Finding Margo Page 3

  She laughed out loud, thinking he was joking.

  He looked at her without smiling. “You do know where that is, don’t you?”

  “The Ritz?” she stammered, feeling suddenly very stupid. “Of course, but—”

  “Good. See you there at eight?”

  “fine.”

  “And we’ll have dinner somewhere nice and then go to a club. Wear something slinky.” He flashed her his practised smile, which was to become so familiar, and strode out of the cafeteria.

  ***

  The truck bumped across cobblestones on the road that had suddenly become very narrow.

  “We’re here,” Gráinne announced as they drove through a set of gates into a yard with an old barn and another gate that led to a field. “Finally.” She pulled up the truck and switched off the ignition. “Great. Now all we have to do is let out the horses and make sure they have hay and water, and then we can turn in for the night.” She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. “I sure am tired. What about you?”

  “Exhausted,” Margo replied, leaning her head against the back of her seat.

  “You look half dead,” Gráinne said with a little laugh. “But never mind, we’ll soon be able to nod off.” She opened the door and started to get out. “Give me a hand with the horses, will you? There is a pair of wellies behind your seat. Stick them on. I can’t see you going far in those bits of string you’re wearing.”

  Margo glanced down at her Prada sandals. “You’re right. Not very practical. But I didn’t think I would be doing farm work when I put them on.”

  “I suppose you thought you’d be swanning around Cannes.”

  “Yes. Something like that.” Margo suddenly realised how different the evening would be if... “So what do you want me to do?” she asked, sliding off her seat onto the cobblestones.

  “Put those wellies on like I told you, and come around the back of the truck,” Gráinne ordered. “I’ll take Daisy. She’s a bit of a bitch when she’s been tied up for a long time. Then you can lead Stan. He’s a darling. No problem at all. We’ll turn them out into this field here, see? And there’s hay in the barn, and I’ll check the water. Won’t take a minute.”

  There was suddenly a commotion inside the truck, and a horse neighed loudly, then a kind of screaming. “Shut up, you bitch!’ Gráinne shouted. She lowered the ramp at the back of the truck and walked in. “Stay back,” she ordered, “she might decide to charge.” She swung back the partition to reveal a big black horse trying its best to break loose. “There now,” Gráinne soothed, untying the rope that was attached to a ring in the wall. “Calm down.” The horse rose on its hind legs and kicked at Gráinne, who jumped back. “Shit! Will you stand, you bastard!’

  Margo backed away as Gráinne led the frisky mare out of the truck and into the small paddock. The horse broke free just as they were inside the gate and, rearing and bucking, galloped into the paddock where it proceeded to roll in the dust.

  “OK. I’ll just check the water trough,” Gráinne said. “Go get Stan, will you?”

  “Oh but, I’m not sure if...” Margo felt more like hiding behind the barn than approaching the other horse.

  “Don’t worry. He’s as good as gold,” Gráinne assured her. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Margo tiptoed into the truck and peeked over the edge of the other partition. A pair of big brown eyes met her gaze. She slowly opened the partition, ready to flee at the slightest hint of trouble. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her sweaty hands slipped on the latch. The big chestnut stretched his head toward her and nuzzled her cheek. His gentle eyes met hers, and Margo knew he wouldn’t cause her any problems.

  “Hello, Stan,” she murmured. “What a nice boy you are.” Stan’s warm breath on her face, and the velvet touch of his muzzle suddenly felt very comforting. As Margo put her hand on his silky neck and breathed in the horsy smell, she was instantly transported to pony camp when she was a child. She put both her arms around the horse’s neck and her face against his shoulder. “Oh, Stan,” she sighed. “You have no idea how nice it is to meet you.” Stan sighed, shifted his weight, and blew into her hair. Margo stood back. “I’ll take you outside now, darling,” she said, “and you’ll get some nice hay and some fresh water. Then you can sleep under the stars until tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “Have you got a grip on that horse yet?” Gráinne yelled from the paddock. “Get him out of the truck before tomorrow, will ya?”

