Finding Margo (34 page)

“Aha, a romantic weekend. And where is this wonderful man now? I’d love to meet him.”

“He went to see some war museum,” Gráinne said. “Invalids, or something.”

“Les Invalides,” Margo said. “That’s a great museum. Very interesting.”

“Yeah, but I’m not really into that sort of thing, so I told him I wanted to see you and he said, of course, off you go and see you later. You see, that’s what’s so great about Seamus.”

“What is?”

“He lets me do my own thing. He actually pushes me to go off and do things on my own. He doesn’t like women who are doormats, he says, and he doesn’t think I should be his slave.”

“Seems like a great guy,” Margo said.

“Oh yes, he is.” Gráinne looked at her watch. “He should be back soon. Do you want to go back to the hotel and wait for him? I know you’ll like him.”

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Margo said, getting up. “I promised Milady I would be back for early supper.”

“So you’re leaving now?”

“Yes. But maybe we can get together before you go back?”

“OK. But if you’re leaving anyway, I’m going to tell you what I was about to a while ago.”

“What?” Margo sighed. “Go on, then. Tell me. Tell me he’s a bastard.”

“No, that wasn’t it,” Gráinne protested. “Not that I wouldn’t say that too.”

“OK but come on,” Margo urged, poised to walk out. “Spit it out.”

“I know where he is,” Gráinne said. “I spoke to him two days ago.”

***

“C
ould you tell Milady dinner is served?”

“No, I can’t,” François said.

“Why?” Margo turned around, expecting to see him dressed in the more casual clothes he had begun to change into whenever he came home from the ministry. Tonight, he was still in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and discreet silk tie, his hair neatly brushed.

“Because my mother won’t be home in time for dinner. She just called and said she was stuck in a meeting with the Red Cross. They’re doing a report on that lunch the other day. She asked me to keep you company tonight.” He took the jug. “I’ll bring this in. Is there anything else?”

“No, just the bread. I’ll take that.”

“Fine. Where’s Justine?”

“She has the evening off. She made the casserole before she left. But if there’s just the two of us, we can eat here in the kitchen,” Margo suggested.

“The dining room is much nicer,” François said.

“Of course.” Margo followed him down the corridor.

In the dining room, François lifted the lid of the casserole dish. “This smells nice.”

“Mmm, yes,” Margo said, sitting down at the round mahogany table. “Justine is a very good cook.”

François took a bottle of red wine from the rack on the sideboard. “How are you feeling these days?” he asked, pulling the cork out of the bottle.

“I’m feeling fine. Amazingly well, actually.”

“Good. And you’re sleeping well?” François sniffed the cork and poured a small amount of wine into a glass.

“Like the proverbial log. Do you want me to serve you some chicken?”

“Yes please. I’m glad you’re feeling so well.” He stuck his nose into the glass, then twirled it around and examined the ruby red liquid critically before taking a mouthful and swirling it around in his mouth.

“Is it all right?” Margo put a plate of food at his place.

“Excellent.” François poured more wine into the glass and, bringing glass and bottle with him, sat down at the table with a satisfied look. He held out the bottle toward Margo. “Would you like a glass?”

“I shouldn’t really,” Margo said, helping herself to some chicken.

“Because of the baby?” François looked at her with a little smile.

“Oh. She told you.” Margo blushed slightly.

François put down the bottle and touched her hand. “Congratulations,” he said gently. “I’m really very pleased.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you know.”

“Well, it would be a little difficult to keep it a secret for much longer.” He held up the bottle again. “How about a little wine to celebrate? Just a small glass?”

“I’ve been told I have to stay off any alcohol.”

François raised an eyebrow “Oh? By whom? My mother?”

“Well yes. And I’m sure she’s right. Drinking would not be good for the baby.”

“Half a glass of this really superb wine couldn’t do you or him any harm, I’m sure.”

“Or her,” Margo said. “All right. Half a glass, then.”

“That’s the spirit,” François said and poured the required amount into Margo’s glass.

Margo sipped the wine, looking at him thoughtfully. He seemed ill at ease tonight, or was he nervous? “This is indeed very good.”

