Finding Margo Page 5

  “So?” Fiona asked. “What do we do? Throw her out into the street? She has no money and nowhere to go.”

  “That’s her problem,” Marcus said.

  “You don’t give a shit, do you?”

  “Not really, no. Do you?”

  Fiona sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I wish she hadn’t arrived like this, tonight of all nights. I wish she wouldn’t drag us into this... this fight she’s having with Alan. It’s so common, if you know what I mean. But she’s here, so...”

  There was a brief silence, and Margo held her breath while she waited to hear what they would decide to do with her.

  “OK. Let her stay,” Marcus said. “For tonight. And we’ll call Alan and tell him she’s here.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up for a minute and think about it, Fiona. Alan has to be told that Margo is safe. They have to sort out their problems, you must know that.”

  “You’re right. Of course you are.”

  “And if you tell her we’ll help her, she’ll keep quiet and not cause any problems tonight. So go back and tell her she can stay. Hand me the phone. I’ll call Alan.”

  Margo backed away from the door and padded silently back the way she had come, down the corridor, and into the guest room. She grabbed her unopened bag and ran through the kitchen, smiling at the startled maids, towards what she hoped was the back door. It was. Margo stumbled past a bucket and mop and a garbage can, nearly fell over a stack of old newspapers, and flew down the narrow back stairs to the ground floor, into the servants’ entrance and finally outside. Breathing hard, she sprinted down the street, into the Metro station, through endless corridors, onto a platform, and finally jumped on a train that was just moving away. Gasping for breath, sweat pouring down her face, Margo sank down on a seat as the train gathered speed. She didn’t notice the elderly gentleman beside her as he wrinkled his nose and shifted uneasily in his seat before moving to another one in the nearly empty carriage.

  CHAPTER 4

  The following night was terrible. The small hotel Margo had checked into, so quiet in the early evening, had become extremely noisy during the night. The sounds that emanated through the thin walls left no doubt about the activities of the occupants. Margo tried to block it all out by stuffing tissues into her ears and putting the pillow over her head, but to no avail. The thumping, moaning, and sometimes even screaming was impossible to ignore. My God, those girls work hard, Margo thought. Finally, at about five o’clock in the morning, the noise died down, and Margo fell into an uneasy sleep, only to be woken up by the garbage trucks two hours later. She gave up on any hope of going back to sleep and tidied herself up and went downstairs to pay for the room. She stared in disbelief at the price on the slip of paper the man behind the counter had handed her.

  “What? she exclaimed. “There must be some kind of mistake. This hotel hasn’t even got one star and you’re charging me this much?”

  The porter, a swarthy, fat man with a huge moustache, glared back at her. “The rooms are usually rented by the hour, you know. A whole night is a lot more expensive.”

  “Oh, really? And what about breakfast? That wouldn’t be included or anything?”

  “That’s right. It wouldn’t.”

  “Oh,” Margo said, feeling both angry and stupid. “But I really don’t think you’re entitled to charge me this much, you know. I’m sure it’s against the law.”

  “You want to call les flics?”

  They stared at each other for a moment. “Uh, no, not really,” Margo mumbled finally.

  The man shrugged.

  Margo sighed and dug in her handbag for her wallet. Gritting her teeth, she paid the bill and walked out into the early morning sunshine. I’ve got to stop spending money like this, she thought, or I’ll end up sleeping under one of the bridges like a tramp. She left the hotel and ran into the Metro station in her haste to leave the area and get back to civilisation. Half an hour later, she emerged near the Eiffel Tower with a feeling of great relief and went into a little café for breakfast.

  Later that morning, as she walked down the street feeling much better after a big cup of café au lait and some fresh bread and jam. She had no particular plan in mind other than trying to find a slightly better place to stay when she noticed a hairdressing salon with a big sign in the window. Coupe elève gratuit’, Margo read. Free haircut by student. Not a bad idea. A shampoo and trim would be nice. She had managed to wash herself in the hotel but not to shampoo her hair. The prospect of clean hair suddenly felt very tempting. And it was free. She pushed open the door and walked in. “That offer,” she said to the receptionist, pointing to the sign. “Free cut?”