  Margo untied the rope and led Stan down the ramp and into the paddock where Daisy was trotting around, rolling her eyes.

  “Great,” Gráinne said when Margo had let Stan loose and closed the gate. “That’s them settled. Now we can have a bite to eat and then organise the sleeping arrangements.”

  “Eat?” Margo said, suddenly realising she was very hungry. “Is there a village nearby? Maybe we can have dinner there, then?”

  “Nah,” Gráinne shook her head. “The nearest village is miles away. And there’s no restaurant there, only a kind of bar. But I have some stuff I bought this morning. Sausages, cheese, a bit of bread and some apples. That do ya?”

  “Well, if you’re sure there’s enough for both of us?” Margo said. “I wouldn’t want to—”

  “No bother. There’s plenty.”

  “Oh, good. But—”

  “What?”

  “Is there...” Margo hesitated. “Would there be a—bathroom around here?”

  Gráinne laughed raucously. “Bathroom? Jesus, where do you think you are, the bloody Hilton? If you need to go for a pee, you have to go in the bushes. And there’s a stream down the hill, just behind those trees there. Very popular with the ducks and not bad if you want to wash.”

  “Oh great.” Margo felt suddenly more alert at the thought of cool water against her hot, sticky skin. She took her bags and started to walk toward the trees.

  “Don’t worry about stripping off,” Gráinne called after her. “There’s no one around, and the cows have seen everything by now.”

  Margo stopped. “But who owns this place? Is there no farm house or people looking after the animals?”

  “It belongs to the château. You can see it from the hill on the other side of the stream.”

  ***

  As she walked toward the stream, Margo glimpsed the towers of the château against the darkening summer sky. A soft breeze lifted her hair and caressed her face. She enjoyed the coolness and the smell of flowers and grass. A few stars glinted in the sky, and the thin crescent of a new moon rose above the trees. The sound of water gurgling over a weir into the stream was enticing in the hot evening. Margo walked down to the edge of the water. She took off the wellies, pulled her T-shirt over her head, and stepped out of her trousers. Her bra was stuck to her skin; she took it off with a sigh of relief and dropped it onto the pile of clothes. She started to ease her knickers over her hips, but froze when she heard Gráinne coming down the path. In the cover of the near darkness, Margo quickly finished undressing and stepped into the black water. She sighed happily as she sank down into the weir and swam away from the edge. She turned onto her back and floated, her hair in the cool water, her face to the sky. “Heaven,” she murmured to herself. “This is truly heaven.”

  “How is it?” Gráinne asked, pulling off her shirt. “Hope it isn’t too cold.”

  “It’s lovely.” Margo turned away as Gráinne stripped off the rest of her clothes. “You know,” she said, her eyes on the trees opposite, “I just remembered. There are some soaps in my bag. The big leather one. I bought them—well, never mind. Help yourself.”

  “Great.” Margo could hear Gráinne rummage in the bag. “Jesus, this is really fancy. Smells like a whole whorehouse. Want one?”

  “Yes, please.” Margo swam closer and caught the soap Gráinne threw her.

  “This is nice.” Gráinne lathered up her soap and rubbed her breasts. “I never buy this kind of thing. A bar of Palmolive usually lasts me months. But these little guys se
em to melt... oops, dropped it down my—”

  Margo swam away again. She trod water while she discreetly washed herself under the surface.

  “What are you doing over there?” Gráinne shouted. “I can hardly see you. I have to stay in the shallow end. Swimming is not exactly my favourite sport.”

  Margo swam a little closer. “Don’t you know how to—” A shout from the trees, accompanied by loud barking, interrupted her. A man’s voice called out something in French. Margo sank deeper into the water, suddenly aware of her state of undress.

  “Qui est la?” the deep voice called.

  “It’s only me, Jacques,” Gráinne yelled back. “I’m bringing a couple of horses back from the championships in Grenoble. I have someone to help me, and we’re having a swim, OK? It’s the farm manager,” she whispered to Margo. “Probably come to have a peek, the bloody pervert.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle O’Sullivan,” the voice said, sounding more friendly. “And you have a—a—friend?”

