Finding Margo Page 6

  “In a hotel in Rue St Denis.”

  Now both the eyebrows shot up, nearly colliding with the hairline. “Rue St Denis? In a maison de passe?”

  “Well yes, I suppose it was, but I didn’t realise until—”

  “Must have been an interesting experience,” the Comtesse remarked with a hint of a smile.

  “Not one I would care to repeat.”

  “I should think not.”

  “No.”

  There was another long silence, during which the Comtesse continued to smoke with utmost elegance. “So,” she said finally, “this—this whatever her name was, that Irish woman who gave you a lift, told you to come here and pretend you were her and try to get this job?”

  “No. She knows nothing about it.”

  “You stole the letter?” the Comtesse’s lips curled.

  “No Gráinne gave it to me.”

  “She gave it to you, but she doesn’t know about the job?”

  “No, she knew about that, but—”

  “It’s all a pack of lies, isn’t it?”

  Margo gave up. “I’d better go now,” she said getting to her feet. “Thank you for seeing me, Madame.”

  “Sit down,” the Comtesse ordered.

  Margo sat again, startled by the sharp tone.

  “Allons,” the Comtesse said. “Let’s forget about your story. How you got here is of no importance. I’m more interested in your skills.”

  “My skills?” Margo asked, mystified.

  “Yes. I might be able to use you. What is your profession?”

  “Profession? Well, I suppose you could say that I’m a medical secretary.”

  “Excellent. And you have a very nice accent. I take it that you would like to stay on in Paris for a while?”

  Margo nodded, feeling a ray of hope.

  “And that you might also prefer to be...shall we say, incognito?”

  “Yes,” Margo mumbled.

  “Are you involved in any kind of crime?”

  “Absolutely not,” Margo declared.

  “That, my dear, seems to be the first time you told me the truth.” The Comtesse looked at Margo shrewdly. “And what about your husband?”

  “What makes you think I’m married?”

  “Apart from your wedding ring and that rather vulgar diamond? Nothing. But you are quite attractive for an Englishwoman, and you’re not a teenager, so I assumed—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine.” The Comtesse removed what was left of her cigarette from the holder and stubbed it out in a marble ashtray. “I’m not interested in your love life, or lack of it.” Her gaze strayed to Margo’s hair. “That—that coiffure – is it on purpose or are you recovering from an illness?”

  Margo touched her hair. “Well, no. It was a kind of an accident—”

  “I don’t think I want to know. Let’s hope it grows out very quickly. Now, about your position.”

  “But what do you want me for?” Margo managed to cut in. “I mean, what sort of job would it be? I don’t think I want to do housework or anything like that.”

  “You would be my secretary, of course. Or...” The Comtesse seemed to consider the question for a moment. “Personal assistant? Yes. I had an assistant, but she just left to get married, and well, I was going to advertise the position but now that you’re here, I thought I might give you a chance. In any case, you’re the same size as...” She paused. “What do you think?”

  “I—well...” Margo didn’t know what to say. What was going on here? she wondered. She had been sure the Comtesse was going to throw her out when she discovered that she had been lying, but now...

  “Room, board, and three hundred euros a month,” the Comtesse breezed on. “All right?”

  It seemed like the worst deal Margo had ever heard of and she was about to say so, but considering the alternative, she managed a feeble, “yes”. What have I got to lose? she thought. I can always leave when I’ve had enough.

  “Excellent.” The Comtesse nodded, looking satisfied. “Now, all I want to know is your name. Now that we have established that you are not this Mademoiselle O’Sullivan, I mean.”

  “Of course. My name,” Margo started, “is Mar—Margaret...” She glanced around the room for inspiration and caught sight of the television set. “Philips,” she ended. “Margaret Philips.”

  The Comtesse followed her gaze. “That’s a Sony. Never mind. I will just call you Marguerite.”

  “And what do I call you? Countess?”

  “Oh, I don’t use my title these days. Nobody does. It’s because of the socialists.” The Comtesse paused. “You may call me Milady.”

