Finding Margo (21 page)

“What happened?”

“He got out of there faster than a bat out of hell. Of course, the shotgun wasn’t loaded, but he didn’t know that.” Gráinne drew breath and looked at Margo. “So that’s it. That’s my story. I’m sure you haven’t heard anything as bad as that, ever.”

Margo tried desperately to keep her face straight. “No, I haven’t.”

“But as one of them psychotherapists, you must have.”

“I was a
physio
therapist,” Margo corrected.

“Oh.” Gráinne suddenly laughed and let go of Margo’s hand. “Jesus, you must think I’m really thick. And here I was, pouring my heart out about the rape and everything.”

“You weren’t really raped, Gráinne.”

Gráinne stared at her. “Oh. Well, you see, the creep went around telling everyone we had—he had, you know, with me, so I started to believe it myself. It felt as if I had been—it
felt
like rape. But you’re right, of course. I wasn’t.”

“No, but it was awful all the same.”

“Yeah. And all the time I was thinking of my dad.”

“Your dad?”

“Yes.” Gráinne’s eyes filled with tears again. “It was about six months after he died, you see. I was thinking that he would have been so upset if he had been alive and seen what Liam thought of me. Like I was some kind of slut or something. You see, my dad thought the world of me.”

“But, Gráinne, sweetheart,” Margo said gently, “don’t you think your father would have been proud of the way you defended yourself? It wasn’t your fault that you were attacked, was it?”

Gráinne looked thought fully at Margo. “No, I suppose it wasn’t.” Gráinne suddenly smiled. “You’re right. Oh God, I feel so much better now. Better than ever before, actually. I only wish—”

“What?”

“That the shotgun had been loaded.”

***

“S
omeone has to go to Paris,” Milady announced the following afternoon, when Margo brought some iced tea up to the terrace.

“Oh? Why?”

“Because of the bowl.”

“What bowl?”

“The Lalique bowl I bought for a friend’s sixtieth birthday. I opened the box this morning to make sure it wasn’t damaged, and then I realised it was the wrong one. I had picked out one in a very classical style, but they seemed to have mixed up my order and packed a very vulgar modern one with fluting around the edge. It won’t do at all. The party is tomorrow evening and I have to have the bowl before I go.”

“But would Lalique not send you a replacement?”

“I called them, and they said they couldn’t guarantee that it would be here in time.”

“What about François? Didn’t he drive back to Paris yesterday?”

“I don’t know where he is. I have tried both the apartment and his mobile but got no answer. Then I called his office, but they said they couldn’t reveal his whereabouts to anyone.” Milady looked irritated. “How dare they? I’m his mother, after all.”

“Didn’t you tell them that?”

“But of course. But they said they needed proof of identity or some such nonsense.”

“I see.” Margo returned Milady’s expectant gaze. “I suppose you would like me to go?”

“Yes, of course. I have worked it all out. You will take the train from Tours this evening and get to Paris around ten o’clock. Take a taxi to the apartment and spend the night there. I’ll give you the key. You’ll sleep in the small guest room as the attic will be far too hot. Then, tomorrow morning, you’ll take a taxi to Lalique on Avénue de l’Opéra and exchange the bowl for the right one and continue on to the train station and catch the mid-morning train back. Bernard will pick you up and bring you back here.” Milady looked at Margo with a satisfied air. “Won’t take more than twenty-four hours in all. Very neat, don’t you think?”

“Very.”

“So there is no time to lose. Bernard is expecting you to be ready to go in about twenty minutes.”

“But what about dinner?” Margo asked, wondering if she would have time to eat before leaving, or maybe it would be possible to eat on the train.

“Well, we’ll have to manage without you. But there are only eight for dinner tonight, so Agnès will cope.” Milady put on her reading glasses and turned back to her copy of Vogue.

Realising that her own dinner was of minor importance and it would be pointless to argue, Margo left to put a few things together in an overnight bag.