  Margo looked up and saw the outline against the sky of a man holding a dog on a lead.

  “That’s right,” Gráinne replied. “And we’re just cooling off before dinner.”

  “Ah, oui. I understand.” The man stood there, looking at them for a while, then turned and walked back the way he had come.

  “Bloody peeping Tom,” Gráinne muttered. “Well, he can keep his thing in his trousers. I’m not interested.”

  Margo swam away again. She moved slowly through the water, enjoying the cool silkiness against her skin. She looked up at the crescent moon and the stars and felt that she was in some kind of odd twilight zone. The real Margo had continued in the car and was now at the hotel, sorting out their luggage, soothing Alan, humouring him, apologising, taking more abuse, and finally in bed, weeping quietly to herself, her tears sliding into the pillow. What am I doing? she thought. Where am I going? She stared at the moon as if it could give her an answer, but it looked silently back at her, the mystery of the universe in its silvery light.

  CHAPTER 3

  There was a smell of cooking in the air as Margo shuffled back to the truck, the big wellies chafing the skin of her heels.

  “There you are,” Gráinne said as Margo came around the side of the barn. “I’m cooking up a storm here.”

  “So I see.” Margo put down her bag and walked over to a camping stove Gráinne had rigged up on an up-turned wooden crate under the headlights of the truck. She sniffed the air hungrily. “What’s that I can smell?”

  “Sausages. I found some of these in a supermarket this morning. Not like Irish sausages, though, but they seem all right. What do you think? You don’t mind eating warm food? I know something cold would be better in this hot weather, but this is all I have apart from bread and cheese. Not your three-course gourmet dinner, but okay all the same.”

  Margo’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. “They smell lovely. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

  “Shh, not too loud. You might upset you-know-who,” Gráinne whispered, waving her fork in the direction of the paddock. “Fuck!’ she jumped back as the sausages suddenly spat in the pan. “Sorry. I mean, damn. Oh shit.” Gráinne looked apologetically at Margo, rubbing her hand. “Those bloody things spit like hell.”

  “Are you all right?” Margo moved closer and peered at Gráinne’s hand.

  “Yeah, fine. I think they’re cooked now in any case. Why don’t you grab some of those paper plates over there and help yourself to some sausages and bread. I think there are tomatoes in the shopping bag and a big piece of cheese.”

  A few minutes later they were sitting on a bale of straw, eating Gráinne’s improvised supper. Apart from a soft rustle from the paddock and the odd cry of an owl, the dark, velvety night was still. Food never tasted so good, Margo thought as she bit into the sausage. It reminded her again of pony camp, of picnics in the woods, of feeling content and safe and not needing much more than the comfort of food, companionship, and a good night’s sleep.

  “Lovely sausage,” she muttered through a mouthful.

  “Yeah, not bad. Pity the bread is a bit hard. But that’s French bread for you. Doesn’t stay fresh for more than half an hour.” Gráinne chewed laboriously. “Tough as old leather,” she mumbled.

  “I know. French people buy bread three times a day. I always thought it was such a chore having to go to the baker’s all the time.”

  “How come you know so much about it?”

  “I spent a year in Bordeaux as an au pair when I had just finished school. I thought I might do a degree in French or something.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “No.” Margo cut herself another wedge of cheese. “This is nice. What kind of cheese is it?”

  “Haven’t a clue.” Gráinne studied Margo. “What are you going to do when you get to Paris?”

  “I’m going to look up a friend. Well, acquaintance, really. She’s been asking me to visit since she moved there from London.”

  “Oh? What’s she doing there? Working?”

  “No. She’s a solicitor but I think she took a career break when her husband was posted abroad. He works at the British embassy. He’s the agricultural attaché there.”

  “What? In Paris? I didn’t think they had any agriculture there.” Gráinne bit off another piece of bread with her small white teeth. “I’ve only been there once, and I’ve never seen any cattle. Lots of pigs though but only of the two-legged male kind.”

