Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  Margo put the change away, picked up her purchases, and walked toward the restaurant. He must still be in that queue, she thought. I’ll have something to eat while I wait. I’ll order him a salad or something, that’ll cheer him up. He hates waiting around for meals. Or...maybe he doesn’t want anything to eat? He might get irritated again if I buy him a meal he doesn’t like, and then he’ll be in a mood for the rest of the evening. She idly picked up a tray and went to the buffet, where an array of rather tired salads and sandwiches was displayed. She picked up a plate of chicken salad, a bread roll, a piece of apple tart, and a bottle of water. What if he’s really hungry, she thought, and then he’ll be annoyed that I didn’t get him something...

  “Madame?” the man at the cash register said. “Vous voulez autre chose?”

  “Non,” she said, shaking her head to emphasise her words and paid the bill. She sat down at a Formica table and tucked into the meal. The salad, followed by the apple tart and a cup of strong coffee from the espresso bar, improved her mood, and she felt more hopeful. He’s just tired, she thought. All that driving would exhaust anyone. If only we could share the driving, it would be so much better, but he never wants me to drive.

  Where was he? She looked toward the entrance, but all she could see was a group of Italians arguing about who should get the last pasta salad and a couple with two children choosing ice cream. She looked out the grimy window and spotted Alan, standing by the car which had inched forward only two spaces since she left. He looked hot and irritated, and Margo could see him wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. Oh God. This will make him even worse, she thought. She lifted the cup to her lips to finish her coffee but found her hand was shaking so much she couldn’t hold it steady. Oh, I hope he’ll be able to fill the tank soon, she prayed, so we can get going...

  A few minutes later, Margo looked out again and saw Alan gesticulate in an evident rage at a uniformed youth holding a bucket and mop. Hit him, she silently willed the bewildered young man. Hit him right in the face. But the young man just backed away. Margo turned back to her coffee. How is it possible, she asked herself, for a man with such charm to be so horrible when he’s angry? And he has been a lot worse lately, losing his temper for no apparent reason at all. The week in Cannes should be good for us both. We’ll be able to talk things through, really get close again...

  Margo turned her gaze to the window opposite and looked at the view of the motorway that was crossed by a footbridge that lead to the lay-by on the opposite side, where a large number of trucks were parked. She stared at the footbridge and at the motorway with the traffic roaring in both directions, then turned around and glanced at Alan again. Now he was kicking a wheel of the car. He looked up and peered at the windows of the cafeteria, and she could see him, still scowling. She knew he couldn’t possibly see her, but she cringed all the same. She looked through the other window again, at the footbridge and the people walking across it. She wished she was one of them, someone, anyone who didn’t have to get back into that car with Alan in the mood he was in. She wished she was back in London, at work, out shopping, anywhere but here in this café waiting to confront him again. I’d better go back to the car, Margo thought. He’ll be even worse if he has to wait for me. She sighed, slowly gathered her things, and started for the main entrance. When she was half way across the restaurant, she suddenly stopped, turned, and on an impulse, walked out the side door instead, around the back of the building, across the tarmac, away from the petrol pumps and the line of cars. She kept walking, staring ahead, as if guided by an inner voice that kept telling her to keep going. Suddenly, someone shouted, but she walked on, her heart pounding, afraid to look around. The shouting stopped. She glanced behind her. A man had caught a small boy by the shoulder. Margo clapped her hand to her chest to slow her heart and stood for a moment, trying to catch her breath and regain her cool. She breathed in deeply and, like a sleepwalker, started to walk again – across the car park, through the playground and the picnic area, up the steps and over the bridge.

