“Don’t worry,” Margo said. “I know what men are like. It would be difficult to make a fool out of me.”
“Good. But what was it you said earlier?” Justine asked, folding the rug carefully. “About seeing somebody?”
“Oh, yes.” Margo looked up from her task. “I nearly forgot. It was the other night. Sunday night. I was going up in the lift, the servant’s lift. And I saw this woman.”
“A woman?” Justine sounded oddly alarmed.
“Yes. She was standing by the kitchen door of the apartment.”
“Our apartment?”
“That’s right. She was tall and blonde and quite beautiful, I think. I couldn’t see her clearly, but she had huge dark eyes, and she wore a red dress.”
“Go on,” Justine urged, her hands still on the rug.
“Well, she took out a key and let herself in.”
“Into the apartment?”
Margo nodded. “That’s right.” She peered at Justine. “Who was she? Do you know?”
Suddenly, there was a guarded look in Justine’s eyes. “Must have been another floor. It’s very dark in the stairwell. Easy to make the mistake.”
“No,” Margo said. “I’m sure I’m right.”
Justine looked sternly at Margo. “There are certain things...” she paused.
Margo stared at the old woman, waiting for her to finish her sentence. But Justine suddenly closed her mouth tightly, and her eyes were expressionless again.
“Things are not always what they seem,” she muttered. “Especially in this family.”
CHAPTER 8
Margo struggled with the heavy velvet as she tried to attach the rusty hooks to the curtain rail. Three more to go. Two. One. There. Finally. She smoothed the velvet and stood back to admire her handiwork. What a difference, she thought as she looked, first at the view of the rooftops and the tall shape of the Eiffel Tower behind them, framed in the soft red velvet, then around the room. The rug on the worn lino and the cushions on the bed made the small room infinitely more inviting, the warm colours enhancing the rich brown mahogany of the bed head and the big old wardrobe. Even the old-fashioned wallpaper with the tiny rosebuds was suddenly more attractive. Now, maybe a print or two and a nice bedspread.
A sudden, hard knock on the door made her jump. Nobody had ever knocked on her door. Who could it be? Margo wondered if Milady had come home early from her session at the beauty parlour. But she had said she would dine with friends afterwards and then go straight to bed. Margo had packed Milady’s four suitcases, and they would be setting off early the next morning for the country. No, it couldn’t be Milady. She wouldn’t come up here herself; she would send Justine, and she, Margo knew, was busy packing to go on her annual holiday at her cousin’s in Tours.
There was another hard knock.
“Who is it?” Margo called. There was no reply, only a faint rustling sound. Margo walked to the door and peered through the spy hole. She could see nothing at first, then the top of someone’s head, then an eye squinting at her.
“Qui est la?” Margo called, her heart beginning to race in her chest. She felt suddenly nervous and very aware that she was all alone here in this small room, with nobody nearby who would hear, or even care, if she was attacked.
“Jesus Christ, Margo,” a familiar voice shouted. “Will you open the door! There’s this strange man staring at me.”
“Fiona,” Margo breathed, at once weak with relief. She unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”
“I did,” Fiona panted and nearly fell into the room. “Please, lock the door, quickly,” she begged as Margo slammed the door shut.
“What’s the matter with you?” Margo demanded, looking at Fiona’s red face. “And how on earth did you find me?”
Fiona collapsed on the bed, her hand on her chest. “I thought he was—oh God.”
“Who? What?”
“That man out there,” Fiona breathed and gestured vaguely at the door. “A big, dark man with a beard. He was dressed in some kind of, I don’t know, caftan or something, and he was staring at me and tried to touch my—”
“Your what?”
“My arm. He said something, but I couldn’t understand. I was so frightened. Oh, Margo, what are you doing here in this, this ghetto?”
Margo sat on the bed beside Fiona. “Stop babbling for a minute. Calm down. Nobody is going to attack you. That was probably my neighbour you saw. I think he’s Moroccan or something. He lives in the room next door with his wife and small baby, and I imagine that he just wanted to be helpful.”
“Oh. I see.” Fiona breathed deeply, her hand still on her chest. “Could I have a glass of water?”
“Of course.”
Fiona looked around the room while Margo filled a glass from the tap. “So this is where you live now.”
“That’s right. How did you manage to find me?” Margo asked, handing Fiona the glass.
“Oh, that was easy,” Fiona said, sounding a little calmer as she sipped the water. “I just used my head.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said that you were working as some kind of secretary or something.”
“PA.”
“Whatever. Then I remembered that you were at the fashion show with, well you know ”
“Know what? Stop talking in riddles.”
“You know who she is, don’t you?”
“You mean the Comtesse?”
“That’s right. Otherwise known as Marie-Jo. Very well-known model in the late nineteen fifties and early sixties. A real fashion icon. But you must know that, of course.”
“Of course,” Margo said, trying not to look surprised.
“And that she married into the French aristocracy and became one of those society hostesses, and well, all that.” Fiona drew breath. “Anyway,” she continued when Margo didn’t reply, “I just looked up the address and found the apartment. I called in and asked for you, and some old dragon told me you were up here, so voilá, here I am.” Fiona put the empty glass on the bedside table.
