Finding Margo Page 8

  “But then you must call me François,” he immediately replied.

  “Really!’ Milady snorted.

  “Why not, Maman? Oh, don’t be so stuffy! We have entered the twenty-first century, you know. De haut en bas is no longer in vogue, I’m happy to say.”

  “You speak wonderful English,” Margo said.

  “Thank you. I spent some time in London during my student years.”

  “Oh? What did you study?” Margo asked, draining the last drops of her Martini.

  “My son is an énarque,” Milady said.

  “Enarque?” Margo said, putting her glass on the small table by the sofa. “Is that French for dyslexic?”

  “No,” François laughed, “it means I went to ENA. l’Ecole Nationale d’Administration. It’s, well, one of the Grandes Ecoles, the great schools of France where we learn to be—to run this country. Maybe you have heard of them?”

  “You mean a kind of training school for higher civil servants?” Margo asked.

  “Something like that, yes,” Milady nodded. “But a lot more. You have to be very talented to get in. And then it’s very hard work. But François—”

  “Enough,” François laughed. “Or you’ll have me declared a national monument. I’m not any more illustrious than anybody else in the French public service. You see, Marguerite, it’s Jacques who is the real star of this family.”

  “Really?” Margo said, intrigued. “Why is that?”

  “He is, as I said before, an excellent rider and trainer,” François explained. “But, more than that, he has won many medals while on the French show-jumping team. His picture has been in Paris Match and even Time Magazine when he won an Olympic gold medal a few years ago.”

  “You might have heard of him,” Milady said with pride in her voice.

  “No, I don’t think I have,” Margo said. “But I’m not really into equestrian sports.”

  “Women who meet Jacques find themselves suddenly very interested in horses,” François said with a little laugh. “And when you meet him, you’ll see why.”

  “Oh, but I won’t, will I?” Margo said, confused. “Except if he comes to Paris, of course.”

  “But you’re coming with us when we go to the country,” Milady stated. “I’ll need you there even more than here in the city.”

  “Don’t frighten Marguerite, Maman” François laughed. “I’m sure she’s more than busy already.” He got to his feet. “But now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and change. A pleasure to meet you, Marguerite. A bientôt.” He took his jacket, swung it over his shoulder and walked out of the room.

  ***

  That first evening drink became a daily routine. They didn’t really say very much to each other, just made polite conversation about the weather and world events. Margo would not have continued to accept his invitation if wasn’t for Milady’s obvious disapproval. Margo took a certain wicked pleasure in sitting down in the drawing room with her drink, sensing Milady’s seething anger. François didn’t seem to notice his mother’s annoyance. There was a hint of conspiracy between them as he and Margo chatted, pretending to ignore the chilly silence in which Milady sipped her drink. François always looked at Margo with bland politeness, but she sometimes imagined she saw a little smile deep in his eyes. She loved listening to him when he spoke French, which he did more and more frequently. It was like listening to music. And when he said her name, even that sounded like a compliment. Margo wondered why such a man wasn’t married. Maybe he was just very picky? Or maybe Maman won’t let him go?

  What a nice man, she thought, one evening as he poured her a drink. Why couldn’t I have found someone like him instead of Alan? But no, she said to herself as he gave her the glass and their fingers touched briefly. If I had met him all those years ago, I wouldn’t have fallen for him even then. There was a hint of sadness in those warm brown eyes, and it was as if he merely observed the world and didn’t really live in it.

  ***

  The church bells pealed loudly but failed to wake Margo as she slept in the little room in the attic. In her dream, the bells rang as she walked out of the church on the arm of her husband. She looked up at him as they stood on the steps of the church, but the sun was in her eyes and she couldn’t see his face. Alan’s arm gripped her waist as they greeted friends and family, smiling and kissing everybody on the cheek. Margo caught a glimpse of her parents, pushing through the crowd of well-wishers.

  “Oh darling,” her mother whispered in Margo’s ear as she finally managed to get through the throng. “Please be happy.”