  “Very well.”

  “And I expect you to be very discreet and not to gossip. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely,” Margo promised, wondering what sort of things there would be to gossip about.

  “Good. Now, about your accommodation.” The Comtesse’s voice took on a businesslike tone. “There is a staff room on the top floor of this building. You will take your meals in the kitchen with Justine.”

  “Justine?”

  “My housekeeper. She let you in.” The Comtesse looked Margo up and down with a hint of distaste. “Do you have any other clothes?”

  “No. I left my clothes—”

  “On the bus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?” The almond eyes bored into Margo.

  “Yes, Milady,” Margo mumbled, feeling like a twelve-year-old.

  The Comtesse nodded, looking satisfied. “Never mind your clothes. You will find your uniforms in the wardrobe of your room. One for daytime and one for evening. And some other things you might find useful. Give what you’re wearing to Justine for cleaning.”

  Margo nodded.

  “I think that’s everything,” the Comtesse announced, getting to her feet. “If you wait here, I’ll get Justine to give you some sheets and tell her to take you to your room. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Without another word, she glided out of the room and closed the door, leaving Margo feeling vaguely as if she had sold her soul to the devil.

  ***

  The lift creaked and groaned, shook and rattled as it slowly rose through the building, and Margo wondered if they would ever reach their destination. She hugged the pile of bedclothes tighter to stop it from sliding out of her grip and looked at the small, sturdy figure beside her. Justine had not uttered one word since they entered the lift and looked straight ahead with an expression of great pain on her plain face.

  “So, isn’t this strange,” Margo said in French, trying to sound jolly, “we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

  Justine shrugged.

  After a long silence, Margo tried again. “Have you been working for the family long?”

  “All my life,” Justine muttered.

  “Oh. That’s a very long time.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And are you happy working here?”

  “It’s a living.”

  “The Comtesse seems very nice. A very interesting lady.”

  “Hah.”

  “What about her husband?” Margo asked, pretending not to have noticed the sour note in Justine’s voice. “Is he nice?”

  “Dead. Died a long time ago,” Justine muttered.

  “Oh no. How sad for her.”

  “He was very old. A lot older than her.”

  “Yes,” Margo said, “but it’s still sad to lose your husband.”

  “She got over it.”

  “I see.” Margo tried to think of something that would lighten the atmosphere, but the lift had come to an abrupt stop, and Justine heaved the cast iron gates open and stepped out onto the landing. She walked up another flight of stairs, and Margo followed. She looked around, amazed at the difference between the attics and the floors below. There was no oak panelling or marble floors, only peeling paint and creaking floorboards. They walked down a long corridor, past a number of doors through which could be hea
rd a mixture of sounds: voices arguing, music from a radio, the occasional cry of a child. The heat was stifling under the low ceiling, and the air smelled of cabbage, garlic, and exotic spices. As Margo walked behind Justine, the pile of bedclothes grew heavy in her arms. She felt as if she had stepped into some kind of time warp. Finally, Justine came to a stop. She took out a big key, put it in the lock, and threw the door open.

  “Voilà she said, walking in. “La chambre de bonne.”

  Margo followed Justine into the little room with the old-fashioned wallpaper, sloping ceilings, and worn linoleum on the floor. “Oh,” she said, looking around. “It’s—it’s kind of sweet, really.”

  Justine didn’t reply but took a set of keys and handed them to Margo. “That’s the key to the door. This one is to the toilet and shower, down the hall.” She paused, holding out a hand. “Now, Mademoiselle, I would like your clothes.”

  “My clothes?” Margo stammered, putting her burden on the old-fashioned mahogany bed.

  “Yes. Madame said to take them and clean them at once. It would be better to burn them, in my opinion.”

  “But I have nothing else to wear.”

  “There are clothes in that armoire over there. And a dressing gown.”

  Justine stood in the middle of the floor, her arms folded across her ample bosom, while Margo undressed.

