Finding Margo (13 page)

“I see.” Fiona still stood in the middle of the room, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Could you please leave now?” Margo whispered. “I want to be on my own.”

“OK,” Fiona said, looking deflated. “I’ll go.” She retrieved her handbag that had fallen onto the floor by the bed. “I’m going away in any case. For a holiday, I mean. We’re going to spend August in Scotland, as usual. Marcus’s parents’ house.”

“But you hate it there,” Margo said. “You always said it was—”

“Cold and boring, I know,” Fiona sighed, closing the zip on her handbag. “And huge and crumbling, and well, it’s the family seat and all that. And one day it will belong to Marcus and he will be—”

“Sir Marcus,” Margo filled in. “And you will be Lady Whitney-Jones. And you’ll have to live there and freeze for the rest of your—”

“Not if Marcus manages make a go of his diplomatic career,” Fiona interrupted, pulling down the jacket of her suit. “And that is what I—I mean
we’re
trying to do at the moment. He’s doing really well, you know,” she ended proudly. “So it will all work out according to plan, if you would only—I mean...” She paused. “Oh God. Shit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

Margo studied Fiona for a moment. She looked tense and worried, and there were dark circles under her eyes. “Are you all right?” Margo asked. “You seem so stressed.”

“Well yes, I am a bit stressed,” Fiona said, twisting the strap of her handbag. “It’s hard work running everything: Marcus, his career, Rufus, the nanny, the maid, and that huge apartment. You have no idea how difficult it is to deal with the French. They are so snooty, and you have to practically beg to get them to come to the tiniest tea party. None of them make the slightest effort to speak English, and they look down their bloody noses all the time at everything. I mean, why do we have to do everything according to
their
rules of etiquette?”

“Because this is their country?” Margo said with just a hint of irony in her voice.

“What?” Fiona glared at Margo. “I should have known you would be no help at all,” she spat. “You just sit there looking smug and think only of yourself. Well, we can’t all be dropouts. Some of us have to look after our responsibilities. I’m only trying to help, you know. If you had any sense at all, you would get out of here and stay with me for a while. And then, when you’re ready, you could go back to Alan.”

“But I don’t want to get out of here,” Margo said. “And going back to Alan is the last thing on earth I would like to do right now.”

“But can’t you see that you have created a very difficult situation for him?” Fiona insisted. “He’s had to hire someone else to run the surgery, and she is now trying her best to sort out all the patients’ records and files and figure out your rather strange filing system, which is making his work very difficult. Not to mention the social embarrassment of having to explain to all his friends and colleagues why you’re not there and why he’s having to go to dinner parties on his own. He’s had to dream up some sort of family emergency that has forced you to leave London in a hurry.”

“Family emergency?” Margo interrupted. “Of what kind?”

“He’s said that your mother went to Australia to visit her sister.”

“That’s right, she did.”

“And that she was taken ill and you had to fly out and join her, and he doesn’t really know when you’ll be back.”

“My God, that’s clever,” Margo said with mock admiration in her voice. “Good old Alan. Always ready with the right explanation. So, in that case, why could we not leave it as it is at the moment? I’m in Australia. Great.”

Fiona took a deep breath. “OK, I’m going to tell you the real reason I’m here. Alan asked me to tell you that he wants to talk to you himself. He has tried to call you on your mobile, but—”

“I know. I haven’t kept it switched on, but I got all his messages.” Margo stood up and walked to the window. “I can’t,” she said, staring out over the rooftops. “I can’t even bear the thought of hearing his voice. It will only end in a row, anyway. In any case, I’ve taken the SIM card out of my mobile and changed to a French top-up account.” She turned around and stared at Fiona. “I’m
not
going to give you the number, so don’t even ask.”

“All right,” Fiona soothed. “Don’t get yourself into a state. Alan said you’re inclined to overreact.”

Margo made a snorting sound. “Overreact? That’s a laugh.”

“What am I going to tell him, then?”

“You don’t have to tell him anything, do you?”

“Oh, yes I do. He knows I was coming to see you today, and I promised I would get you to go back to London to at least talk to him.”