  “Well done,” her father said. “Today you have made me proud. Try not to mess it up.”

  Her mother started to cry. “Oh, Margo,” she sobbed. “Oh, my darling girl.”

  Alan tightened his arm, and as Margo felt panic rising in her throat, she pulled away from the iron grip around her waist. “Please,” she begged, “let me go.”

  The bells rang again, even more loudly this time. Margo opened her eyes and the feeling of panic slowly faded. A dream, she thought, it was just a dream. I don’t have to get married to anyone ever again. But she could still hear those church bells. Then she remembered. It’s Sunday, and the bells of all the churches in Paris are ringing. Margo closed her eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but found to her annoyance that she was wide awake. The sun was streaming into the room, and it was already hot. I must get something to cover the window instead of that broken blind and get some ear plugs, she thought, turning the pillow over to the cool side.

  She lifted her hand and turned her rings round and round on her finger: the thin platinum wedding band and the big square-cut diamond. She thought about the dream and about the wedding, the real one, ten years ago. She had worn such a beautiful dress, made for her by a dressmaker in the little town where she grew up. She remembered Alan’s expression as she walked up the aisle toward him as if he couldn’t believe his luck; then the wedding night; and the following morning, sitting in the dining room in the small hotel in Chelsea, waiting for breakfast, looking at her wedding ring on her finger and thinking, I’m married, I’m Mrs Alan Hunter. She had thought that the feeling of perfect bliss would last forever. But this morning she felt it was all so far away, so unreal, as if it had happened to someone else in another century.

  On an impulse, Margo took off her rings. I’ll put them somewhere safe, she thought and pushed them under her pillow. She yawned and stretched. Sunday. Her day off. She decided to have a lazy morning and then go and have a stroll around the city. Well, it would certainly be different from Sundays in London: breakfast in bed, the Sunday papers, Alan—no. She pushed the thought away and turned her mind to the present, to the week that had just passed. She laughed softly as she remembered her first day and that first evening when she had met François. It was like something out of a French play, she thought.

  Suddenly, there was a shrill noise from somewhere in the room. Confused, Margo sat up. There it was again. Oh God, my mobile. I must have left it on by mistake last night, when I was deleting all those messages from Alan. She got out of bed and opened the wardrobe. The ringing stopped. She took the mobile from her bag and looked at it. “Missed call’ it said on the display. Alan again, probably, she thought and checked the number. But the number wasn’t his. Then the phone rang again. Without thinking, Margo pressed the button and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?” Shit, what am I doing? she thought. It will only be Alan. A cold hand clutched her heart at the thought of hearing his voice. But before she could switch off the phone, someone replied.

  “Hello? Who’s this?” Not Alan’s voice, but familiar all the same. Rough, gruff, but so sweet to Margo’s ears.

  “Gráinne! Oh, Gráinne, it’s you!’

  “Of course it is. But who the fuck are you?”

  “It’s me, Marg—Maggie!’

  “Who? Oh, holy shit!’ Gráinne laughed. “Jesus, how weird. I was just checking the number of this missed call, and here you are. Are you well, love?”
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  “I’m fine. Very well.”

  “You must have been the one who called me then, that day about a week ago. What was it about?”

  Her legs suddenly weak, Margo sat down on the bed. “Nothing really. I just wanted to say ‘hello’.”

  “Well, hello to you too. How are you doing? Are you on your way back to London?”

  “No, I—”

  “Are you OK? You sound a little strange.”

  “I’m fine,” Margo said, trying to sound confident. “Great, really. And I’m still in Paris.”

  “Still staying with that friend of yours, then?”

  “No. Actually, you won’t believe this. I got a job.”

  “A job? Really? That’s fantastic. What are you doing?”

  “I’m a PA. Personal assistant. To this—this woman.”

  “PA, eh? Sounds very posh. Some kind of corporate job, is it?”

  Margo smiled. “Well yes, you could call it that.”

  “So what does this woman you’re working for do? What kind of business is she in?”

