Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “Oh? When did he tell you that?”

  “He didn’t. I figured it out for myself.” Margo leaned across the table. “You see, it was the dress. You know the one that was missing?”

  “The Googlie-thing?”

  “Galliano. That’s right. I know what happened to it.”

  “Really? How?”

  Margo smiled, proud of herself. “I just put all the pieces together and then, bingo! It all seemed to fit.”

  “This sounds weird. But go on.”

  “Well, I had seen this woman coming out of the apartment late at night a couple of times.”

  “The blonde bombshell you were telling me about?”

  “That’s right. Then the dress went missing, and it happened on the same day François left for Paris.”

  “Aha!’ Gráinne exclaimed.

  “That’s right. Then, when I was in Paris, I spotted the woman again, coming out of the building wearing—”

  “The dress!’ Gráinne said triumphantly.

  “How did you know?”

  “You told me.”

  “Anyway, the last piece of the jigsaw was the reappearance of the very same dress in Milady’s wardrobe the night François came back. Plus,” Margo added, touching her nose, “I smelled the perfume. The perfume that woman was wearing still lingered on François the next morning. And there was a faint whiff of it on the dress when it magically reappeared in the château.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Joy de Patou. I know it well.”

  “But,” Gráinne said, looking puzzled, “you said the woman was leaving the building wearing the dress. Where was she going? And where was François?”

  “They were going to a party. He told me he had been at a do somewhere in the neighbourhood and came home very late. My guess is that he was working late and told her he would meet her there, and then they went home together. Or something,” Margo added vaguely.

  “Hmm,” Gráinne said. “I suppose that all makes sense. Except—”

  “What?”

  “Well, why the mystery? Why does he need to make such a song and dance about the fact that he has a girlfriend?”

  “You don’t know his mother. She would not approve of just anyone. This woman may not have the right pedigree. She might be working class or a foreigner or something. She did look rather exotic, with those dark eyes and the blond hair.”

  “Hmm,” Gráinne said again. “I find all of this hard to believe.”

  “Why?”

  “I always thought that guy was a fruit.”

  “He’s not,” Margo said indignantly.

  “Why not? All the signs are there.”

  “Stop it, Gráinne.”

  “Oh, sorreee,” Gráinne said. “Didn’t know you felt like that. I thought you just told me you didn’t have any feelings for the guy. That you were pissed off with him.”

  “I don’t have ‘feelings’, as you call it, for him,” Margo said indignantly. “I never have. It was all in your mind. Please, can we talk about something else?” Margo drained her glass. “I came out tonight to relax and forget about work and that family for a while. It has been a very difficult week.”

  “I can tell. You look really shaken. Not your usual self at all.”

  “I just feel totally drained. But enough about me. What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing much. Very busy at the yard. We had a lot of young horses to school, and then this transport came up because we sold Stan.”

  “Stan?” Margo said, her eyes lighting up. “You mean that lovely horse you had the first time we met? You sold him to Jacques?”

  “That’s the one. Very talented event horse. Cost a bomb. Don’t know how you-know-who could afford him.”

  “Jacques?”

  “Yeah. He must be loaded.”

  Margo shrugged. “Must be.” Her thoughts drifted while Gráinne chatted on. It’s the end of August, she thought. We’ll be going back to Paris soon. What about Jacques? How can I keep seeing him? Maybe he’ll come to the city? We’ll be going back to the château for weekends in any case. Milady seems a little better, even though she is very sad. But she seems to be able to put up a brave front and carry on as before. Back to Paris, Margo thought. I’ll have to decide what to do next.

  “Was amazing. He stitched up the wound, and the horse improved within days,” Gráinne sad, cutting into Margo’s daydream.

  “What? Who?”

  “Seamus. The trainee vet. I told you about him. Great friend of mine and a great vet. Or will be when he’s qualified,” Gráinne said proudly.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” Gráinne looked at Margo. “Listen – there is something I wanted to ask you.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to be completely honest. No bullshit, OK?”