***

T
he train pulled out of the station and gathered speed. Margo looked out of the grimy window as the town became countryside and fields and trees whizzed by faster and faster, until the train had reached cruising speed. She picked up the magazine she had bought at the station but put it down and looked out the window again. Thanks to the air conditioning, the carriage was relatively cool but the compartment was empty, probably because very few people would feel like going to Paris in the middle of August during the heatwave of the century. I must be mad, Margo thought. Why did I agree to go?

As the train made its way further north and Margo looked out at dry fields, where the grass had died and the earth had turned to dust, she realised that the heatwave had made the countryside a near desert. If it doesn’t rain soon, there will be a disaster, she thought, wondering how Jacques managed to feed and water his horses in this drought. Gráinne had said that she would try to get back to Ireland with the new horses as quickly as possible, as feed in France was becoming so scarce and expensive. She had left in the truck at dawn. She’ll be really tired after that late night, Margo thought. But it had been fun.

***

I
t was dark by the time the train finally arrived at the Gare St Lazare. The platform was nearly deserted, and it was so hot Margo felt as if she was stepping straight into a sauna. By the time she had got a taxi, her dress was soaked with perspiration, and she felt as if she was going to faint. She mumbled the address to the taxi driver and slumped into her seat, wiping her brow. “Could you switch on the air-conditioning, please?” she asked the driver.

“It’s on,” he grunted. “It usually works well, but it doesn’t seem to be able to cope with these temperatures. It’s still thirty degrees, you know. At eleven o’clock!
Incroyable
! And the humidity,
infernale.”

“I agree.” Margo looked out the window. She had never seen Paris so empty. Most of the restaurants were closed and even the bars seemed deserted. There was an eerie hush about the streets, like a feeling of impending doom.

“Terrible, this
canicule
,” the taxi driver volunteered. “It has driven a lot of people out of the city. But here we are.” The taxi pulled up outside the apartment building. Margo paid the driver and looked up at the building. Apart from the odd light here and there, the building was dark. She saw that Milady’s apartment was completely without light. She had been hoping François would be home so that she wouldn’t have to spend the night on her own in the huge apartment. But no such luck.

“Will you be all right, Mademoiselle?” the driver asked.

“Oh yes, fine,” Margo said, rummaging around in her bag for the key. What a nice man, she thought.

“I’ll stay here until you’re inside, just in case.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Margo had found the key and when she had paid the driver, walked up to the huge entrance door. She was just about to put the key into the lock, when the door swung open and a slim figure dashed past and got into the taxi. Margo stared in shock as it pulled away from the curb. The smell of perfume was still hanging in the air. But it wasn’t the woman’s perfume that had startled Margo. It was what she was wearing.

“I
’m telling you,” Margo said to François, who had miraculously appeared in the kitchen the following morning with a paper bag of fresh rolls and croissants, “she was wearing the dress. The Galliano that was stolen from your mother’s wardrobe.”

“How could you be so sure?” François said as he poured Margo a cup of coffee. “Hot milk?”

“Yes, please.” Margo put two lumps of sugar into her cup. “I’m very sure. I know that dress. I have handled it enough to be certain. You know how you notice minute details sometimes when you’re stressed? I saw the hand beading around the neckline clearly. And I found two seed pearls on the floor of the lift. I put them into the bowl on the hall table, if you want to see them. And I could smell her perfume. It was Joy de Patou. That very expensive one, you know? My mother received a tiny bottle of it as a present once, and I still remember the smell. She used to put it on when she was going to a party. You know how smells can take you right back?” She stared at François as he sat down opposite her.

“Hmm,” he said, smearing apricot jam on a piece of bread.

“What do you mean, ‘hmm’? Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes. I believe you
think
you saw this woman in that dress, but—”

“But what? You think I’m deranged or something?” Margo blew aside a lock of hair that was falling into her eyes.

“No, of course not. It’s just a little difficult to believe.”

“Yes, I find it hard to believe myself.”

“It seems to be worrying you. Maybe you should try to forget about it.”

