moi, Milady,” Margo said. “Marguerite.”

  “Oh.” Milady coughed and sat up. “Is it time for breakfast already? Did I oversleep?”

  “No, it’s early.”

  “Pull back the curtain. I can’t see you.”

  Milady shaded her eyes as Margo pulled back the heavy curtains, flooding the room with bright sunshine.

  “What time is it?” Milady squinted at the Cartier carriage clock on her bedside table. “Seven thirty,” she said in an aggrieved voice. “Why are you waking me up at this hour? I never wake up at seven thirty.”

  “Milady.” Margo sat down on the edge of the bed and took Milady’s hand. “I came to say ‘goodbye’. I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving?” Milady asked shrilly, sitting bolt upright and staring at her incomprehensively. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to England. To stay with my brother for a while. Then Jacques and I—”

  “Oh.” Milady looked calmer as she sank back against the pillows. “To visit your brother. For the weekend, yes? You’ll be back on Monday?”

  “No.”

  “No? How do you mean? Oh, I see. Tuesday? You’ll be back on Tuesday, then?”

  “No, Milady, I’m not coming back,” Margo said very gently. “I’m leaving for good. I’m going away with Jacques.”

  Milady stared at her without a word for a long time while the Cartier clock ticked, and the traffic noises from the street below increased in volume.

  “I see,” she said very slowly, her eyes narrowing. “It’s Jacques, isn’t it? It’s all his fault, as usual. I thought something like this would happen if he came back. I knew he would stir up trouble.”

  “There’s no trouble,” Margo said. “On the contrary, I think it’s all rather wonderful.”

  “Wonderful?” Milady demanded. “What’s wonderful about it?”

  “Jacques and I, we—” Margo stopped.

  “Jacques?” Milady said shrilly. “Jacques? What does he have to do with all of this? You’re going to marry François. I thought it was all settled. We’ll have a small, discreet wedding in a few weeks, and then you will live here, and little Josephine will be born in the spring, and we’ll have the christening at the château.”

  “No, Milady, we won’t,” Margo said gently. “There will be no wedding.”

  “Just like when François was christened,” Milady murmured, looking dreamily into space. “Charles de Gaulle came to that one, you know,” she continued proudly. “Did he tell you?”

  “Uh, no, he didn’t,” Margo said, wondering if she should ask François to call a doctor.

  “Well, he was invited in any case, but he had to cancel at the last minute because of some small problem in Algeria. Or was it Indochina? Can’t remember. I only know that I thought it was very rude of him.” Milady’s eyes focused on Margo and she seemed to be back in the present again. “What was it you said, my dear?”

  “Milady,” Margo said very slowly, holding the older woman’s hand in both of hers. “Please, don’t be upset. I am not going to marry François.”

  “He forgot to ask you? But I told him, I know I did. Wasn’t that what we were talking about earlier?”

  Oh God, she’s confused, Margo thought. “Don’t you remember, Milady? He did ask me but I refused.”

  “Yes, but you said you’d think about it. So I thought—”

  “Please, Milady, listen to me,” Margo said in a near sob. “I have to go. I want to live with Jacques and our baby. He is the father, after all. Didn’t you tell me not to do what you did? Did you not say that what you did ruined a lot of lives? Yours and Jacques’ father’s and Jacques’? Lives, I mean,” she ended awkwardly.

  “Lives,” Milady murmured, rolling her head sideways and closing her eyes. “All those lives. Wasted.”

  Margo leaned forward and stroked Milady’s forehead. “But now we have a chance to undo some of the pain,” she said softly. “For Jacques, in any case. Don’t you think he deserves that?”

  Milady didn’t
reply, and Margo could see a tear roll from the corner of her eye. Milady turned her head and looked at Margo. “What about Josephine?” she whispered. “Will I never see her? Never hold her in my arms? Never hear her call me Mamie?”

  “Of course you will. As soon as she – or he – is born, we will let you know. We will come and visit you often. I’m going to my brother’s in England for now, and then when Jacques is settled, he’ll come and get me.”