  “It’s strange though,” Margo remarked, handing Justine her T-shirt, “how she offered me this job just like that. I wonder why?”

  Justine didn’t reply. She took the clothes one by one in her thumb and index finger as if they were contaminated and walked out, leaving Margo standing in her underwear in the middle of the room.

  When she had left, Margo walked to the big walnut wardrobe, opened the door, and surveyed its contents. A frayed navy blue dressing gown and a number of items of clothing, all wrapped in plastic, hung inside on wire coat hangers. Without looking at the rest of the clothes, Margo took down the dressing gown and wrapped it around her. Feeling totally shell-shocked, she flopped onto the bed, asking herself what on earth she was doing there. Is this really happening? she asked herself as she looked up at the ceiling with the cracked plaster and the light bulb hanging from an electric wire. Am I really going to live in this dump and work for that woman?

  Margo sat up again, got off the bed, and walked across to the open window. Peering out, she could see rooftops and windows and balconies, all higgledy-piggledy. Above them was a patch of blue sky and, if she leaned out precariously, she could catch a glimpse of the top of the Eiffel Tower. Two pigeons were cooing from the small terrace opposite, where a number of terracotta pots were spilling out geraniums in a profusion of colour. She stood there for a while and watched the sky turn from blue to pink, enjoying the cool breeze against her face. Then she made up the bed and put her few possessions into the cavernous wardrobe. She washed her face and hands, dried them on a towel that smelled faintly of cologne, and after taking off the dressing gown, crawled in between the cool linen sheets and put her aching head on the pillow. She closed her eyes, listened again to the soft cooing of the pigeons, and just as in the truck with Gráinne, fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Madame’s breakfast,” Justine declared the next morning while she prepared the tray, “is quite a tricky business.” Her stocky frame was encased in a blue cotton dress covered by a crisp white apron that crackled with starch as she moved. Her grey hair was pulled back so severely it looked as if the bun at the back of her head had been tightened with a wrench.

  “Oh,” Margo said, feeling awkward standing there in the kitchen in a navy skirt and white blouse. “Tricky? Why?”

  “Because she is never happy.” Justine poured orange juice into a crystal goblet, placed it on the starched linen cloth and looked up at Margo. “Those clothes fit you perfectly.”

  “I know. I couldn’t believe it when I tried them on. And all the other things fit me too, even the shoes. But why is Madame – I mean Milady – never happy?”

  “Milady?” Justine snorted. “Has she given herself a new title then?”

  “Well, that’s what she told me to call her. And that is also what you would call a countess in English,” Margo explained. “But do go on. What is the problem with Milady’s breakfast?”

  Justine shrugged. “Oh, you’ll see. No matter how hard I try, she always complains.” She put a small basket of fresh bread rolls beside the orange juice, followed by a plate, a knife, and a large cup, which she filled with equal amounts of coffee and hot milk. She put one and a half cubes of sugar into the coffee and placed a small bowl with jam and a saucer with two tiny rolls of butter beside it. Finally, after having placed a single red rose in a small vase on the tray, she lifted it up and handed it to a startled Margo. “Here, you take it in.”

  “Me? But—” Margo backed away.

  “Not fancy enough for you? Not the job of a personal assistant?” Justine almost spat out the last words.

  “No, it’s not that. I—”

  Justine glared at Margo.

  “Oh, all right.” Margo took the tray. “Where do I go?”

  “Go to the lobby, then take the corridor on the right, and it’s the second door on your left,” Justine replied.

  Margo found the designated door and, trying her best not to drop the tray, managed to knock gently.

  “Oui?”

  “Breakfast, Ma—Milady.”

  “Bring it in then!’

  Margo turned the handle, pushed the door open with her shoulder, and walked into the still dark bedroom. “Good morning, Milady,” she murmured. I’m really good at this, she thought with delight.

  “Where’s Justine?” the voice from the large four-poster bed demanded.

  “In the kitchen. She asked me to—”

  “Open the curtains,” the voice ordered.