  ***

  An hour later, Margo looked at herself in the mirror. She put a hand on her head to make sure it was really true: that she had allowed the girl to not only cut her hair shorter than she had ever worn it before but to dye it a very light blonde. “Champagne,” the girl had said. “That is what the colour is called. Very sexy, no?” Margo nodded, speechless, as she saw the result in the mirror. The tiny curls all over her head were more platinum than champagne.

  “You like it?” the girl asked.

  “Oh, eh, I have to get used to it.” Margo couldn’t stop looking at the woman in the mirror.

  “Oh, but you are soooo beautiful, like this,” the girl said. “So young and fresh. Marcel,” she called across the salon, “come here and see what I did.”

  A young man almost sprinted across the room and came to a stop behind Margo. He touched the back of her head. “Fantastique,” he declared. “Magnifique!”

  “Exactly,” the girl nodded.

  “It makes her look like...like that singer,” the young man said. “You know, the one who sang about angels. The English one.”

  “Annie Lennox!’ the girl exclaimed. “You are right.”

  “Who?” Margo asked.

  “Don’t you know her?” the girl exclaimed. “But she is English like you and very beautiful. Older but still lovely. And like this, you look a little like her. With this new coiffure.”

  “Really?” Margo turned her head and smiled at herself. It was certainly different, she thought. It makes my neck look longer and my eyes bigger. And I never realised I had cheekbones. With a sudden dart of fear, she tried to imagine what Alan would say if he saw her transformation. He liked her dark blonde hair dead straight and worn in a simple bob or tied back in a knot. “That’s what I call class,” he always said.

  Still in a state of shock, Margo went to a nearby café, sat down at a pavement table and ordered a glass of pastis to help steady her nerves.The waiter smiled broadly at her as he handed her the glass with great flourish. “Ecco, signorina,”he said.

  “Oh, uh...” Margo felt suddenly self-conscious. “Merci,” she managed.

  The waiter smiled again, put the bill on the table and left.

  Margo sipped her drink and looked idly at the people walking past, enjoying the sunshine. When the waiter came back, she picked up the bill, and reached for her wallet. There were no coins left, and she realised she would have to break into one of the euro bills. But when she opened the wallet, it was empty. What? Where is that fifty I had? I could have sworn I had that and another two twenties... Oh, God, no. The hotel...and the breakfast... She suddenly felt the blood drain from her face and cold sweat breaking out on her forehead and in her armpits as she realised she had spent every cent of her money without thinking. Her throat tightened and tears of panic welled up in her eyes. She looked up at the smiling face of the waiter. “I—” she started, “I can’t—”

  “What, signorina?” he asked, his voice full of concern. “You not feeling very well?”

  “I can’t pay for this,” she exclaimed in English. “I have no money left. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Her mouth was so dry she could hardly get the words out.

  “It’s OK, cara,” the waiter soothed in very broken English. “The drink is... how you say? On the house? But you have lost your
money? Someone steal it?”

  “Yes. No. I... “ Margo didn’t know what to say or do. “I thought I had at least fifty euros left you see, and—”

  “You make mistake?” The waiter’s eyes were sympathetic. “I do all the time. But I have to work now. You sit here and do not worry. I will be back later, no?”

