Finding Margo Read online

  Margo held up the clothes. “I went to get—” she stammered. “You said the dressing room.”

  “Mon dieu,” the Comtesse exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Not that room! You must have gone in the wrong direction. That is my vintage collection you have been going through. Did I not tell you to go to the dressing room?”

  “Yes, but I thought that was...” Margo’s voice trailed away.

  “No, no!’ The Comtesse walked across the room and threw a door open. “In here. This is where my current wardrobe is kept. What you have there is the pre-nineteen-eighties clothes.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Yes.” The Comtesse sighed with the exasperation of someone forced to be kind to a very small and very slow child. “Hang those clothes back, please. Exactly where you found them.”

  “All right, Milady.”

  “Good. I am going out now and won’t be back until late afternoon. I have written out a list of instructions and left it on my desk in my study. And by the way, my son will be home for dinner tonight at eight o’clock.”

  Margo wanted to ask whether it was the dinner that was at eight o’clock or the return of her offspring, but the Comtesse had swept out of the room. Margo could hear her heels on the parquet as she walked swiftly down the corridor and the loud bang of the heavy front door as it closed behind her.

  ***

  Margo tidied the bedroom, took the breakfast tray back to the kitchen, managed to gulp down a piece of bread and some cold coffee and then helped Justine wash the breakfast dishes.

  “How do I get to Milady’s study?” she asked as they worked. “I find this apartment and all the corridors so confusing.”

  “Go to the inside lobby,” Justine replied, “then take the corridor toward the hall. Turn left, then left again. Second door on the right after the grand salon. All the corridors start at the lobby, and if you get lost, you can always go back there and start again.”

  “Does this apartment take up the whole floor of the building?”

  “That’s right. It’s the only one that is still the original size. The other ones have been split into two and sometimes even three apartments.”

  “How many rooms are there?”

  Justine shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “But there are a lot of rooms,” Margo said.

  “And a lot of locked doors,” Justine added with a strange look in her steel grey eyes.

  In the study, Margo stared at the list she had found on the polished mahogany desk. It consisted of two A-4 pages. She sat down on the directoire chair by the desk while she slowly read through her chores for the day. Write invitations and address envelopes for dinner party next Thursday (list, cards and envelopes on small table by the window in petit salon), she read, then post same. Collect dry cleaning, walk Milou (a child? a dog?), buy fresh flowers for dining and drawing room, help Justine with big tablecloths, iron silk blouses, press black linen trousers and jacket. After lunch—

  “Whaddyamean after lunch?” Margo muttered. “It’s eleven o’clock already.” She sighed. After lunch, she read again, Galeries La Fayette—there was a long list of things she was supposed to buy in said department store and charge to ‘Milady’s’ personal account. She would find metro tickets in a drawer in the hall table. Then another long list of things to do after that: silly little things like buying the evening newspaper, going to the English bookshop on Rue de Rivoli and enquire about a book Milady had ordered, walking “Milou’ again (don’t forget bag to pick up droppings). I hope Milou is a nice dog, Margo said to herself. She looked up at a huge portrait of Napoleon over the period fireplace. He was sitting on a rearing white horse, his cloak billowing around him, pointing at the dark hills in the distance. Victory at Marengo, 1800, it said on a plaque on the bottom of the gilt frame.

  “I suppose you never had to pick up doggie poo,” Margo mumbled. Napoleon stared back at her with an air of superiority in his burning black eyes. “Remember Waterloo?” Margo asked him. “Bet you didn’t look so snooty when that was all over.”

  ***

  Following consultations with Justine, Margo established that Milou was a bad-tempered, very elderly West Highland terrier who lived in what was called the arrière cuisine, a kind of laundry room cum pantry off the main kitchen. He lay in his basket, snoring lightly, on a silk cushion embroidered with his name.

  “Hello there, Milou,” Margo cooed, trying to sound cheery. “Are you ready for walkies?”