“How can I? The whole thing is so weird, it’s driving me crazy. I have seen that woman several times now, and this last time she looked at me as if she knew me—”

François frowned. “I think there is probably an explanation to all this, and when you realise what it is, you will feel a little silly. Sometimes the mind plays tricks on you, especially in moments of great stress. You have probably been thinking about the dress a lot, wondering what happened to it, and since it’s on your mind, you see it everywhere.”

Margo looked at him thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right.” She picked up her cup. “Thanks for making breakfast. And for going out to get bread.”

“I knew you’d like fresh croissants for breakfast.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I saw your bag in the hall late last night. You must have just gone to bed when I came in.”

“I was exhausted. The trip was terrible.”

“And now you have to go back again.”

“But first I have to go and exchange the bowl.” Margo sighed and blew on her hair again.

“Your hair is growing out.”

“I know,” Margo said and pushed away the lock of hair that wouldn’t stay put. “I should really have a trim but I don’t have the time. And I doubt if I’ll be able to find the same hairdresser again.”

François looked at his watch. “It’s only seven thirty. If you like, you could try and see if you can have it done somewhere else. The colour needs to be retouched at the roots.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. It’s not that noticeable but it could do with a little work.”

Margo shrugged. “What does it matter? Who’s going to look at me, anyway?”

“I’ll tell you what,” François said, looking as if he just had a brilliant idea. “There is a hairdresser near the Lalique shop. Their salon is air-conditioned, and I know they open very early. My mother is one of their best customers. They might help you. You could have your hair cut and then go and get the bowl and continue to the station in plenty of time to catch the train. Why don’t I give them a call and see if they can fit you in?”

“Well, that’s very kind. I mean, if you don’t mind. If they are not too expensive.”

“It’s on the house. On me, I mean.” François smiled at her fondly. “That’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for my mother.”

“Oh, but I haven’t really done anything.”

“Oh yes. You’re very kind to her.” There was a warmth in his eyes as he looked at her.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“And I know a visit to the hairdresser will be just the thing for you. A little pampering is so good for one from time to time.” He took out his mobile. “I’ll give them a call right now. And why don’t you have a manicure and a facial while you’re there? I’ll tell them to really spoil you.”

“Oooh,” Margo sighed, “that sounds wonderful. Thank you so much.”

François dialled the number. “I’ll tell them you’re a very special friend of the family,” he said and winked at her. “They’ll treat you like royalty, I just know it.”

“You’re very kind.”

François smiled as he waited for a reply. “
Allo? Monsieur Claude? François Coligny ici...”

“They’re expecting you at nine o’clock,” François said after he finished the call.

“That’s great. Thank you so much.”

“I couldn’t let you go back without having your hair seen to. That style really suits you. It makes you look a little like Isabelle Huppert.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She is very beautiful, don’t you think? And when she wears her hair short like yours, she looks rather boyish but in a very attractive way.”

Margo tilted her head and smiled at him. “Is that the kind of woman you like? The boyish type?”

François picked up his half-empty coffee cup. “I don’t really have a type as such. I admire all women who are beautiful. Especially those who look after their appearance.”

“I’m a little careless about the grooming bit,” Margo admitted.

“You don’t really need to do all that much.” François studied her critically for a moment. “All you need is that haircut, and you’ll look fine again. With that gamine face and those big green eyes, you’re charming even without make-up.”

“That’s a relief.” Margo smiled at him, thinking how easy he was to talk to. Frenchmen are much closer to their feminine side than Englishmen, she thought. She couldn’t imagine having this kind of conversation with the Englishmen she knew and especially not Alan. She suddenly laughed as she tried to imagine it.

“What’s the joke?” François asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about someone.”

“Someone in your past?”

“Mmm.” Margo picked up a piece of bread and put it in her mouth.

“I presume it’s a man. Do you want to tell me about him?”

“No, not really,” Margo said, trying to keep her voice friendly.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” François said apologetically. “It’s just that you look so troubled sometimes, and I was wondering if you’d like someone to talk to. Someone who would just listen and try to help you solve whatever it is that worries you so.”