  The Italians are so nice, Margo thought as she watched him weaving his way between the tables. Then she tried to think of what to do next. Tears stung her eyes again as the full impact of her situation hit her. Oh God, what am I going to do? Will I call Fiona and...? No, I can’t. I can’t crawl back to Alan, not like this. I can’t, I can’t, she kept repeating to herself, feeling as if she had entered some kind of labyrinth she couldn’t get out of. Tears kept welling up in her eyes and feeling in her bag for a tissue, her fingers met a piece of paper. She pulled it out and glanced at it, the numbers not registering in her brain. She was going to crumple up the paper and put it in the ashtray when she realised what it was – Gráinne’s mobile phone number. I’ll call her, Margo said to herself. The thought of hearing a friendly voice was suddenly very comforting. She might still be in the country. She might even have an idea of what I should do next. Margo took out her own mobile, dialled the number and listened while the dial tone rang and rang. While she waited for Gráinne to answer, she turned the piece of paper around and started to read what was on the other side.

  Dear Miss O’Sullivan. I am writing to you to enquire if you would be able to spend a few months at our estate. I have bought five horses for the French event team, and we are very short of staff. I need someone to help out until the horses are fit and ready to be transferred to the team headquarters. If you are available, please contact me at the château or at the Paris address above before the end of the month.

  The letter was dated July 2 and signed ‘J. Coligny de la Bourdonnière’.

  Margo stared at the letter as the dialling tone suddenly stopped. “The number you are calling,” a tinny voice said, “is temporarily out of range. Please try again later.”

  ***

  “Oui?” the old woman said. She was wearing a white apron over a blue housecoat and her steel grey hair was tied back in a severe knot. She stood squarely in the hallway, looking as if she was poised to close the heavy front door in Margo’s face.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Non.”

  Margo breathed in deeply. “OK. Well, Eh, bonjour,” she said. “I’m looking for a Monsieur—” She consulted the letter. “Monsieur Coligny de la—”

  “Comte Coligny de la Bourdonnière,” the old woman corrected.

  “That’s right. Comte Coligny de la Bourdonnière—”

  “He’s not here.” The woman started to close the door.

  “Oh. When will he be home?” Margo said and put a hand on the door. “I could come back later.”

  “What is it about?” The woman tugged on the door, but Margo was stronger.

  “A job. He offered me a job a while ago,” Margo said, waving the piece of paper in the air. “I have the letter right here.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Looking after horses at the château. I know I should have gone there but I happened to be in Paris visiting a friend, and—” Margo paused and looked at the woman. “I thought I would call in and see—”

  “What’s your name?” the woman demanded.

  “My name? It’s Gráinne,” Margo said. “Gráinne O’Sullivan.”

  “That’s a strange name. Never heard it before.”

  “It’s Irish.”

  “You’re Irish?”

  “That’s right,” Margo replied, looking back at the stern face with what she hoped was confidence.

  “Hmm.” The old woman seemed a little less hostile. “Madame is in,” she announced. “I’ll ask her if she’ll see you.”

  “Madame?”

  “Yes, Madame la Comtesse, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Stay here.” The old woman closed the door, leaving Margo standing on the dark landing. A few minutes later, the door opened again. “Madame la Comtesse will see you in the small salon,” the old woman announced. She led the way through the huge hall, down a long corridor, and into a room full of antique furniture. Louis XV, Margo thought automatically. “Wait here,” the old woman ordered and left the room.

  Margo sat down gingerly on a gilt chair with an exquisite embroidered seat. The room was silent except for the ticking of a small ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. There was a faint smell of dried rose petals, and the room seemed far removed from the hustle and bustle of the street below. Feeling suddenly tired, Margo rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

  “Mademoiselle O’Sullivan?” The voice was imperious.

  Margo gave a start and jumped to her feet. “Oui.” She stared at the elegant, straight-backed woman who, as if from nowhere, had just materialised before her. The woman was in her late fifties or early sixties. Her features were classic, and she was as slim as a pencil. Her beauty was ageless, and Margo felt she would probably still be stunning at eighty. She was dressed in a cream linen dress and her dark hair, gleaming like polished ebony, was cut in a perfect bob. “I am Comtesse Coligny de la Bourdonnière,” the woman said, holding out a hand.

  Margo shook it limply. “Good afternoon.”