  CHAPTER 2

  The small green truck was parked in the shade of a tree a short distance away from the group of big articulated lorries. The paint was flaking off its sides, and the lettering spelling the word ‘Horses’ above the front windscreen was barely visible. Margo had been wandering around the parking area in a dazed state, wondering what to do next. She kept looking over her shoulder expecting to see Alan coming across the footbridge ready to drag her back to the car. The urge to get away was the only thing on her mind now. I have to get a lift quickly, she thought, studying the truck drivers – mostly big, swarthy, unshaven men who were laughing, joking, or snoozing in the shade. She tried to spot the one that looked the least likely to attack her first chance he got. But none of them looked in any way friendly or even particularly appealing. I have to get out of here before Alan finds me, she said to herself, panic rising in her chest. Then she saw the small truck. Margo tightened her grip on her bag and walked toward it. She went around the side, where a young man, his back to her, was drinking deeply from a beer can. He was short and stocky with dark, slicked-back hair. He wore a loose blue shirt and jeans, and he was flicking ash from a cigarette held carelessly in his other hand.

  “Excusez-moi, monsieur,” Margo said politely.

  The young man whipped around. “What the fuck...?” Despite the hoarseness, the voice was not male.

  “Oh, sorry,” Margo smiled nervously, “I thought you were—”

  “A fucking French guy?” The young ‘man’ put her cigarette in her mouth, tucked her shirt into her jeans with one hand, revealing an impressive bust, and crushed the beer can with the other.

  “Well yes, but I only saw you from the back and—”

  “I looked French?” The woman shook her head and laughed. “And you thought I was a man. Jesus, that’s a laugh.” She stubbed out her cigarette against the side of the truck, looking Margo up and down. “You look hot.”

  Margo backed away. “Well, I’m—”

  “You in some kind of trouble?” The woman spoke with a strong Irish accent.

  “No, not really.” Margo laughed nervously. “I was...” She swallowed, trying to think of a likely story, “on this—this bus, and we stopped for a break, and then—then—it just drove off.”

  “That’s a pisser.”

  “Mmm, um, yes.”

  The woman studied her for a moment through narrowing eyes. “So now you’re looking for a lift, is that it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where are you going?” the woman asked, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “I mean where was that bus taking you?”

  “To Cannes,” Margo blurted out without thinking. “I mean, no, I mean—” She stopped, feeling both confused and embarrassed. “I want to go to Paris,” she heard herself say.

  “You were on a bus to Cannes, and now you want to go to Paris?” The woman looked at her suspiciously with her small brown eyes. Like currants in a bun, Margo thought.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she replied, trying to sound confident. “I’ve changed my mind about Cannes. I’ve decided to look up a friend in Paris instead.”

  “You don’t say,” the woman muttered ironically. “Why do I have the feeling something really weird is going on here?”

  “Weird?” Margo straightened her shoulders and gazed innocently at the other woman. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Like you’re up to something. Like you’re in some kind of trouble. You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

  “Not lately, no,” Margo tried to joke.

  “And the police aren’t after you or anything?”

  “No, of course not,” Margo replied with feeling.

  The woman looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Know anything about horses?” she suddenly asked.

  “Horses?” Margo said, confused.

  “Yeah. That’s what I have in the truck here. Two of the best event horses in Ireland. I’m br
inging them back from a competition in Grenoble. I had someone to help me, but the bitch let me down. Decided to go off with a groom from Italy, and now I have to look after the horses on my own. So if you think you could give me a hand with ‘em, I’ll be happy to give you a lift and drop you off somewhere near Paris.”

  “Horses?” Margo said again. “Well yes, as long as it’s not too complicated. I went to pony camp once when I was younger. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Pony camp, eh? Well then, you would know the basics, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Great. OK.” The woman wiped her hand on the back of her jeans and held it out to Margo. “By the way, I’m Gráinne.”

  “I’m sorry? You’re what?”

  The woman laughed. “I get that all the time. It’s my name, very common in Ireland. Seems to confuse English people big time. Gra, rhymes with ‘bra’, for someone with your la-de-da accent, then ‘nya’. Try it, ‘gra-nya’.”

  “Gráinne.”

  “Brilliant. What’s your name?”