“So you are.” Margo folded her arms across her chest. “And what, if I may be so rude to ask, do you want?”
“Want? I don’t want anything. I just thought I’d come and—”
“Spy on me? See if you could persuade me to behave and go back to Alan? Or maybe you just came to gloat?”
Fiona folded her skirt over her knees. “I don’t know what you mean,” she mumbled and flicked an imaginary piece of fluff off the fabric.
There was silence in the small room. Margo didn’t know what to say. She wanted Fiona to leave and never come back. She didn’t want to be reminded of her life in London, and she didn’t want to apologise or explain to anyone for anything.
“This is actually rather nice,” Fiona muttered to herself as she looked around the room.
“What?”
“The room. It’s sort of quaint. Not that I would like to live here, but it has a rather shabby-chic charm.”
“How sweet of you to say so,” Margo said sourly, watching as Fiona walked to the window and looked out.
“Nice view,” Fiona said. She touched the curtain. “Lovely old piece of velvet.” She walked to the wardrobe and opened the door, fingering the clothes. “Nice things. Yours?” Without waiting for a reply, she took out the grey dress and peered at the label. “Chanel. My goodness. And it’s one of those classics. How on earth—” Fiona looked at Margo with a touch of envy in her eyes. “And that shirt you’re wearing is definitively a Dior vintage. Is she giving you her old clothes? Got to say, darling, these are the best hand-me-downs I’ve ever—”
“Stop snooping.” Margo snatched the dress away, hung it back in the wardrobe and slammed the door shut.
“All right. Don’t be so bloody jumpy. Look, I just came for a little chat. Just to see, well, to find out—”
“Fiona. Please.” Margo sat down on the bed again, her legs oddly weak. “I’d like you to leav
e now. I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t care. I want to be left alone.”
They looked at each other in silence.
“Why do I have the feeling I have never really known you?” Fiona said, standing in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips. “I know we’ve never really been close friends, but I get the impression right now that you have been playing the part of someone else all these years. It really frightens me, you know. How is it possible that someone like you can suddenly just walk away from a life like that to—” she gestured vaguely around the room, “this?”
“Someone like me?” Margo asked. “What do you mean?”
“Someone from your background I mean.”
“What’s wrong with my background?”
“You grew up over a shop,” Fiona sneered.
“Yes, but it was an antiques shop,” Margo countered.
“Still a bloody shop,” Fiona sniffed. “I would have thought you would thank your lucky stars to have bagged a man like Alan and hang onto him no matter what...” Fiona’s voice trailed away.
“He isn’t exactly Prince Charming in private, you know,” Margo said.
“Well yes, I can see that but—” Fiona took a deep breath and looked at Margo squarely. “Just tell me this. If he was so horrible to live with, why on earth did you marry him?”
“Not because I wanted to ‘bag’ a rich husband, in any case,” Margo said hotly. “We fell in love. It’s as simple as that. We got married and...” She paused. “Well you know. We were fine. Very happy. And when there were problems, we were able to work them out. Even when—” she stopped.
“When—?” Fiona said.
“I found out I couldn’t have a baby,” Margo said flatly. “I was so upset.” More than upset, she thought as she remembered how the longing to be a mother had been so bad, it was like a physical pain. She had felt she had no future if she couldn’t have a child, but how could she explain that to Fiona or any woman who had been able to have children?
“It took me a long time to accept that there would never be a baby,” Margo continued. “And then I was worried that Alan would leave me, try to find someone else who could. But he took it really well. He was so kind and sweet, then. He took care of everything. He was in charge of all the tests so I didn’t have to sit in some doctor’s office and get the bad news from a stranger. And when he found out that I wasn’t a candidate for IVF, he was very good about that too and said that we would try to adopt a baby as soon as his surgery was off the ground and he would have more time to spend with a family. But that never seemed to happen,” she mumbled. “I don’t think he really meant it.”
“I see.” Fiona still stood in the middle of the room, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“Could you please leave now?” Margo whispered. “I want to be on my own.”
“OK,” Fiona said, looking deflated. “I’ll go.” She retrieved her handbag that had fallen onto the floor by the bed. “I’m going away in any case. For a holiday, I mean. We’re going to spend August in Scotland, as usual. Marcus’s parents’ house.”
“But you hate it there,” Margo said. “You always said it was—”
“Cold and boring, I know,” Fiona sighed, closing the zip on her handbag. “And huge and crumbling, and well, it’s the family seat and all that. And one day it will belong to Marcus and he will be—”
“Sir Marcus,” Margo filled in. “And you will be Lady Whitney-Jones. And you’ll have to live there and freeze for the rest of your—”
“Not if Marcus manages make a go of his diplomatic career,” Fiona interrupted, pulling down the jacket of her suit. “And that is what I—I mean we’re trying to do at the moment. He’s doing really well, you know,” she ended proudly. “So it will all work out according to plan, if you would only—I mean...” She paused. “Oh God. Shit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Margo studied Fiona for a moment. She looked tense and worried, and there were dark circles under her eyes. “Are you all right?” Margo asked. “You seem so stressed.”