  “Please, do sit down.” The Comtesse’s English was correct but heavily accented.

  Margo sat down again, and the Comtesse sat on another of the guilt chairs. She studied Margo for a moment with a penetrating look in her almond-shaped, hazel eyes. “So, you are looking for work?”

  “That’s right,” Margo replied, “I received a letter from a Mr. J. Col—I mean, Count...”

  “My son. He manages our château.

  “Oh. I see. Well, I have this letter offering me work at the château for a few months. With the horses. I know I should have contacted him there, but I was in Paris, and I thought he might be in town and I could talk to him.” Margo paused.

  “You have experience with horses?”

  “Well yes, of course.”

  “How did my son hear of you?”

  “We’ve met many times at horse trials,” Margo lied. “And when I was in Grenoble...”

  One of the Comtesse’s eyebrows shot up. “Grenoble? You met him in Grenoble?”

  “Yes. About a week ago.”

  “How strange.”

  “Why?”

  The almond eyes were now colder than a Norwegian mountain lake. “Because, Mademoiselle, my son wasn’t in Grenoble this year.”

  “Oh.” Shit, Margo thought. “I mean, somebody gave me this letter from him while I was there,” she said, trying to sound confident.

  “I see.”

  Margo squirmed under the frosty stare. There was a long pause. Then the Comtesse spoke again. “You’re not Irish,” she said sternly. “Nobody in Ireland speaks with that accent. Except for those dreadful Anglo-Irish. You’re not one of them, are you?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Of course not.” The Comtesse looked at her with more interest. “In that case, you can’t be this... this Gray...what was that name again?”

  “Gráinne,” Margo mumbled. “Rhymes with ‘saw’,” she added automatically, “then ‘nya’.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Very well.”

  They looked at each other during what Margo thought giddily to herself was a very pregnant pause. The game is up, she realised. I might as well just tell the woman the truth and get out. “No, I’m not,” she said. “Her, I mean. Gráinne.”

  The Comtesse stared at her incomprehensibly, then shook her head as if to clear her mind. “Tell me then,” she demanded. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  The Comtesse opened a lacquered box on the inlayed coffee table, took out a cigarette, and put it in a long black holder. “Racontez- moi,” s
he ordered, crossing her long slim legs and lighting the cigarette with a Dunhill lighter. “I’m sure it’s very interesting.”

  Margo looked on, fascinated, as the Comtesse blew out a thin stream of smoke through her perfect nostrils. The pungent smell of the French cigarette reminded her of something or someone but she couldn’t quite remember what or who.

  “Well,” she started, “I was on holiday, you see. But I had a bit of bad luck with...with the tour bus I was on.”

  “Tour bus?” One of the perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up again.

  “Yes. It was going to Cannes.”

  “A tour bus? To Cannes? Vraiment?” The Comtesse looked at Margo incredulously. “I had no idea that sort of thing went to places like Cannes.”

  “Well yes, they do, but I never got there because—because—” Margo didn’t quite know how to continue, how to make her lie more convincing. “The bus stopped to refuel at a motorway station. I got off to—to powder my nose, and when I came out again, the bus had left.”

  “The bus had left? How very inconsiderate of it.” The Comtesse looked faintly amused. “Then what did you do?”

  “Well, I... I kind of changed my mind about going to Cannes and decided to try to get to Paris and then go back to London with the Eurostar or something. I was lucky enough to bump into a very nice woman who gave me a lift to Paris.” Margo was talking very fast now, as if this would make her story more believable. “That was Gráinne O’Sullivan, actually.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday. I see. So what did you do when you arrived in Paris?”

  “I... Well, I looked up a friend who is living in Paris. Her husband works at the British embassy,” Margo babbled on, “and I thought she might put me up, but—”

  “But?”

  “Well, she couldn’t, as it turned out, because, well, that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “Not really, no,” the Comtesse said in a bored tone of voice. “And where did you spend the night?”