“Should be. A very good Bordeaux. We might as well enjoy it, as my mother would never allow me to open such a bottle in the middle of the week.” He drank from his glass with the air of someone enjoying some extremely forbidden fruit. “Ah, that is truly excellent,” he sighed. He looked at her affectionally. “There is nothing better than good wine, good food, and good company. And here I am enjoying all three.”

“Me too,” Margo nodded.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Not at all. I really enjoy your company, you know.”

“Yes, we get on so well together, you and I,” François said, pouring himself yet another glass of wine. He held the bottle toward Margo, but she shook her head. “Wise,” he said. “Very wise.” He drank deeply from his glass.

As the meal progressed, Margo watched with apprehension as François finished the bottle and proceeded to open another one. “Just to go with the cheese,” he said, noticing Margo’s expression.

“There isn’t any,” Margo said. “Justine forgot to buy cheese today. There’s just a little bit of the apple tart left over from Sunday.”

“Well then, the wine will go just as well with that,” François remarked. “Bring it in, and we’ll see if I’m right.”

Margo fetched the apple tart from the kitchen, and François declared it and the wine a truly excellent combination. She looked at his slightly flushed face and thought he looked like a little boy bunking off school. Then he looked at her across the table, and as their eyes met, his expression changed.

“Marguerite,” he said softly, “may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course. What’s the question?”

He put his hand on hers again. “Marguerite, I was wondering—if Jacques doesn’t come back and you find yourself alone when the baby comes, would you consider marrying me?”

Margo stared at his kind face and, for just one second, toyed with the idea of marrying François and enjoying all the perks that would come with it. Then she came to her senses. “Oh, François,” she said, “that is so sweet of you.” She put her other hand over his. “I like you a lot, I really do. But—”

“You don’t find me attractive?”

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed. “I do. You’re a very handsome man, you really are. And so elegant and well dressed. And I’m sure you’d be a marvellous husband, and we’d get on really well, but—”

He pulled his hand away. “I see.”

“Please, don’t be hurt,” Margo said. “I know that a lot of women would jump at the chance of marrying you. It’s just that I think you and I—well, it wouldn’t work.”

“No, I suppose you’re right.” François sighed, looking resigned and, to Margo’s surprise, relieved. “All right, there we are. No harm in asking.”

“Of course not. It was sweet of you.” Something suddenly occurred to Margo. “But what about your girlfriend? Why are you asking me to marry you, when you’re already in love with someone else?”

“In love?” François looked at her, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

“Please, don’t pretend,” Margo begged. “I know all about her. I’ve seen her several times.”

There was a brief silence while François looked down at his plate, then back at Margo. “All right then. I know you’ve seen each other. She told me.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“Beautiful? Do you really think so?”

“Oh yes,” Margo assured him. “I’ve only seen her briefly, but I noticed her lovely figure, her blonde hair, and those legs. God, they’re fabulous.”

“That’s very kind,” François said, looking a little shy.

“But why the secrecy? Is it because your mother wouldn’t approve of her?

“She certainly wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

François hesitated. “You see, Paquita, my girlfriend, is not at all the kind of girl my mother would like me to be associated with. She’s Brazilian and sings in a nightclub.”

“I see. But if your mother met this Paquita and got to know her, don’t you think she would learn to accept her in time?”

“No, that’s impossible,” François said flatly. “I don’t want to even imagine what she would do if she knew what was going on.”

“You think she might try to have Paquita deported?” Margo asked.

“Maybe.”

“But why don’t you just do it? Marry Paquita, and tell your mother to get lost? It’s not as if you’re a minor or something. You can do what you want, surely?”

“Marry her?” François said, suddenly making a noise that sounded strangely like a giggle.

“Yes,” Margo said. “Why not?”

François shook his head. “No, that is not possible, believe me.”

“I’m sorry. That’s really sad for you, François.

“You have no idea how sad it is.” François sighed and poured himself some more wine. “And I’m really sorry you don’t want to marry me. It would have solved a lot of problems. My mother would be so happy if—”

“She put you up to it, didn’t she?” Margo said, feeling suddenly angry.