“Well yes, I am a bit stressed,” Fiona said, twisting the strap of her handbag. “It’s hard work running everything: Marcus, his career, Rufus, the nanny, the maid, and that huge apartment. You have no idea how difficult it is to deal with the French. They are so snooty, and you have to practically beg to get them to come to the tiniest tea party. None of them make the slightest effort to speak English, and they look down their bloody noses all the time at everything. I mean, why do we have to do everything according to their rules of etiquette?”
“Because this is their country?” Margo said with just a hint of irony in her voice.
“What?” Fiona glared at Margo. “I should have known you would be no help at all,” she spat. “You just sit there looking smug and think only of yourself. Well, we can’t all be dropouts. Some of us have to look after our responsibilities. I’m only trying to help, you know. If you had any sense at all, you would get out of here and stay with me for a while. And then, when you’re ready, you could go back to Alan.”
“But I don’t want to get out of here,” Margo said. “And going back to Alan is the last thing on earth I would like to do right now.”
“But can’t you see that you have created a very difficult situation for him?” Fiona insisted. “He’s had to hire someone else to run the surgery, and she is now trying her best to sort out all the patients’ records and files and figure out your rather strange filing system, which is making his work very difficult. Not to mention the social embarrassment of having to explain to all his friends and colleagues why you’re not there and why he’s having to go to dinner parties on his own. He’s had to dream up some sort of family emergency that has forced you to leave London in a hurry.”
“Family emergency?” Margo interrupted. “Of what kind?”
“He’s said that your mother went to Australia to visit her sister.”
“That’s right, she did.”
“And that she was taken ill and you had to fly out and join her, and he doesn’t really know when you’ll be back.”
“My God, that’s clever,” Margo said with mock admiration in her voice. “Good old Alan. Always ready with the right explanation. So, in that case, why could we not leave it as it is at the moment? I’m in Australia. Great.”
Fiona took a deep breath. “OK, I’m going to tell you the real reason I’m here. Alan asked me to tell you that he wants to talk to you himself. He has tried to call you on your mobile, but—”
“I know. I haven’t kept it switched on, but I got all his messages.” Margo stood up and walked to the window. “I can’t,” she said, staring out over the rooftops. “I can’t even bear the thought of hearing his voice. It will only end in a row, anyway. In any case, I’ve taken the SIM card out of my mobile and changed to a French top-up account.” She turned around and stared at Fiona. “I’m not going to give you the number, so don’t even ask.”
“All right,” Fiona soothed. “Don’t get yourself into a state. Alan said you’re inclined to overreact.”
Margo made a snorting sound. “Overreact? That’s a laugh.”
“What am I going to tell him, then?”
“You don’t have to tell him anything, do you?”
“Oh, yes I do. He knows I was coming to see you today, and I promised I would get you to go back to London to at least talk to him.”
“You promised? How could you promise such a thing?” Margo said. “Did you tell him you knew where to find me?”
“Yes,” Fiona murmured, looking a little guilty. “But don’t worry. He won’t rush over here. He can’t. He’s too busy.”
“Of course,” Margo said ironically. “Too busy to worry about a little detail like his wife and his marriage.”
“You left him, remember?”
“Oh, I remember all right,” Margo said bitterly. “I remember every word. Every insult. It will take me a long time to forget. A very long time.
”
They stared at each other, Fiona standing in the middle of the room as if she was rooted to the spot and Margo sitting on the bed again, willing her to leave.
“Just one more thing,” Fiona said.
“Please,” Margo pleaded. “No more. Just leave me alone.”
“But what about your, well, your assets?” Fiona insisted without paying attention to the exasperation in Margo’s voice. “I mean, your lovely house, your personal possessions, your jewellery. Can you really leave all that behind? Just like that? If you’re not careful, you’ll lose everything you have in London. Alan could sue you for desertion, you know. He said—” Fiona paused, suddenly looking very uncomfortable.
“What? What else did he say? Spit it out. I want to hear everything.”
“He said that you were unstable. That you had some problems with your mental health in the past and that you have had psychiatric help and—”
Margo suddenly felt the ice in her chest melt and turn into red-hot lava. “What?” she almost shouted. “He what?” Then she remembered. “Oh no,” she gasped, “he wouldn’t use that—”
“Use what?”
“I did see a psychiatrist once,” Margo whispered, looking down at her hands. “Years ago. That time when we found out about my not being able to conceive. I was so upset and Alan said I needed counselling. But I only went once to this woman. A friend of Alan’s, of course. I didn’t feel it helped me at all. I didn’t think someone I didn’t know could. Oh, I can’t believe it.” Margo looked up at Fiona. “Is that what he’s planning?” she demanded. “Is that why you’re here? To give me this ultimatum? That if I don’t come back and behave myself he will declare me insane and take all I – we – own together? Are you running his errands, is that it? Have you offered your services as his solicitor? Is all of this your idea?”
“No!’ Fiona exclaimed, looking horrified. “Absolutely not. I want, I need you, to get back together again.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you’re so great together,” Fiona said feebly.
“We’re great together.” Margo looked at Fiona, trying to figure out if she was being honest or just pretending.
Finding Margo Page 10