Finding Margo

by Susanne O'Leary

  “Josephine,” Margo whispered. “Oh God.”

  “The baby girl.”

  “I know.” Margo jumped as the front door slammed.

  “Hellooo?” Milady chanted from the hall as François and Margo stared at each other across the table “Anybody home?”

  ***

  Later that evening, Margo was getting into bed, looking forward to a good night’s sleep for once, when there was a gentle knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  “It’s me,” François murmured.

  “Oh, all right, just a minute.” Margo sighed, got out of bed, threw on her dressing gown, and opened the door. “What’s the matter?” she asked as François tiptoed through the door and closed it softly behind him.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “She’s still on the prowl.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?” Margo asked, feeling tired and irritated.

  “My mother, of course,” François said and walked closer to Margo. “I have something to tell you.”

  “What? I thought we had finished our talk. And your mother didn’t seem too worried when we told her I was going to think about it. About marrying you, I mean.”

  “No, she accepted my explanation,” François nodded. “We’ll have plenty of time to get her used to the idea there will be no wedding. Between you and me, I mean,” he added, making a vague gesture.

  “Good. So what’s the problem, then? Why are you here?”

  “To tell you something very important.” François looked around the room. “May I sit down?”

  “Of course,” Margo said, showing him the chair in front of the dressing table. “Why don’t you sit there?” She sank down on the bed and looked at François as he made himself comfortable on the spindly chair.

  Once he was sitting down, François leaned forward and stared at Margo. “I have come to tell you,” he said, “that you have to get away from my mother.”

  “Why?” Margo asked, mystified by his words and his demeanour.

  “Because she is dangerous,” François whispered. “She will eat you alive like a black widow spider and then steal your baby.”

  Margo sat up. “You drank too much wine at dinner.”

  “No, please listen to me,” François insisted. “Maybe I have drunk a little too much, but it gives me the courage to speak to you like this. My mother is a little mad, I think. She’s becoming obsessed with the baby.”

  Margo started to say something, but François held up a hand to stop her. “Let me explain,” he said. “Please, just listen to me for a moment.”

  “All right,” Margo said, her heart beating a little faster.

  “My mother thinks that this is her last link with her lover. Your baby, I mean. She thinks that the baby will be a girl and that she will be the daughter they never had.”

  “That’s why she wants me to marry you?”

  “But of course. She begged me to ask you, and I agreed just to humour her, you see. But I knew deep down you would say ‘no’. And you did, and I was rather relieved, I have to say. I don’t really want to marry anyone.”

  “Not even Paquita?” Margo asked.

  “Especially not her. Oh, Marguerite,” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. I really like you and if—if things hadn’t happened the way they have, maybe—who knows?” He pushed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

  “Bbut—” Margo stammered, trying to take in that Milady was obsessive and dangerous. “Are you sure? I mean she has been so kind, so concerned, and supportive. She treats me as if I was made of glass. I had a feeling we were getting so close and that she really cares about me.”

  “She is really good at that.” François nodded. He leaned his elbow on the dressing table, slipping slightly sideways. “Don’t you see?” he whispered in an exaggerated way. “You are only the vesh—the wish—the vessel. It’s what’s inside you she’s really intresh—interush – that she really wants. Once she gets her hands on her—”

  “Or him.”

  “Or what?” François looked a little confused. Then he nodded. “Or him, yes, then she will no longer care about you. She will drive you away and keep the baby.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating,” Margo said. “And I think the wine has gone to your head.”

  “Oh, Marguerite, you don’t know my mother. Just think about it for a while. Haven’t you noticed how she hovers around you all the time?”

  “Well yes, but she’s just being kind.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve also noticed that she is very careful never to leave you on your own during the day.”

  Margo thought for a moment. “Yes,” she nodded, “you’re right. She’s always around, and wants me to go with her most of the time. And the other day, when I went to meet Gráinne and I came back a little late, she was in such a state. And,” Margo continued, a feeling of dread washing over her, “I can’t find my mobile phone.”

  François nodded wordlessly.

  “And she hasn’t made any attempt at all to contact Jacques, has she?” Margo mumbled. “I told her Gráinne had met him at an international show jumping competition in England and—” Margo put a hand to her mouth as the whole picture became clear. “She said she would get in touch with the French team but—oh God.”

  “She won’t, of course,” François filled in. “She doesn’t want you and Jacques together, because she knows you would go away with him. Now do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Margo whispered.

  “You must go. I will help you. And there’s no problem about money. I have prepared a little gift for you.”

  “A gift?”

  “Yes. Something that you will really like. I thought, in the event of you refusing my proposal, you would need some kind of insurance, a nest egg, if you like.” He paused. “But not a word to my mother, promise?”

  “Yes, I promise,” Margo murmured, feeling as if she was having a particularly strange dream.

  “I will give it to you, and then you must leave. Go to—” He stopped, as if he had lost his train of thought. “To England. As soon as you can. Is there anyone you could—?”