  “Right.” Margo waited while Gráinne looked suddenly very shy.

  “Do you find me attractive?” Gráinne finally blurted out, her face red.

  Taken aback, Margo stared at Gráinne. “Well, I—”

  “You don’t,” Gráinne said flatly, looking close to tears.

  “I like you a lot, you know,” Margo said. “But only as a friend. But don’t worry,” she continued when Gráinne looked suddenly upset, “I have absolutely no prejudices against people like you. I think everyone has a right to be whatever they are. It’s nobody’s business but their own. It’s just that you have to know that I’m not, you know, that way.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’re normal. Not a freak like me,” Gráinne said bitterly. “The reason I am the way I am is that nobody could possibly be attracted to a butt-ugly woman like me.”

  “Ugly?” Margo said. “You’re not. You’re very nice-looking, really.”

  “I am?”

  “Oh, yes.” Margo studied Gráinne for a minute. “You have a nice face and a lovely smile.”

  “My eyes are small and too close together.”

  “But you have amazingly long eyelashes.”

  “And I’m fat and squat,” Gráinne said without listening.

  “You’re just a little chubby, but it suits you. And you have—”

  “Huge boobs.”

  “No, well, you do have a big bust, but if you wore a better bra, it would look very good.”

  “It would?” Gráinne squinted down at her chest.

  “Oh yes. And listen, Gráinne – the most important thing of all is that you’re very good company and great fun.” Margo smiled fondly at her. “You’ll find that special person one day.”

  “I already did,” Gráinne said. “Don’t you see? I have found someone I really like.”

  “You have? Then, what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is me,” Gráinne said glumly. “I can’t bring myself to tell him.”

  “Him?” Margo said, suddenly feeling an odd sense of relief. “It’s a man?”

  “Yeah. What did you think it was, a fucking monkey?”

  “No, uh—”

  “How can I tell him?” Gráinne asked. “What’s he going to say? He couldn’t possibly be interested in a twenty-seven-year-old—” She stopped. “I can’t even say it myself.”

  “A twenty-seven-year old what? Oh, come on, say it,” Margo urged. “Try to pretend I’m him, and just say it.”

  “Oh OK. I’ll give it a go.” Gráinne looked intently at Margo. “Seamus,” she said. “There is something I have to tell you. Promise not to laugh. Oh God, no, I can’t.”

  “Gráinne,” Margo said sternly. “If he really cares for you, it won’t matter. I’m sure he won’t give a damn what you’ve been up to before you met him. Maybe it will even make him more interested in you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Men are strange. The weirdest things turn them on. Go on now, have a go. If you say it once, it won’t be so hard the next time.”

  “OK.” Gráinne swallowed, looked down at the table and muttered something.

  “What?” Margo asked
. “Speak up.”

  Gráinne looked up and her face paled. “I’m still a virgin.”

  ***

  “Have you finished packing?” François asked as he came into Milady’s bedroom.

  “Nearly.” Margo closed the biggest of the suitcases. “Agnes is ironing the last of the blouses and putting them into tissue paper.”

  “Good. In that case, why don’t you leave it for a while and come and have a drink on the terrace? It’s such a lovely evening.”

  “Yes, it is. Much cooler too. And yes, I’d love a drink.” Margo followed François out of the room and down the corridor.

  “There is a real feel of autumn in the air,” François said as they made their way down the stairs. “Makes one a little melancholy, don’t you think?”

  “But I like the autumn,” Margo said. “I love the crisp air and the bright colours of the leaves. And that smell of burning wood and the brightness of the sky.” She suddenly felt very homesick for Dorset and the small town she had grown up in. She thought of picking apples and going home to their cosy house on cold evenings; the fire burning in the grate in the living room; of her mother making apple and blackberry crumble and walking through autumn leaves on Sunday walks.

  She sighed. “Makes me think of my childhood in England.”