  “You’re a fool, Marguerite,” Milady suddenly said so sharply Margo jumped. “You should have married François. Jacques is no good, just like his father. But I can see that there’s no stopping you. Go then,” she said, shaking off Margo’s hand. “Go and be damned. But don’t blame me when it all ends in tears. And don’t come crawling back looking for sympathy. Or money,” she added nastily.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Margo said, getting up from the bed. “I’m sorry you feel like this. I thought we might part as friends after all that has happened between us, all we’ve said to each other.” She paused, not knowing quite what else to say.

  Milady looked at Margo with an inscrutable look in her hazel eyes.

  “Well, goodbye then,” Margo said. “Goodbye, my dear Milady. I hope that you won’t think too unkindly of me.” She was about to open the door when she heard Milady mutter something from her bed. Margo turned around. “Did you say something?”

  “Yes,” Milady said. “I wanted to tell you... I wish—oh, never mind.”

  “What?”

  “I wish I had your courage.”

  ***

  “What did she say?” Jacques asked as they were leaving the apartment. “Was she very upset?”

  “Yes, she was,” Margo said. “But then, so was I. Even though we’ve only known each other a few months, I think we have come to understand each other. I’ll really miss her, and I think she’ll miss me too.”

  “We’ll keep in touch with her. And once we’re settled, she can come and visit. What have you got there in that big pink bag?”

  “Baby clothes,” Margo said, peering into it. “Your mother has been buying out Baby Dior. There are these adorable little dresses. I just couldn’t leave them behind.”

  “You’ll have to give them all away if it’s a boy,” Jacques said as he pressed the button for the lift. “Or he’ll end up like his Uncle François.”

  “Oh, François,” Margo exclaimed, turning back toward the apartment door. “I have to say ‘goodbye’ to him.”

  “I already did for both of us,” Jacques said, pulling her back. “He’s gone to the office in any case. And he sent you his love along with this.” Jacques showed Margo a flat parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

  “Oh yes, the gift. He said he was making me something and it would be ready soon.” Margo took the parcel and turned it around. “I wonder what it is. Looks like some kind of picture. Maybe he painted something himself?”

  “It had better not be a nude painting of you,” Jacques murmured. “Or I’ll have to go back and strangle him.”

  “Maybe it’s a print of the château? Wouldn’t that be a nice memento?”

  “Lovely.” Jacques peered up through the lift shaft. “Where is that lift?”

  “It’s coming,” Margo announced. “I can hear it creak. Yes, here it is now.”

  The lift came slowly down and finally stopped at their floor. Jacques opened the wrought-iron doors and loaded Margo’s luggage inside. When the lift started again, Margo found that with all the luggage, she was squashed close to Jacques. They looked at each other for a moment, and Margo found herself wondering how she could possibly have forgotten how luminous his eyes were. Jacques took her by the shoulders and kissed her softly on the lips.

  “Why?” he murmured. “Why did you change your mind?”

  “Because of what you said.”

  “That you were selfish?”

  “No. It was that last word.”

  Jacques frowned. “Which one?”

  “Adieu,” Margo whispered. “I know that in France you only say adieu when you know you will never meet again. That’s what your mother said to your father when he died. She whispered adieu in his ear and she closed his eyelids.” Margo sighed, leaning her forehead against his chest, feeling tears prick her eyes. “And when you said it to me, I knew I couldn’t bear it if we never saw each other again.”

  “Neither could I,” Jacques said and held her close.

  The lift stopped.

  “Will we go back up again?” Jacques murmured into her ear. “We could stay here and just go up and down and up—”

  “No, we have to get out.” Margo got out of the lift, walked through the lobby, and opened the heavy entrance door. She turned around and looked at Jacques, who was slowly closing the doors to the lift. “Come on,” she said, “or I’ll miss my train.”

  When they were standing on the busy street, Margo looked around for his car. “Where is it?” she said. “Where’s your car?”

  “There,” he said. “Right in front of you.”

  “What? Where? I can’t see it, just that big, horrible van.”

  “That’s it,” Jacques said. “Don’t you recognise it?”

  Margo looked at it again. “It’s the van from the château. The one you use when you go to competitions.”

  “That’s right. And it’s my home now.”