  Margo put the tray on a table near the door and walked over to the windows. She pulled the heavy brocade curtains apart, and the room was at once flooded with light. As she walked back to pick up the tray, she glanced around the huge room, noticing the beautiful Persian carpet, the deep red silk on the walls, and the exquisite French antiques. There were some impressive oil paintings, but Margo’s eyes were immediately drawn to a huge framed black and white photograph of a vaguely familiar woman. There was a big vase with fresh flowers and a silver candlestick on the table underneath. Margo nearly tripped on the carpet as she stared at the photo, trying to figure out who it was.

  “Coco Chanel.” the Comtesse said. “The pillar of French haute couture.” She was sitting up in the huge bed, propped up by a number of pillows in lace pillowcases. With her dark hair and pale pink silk negligee, she looked like a very beautiful ageing diva. Margo put the tray in her outstretched hands, and the Comtesse put it across her knees. “Thank you,” she said graciously as she picked up the linen napkin and studied the contents of the tray. “This looks to be in order.”

  Margo smiled back and walked to the door, wondering what all the fuss had been about. Justine was just trying to frighten me, she thought, opening the door.

  “Wait!’

  Margo froze.

  “The coffee is not strong enough,” the Comtesse announced. “Take the cup back and make me some really strong coffee.”

  Margo took the cup back to the kitchen. “It’s too weak,” she said.

  Justine, who was sitting by the table enjoying her own breakfast while she read the morning paper, didn’t lift her eyes from the front page.

  “Give it a minute, then take it back again,” she muttered through a mouthful of bread and jam.

  “What? But shouldn’t I—” Margo gestured towards the coffee pot.

  “She won’t notice. She only complains because she wants to be difficult. She thinks it makes her important.”

  Margo walked back with the coffee which, as Justine had predicted, the Comtesse accepted without question.

  “No good, that woman,” she muttered, cutting her bread roll in half. “G
etting too old and confused. I should get rid of her, but she has nowhere to go. Been in the family for generations.”

  “I see,” Margo mumbled. She turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I thought I’d go and—until you’ve finished your breakfast.

  “The newspaper. Give it to me.”

  “Oh, right. Where—”

  “It should be on my tray. That woman has forgotten it again. Go and get it, and come back here at once.”

  “Right away.” As Margo walked out of the room yet again, she had the peculiar sensation of playing the part of some kind of a go-between in an elaborate minuet.

  “I would leave, but she can’t manage without me,” Justine said in the kitchen, handing Margo the newspaper. “I should go and live with my cousin in Tours. She has been asking me for years.” Justine shook her head. “But I can’t leave the family. They need me badly.”

  Back in the bedroom, the Comtesse was waiting impatiently. “My eyes are a little dry this morning. I would like you to read the paper to me. Start with the first page. The headlines. Then the main stories, the theatre, and book reviews, and the social pages. Then the weather. In that order.”

  “In French?”

  “Of course,” the Comtesse barked. “What else? You might as well practice.”

  Margo read the newspaper, having her pronunciation corrected at nearly every word. When the Comtesse was satisfied she was au fait with what was going on in the world, she announced she was getting up.

  “Draw me a bath,” she ordered, “and lay out my clothes. The blue linen Chanel today, I think. Cream shoes and handbag. Fresh underwear. You’ll find it all in the dressing room.”

  It took Margo some time to find, first the dressing room, then the required items in one of the huge oak wardrobes that lined the walls of the dark and gloomy room. The wardrobes were full to bursting with beautiful clothes squashed together in no particular order. When she finally spotted a pale blue linen ensemble and had rummaged around on the floor of the wardrobe for the shoes, she went back to the bedroom, where the Comtesse was pacing up and down on the carpet, talking rapidly into a mobile phone. Margo blinked and stared. The Comtesse was fully dressed in a blue linen dress, beige Chanel sling-back shoes, and her hair and make-up were immaculate. She switched off her phone and stared at Margo. “Where have you been?”