  Margo laughed. “I know what you mean.”

  Gráinne peered at her. “Not too fond of them either?”

  “Men? No, no at the moment. In fact I think I might give them up altogether.” Margo broke off a piece of bread.

  “Good idea. I never could figure out what use they are, actually. Apart from the obvious.”

  “You haven’t had much luck with men?” It was Margo’s turn to study Gráinne.

  “Do you want another beer?” Gráinne asked. “There’s a can left, and I’ll split it with you if you like.”

  “No, you have it,” Margo said, feeling that one can of lukewarm Irish beer was as much as she could cope with. “Thanks for supper. It was great.”

  “Glad you liked it.” Gráinne took Margo’s plate and put it with her own into a plastic bag. “And no washing up. Do you feel like turning in?”

  “Oh yes. I’m really tired.”

  “OK. Let’s get organised, so. The sleeping quarters in this truck are not exactly five star. Hope you can cope with that.” Gráinne opened the door to the truck and climbed in. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  Margo got onto the step behind her.

  “This is my bunk here behind the front seat,” Gráinne explained. “And that’s where you’ll sleep tonight.”

  “No, I couldn’t take your bed,” Margo protested.

  “Yes, you will, and no arguments. I’ll set up the camp bed in the back of the truck. That’s where that bitch who ran off used to sleep. It’s quite all right, really.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No bother,” Gráinne assured her, taking a bundle of blankets from a stack on the bunk. “Here.” She handed some white fabric to Margo. Hang those over the windows. They’ll stop the midges. Buggers would eat you alive.”

  “Mosquito netting?” Margo turned the fabric in her hands. “You’re very organised.”

  “Nah, just a couple of net curtains from back home. Try to get comfortable. Here’s a blanket and there’s a pillow over there. That’s all you’ll need in this heat. I’d take off those clothes and sleep in the buff if I were you. Much cooler.”

  “Actually, I have a nightie,” Margo, said, suddenly realising that she had all her overnight requirements in the leather bag.

  “Good. OK. That’s you organised.” Gráinne jumped down onto the ground. “I’m going to have a last fag, and then I’ll turn in as well. Goodnight, love.”

  “Goodnight and thanks a lot.”

  “Ah sure, it was nothing.”

 
Margo secured the net curtains across the open windows and changed into her pretty white cotton night gown – the kind she had thought Alan would like, with lace around the low neckline and a slit to the thigh. She had hoped it would turn him on. Margo suddenly felt herself shiver. She lay on the hard bunk and pulled the blanket over her. She closed her eyes, but even though she was exhausted, she was too tense to sleep. She could smell faint cigarette smoke and hear Gráinne moving around on the other side of the partition, muttering to herself. Everything that had happened that day flashed through her mind; the row in the car, Alan’s rage, her sudden urge to run away, Gráinne, the truck, the horses... “Stan,” she mumbled, “the stream, Gráinne, Paris...”

  ***

  “Are you OK?” Gráinne asked, lighting up her first cigarette of the day, as they rumbled up the motorway. “Not too tired?”

  “I slept quite well, really.” Margo smiled and scratched a midge bite on her arm.

  “Really? I wonder how? I must have snored like a fuc—fecking elephant.”

  “You did. But that didn’t really bother me.”

  “You must have been really wrecked if you could sleep through my snoring,” Gráinne remarked.

  “I was. But now I feel great. And I had a lovely dip in the stream this morning.”

  “You seem to be hooked on cleaning yourself.”

  “I thought you went in as well.”

  “Nope. Last night was enough.”

  “But I could have sworn—” Margo stopped. “Do you smoke French cigarettes?”

  “You mean those fat ones that smell like old socks? No way. I prefer a good old Marlboro.”

  “Oh.” Margo stared ahead without seeing the cars and trucks, remembering getting out of the water and a faint smell of a Gauloise.

  Gráinne glanced sideways at Margo. “So, you’re going to stay with these friends in Paris, is that it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus, I mean what the feck are you going to do when your visit’s over? Are you going back to London or what?”