  “Fashion,” Margo said without thinking.

  “Fashion, eh? Not my bag, really, but I suppose that would be right up your street. So, did you find a place to stay?”

  “Oh yes. There’s a staff apartment, you see.”

  “Really? Is it nice?”

  “Lovely.” Margo smiled to herself as she looked around the room. “It’s a penthouse, actually. Fully furnished with a view of the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Go away!’

  “I swear.”

  “Wow.” Gráinne sounded seriously impressed. “You really did land on your feet. And here I was, thinking you were in some kind of trouble.”

  “Trouble? Of course not.” Margo laughed. “Whatever made you think—” She cleared her throat. “But what about you? How are you?”

  “Me? I’m grand, pet. Same old stuff, but OK. Very busy. Lots of events around the place. Some lovely horses, and the craic is really good at the yard.”

  “What did you say? The what?”

  “The craic,” Gráinne repeated. “It’s Irish for good fun. But hey, it’s small potatoes compared to your fancy job and luxury pad. You really have come up in the world since we met.”

  “Not really,” Margo said with a little laugh.

  “Oh yeah, don’t try to pretend. You’ve become one of those corporate women. And I feel really honoured that you shared a crust with me and slept in my humble truck.”

  “Oh, but I really enjoyed it. And my job isn’t really that fancy.”

  “And she’s so modest too,” Gráinne laughed.

  “By the way,” Margo said on an impulse, “do you know someone called Jacques Coligny?”

  “Yes, slightly. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. I read something about him in a magazine recently,” Margo lied. “And I thought you might know him. He seems to be a big star in France.”

  “Yeah, he was a champion a few years back. He doesn’t ride in competitions anymore, but he buys and trains horses for a lot of the international teams,” Gráinne said.

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Well enough to stay away from him. Great horseman, I’ll give him that, one of the best. And very clever. Speaks perfect English, great judge of horseflesh, and has a good head for business. And he’s amazing with horses. Seems to be able to talk their language or something. And he’s very popular. But—” Gráinne stopped.

  “But what?”

  “Oh, nothing, just not my type of guy. I don’t trust him. Good-looking, yes, but thinks he’s God’s gift to women, if you know what I mean. Not that he’d look twice at someone like me, but I’ve seen some of the damage he’s done to others. Loves ’em and leaves ’em. Get the picture?”

  “Yes, I think I do,” Margo said, surprised by the venom in Gráinne’s voice.

  “But why are you so interested in him?”

  “No reason. The article was interesting, that’s all.”

  “I see. OK. Well, I better let you go. I’m sure you have more important things to do than talk to me. Now that you’ve come up in the world, I mean.”

  “Actually,” Margo started, intending to tell Gráinne the real story, but was interrupted by a sudden loud beep. “Oh, no! The battery is dying,” Margo shouted. “Gráinne, don’t go. I just wanted to tell you—please,” she nearly sobbed as the line went dead.

  ***

  It was close to midnight when Margo came back from her stroll around Paris. She hadn’t really done very much, but she had enjoyed her day. In the late morning, she had seen people going into a church for mass and she had joined them, thinking she would sit there and listen to the music and have a chance to think. But once inside, she discovered that she wasn’t able to think at all. No thoughts of any kind came into her mind, and she simply sat there, her mind blank, listening to the sermon, the music, and the murmured prayers of the congregation. It was as if a door had closed in her mind, and she was suffering from some kind of amnesia. She did, however, feel a kind of peace settle on her as she sat there in the dim light, and she emerged from the church into the bright street feeling much calmer and more cheerful. After church, she had gone for a long walk on the banks of the Seine, all the way to Ile St Louis, where she had enjoyed an ice cream while sitting under a willow tree on the water’s edge. Then on to Notre Dame, climbing all the way up one of the towers where there were breathtaking views of the river and the old bridges. Then she had visited La Sainte Chapelle and stared in awe at the magnificent stained glass windows. After visiting a few museums, she had ended up having dinner in a small brasserie on the Left Bank and struck up a conversation with a group of American tourists at the table next to hers. They had invited her to join them for after-dinner drinks at their table, but realising it was getting late, Margo had turned down the invitation and taken the Metro back home.