  Milou didn’t stir. He opened one eye briefly, then closed it again and appeared to go back to sleep.

  “Oh, come on,” Margo said. “You’ll love it. Lots of lamp posts. We might even meet some lovely girl doggies. Paris is full of poodles, you must know that.” She nudged the basket with her foot. Milou growled softly.

  Margo tried to lift him out but pulled her hand back when he snapped. She stared at the dog, trying to figure out what to do, and he glared back with eyes like little black buttons.

  “You stupid mutt,” she mumbled under her breath. “You flea-bitten mongrel.”

  Milou closed his eyes again.

  “What are you doing to the dog?” Justine called from the kitchen.

  “Nothing. I can’t get him to move.”

  “He’s lazy,” Justine said. “Lazy and spoiled.” She walked into the room and glared at the dog. “Allez, Milou,” she snapped. “Behave yourself and get out of there.”

  The dog sighed and slowly got out of the basket. Justine clipped his lead onto his collar and handed it to Margo. “There, take him out for a walk on the Champs de Mars. And don’t let him get his own way. Show him who’s boss.”

  “Right,” Margo said, trying to sound confident.

  “Have you got a bag for the crottes?” Justine demanded.

  “No, I forgot.”

  “Here.” Justine handed her a plastic bag with the logo of a well-known shop on it.

  Margo laughed. “That’s a very fancy bag to put dog poop in.” She jiggled the lead. “OK, come on then, Milou.”

  Milou sighed again and ambled after Margo as she walked to the front door.

  “Have fun,” Justine said with more than a hint of malice in her voice.

  ***

  The Champs de Mars, the big park that forms a wide avenue between the Eiffel Tower and l’Ecole Militaire was situated a stone’s throw from the apartment building. Today, it was hot and dusty. After walking around the park for a while, Margo dragged the unwilling dog to a bench under a wilting acacia, where he collapsed in the dust and fell asleep. Margo sat down on the bench and wiped her forehead, grateful for the shade and the faint breeze. She leaned her head against the trunk of the tree and looked idly at the long queue of tourists waiting to go up the Eiffel Tower. It was nice to sit here and just let your mind drift, look at the people, the dogs, and the flowers, and trees. She looked up at the summer sky where a jet plane left a long vapour trail that slowly dispersed She could hear the sound of bells jingling nearby and looked around. It was an ice cream van. It parked near the fountain and was at once surrounded by children, jostling each other to get first in the queue. Margo suddenly felt parched, but she had no money. Oh, well, she thought, I’ll have a drink of water when I get back to the apartment. She was about to get up when someone said her name.

  “Margo?”

  Startled, she looked around. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw who was standing there. Shit, she thought. Rufus. Shit, shit, shit. “Comment?” she asked, sitting down again. “Je crois que tu te trompes.”

  Rufus squinted at her with his small eyes. “But it is Margo,” he insisted. “You did something to your hair. But your face – I know it’s you.”

  Margo shook her head. “Non, pas du tout.”

  “But—” Rufus looked a little unsure of himself. Margo noticed the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip, even though he was only twelve. He held a dripping ice cream cone in one of his fat hands and there were sweat stains on his T-shirt. “Why did you turn around when I
called your name if you’re not Margo, then?” he asked.

  “Rufus?” a voice called, and a young woman ran toward them. “What are you doing here? Come on,” she ordered. “The rest of the class is getting on the bus.”

  Rufus didn’t take his eyes off Margo. “I know it’s you,” he said, “I just know it.”

  “He seems to think he knows you,” the teacher said in bad French.

  Margo shrugged. “I don’t know why,” she said with a little laugh. “I have never seen him before in my life.”

  “I’m sorry,” the teacher said. “He’s a very difficult child.” She took Rufus by the arm and started to drag him away. “Come on now. Stop bothering the lady.”