  “But the autumn is lovely here too.” François opened the door to the terrace and stepped back to let her pass. “You should see the park and all the trees in their glorious colours. And you will, of course. My mother will be coming here for weekends until the beginning of November.”

  “I know.”

  “There you are,” Milady said. She was sitting at the table near the end of the terrace, sipping a glass of champagne. “And Marguerite. Sit down. I asked Bernard to open a bottle of champagne.”

  “What’s the occasion?” François asked.

  “No occasion really, except to say goodbye to summer.” Milady put her glass on the table and smiled at them. “Pour Marguerite a glass, François. Let’s enjoy the last warm summer’s evening. They are forecasting a break in the weather tomorrow. I have asked Agnès to serve dinner in half an hour.”

  “You must eat with us, Marguerite,” François said.

  Margo glanced at Milady. “Well, thank you, but—”

  “Yes, do,” Milady said graciously. “Why not? Just for this once.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.” Margo took a sip from the glass François had just offered her. “Will Jacques be joining us?” she enquired casually. She didn’t know where he was, but he had said he would come to her room later, and they would finally be able to be together. The last week had been torture, Margo thought. She had been consumed with longing for him, knowing he was so near, yet not able to take any time off because of pressures with running the property and trying to cope with the drought. Every time they had planned to meet, there had been some kind of emergency, and Jacques had been forced to rush off to deal with it. And then, just as Margo thought she would have a chance to be with him, he had to go to Lyon.

  “I thought he would be here already,” François said. “He came back from Lyon this morning. Is he not dining with us?”

  “No, he ate earlier,” Milady said. “He said something about the vet coming to check the new horse. He had an upset stomach, I think. The horse,” she added with a laugh, “not the vet.”

  Margo joined in the laughter, feeling relieved that she wouldn’t have to talk to Jacques in front of his family and pretend there was nothing going on between them. She was pleased that Milady seemed so much better. The first few days after the death of her elderly lover, she had stayed in bed and hadn’t touched any of the food Margo had brought up. The day of the state funeral, she had locked herself in her room, refusing to talk to anyone, not even François. But now, except for a lack of appetite and an increased number of cigarette butts in her ashtray, she seemed to have recovered some of her old drive.

  Margo drank more champagne and enjoyed the evening air which was still warm, but not as uncomfortably hot as before. A huge harvest moon rose above the trees, and the sky slowly turned a velvety blue.

  “Madame est servie,” Agnès announced from the door of the dining room, and they slowly rose and made their way inside.

  “This is such a beautiful room,” Margo said as she sat down on the chair François pulled out for her. “The paintings, the old oak panelling.”

  “I suppose you must know quite a lot about furniture and old paintings, being the daughter of an antiques dealer,” Milady said, putting her napkin in her lap.

  “I’m no expert,” Margo said modestly. “But yes, I learned quite a lot over the years. I used to love going to auctions with my father and my brothers. And my father taught us the tricks of the trade, so to speak – how to spot a bargain, tell a fake from the real thing, and so on,” Margo explained, remembering how she had tried her best to soak up everything in a futile attempt to win her father’s approval. She sighed and helped herself to a slice of roast chicken from the dish Milady passed her.

  “There is a lot of very valuable furniture in this house,” François said. “Some of it very old.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” Margo said, picking up her wine glass. “I was amazed to see it all. The drawing room furniture is remarkable. That inlaid table beside the sofa is exquisite. Eighteenth-century, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the cupboard against the far wall,” Margo continued. “Seventeenth-century Dutch. A very fine piece.”

  “You are very knowledgeable,” Milady said, sounding impressed. “François, chéri, more wine.”

  “What about paintings?” François asked, refilling his mother’s glass. “Do you know anything about them?”

  “Yes, I do,” Margo replied. “A lot, actually. My brother specialises in old paintings. You have some really important works here. I love the portrait of the woman in the blue dress in the library. An early Manet, isn’t it?”

