Finding Margo (23 page)

Margo slowly buttoned up her dress. She looked at her reflection in the antique mirror above the sofa and suddenly laughed at her dishevelled appearance.

“Margo Hunter, you’re a slut,” she told her reflection. She thought she could hear faint laughter in the room and turned around to meet the mischievous eyes of the woman in the blue dress, smiling at her from the portrait above the fireplace.

F
eeling restless, Margo went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She heard footsteps on the gravel outside. He’s back, she thought, pure joy flooding through her. Will I wait for him to come here or should I just go to him right now? No, what am I thinking? This must not continue. Despite herself, she smiled mischievously as the door opened. But it wasn’t Jacques.

“François? You’re back,” Margo said trying to compose herself.

“Yes, I just arrived.”

“But I thought you were going to stay in Paris until—”

“I know. I wasn’t going to drive down until the weekend, but then I managed to take care of things at the ministry and get some time off. I didn’t know I would until quite late, otherwise you could have driven down with me. But never mind that.” François wiped his normally cool forehead with a big white handkerchief. “There is—” he started. “Something terrible has just happened.”

Margo stared at him. “What?”

“Someone has died. My mother—”

“Your mother?” Margo gasped. “Good God, no.”

“No, not my mother. But she’s very upset. She was there, you see, when he died. He just dropped dead suddenly. Oh, my poor
Maman
.”

Margo felt herself go ice cold, and the colour drained from her face.

“Jacques?” she whispered. “Jacques is—?”

“No, don’t be silly.” François pulled out a chair and sat down. “I had better explain. My mother was attending that party.”

“The sixtieth birthday party?”

“Yes. It was a very big event. Lots of prominent people, some of whom had interrupted their holiday and flown in from their various villas on the Riviera. One of them was Jean-Jacques Gengoux, former president of France. Do you know who I mean?”

“Yes, of course. I read about him in Le Figaro only the other day.”

“Well, he was there with his wife. He seemed to have recovered very well from his slight heart problem, and I’m told he looked to be in very good form. But after dinner, as he was talking to my mother on the terrace, he suddenly collapsed. His wife rushed to his side and then, within minutes, he died in her arms.”

“In your mother’s?”

“No, in the arms of his wife, of course. Poor
Maman
.” François shook his head.

“It must have been a horrible shock to witness it all,” Margo said.

“Yes, she is very shaken. Jacques brought her home, and I was just driving up when they arrived. She was nearly hysterical. I’ve called the doctor, and he’ll be here soon.”

“Good. Is she in bed?”

“No, not yet. Jacques took her upstairs, but he’s not able to handle her at all. He’s too rough. So, Marguerite, I’m asking you if you could possibly go upstairs and see if you can.”

“But I don’t see what I could do,” Margo protested. “This is really a family matter.”

“She trusts you. You’re very gentle and kind. See if you can calm her until the doctor comes.”

“All right. I’ll go and see if I can do anything,” Margo said.

“Thank you so much.”

They made their way together through the hall and up the big staircase, walking quickly toward Milady’s bedroom. Margo was about to knock on the door, when it burst open and Jacques came out. His face was white and he looked at them as if he had never seen them before.

“
Toi?”
he snapped, glaring at François. “
Qu’est-que tu fais là
?”

“I brought Marguerite to see if she could help
Maman
,” François explained. “Get her into bed before the doctor arrives.”

“Well, you can try. I have had no luck at all with her. But—” he stopped and breathed deeply. “She has just told me something that I—that I find impossible to accept.”

“What?” Margo asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

He shook her hand off. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He stumbled past them.

François looked at his brother’s figure as he rushed down the corridor. “Poor Jacques,” he mumbled. “Poor bastard.”

“François?” Milady called weakly from the bedroom. “Is that you
mon chéri
?”

“Yes,” François called back. “I brought Marguerite.”

They walked into the room and found Milady sitting on the bed trying to undo the tiny mother of pearl buttons of her cream silk jacket. Her hands were shaking. and her face was the colour of putty. She looked up at them with eyes so full of despair, Margo felt tears welling up in her own eyes.

“I can’t,” Milady whispered. “The buttons. Please, help me.”