  “Yes,” Margo said. “Duncan. My brother in Oxford. I can go to him. He won’t be delighted but—” She stopped and listened. “I think I can hear her coming down the corridor.”

  “Go,” François whispered as the clicking of Milady’s heels came closer. “Make the arrangements, and then let me know when you’re leaving.” He pressed something into Margo’s hand and walked to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. “The coast is clear,” he whispered. “She went to the kitchen. I’ll be off then.” He gave her an encouraging little smile and left. Margo looked at the object in her hand. It was her mobile phone.

  ***

  “Duncan? Is that you?” Margo murmured into the phone, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. She had waited until, at one o’clock when the apartment fell silent and she was sure Milady was in bed.

  “It’s me, Margo,” she said. “I’m fine, Dunc, really well. Sorry to call this late, but... yes, I know. I haven’t been in touch for ages. Who? Alan? Not very well, I hope,” Margo said. “We’re separated, you see.” She laughed happily as she listened to her brother’s voice, realising how much she had missed him. “That’s right. We split up,” she said. “I finally left him. All right, all right, there’s no need to sound so bloody ecstatic. I knew you never liked the man, but—”

  She tried to think of how to explain her situation and decided it was better not to say anything until she arrived. “Well,” Margo continued, “I’m in Paris, actually—no, no, Duncan, never mind that. It’s not important now. Yes, I promise. I’ll get a good solicitor, and he’ll get what he deserves. But listen,” Margo murmured into the phone, “I need a place to stay for a while. I thought you might put me up for a few weeks until—”

  There was a soft noise by the door. She paused and looked at it, her heart beating faster as the door handle moved. “Got t
o go,” she whispered into the mobile. “I’ll call you back.” Margo froze as the door started to open very slowly, and someone came into the room.

  But it wasn’t Milady, as she had feared. It was Jacques.

  CHAPTER 24

  Margo dropped the phone. Unable to speak, she stared at him, at his tall frame, his black hair, and deep blue eyes. She had thought of this moment for weeks, wondered if she would ever see him again and fantasised that he would arrive exactly like this.

  “Is it really you?” she asked, wondering if she was dreaming or going mad.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Jacques walked into the room, took off his coat, and dropped it on a chair. “I’ve just arrived from the ferry.” She noticed that he was dressed in a white shirt, a blue sweater with the French team logo, jeans, and riding boots.

  “Hello,” Margo said, suddenly nervous. “How are you?” She looked into his eyes, trying desperately to think of something clever to say. “Nice to see you again,” she prattled on. “It’s been a long—” Oh, shut up, she told herself. He looks so tired, she thought. And sad and worried. She wanted to push that heavy lock of hair out of his eyes and put her arms around him and...

  He walked swiftly across the floor and took her suddenly ice-cold hand. “Oh Marguerite, I came as soon as I heard. She told me. She was so angry.”

  “Who? Your mother?”

  “My mother? I haven’t spoken to her for nearly two months. No, it was that friend of yours. Groan, Grey, Grainia, whatever her bloody name is.”

  “Gráinne?”

  “That’s right. Gráinne. What a name. She got me on my mobile and called me all sorts of names. My God, I have never heard anyone swear like she does, and I have hung around stables all my life.”

  “I know,” Margo said. “Gráinne knows how to express her feelings.”

  “She made me feel like a right shit. Even though I didn’t know about—” Jacques looked at Margo’s waist. “The baby.” He took a step forward. “My baby.”

  “No, it’s mine, actually.” Margo backed away and pulled her dressing gown tighter around her. “All mine.”

  “What do you mean?” His eyes changed from blue to black and his thick eyebrows came together in an angry frown.

  “I mean that it’s my baby, and it only belongs to me, nobody else. I don’t know why you’re here, but—”

  “I came to tell you that I know I’m the father, and I’m willing to take the responsibility to—”

  “That’s very big of you,” Margo interrupted. “How very admirable, I must say.” She walked over to the other side of the bed so that there would be something solid between them. “So, are you offering to take over, here?” she asked. “I mean, in case you think your bit was too easy, those fun few hours back in August that you have probably forgotten about?”

  “No,” Jacques said softly. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Margo opened her mouth to say something scathing, to pay him back for leaving her like that, for not getting in touch, for the pain and sadness she had felt the past few months. But the look in his eyes stopped her. “Oh Jacques,” was all she managed to say. Then anger got the better of her. “You big shit!’ she suddenly shouted. “Where have you been? Why have you not been in touch? Why did you leave me to cope on my own?”

  “Please,” Jacques said in a hushed voice. “Keep your voice down. You’ll wake everyone.”

  “Don’t worry,” Margo said. “Your mother is asleep in her bedroom which is half a block away, and François drank enough wine to floor an elephant. So I can shout as loud as I want.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” Jacques said. “I’m here. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll even marry you.”