  “That’s correct,” François said and smiled. “How clever of you. Maybe we should ask you to help out with the cataloguing we are planning to do later this year. What do you think, Maman?”

  “Good idea,” Milady nodded. “Boring work but it has to be done. For the insurance, you see. Would you feel like doing a little of that, Marguerite?”

  “Of course’ Margo said. “I would love to. I like old things.”

  “This room has always been my favourite,” Milady said. “And I have always thought it was so clever to put the best paintings in here.”

  “And even more clever to replace them with such excellent copies,” Marguerite added brightly.

  There was a sudden, stunned silence. Milady turned very pale.

  “I beg your pardon?” François said, staring at her, his eyes huge with shock. “Are you saying that some of these paintings are fake?”

  “No,” Margo put down her wine glass. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Of course not,” Milady said, the colour coming back to her cheeks.

  “Not some of the paintings,” Margo said, gesturing with her fork around the room. “They all are.”

  CHAPTER 18

  At first, Margo tried her best to smooth over her enormous faux pas as Milady and François stared at each other in wordless horror. “But they are excellent copies,” she said. “Nobody would guess, really.”

  “You did,” François muttered.

  “Yes, but I know what to look for. My brother is a renowned art expert, and—” She paused, thinking about how her brother had been so pleased with the way she had been able to pick up even the slightest flaws. “These copies must have been done by the very best,” she continued with an encouraging smile. “I mean, some of the paintings are actually better than the original. You know how Rembrandt couldn’t do hands? But in that little study of the old lady, the hands are—” She paused again when there was no reply. Nobody seemed to have heard her feeble attempt at looking on the bright side.

  “Mon D
ieu,” Milady whispered, staring at François, “what are we going to do?”

  “Nothing for the moment,” François said, switching to French, his voice icily determined. “Until we find out who has been—” He paused. “I have a feeling we don’t have to look too far.”

  “You mean—” Milady said.

  “Yes,” François said. “I think it’s quite obvious, don’t you?”

  “But—” Milady’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, you’re right. There can’t be any other explanation.” She suddenly started to sob. “The shame,” she wept. “The embarrassment. What will people say?”

  “Nothing,” François soothed, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Nobody will find out, I’ll make sure of that. We’ll carry on as before.”

  “We will? But how? We have to tell the police, the insurance company.”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “We won’t say anything to anyone. Except,” he continued, his voice cold, “I have a few things to say to—” He stopped and glanced at Margo as if he had only then realised she was there but wished she wasn’t.

  She rose from her chair. “Excusez- moi,” she mumbled, but they didn’t seem to hear her and continued to talk to each other in a near whisper as she silently left the room.

  ***

  Margo was packing her few items of clothing into her tote bag and generally tidying up her room. It was late, and although she was very tired, she was looking forward to seeing Jacques again. He had written her a note, telling her how much he was longing to be with her and would try to finish with the vet and the horses so they could spend this last night together. It’s sad to part, but we’ll have the weekends, he had written. I’m looking forward to showing you how lovely the park and the woods are in the autumn.

  As soon as I go back to Paris, I will try to get in touch with Alan, Margo thought as she packed. I’ll tell him it’s all over, and we’ll have to get the divorce proceedings going. She froze, suddenly frightened by the word ‘divorce’. She had never really thought of it like that before, never said the word to herself even in her thoughts, as if it was something that didn’t really apply to her but something that happened to other people. Being ‘separated’ didn’t seem so bad, it wasn’t final; it left the door open. She felt a sense of guilt about her affair with Jacques, and she knew she wouldn’t be thinking like this if it wasn’t for him, but he had given her the final push to close the chapter with Alan. She also knew she would have to tell Jacques about her marriage. They had agreed that their individual pasts weren’t really important, but a marriage of ten years wasn’t something you could airbrush out of your life. I have no idea at all where I’m going with Jacques, she thought. It might just end in tears, probably mine. But right now, it’s so lovely. And I will tell him about Alan. Soon.