  “What? You live in this, this—”

  “Yes. All my stuff is in the back, and I sleep on one of the bunks. Quite comfortable, really. There’s plenty of room for you. But don’t just stand there. Get in.” He opened the door to the passenger seat.

  Margo stared at him. “Is this it?” she asked incredulously. “This is what you meant when you said you had nothing to offer but your love? You expected me to live in a truck?”

  “Why not?” Jacques said, lifting one eyebrow. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Everything,” Margo said and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” Jacques asked.

  “To get a taxi.”

  “But I’ll drive you. I said I would. Come on, Marguerite, I was only joking. Did you really think I was going to ask you to live with me in this? Don’t you trust me?”

  “No,” Margo said and came back to climb into the passenger seat. “I said ‘I love you’, nothing about trusting you.”

  “You’re such a realist, my darling,” Jacques said and, after having put Margo’s bags in the back, lowered himself into the driver’s seat. He turned the key and drove the van expertly into the busy traffic.

  “Where are you going after you’ve left me at the station?” Margo asked.

  “To Normandy,” Jacques said, turning the van down a narrow lane. “A shortcut,” he said, swerving to avoid a motorbike.

  “What are you going to do there?”

  Jacques shrugged. “I was going to look at this property. But I’m not sure I can afford to buy it. I’m just having a look really. Maybe in a few years I can buy something like it.”

  “But I thought you sold the horses?”

  “I did, and got a very good deal. Enough to buy a small place somewhere. So, my darling, once we have decided where we want to live, we can buy a small flat or maybe even a little cottage.”

  “Good.” Margo sighed, feeling suddenly tired. She put her head on his shoulder and yawned. “But let’s not worry about that yet.”

  “Merde, we’re stuck,” Jacques muttered as the traffic came to a grinding halt.

  “But we have plenty of time, and we’re quite near the station.” Margo said. “So,” she continued, “where is this house you’re looking at? The one you can’t afford?”

  “At the coast. Near Deauville. Nice place. If I could raise the money to buy it, I would set up a yard for event horses there. But it’s only a dream.”

  “Let’s dream for a while,” Margo said sleepily. “Tell me more about this place.”

  “It’s very nice. An old Normandy farmhouse. Beautiful, with beams and the origin
al fireplaces. It’s recently been done up, and it’s very cosy inside with lovely views of the sea.”

  “Sounds really wonderful.” Margo yawned again. She suddenly caught sight of the parcel on the floor and bent down to pick it up. “I might as well open this,” she said, undoing the string.

  “What?”

  “The present François gave me.” Margo struggled with the wrapping. “He wrapped it up so well, I can’t... there, I’ve got it.” Margo took away the last of the brown paper. “How nice,” she said. “That’s so sweet. A lovely memento.”

  “What is it?” Jacques said, putting the van into gear and rolling slowly forward as the traffic started to move again.

  “A painting.”

  “One he painted himself?”

  “No,” Margo murmured, looking at the picture. “It’s one of the paintings from the dining room in the château. A copy, of course but lovely all the same.”

  “Oh? Which one?” Jacques pressed his foot on the accelerator as the traffic started to flow faster.

  “The Holbein,” Margo said. “Portrait of Christina, duchess of Milan. Jacques!’ she exclaimed, as the van suddenly swerved. “What are you doing?”

  The van came to a screeching halt at the curb, accompanied by loud hooting from the cars behind them. “Show me that,” Jacques breathed and snatched the painting from Margo. He peered at it, his face pale with emotion. “Oh yes, he whispered, “it is. It’s the Holbein, all right.”

  “I know.” Margo sighed. “What a nice gesture. And that one was the best of the whole lot. You can hardly believe it’s a copy.”

  “That, mon amour,” Jacques said softly, “is because it isn’t.”

  EPILOGUE

  The battered camper van travelled along the motorway. Margo looked idly at the countryside gliding past the windows, the rough bouncing of the van preventing her from sleeping.

  “Ça va?” Jacques asked, putting a hand on her knee.

  She turned her head and looked at him as he drove through the heavy traffic. “I’m fine,” she said. She was still holding the painting on her lap, and she looked at it again, trying to take in what they had discovered only an hour earlier.