  “Wow!” Margo shouted. “You’ll even marry me! Christ, that is so saintly of you! So utterly, utterly wonderful.”

  Jacques grabbed one of the bedposts so hard, his knuckles whitened. “You are the most stubborn, infuriating woman I have ever met,” he snapped. “I came here to tell you how much I’ve missed you and that the reason I haven’t been in touch is because I didn’t want to come back until I was ready, until I knew who I was and what I was doing. Until I had something to offer you.”

  “And now you do?”

  “No, not quite. I have some plans. I was going to see if I could start something new, and once that was off the ground, I would—but then I heard about the baby. I had to come back sooner.”

  “I see.” Margo looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

  “I didn’t get in touch with you earlier because I was trying to come to terms with everything,” he said, his eyes willing her to understand. “With my past and my parents and you. And what you did to me.”

  “I’m sorry?” Margo said. “What was that you said? What I did to you? Are you referring to the fact that you stole those paintings? I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Oh, shut up about that,” Jacques snapped. “That’s not important now. I don’t know why you had to bring it up.”

  “I brought it up?” Margo asked incredulously. “But it was you who said—”

  I didn’t mean that,” Jacques said, sounding exasperated. “I meant how you made me fall in love with you, made me think of only you, and how I would come back to you and ask you—”

  “So it wasn’t about the paintings?” Margo interrupted.

  “No, of course not. I don’t blame you for that. You made an innocent remark which forced me to leave, but I have forgiven you.”

  “Oh good,” Margo said sarcastically. “There you go again, being a saint and forgiving me. How can I possibly resist you now? Even though you left and haven’t been in touch by so much as a postcard.”

  “But when I left, you said to me that you thought I needed to go away,” Jacques reminded her.

  “And you said you’d be back.” Margo stopped. They looked at each other in silence, the air thick with emotion.

  “Will you marry me?” Jacques suddenly said, standing there holding onto the bedpost as if he was afraid to move closer.

  Margo stared at him. “What did you say?”

  “I asked you to marry me.”

  “That’s what I thought you said. Oh God.” Margo sat down on the bed, her back to Jacques. “I can’t,” she murmured.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m already married.” Margo wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

  Jacques made a strange sound. “You’re what? You’re married?” he repeated as if he couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes.”

  “And your husband? Where is he?”

  “At this moment?” Margo paused. “He’s in Paris, actually. At a medical conference.” She turned around and looked at Jacques. “I left him months ago. And I’m not going back to him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried.” Jacques shook his head. “I didn’t realise. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to think about it,” Margo said, feeling ashamed. “And when you and I—when we—I forgot all about him when I was with you.” She sighed and put her head in her hands. “I’m not very proud of all this, you know,” she mumbled into her hands, not looking up when Jacques came around the bed and sat down and put his arm around her. “I’ve done a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered, holding her close.

  “I was so happy when I found out about the baby,” Margo said, turning her head into his shoulder and breathing in that smell that was so peculiar to him – soap, freshly laundered cotton, and just a hint of horse. “I had been trying for years to have a baby. Oh, you have no idea how happy I was. I’m so happy,” she said again into his chest.

  “Are you also happy the baby is mine?” Jacques asked softly.

  “Yes.” Margo sat up. “But it wouldn’t have mattered if it was the postman. I’m finally having a child, my own child.”

  “I see.”

  “But of course I’d prefer it
to be yours,” Margo added hastily. “The postman is not as good-looking, and he is very short. Oh, what am I saying?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacques said softly, stroking the short blond curls away from her face. “Tell me – do you think you might marry me once you’ve sorted out your divorce?”

  “No,” Margo shook her head to emphasise her words.

  “Why not?” Jacques demanded.

  “Because getting married was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. And I’m not going there again.”

  “But where are you going?” Jacques asked, his voice calmer. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going home.” Margo pulled away from him and sat up straighter. “Back to England. I’m going to stay with my brother for a while.”

  “Then what? How are you going to support yourself and the baby?”

  “I’m going to go back to my old job. I’m a trained physiotherapist, you know,” she said proudly.

  “And then you’ll live happily ever after,” Jacques said harshly. “You and the baby. You have certainly worked it all out to your own advantage, haven’t you?”

  “And why not? Why shouldn’t I think of myself first? I’ve spent these past long weeks thinking hard, you know. At first, I was going to stay here, have the baby, and then decide what to do. Your mother was so kind. It was so lovely to just be taken care of, not to have to worry about anything. But then—” She suddenly laughed.

  “Then what happened?”

  “François asked me to marry him.”

  “What?” Jacques looked at her, dumbstruck. “He asked you to—”

  “Yes, he did. I thought that was very sweet of him, actually.”

  “Oh yes,” Jacques said. “And how convenient.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “François, my darling,” Jacques said, taking her hand, “is not the kind of man who will ever marry or have a child. He knows that, and my mother, I suspect, knows it too. But this way, he would have a baby and a lovely wife. The Coligny family would rise again.”