  “M—” Margo started. “Maggie.”

  Gráinne grabbed Margo’s hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Maggie. Are you ready?”

  Margo nodded, feeling oddly excited, as if she was embarking on some kind of adventure. “Yes, I’m ready,” she said.

  “Want to nip into the jacks before we go? It’s just across that footbridge.”

  “No!’ Margo exclaimed. “I’m all right. And thank you so much for helping me.”

  “No bother. OK, let’s go then,” Gráinne said and opened the door to the driver’s side.

  Margo ran around to the other side, opened the door, climbed up, and settled into the passenger seat. Gráinne put on her seat belt, turned the key in the ignition, and the truck’s engine came alive.

  “OK?” she shouted over the rumble. Margo nodded again, clutching her bag and looking straight ahead, a feeling of elation making her heart beat faster.

  “Here we go,” Gráinne yelled as she put her foot on the accelerator. “Next stop, Paris.”

  ***

  The truck shook and rattled as it made its way through the dark woods. They had left the motorway nearly an hour earlier, and Gráinne had explained that they would spend the night near a farm where they could let the horses out in a field, and Gráinne and Margo would sleep in the truck. Margo held onto the handle of the door, trying to keep herself steady, having absolutely no idea where they were. She had been trying to make polite conversation with Gráinne for a while, but now the CD player was on full blast, playing country and western music. Gráinne had smoked at least five cigarettes since the beginning of the journey, and the heat and the twisting motion of the truck combined with the smoke were beginning to make Margo feel queasy.

  “Are we there yet?” she asked like a child when there was a lull in the music.

  “Nope,” Gráinne said.

  “Maybe we could stop for a moment?”

  “What for?” Gráinne asked, the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, her eyes squinting through the smoke.

  “I don’t know. Fresh air? Those cigarettes are making me sick.”

  “You don’t say,” Gráinne muttered, but the cigarette stayed stuck in her mouth.

  “Smoking is very bad for you,” Margo stated. “But I’m sure you’re well aware of that.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And passive smoking is just as bad.”

  “Is that supposed to be a hint?”

  “Maybe.” Margo shrugged and looked out the window, staring into the gathering dusk.

  “You some kind of nurse?” Gráinne grunted.

  “I’m a physiotherapist,” Margo replied. “I mean, I was. Before I got married.”

  “I see. A fucking health freak.” Gráinne stubbed her cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. “So you’re married, then?”

  “Not anymore. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “OK.” They drove in silence for a while. “He bought you that ring?” Gráinne asked after a few minutes.

  “Who?”

  “Your husband. Did he buy you that rock you have on your finger? Must be two carats at least.”

  “Four,” Margo said and turned the ring around.

  “Jesus. So what is he, some kind of millionaire?”

  “Plastic surgeon.”

  “No shit?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Margo snapped.

  “OK. Sorry.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Right.”

  They were silent again while the truck bounced on the uneven road.

  “He’s dead,” Margo suddenly said into the darkness.

  “What? Who? Who’s dead?”

  “My husband.”

  “That’s a pisser. When did he die?”

  “Oh, a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gráinne took another cigarette out of the packet on the dashboard and lit it.

  “Do you really have to do that?” Margo asked with a sigh.

  “What?” Gráinne blew out a plume of smoke.

  “Never mind. I suppose you’re going to smoke no matter what I say.”

  “You bet.”

  “But don’t you realise,” Margo insisted, “that you’re hooked on something highly addictive? A drug that will eventually kill you? Not to mention what it’s doing to your skin and your teeth. You have no idea how much better you would feel if you stopped. And if you changed your lifestyle just a little, cut down on fat and sugar, maybe did a little exercise, you could look—”

  “Shut up!’ Gráinne shouted suddenly.

  “What? You don’t want me to talk to you?”

  “I don’t care about fucking lifestyles!’

  “Yes, but—”

  “If you don’t fucking well close your mouth, I will throw you out!’