  The lift in the servants’ stairwell was even slower than the one in the main entrance, and as it creaked its way up, Margo had no thought in her head other than sinking into bed. Except for the sound of the lift, the building was quiet, and Margo looked idly at the different landings as she went up. She noticed that most of them had two or three doors, having been split up into smaller apartments, as Justine had explained. Even so, those apartments would be very big, she thought, but not as big as... She gave a little start as she saw the feet and legs of someone at the kitchen door of Milady’s apartment. It was a woman, and she seemed to be looking for something in her handbag. One of Milady’s friends? No, they would use the main entrance. As the lift rose higher, Margo saw the woman at the door more clearly. She was tall with shoulder-length blonde hair and she wore a red dress. Margo noticed that she was slim and had very good legs. The woman pulled out a key from her handbag and put it in the lock. The lift suddenly creaked loudly, and the woman whipped around. For a split second her eyes met Margo’s, and they stared at each other in the dim light. Margo couldn’t see clearly, but she had an impression of huge dark eyes. The woman turned her back to Margo, quickly twisted the key in the lock, opened the door, and disappeared into the dark apartment.

  CHAPTER 7

  The entrance to the Dior headquarters on Avenue Montaigne was very crowded. Hundreds of elegant but bad-tempered women pushed and wrestled with each other in order to get out of the pouring rain and in through the huge double doors without getting their hair and clothes completely soaked.

  “People are becoming so horribly rude,” Milady said as she pushed her elbow into the side of a woman in a white suit. “Excusez-moi, Madame,” she muttered, poking another woman in the back with her dripping umbrella. “Laissez nous passer, s’il vous plait.”

  Margo couldn’t help but admire the way Milady managed to get ahead in the queue and in through the doors by discreetly stepping on toes with her stilettos, poking sides with her elbows while smiling, and apologising and looking as if she was simply waiting her turn.

  “Finalement,” Milady breathed as they started t
o walk up the wide curving staircase toward the showroom on the first floor. “It’s becoming more and more crowded. They seem to let just anyone in these days. Did you see some of those women? The way they were dressed? So vulgar. After all, this is Dior, not Marks and Spencer.”

  Margo smoothed the skirt of her grey linen dress and murmured something soothing in agreement. Milady glanced at her.

  “That dress is perfect on you,” she remarked with satisfaction.

  “I know,” Margo said. “All the clothes I found in my room were. I meant to ask you. Why, I mean, who—”

  “My last personal assistant, of course. That’s why I hired you. You’re a perfect size thirty-six, just as she was. I spotted that straight away.”

  “You mean you hired me for my dress size?” Margo asked incredulously.

  “Of course,” Milady said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Here we are,” she continued as they walked into the big room where the autumn/winter collection was about to be shown. Margo forgot her questions as she looked around the huge showroom. Big antique mirrors hung on the walls, the tall French windows were swathed in heavy cream silk curtains, and the deep red carpet was crammed with rows and rows of gilt chairs, each one with a programme and a gold pencil on the seat. There were huge vases with spectacular flower arrangements, and classical music wafted from the stereo system. Two stick-thin women in black suits turned around and stared as they walked in. “Marie-Jo!’ one of them exclaimed, walking toward them. “Ma chère, comment ça va?”

  “Très bien, chère amie,” Milady replied, kissing the woman on both cheeks. She gestured towards Margo. “This is Marguerite, my new personal assistant.”

  “Oh,” said the woman, barely looking at Margo. “I have reserved these two chairs for you in the front row.”

  “Thank you, darling,” Milady said.

  “Enjoy the show,” the woman said. “I’ll be in the shop downstairs afterwards. Let me know if there is anything you want to try on.”

  “Entendu,” Milady nodded.