Margo flew to her side. “Of course, my dear Milady,” she exclaimed. “I’ll help you. Don’t fret. We’ll soon have you comfortable. The doctor is on his way.”

“Doctor?” Milady said bitterly. “What good is a doctor? Can he heal a broken heart? Can he make the dead come alive? Of course not. Nobody can. Nobody can ever undo the hurt or the pain.”

Margo helped remove the rest of Milady’s clothes and got her into her night gown. With François’ help, she managed to get the agitated woman into bed. She propped some pillows under her head and tucked the light cotton cover around her.

There was a faint crunch on the gravel below. François turned his head and listened. “That’ll be the doctor,” he said. “I’ll go and show him up. Stay with my mother, Marguerite.”

“Of course,” Margo said, taking the hanger with the cream silk suit and opening the wardrobe. As she pushed the clothes aside to hang it up, she spotted something eerily familiar. The black silk dress – the one that had been stolen. Margo peered at it, wondering if she was mistaken. But no, there it was. She lifted the hem and sniffed it. Yes, a slight touch of perfume still lingered on the fabric. Of course, she thought, suddenly realising what had been going on. The last piece of the jigsaw fell into place. How stupid of me not to understand it at once. But never mind. Let’s leave it for now. She hung up the suit and quickly closed the wardrobe.

“François?” Milady said weakly. “Where has he gone?”

“To show the doctor up,” Margo said, smoothing the hair from Milady’s forehead. “He won’t be a minute. Try to rest now.”

Milady’s hand’s shook as she plucked at the lace on the sheet. “He died in
her
arms,” she muttered. “In the arms of that—that prune-faced bitch. Dressed in the most horrible outfit. And her hair—” She stopped and looked up at Margo with eyes full of pain. “I loved him,” she whispered. “Oh God, how I loved him. I just wanted him to know—to know about—”

“Shh,” Margo whispered. “Try to relax.”

“Relax?” Milady’s voice was shrill. “My heart is broken. My poor love is dead, and you’re telling me to
relax?”

At that moment, the doctor walked into the room, followed by François.

“
Chère Madame,
so sorry to hear we are not well,” the doctor boomed. “Let’s have a look at you and see what we can do to make you feel more comfortable.”

The doctor gave Milady a shot and she seemed instantly calmer, lying limply against the pillows, her eyes half-closed. François left with the doctor, and Margo was about to tiptoe out when Milady said something.

“What?” Margo walked closer to the big bed.

“Close the shutters. The light – it’s too bright.”

“But it’s dark outside.”

“I want them closed. I want all the shutters in the whole house closed. As a sign of mourning. Of respect.”

“Of course. I’ll tell François.”

“Good. But don’t go yet. Sit here with me for a little while.”

“All right.” Margo sat down on a small armchair beside the bed.

“Hold my hand.”

Margo took the thin, cold hand in hers. The skin felt as fragile as tissue paper. “There. All right?”

“Yes.”

“Try to sleep,” Margo said softly.

“Yes,” Milady muttered. “Sleep. I will dream of him. I will pretend we are together.”

***

J
e vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace...

Margo woke slowly from an uneasy sleep. She sat up in the chair and straightened her stiff back. The murmuring continued, accompanied by a soft clicking noise. In the faint light of the bedside lamp, Margo peered at the dim figure in the bed. The prayer continued as Milady’s hand moved the beads of the rosary. The sound was oddly soothing, like a mantra, the words repeated over and over again, until Margo knew it by heart and started to join in. As she recited the ancient prayer, she felt a calm come over her, and she had an odd feeling that they were not alone, that there was something or someone watching over them. It was a comforting and, at the same time, very calming thought somehow. Finally, Milady stopped praying and still clutching the rosary, turned her head toward Margo.

“Marguerite?”

“Yes, Milady.”

“You are still here? What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. It’s still dark.” Margo rose from the chair. “If you feel a little better, maybe I could—”

“No!’ The voice was full of despair. “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”

“But maybe François or Jacques could—”

“No, don’t disturb them. They need their sleep, poor boys.”

Margo sat down again. “OK. I’ll stay for a while longer.”