“You promised? How could you promise such a thing?” Margo said. “Did you tell him you knew where to find me?”

“Yes,” Fiona murmured, looking a little guilty. “But don’t worry. He won’t rush over here. He can’t. He’s too busy.”

“Of course,” Margo said ironically. “Too busy to worry about a little detail like his wife and his marriage.”

“
You
left
him
, remember?”

“Oh, I remember all right,” Margo said bitterly. “I remember every word. Every insult. It will take me a long time to forget. A very long time.”

They stared at each other, Fiona standing in the middle of the room as if she was rooted to the spot and Margo sitting on the bed again, willing her to leave.

“Just one more thing,” Fiona said.

“Please,” Margo pleaded. “No more. Just leave me alone.”

“But what about your, well, your assets?” Fiona insisted without paying attention to the exasperation in Margo’s voice. “I mean, your lovely house, your personal possessions, your jewellery. Can you really leave all that behind? Just like that? If you’re not careful, you’ll lose everything you have in London. Alan could sue you for desertion, you know. He said—” Fiona paused, suddenly looking very uncomfortable.

“What? What else did he say? Spit it out. I want to hear everything.”

“He said that you were unstable. That you had some problems with your mental health in the past and that you have had psychiatric help and—”

Margo suddenly felt the ice in her chest melt and turn into red-hot lava. “
What
?” she almost shouted. “He what?” Then she remembered. “Oh no,” she gasped, “he wouldn’t use that—”

“Use what?”

“I did see a psychiatrist once,” Margo whispered, looking down at her hands. “Years ago. That time when we found out about my not being able to conceive. I was so upset and Alan said I needed counselling. But I only went once to this woman. A friend of Alan’s, of course. I didn’t feel it helped me at all. I didn’t think someone I didn’t know could. Oh, I can’t believe it.” Margo looked up at Fiona. “Is that what he’s planning?” she demanded. “Is that why you’re here? To give me this ultimatum? That if I don’t come back and behave myself he will declare me insane and take all I – we – own together? Are you running his errands, is that it? Have you offered your services as his solicitor? Is all of this your idea?”

“No!’ Fiona exclaimed, looking horrified. “Absolutely not. I want, I
need
you, to get back together again.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you’re so great together,” Fiona said feebly.

“We’re great together.” Margo looked at Fiona, trying to figure out if she was being honest or just pretending.

“Yes, you are. And Alan is really desperate. He’s so lonely without you. I can really feel it when he’s talking about you.”

“He’s got a strange way of showing it, I must say.”

“He’s just trying everything he can to get you back.”

“I bet. Look, Fiona, I don’t want to even think about this at the moment. I want to be left alone. I want to just have some space, I suppose. So you can tell Alan from me that I’m not coming back for the moment. I’m not going to talk to him until I’m ready.”

“All this because of a silly little row?” Fiona said. “I find this very strange to be honest. I mean, Marcus can be a real shit sometimes but, well, I don’t usually take it seriously.”

“It wasn’t really because of
one
row,” Margo said. “That incident on the motorway was the last straw because of the way he’s been speaking to me for quite a long time now. Every time he loses his temper, every time something doesn’t go his way, he treats me the way no man should treat a woman. Or a dog,” she added. “It hurts to be treated like that.”

“So that’s it, then? You’re not going back? That’s your answer?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment until, with a little sob, Fiona stumbled to the door. “Alan still has the police looking for you, you know,” she said. She pulled the door open and left as suddenly as she had arrived.

Margo stared at the door that had just slammed shut. What was going on? Was Fiona heading for some kind of breakdown? She had always been very tense, but now she was positively unhinged. She seemed to have got the message all the same, and with a bit of luck she wouldn’t appear again. I’m on my own, Margo thought and for the first time since her escape from Alan, felt it was true. She shivered, suddenly a little frightened.