  “But—” Rufus said as they walked away, his eyes still on Margo. “It’s her. She looks so much like—”

  The teacher made some soothing noises, and Rufus reluctantly walked with her to the queue of children who were boarding a minibus. Margo could see him staring at her through the grimy rear window as the bus drove off.

  ***

  “Good evening, Marguerite,” Milady said as she swept into the drawing room, where Margo was arranging a big bouquet of roses and freesias in a blue Delft vase. The French windows were wide open, and the lace curtains swayed slightly in the cool evening breeze.

  “Good evening, Milady.”

  “How did your first day go?” Milady asked as she sat down on a gilt chair and took out a cigarette. She had changed into a superbly cut black sleeveless silk shift and matching shoes with stiletto heels. Margo couldn’t help noticing that, despite her age, her arms were slim and smooth.

  “Very well, I think.”

  “You have done all the things I put on the list?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wrote the invitation cards?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And you included a list of the guests with each one?” Milady asked as she fitted her cigarette into the long black holder.

  Margo’s hand froze in mid-air. “I’m sorry?”

  “A guest list,” Milady repeated impatiently. “A list of all the guests and their occupations.”

  “Uh, no, I didn’t. There didn’t seem to be one.”

  “But I left a stack of them beside the cards. Surely—”

  “I didn’t see anything like that.” Margo pricked her finger on a thorn and dropped the rose on the floor.

  “Probably because you didn’t look for it.” Milady snapped open her gold lighter and lit her cigarette.

  “Well, you didn’t say,” Margo tried to defend herself while she sucked her finger.

  Milady blew out a stream of smoke and flicked ash into a Sèvres ashtray. “When we invite people to dinner,” she explained with forced patience in her voice, “we must include information about their fellow guests.”

  “Why?” Margo asked despite herself.

  “Because that way they don’t have to ask questions like ‘What do you do?’ and ‘Is your wife here?’ It makes conversations smoother. It also prevents ladies wearing the wrong clothes.”

  “How?”

  “Can’t you guess? Imagine that you are going to a party and you receive a list of the guests.”

  “Eh, yes?” Margo bent to retrieve the rose.

  “Don’t you see?” Milady said impatiently. “You will know immediately what dress to wear because last time you met Madame X, you wore your blue dress or whatever, so now you can choose something different, and that way you can be absolutely sure that you won’t be seen wearing the same outfit twice in a row. Which would be—”

  “A fate worse than death?”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “No, of course not,” Margo said hurriedly, fitting the last flower into her arrangement. “It’s just, well, that kind of thing doesn’t seem terribly important in the scheme of things. If you look at the problems of the world today, I mean.”

  “Believe me, they are,” Milady stated. “You see, my dear, la politesse is really about consideration, about making it easier for people to—” She stopped and looked around as the door opened. “Here he is,” she announced with sudden girlish excitement in her voice.

  Margo glanced up from her roses as a shadow fell across the polished parquet floor.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Bonsoir,” the man said as he strolled into the room. With the evening sun in her eyes, Margo could only see the outline of his head and shoulders, and she squinted at him as he bent to kiss his mother on the cheek.

  “Bonsoir, chéri,” Milady purred. “You’re home a little early.”

  “Yes, I know. One of my meetings was cancelled so I—” He paused and looked at Margo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know we had a guest.”

  “Oh no,” Milady said with a little laugh and switched to English. “Darling, this is Marguerite, my new secretary. Marguerite, this is my son, François Coligny de la Bourdonnière.”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle, the man said and walked closer to Margo. “How nice to meet you.” He lifted her hand to his lips in a polite French hand kiss, and as he turned slightly, she could see him clearly. Of medium height, he looked to be in his early forties, and despite the fact that he had the same dark hair and patrician features as his mother, he had something she lacked: a sweetness of expression. There was real warmth in his brown eyes as he looked at Margo.

  “Good evening, Monsieur le Comte,” she said.