“Thank you.” Milady sighed and shifted in the bed. “I’m wide awake now. Whatever the doctor gave me has worn off. I need something stronger. Could you call him?”

“But it’s the middle of the—”

“He’s a doctor. It’s his job to look after me. Even in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, but—” Margo didn’t feel like calling the doctor. Milady didn’t seem that bad. Sad, yes, but not as badly shaken as earlier. “I’ll get you a drink,” she said. “Some hot milk with a little whiskey. I have always found that very good.”

“Well, we could try.” Milady didn’t sound too convinced.

When Margo came back with the hot milk into which she had splashed a considerable amount of Scotch, Milady was sitting up in bed, looking at a photograph in a silver frame. She showed it to Margo.

“This is the only picture I have. Look, wasn’t he handsome?”

Margo put the steaming mug on the bedside table and took the photograph. In the dim light, she peered at the attractive man smiling broadly into the camera and thought he looked just a little too conceited for her taste. He also seemed vaguely familiar. Someone she knew looked a little like this, but she couldn’t think of who it was. She looked at the man again, at his white teeth and thick, dark hair. Too sure of his good looks and effect on women, she thought and handed the picture back.

“Very handsome,” she agreed.

“Yes.” Milady sighed. “And he loved me. Only me.”

“Yes, of course he did,” Margo soothed. “Drink your milk now.”

Milady slowly sipped the milk. “Tastes odd. Bitter and sweet at the same time. Like my life.” She drained the last drops, gave the mug to Margo, and lay back against the pillows again. “Sit with me for a while.”

Margo sat down on the hard chair again.

“I feel,” Milady said, “as if I’m trapped in some kind of nightmare. As if I will wake up any minute and everything will be as it was before. But then I look around the room and all the things in it, and I know I’m not dreaming. I look at you and your tired face, and everything comes rushing back.”

“It must be so horrible,” Margo said.

“It is.” Milady was quiet for a while. She looked at Margo. “Have you ever been through this kind of thing? Have you ever lost someone you loved more than your own life?”

“No,” Margo said, suddenly realising it was true. She had never loved anyone like that.

“But you lost your father.”

“My father? Yes, he died about five years ago. Of course I was sad, but we were never really close.”

“Tell me about him.”

Margo felt as if a cold hand clutched at her stomach. “He was strict,” she said, as memories she had tried to force out of her mind came flooding back. “Distant,” she added. “And critical. I never felt I quite measured up to his expectations. I remember thinking, when I was very young, that he didn’t really love me.”

“I’m sure you were wrong,” Milady murmured. “I’m sure he must have loved you in his own way.”

“Maybe he did. He just never showed it. And he didn’t really give me any praise or tell me he was proud of me. He only complained about my bad behaviour and poor marks at school. I sometimes lied and said I was at the top of my class, but when he found me out, he was furious. And then I really made an effort and eventually got very good results in the end, but by then he had lost interest. He was only pleased with me once in my entire life.”

“When was that?”

“When I got married. He was very proud of the fact that I married such a successful man.”

“Maybe he thought it would make you happy.”

“No, he thought it would be good for business.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Do I?” Margo shrugged. “What does it matter now? He is dead.”

“What about your marriage?” Milady asked with more interest. “Is it over?”

“I don’t know. It depends. Maybe we just need to be away from each other for a while.”

“But there is nobody else, is there? No other man in your life?”

Margo was grateful for the dim light. “No,” she said.

“Good. That would cloud the issue. Make you feel confused, I mean. You have to make up your mind about your marriage first. There is nothing worse than being torn between two men.”

“Like you?”

“Me? No, I wasn’t torn at all. I only ever loved one man.” Milady sighed deeply. “Only him. We were lovers for many years. Then we broke up, and we didn’t see each other for a long time. Years. But then we met again, about twenty years ago, and we started seeing each other. My husband had just died. Jacques was fourteen and François twenty-two and going to university. I thought that we would eventually marry, now that my husband was dead and Jean-Jacques’ political career was coming to an end, but he couldn’t leave his wife. She had the money, you see. And she threatened to expose him if he left. He wanted to protect his image as this charismatic man with a big heart and a happy marriage.”