  “OK, don’t get excited,” Margo said. “I just thought I’d tell you—”

  “Just shut the fuck up.”

  “Charming,” Margo muttered to herself. “Lovely manners.”

  Gráinne glared at her.

  “OK. I won’t say another thing,” Margo promised.

  “Good.”

  The truck rattled on while they both stared out the window The potholes were becoming more frequent, making the truck bounce and lurch and Gráinne swear even louder.

  “You know, you remind me of someone,” Margo said despite herself a little later.

  “Who?” Gráinne demanded.

  “My husband.”

  “The one who died?”

  “That’s right. You use exactly the same vocabulary. Amazing.”

  “I talk like a fucking plastic surgeon, now?”

  Margo smiled. “That’s right. Exactly like him.”

  “Shit, that’s f—” Gráinne glanced at Margo. “OK, I get it.”

  Margo leaned her back against the seat and closed her eyes. It’s a nightmare, she thought. I’m not in this horse truck with this weird woman. I’m in the hotel, I went to sleep, and had a really strange dream. There’ll be a knock on the door, and the waiter will bring us breakfast: coffee, orange juice, fresh croissants...

  ***

  They had met at work. Margo had been twenty-two, just qualified as a physiotherapist, and had started working at the orthopaedic ward in one of London’s biggest hospitals. She had been feeling very lost at first. When Ted, the registrar on her ward, asked her to join him at his table in the cafeteria on her second day, she was delighted. She took her tray and walked over to the table.

  “Here,” Ted said and pulled out a chair, “sit down.”

  “Thanks.” Margo sat down and smiled at him. “I hate eating on my own.”

  “It’s always tough when you’re new,” he replied. “But I’m sure you’ll make friends very soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Of course you will.” He looked at her with admiration in his eyes. “I have to say you’re the best looking physio we’
ve had for a long time.”

  “Oh, that’s... I mean, thank you.”

  “How about you and me—”

  “Well, well, well,” a voice interrupted him. “What have we here?”

  Margo looked up at the tall man standing by their table.

  “Oh hello, Alan,” Ted murmured, sounding deflated. “Margo, this is Dr Hunter. He’s on Mr Major’s team.”

  “Mr Major?” Margo asked, shaking the man’s hand. “The plastic surgeon?”

  “That’s right,” Alan replied, sitting down beside Margo. “What’s your speciality, Margo?”

  “I’m a physiotherapist. I’ve just started working in orthopaedics.”

  “How nice,” Alan said and draped his arm across the back of her chair. “I’m very pleased to meet you. You have livened up an otherwise rather dull day. I love blondes with...” He looked into her eyes. “Dark green eyes.”

  Suddenly a shrill bleep could be heard. “Damn.” Ted took out a pager from his pocket and got up from his seat. “Have to go. A patient in recovery kicking up a fuss. But I’ll see you later? Maybe we could go for a coffee or a drink or a pizza or...” He looked somewhat sheepishly at Margo. “Think about it. I’ll be in touch.”

  Margo looked at Ted as he sprinted out of the cafeteria, his white coat flapping around his tall, skinny body. She turned back to find that Alan was still looking at her intently. There was an air of arrogance about his bearing and a hint of conceit in his slightly protruding pale blue eyes. Margo looked back at him levelly.

  “So.” A little smile played on Alan’s lips. “Margo.”

  “Yes?”

  “Lovely name. Margo,” he said again, propping his chin in his hand. “You’re going to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “What? I mean I don’t know if I’m—”

  “Free?” He took her hand. “Of course you are.”

  His touch made her feel both hot and cold at the same time. His eyes were hypnotic.

  “All right,” she heard herself say. “I am free. I mean I will. Have dinner, I mean.”

  He patted her hand and then let go of it. “Good girl.” He rose, put his stethoscope around his neck and buttoned his white coat. “Champagne at the Ritz?”