“I’m sorry?”

“Milady told you to propose to me,” Margo said, nodding slowly. “I can see in your eyes that it’s true. And she stayed out tonight to give us a chance to be alone.”

“Yes, you’re right,” François said, looking slightly shamefaced. “She said it would make her so happy. We would be this perfect family. My mother, the glamorous grandmother, you, me, and Josephine.”

“Josephine,” Margo whispered. “Oh God.”

“The baby girl.”

“I know.” Margo jumped as the front door slammed.

“Hellooo?” Milady chanted from the hall as François and Margo stared at each other across the table “Anybody home?”

***

L
ater that evening, Margo was getting into bed, looking forward to a good night’s sleep for once, when there was a gentle knock on the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It’s me,” François murmured.

“Oh, all right, just a minute.” Margo sighed, got out of bed, threw on her dressing gown, and opened the door. “What’s the matter?” she asked as François tiptoed through the door and closed it softly behind him.

“Shh,” he whispered. “She’s still on the prowl.”

“Who? What are you talking about?” Margo asked, feeling tired and irritated.

“My mother, of course,” François said and walked closer to Margo. “I have something to tell you.”

“What? I thought we had finished our talk. And your mother didn’t seem too worried when we told her I was going to think about it. About marrying you, I mean.”

“No, she accepted my explanation,” François nodded. “We’ll have plenty of time to get her used to the idea there will be no wedding. Between you and me, I mean,” he added, making a vague gesture.

“Good. So what’s the problem, then? Why are you here?”

“To tell you something very important.” François looked around the room. “May I sit down?”

“Of course,” Margo said, showing him the chair in front of the dressing table. “Why don’t you sit there?” She sank down on the bed and looked at François as he made himself comfortable on the spindly chair.

Once he was sitting down, François leaned forward and stared at Margo. “I have come to tell you,” he said, “that you have to get away from my mother.”

“Why?” Margo asked, mystified by his words and his demeanour.

“Because she is dangerous,” François whispered. “She will eat you alive like a black widow spider and then steal your baby.”

Margo sat up. “You drank too much wine at dinner.”

“No, please listen to me,” François insisted. “Maybe I have drunk a little too much, but it gives me the courage to speak to you like this. My mother is a little mad, I think. She’s becoming obsessed with the baby.”

Margo started to say something, but François held up a hand to stop her. “Let me explain,” he said. “Please, just listen to me for a moment.”

“All right,” Margo said, her heart beating a little faster.

“My mother thinks that this is her last link with her lover. Your baby, I mean. She thinks that the baby will be a girl and that she will be the daughter they never had.”

“That’s why she wants me to marry you?”

“But of course. She begged me to ask you, and I agreed just to humour her, you see. But I knew deep down you would say ‘no’. And you did, and I was rather relieved, I have to say. I don’t really want to marry anyone.”

“Not even Paquita?” Margo asked.

“Especially not her. Oh, Marguerite,” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. I really like you and if—if things hadn’t happened the way they have, maybe—who knows?” He pushed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

“Bbut—” Margo stammered, trying to take in that Milady was obsessive and dangerous. “Are you sure? I mean she has been so kind, so concerned, and supportive. She treats me as if I was made of glass. I had a feeling we were getting so close and that she really cares about me.”

“She is really good at that.” François nodded. He leaned his elbow on the dressing table, slipping slightly sideways. “Don’t you see?” he whispered in an exaggerated way. “You are only the vesh—the wish—the vessel. It’s what’s inside you she’s really intresh—interush – that she really wants. Once she gets her hands on her—”

“Or him.”

“Or what?” François looked a little confused. Then he nodded. “Or him, yes, then she will no longer care about you. She will drive you away and keep the baby.”

“I think you’re exaggerating,” Margo said. “And I think the wine has gone to your head.”

“Oh, Marguerite, you don’t know my mother. Just think about it for a while. Haven’t you noticed how she hovers around you all the time?”

“Well yes, but she’s just being kind.”

“And I’m sure you’ve also noticed that she is very careful never to leave you on your own during the day.”