My possessions, she thought, our lovely house in Chelsea; the drawing room with the blue silk curtains and regency furniture, the cosy kitchen and the little courtyard outside with my herb garden; my Flora Danica dinner service, my Georgian silver, and the Venetian glass chandelier. I wonder if Alan has remembered to water the plants, she thought, the yucca in the hall and the big azalea in the conservatory. Bits of memories flashed through Margo’s mind as she sat there in the hot little room: memories of her marriage – good times and bad, everyday things, scenes, arguments. It was all so wonderful at first, she thought, when we lived in that small flat near the hospital and we came back to it after work and cooked dinner in the tiny kitchen, drank wine, and made love. And then we bought the house, that gorgeous old house, and we spent the weekends painting it. And little by little, Alan started to make money, and we could afford to buy beautiful antiques and Persian rugs and silk curtains.

What happened to us, she wondered. When did that sour note creep in? Did we become too busy to enjoy it, too used to being able to buy whatever we wanted, taking it all for granted? We were so happy in the early days, Margo thought, when having success and money was only a dream. Before Alan became the big-shot consultant, before we knew there would be no babies, and long before he started taking out his frustrations on me. She heard Alan’s voice in her head, asking questions, demanding, insisting, controlling. Suddenly overcome with a feeling of sadness, tears welled up in Margo’s eyes, and she lay down on the bed, staring at the window, without really seeing the view. Outside, the sparrows took off, one after the other, and she followed their flight over the rooftops until they were tiny specks against the darkening sky.

***

“S
hoes,” Milady said the following morning as they stood on the hot pavement beside the Jaguar ready to board for the trip to the country. “I don’t think I have all my shoes.”

“But I packed all the ones on the list,” Margo said. “And put shoe trees in every one and wrapped them in tissue paper and put them into the shoe bags.”

“Even the black evening sandals?”

“Yes,” Margo said, beginning to feel frustrated. She looked at François for help, but he sat in the driver’s seat, with the door open, reading the morning paper with an air of resignation.

“And the red sling-backs?” Milady continued.

“Yes,” Margo said, unable to stop herself sighing.

“And my gardening gloves and walking shoes?”

“What?” Margo stared at her. “But they weren’t on the list.”

“Weren’t they?” Milady glared at Margo. “But you should have known. One simply cannot go to the country without those things. I thought you would know that, being English and everything.”

There was a strange sound from François. Margo glanced at him, but he was turning the page of the newspaper, his face expressionless.

“You have to go back up and get them,” Milady ordered. “They’re in the hall cupboard.”

“Is there anything else?” Margo asked. “I could get that at the same time.”

“No. Go on,” Milady urged. “Hurry up. We have to get out of Paris before eleven o’clock, or we’ll get caught in the worst of the traffic.”

Margo had to go back up to the apartment three times for assorted items that Milady had neglected to put on her list, and it was ten to twelve by the time François started the engine and pulled the heavily loaded car into the busy traffic. Milady sat in the passenger seat, smoking and giving François instructions on which route to take in order to avoid the worst of the traffic jams. Margo leaned her head against the back window, exhausted. Milou crawled from his cushion and settled his body across Margo’s legs. She tried to push him back onto the cushion, but he growled menacingly.

“He likes to sit on someone’s lap in the car,” Milady announced as she glanced back at Margo. “Try not to move too much, or he’ll be sick.”

Margo squirmed, her thighs sticking to the leather upholstery and tried to get used to Milou’s hot body. She regretted her decision to wear black trousers as she knew they would be covered in white dog hairs in no time at all. Oh well, Margo thought, what did it matter? Who would notice how she looked? She put her arms around Milou and closed her eyes as the motion of the car made her feel a little sleepy. For the next hour or so, she listened idly to snatches of conversation in French from the front seat, a good-natured discussion about politics, something about family matters, and a slight argument about where they would stop for lunch.

“Chartres,” Milady said. “We should stop there. “There’s a very good restaurant just off the main square.”

“But that’s a huge detour,” François protested. “We won’t arrive until late, and I’ll miss the evening news on television. Why can’t we have a sandwich in one of the motorway stations?”

“A sandwich?” Milady asked as if François had suggested she take a dose of strychnine. “In one of those, those—places? How could you possibly suggest such a thing?”