  “I told you about Marguerite last night,” Milady reminded him. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

  “No, I remember now,” he said. “I just didn’t expect her to be so young and attractive.” He sounded as if he was merely stating a fact and not paying Margo a compliment. “What a stroke of luck you just happened to walk in like that,” he continued. “What was it my mother said? Something about a letter?” His English was as fluent as his mother’s but with less of an accent.

  “Well, it was a kind of a mix-up, really,” Margo said, picking up a rose petal from the table. “I was really looking for a job at your château. With the horses. Gráinne, my friend, couldn’t take up the position you offered her, and I thought, as you seemed to be so short handed—”

  “I beg your pardon?” The Comte looked a little mystified.

  “The event horses,” Margo explained. “The ones you have to get ready for...” her voice trailed away. What’s the matter with him? she thought. He doesn’t look as if he knows what I’m talking about.

  The Comte shook his head. “I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with me. It must be my brother you’re talking about.”

  “Your brother?” Margo said. “Oh, I see.”

  “Yes,” the Comte said. “My brother, Jacques. He runs a yard for event horses at our château. He is an excellent rider and trainer, one of the best in France. I am François, the eldest son, and I work at the department of justice. I don’t know one end of a horse from the other,” he added with a little laugh. “Maman,” he chided, “you should have explained to Marguerite.”

  Milady sighed. “Never mind that. Come here and sit down. Tell me about your day before we change for dinner.”

  “How about a drink?” The Comte unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt and loosened the knot of his blue silk tie. “I could do with one, I have to say.”

  “Good idea,” Milady nodded. “We have plenty of time. I’ll have a gin and tonic. What about you?”

  “I’ll have a Scotch.” The Comte took off the jacket of his linen suit and draped it over the back of a chair.

  “All right,” Milady said. “Marguerite?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ll have a sweet Martini,” Margo said, sitting down on a chair. “On the rocks, please,” she added. She was quite tired after all the chores and errands and a drink would be lovely.

  There was a brief, embarrassed silence during which Milady flared her nostrils and glared at Margo with ill-disguised contempt.

  It suddenly dawned on Margo what was going on. “Oh,” she said, getting up again, her fac
e red. “I mean I’ll get the—”

  “Let me get the drinks,” the Comte interrupted, walking to a cabinet by the big sofa and opening the doors. “You must be very tired, Mademoiselle Marguerite. You do look a little pale. I’m sure my mother is keeping you very busy.”

  “François!’ Milady snapped. “What are you doing? This is really not comme il faut.”

  “What, Maman?” the Comte asked as he made a very large gin and tonic. “You mean offering your secretary a drink? On the contrary, I think it is very nice. Why not celebrate her first day with a drink and wish her welcome?” He handed his mother the glass and quickly made Margo’s drink and his own. He held up his glass.

  “To Mademoiselle Marguerite. I hope you will enjoy working with my mother.”

  “Thank you,” Margo replied, feeling a little foolish as she held up her glass. “A votre santé.” The ice cubes rattled against her teeth as she knocked back the Martini in one go.

  “How about another one?” the Comte offered, taking her glass. “I don’t seem to have put enough in that one.”

  “Oh no,” she stammered. “That’s all right. I have to go and—”

  “Please, relax,” he said. “I’m sure there is nothing really urgent you have to do at this time.” He quickly refilled Margo’s glass, handed it to her, and sat down in a big leather armchair, crossing his legs as he sipped his drink.

  “Well, no, not really,” Margo agreed. “I have finished for today, unless there is something else Milady wants me to—”

  “Milady?” the Comte asked with a little laugh. “Is that what you call my mother? Hmm. Milady. Yes, I like it. It suits you to a tee, Maman. It’s like something out of an old English novel.” He smiled fondly at his mother, who looked only slightly mollified.

  Margo sipped her drink and felt the alcohol slowly making her feel more confident and at ease. She smiled at the Comte, and he returned her smile as he finished his drink. “So, Mademoiselle,” he started.

  “Oh please, call me Marguerite,” Margo said. “In any case, I’m not—”