Finding Margo (4 page)

“How is it?” Gráinne asked, pulling off her shirt. “Hope it isn’t too cold.”

“It’s lovely.” Margo turned away as Gráinne stripped off the rest of her clothes. “You know,” she said, her eyes on the trees opposite, “I just remembered. There are some soaps in my bag. The big leather one. I bought them—well, never mind. Help yourself.”

“Great.” Margo could hear Gráinne rummage in the bag. “Jesus, this is really fancy. Smells like a whole whorehouse. Want one?”

“Yes, please.” Margo swam closer and caught the soap Gráinne threw her.

“This is nice.” Gráinne lathered up her soap and rubbed her breasts. “I never buy this kind of thing. A bar of Palmolive usually lasts me months. But these little guys seem to melt... oops, dropped it down my—”

Margo swam away again. She trod water while she discreetly washed herself under the surface.

“What are you doing over there?” Gráinne shouted. “I can hardly see you. I have to stay in the shallow end. Swimming is not exactly my favourite sport.”

Margo swam a little closer. “Don’t you know how to—” A shout from the trees, accompanied by loud barking, interrupted her. A man’s voice called out something in French. Margo sank deeper into the water, suddenly aware of her state of undress.

“
Qui est la?”
the deep voice called.

“It’s only me, Jacques,” Gráinne yelled back. “I’m bringing a couple of horses back from the championships in Grenoble. I have someone to help me, and we’re having a swim, OK? It’s the farm manager,” she whispered to Margo. “Probably come to have a peek, the bloody pervert.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle O’Sullivan,” the voice said, sounding more friendly. “And you have a—a—friend?”

Margo looked up and saw the outline against the sky of a man holding a dog on a lead.

“That’s right,” Gráinne replied. “And we’re just cooling off before dinner.”

“
Ah, oui
. I understand.” The man stood there, looking at them for a while, then turned and walked back the way he had come.

“Bloody peeping Tom,” Gráinne muttered. “Well, he can keep his thing in his trousers. I’m not interested.”

Margo swam away again. She moved slowly through the water, enjoying the cool silkiness against her skin. She looked up at the crescent moon and the stars and felt that she was in some kind of odd twilight zone. The real Margo had continued in the car and was now at the hotel, sorting out their luggage, soothing Alan, humouring him, apologising, taking more abuse, and finally in bed, weeping quietly to herself, her tears sliding into the pillow. What am I doing? she thought. Where am I going? She stared at the moon as if it could give her an answer, but it looked silently back at her, the mystery of the universe in its silvery light.

T
here was a smell of cooking in the air as Margo shuffled back to the truck, the big wellies chafing the skin of her heels.

“There you are,” Gráinne said as Margo came around the side of the barn. “I’m cooking up a storm here.”

“So I see.” Margo put down her bag and walked over to a camping stove Gráinne had rigged up on an up-turned wooden crate under the headlights of the truck. She sniffed the air hungrily. “What’s that I can smell?”

“Sausages. I found some of these in a supermarket this morning. Not like Irish sausages, though, but they seem all right. What do you think? You don’t mind eating warm food? I know something cold would be better in this hot weather, but this is all I have apart from bread and cheese. Not your three-course gourmet dinner, but okay all the same.”

Margo’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. “They smell lovely. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

“Shh, not too loud. You might upset you-know-who,” Gráinne whispered, waving her fork in the direction of the paddock. “Fuck!’ she jumped back as the sausages suddenly spat in the pan. “Sorry. I mean, damn. Oh shit.” Gráinne looked apologetically at Margo, rubbing her hand. “Those bloody things spit like hell.”

“Are you all right?” Margo moved closer and peered at Gráinne’s hand.

“Yeah, fine. I think they’re cooked now in any case. Why don’t you grab some of those paper plates over there and help yourself to some sausages and bread. I think there are tomatoes in the shopping bag and a big piece of cheese.”

A few minutes later they were sitting on a bale of straw, eating Gráinne’s improvised supper. Apart from a soft rustle from the paddock and the odd cry of an owl, the dark, velvety night was still. Food never tasted so good, Margo thought as she bit into the sausage. It reminded her again of pony camp, of picnics in the woods, of feeling content and safe and not needing much more than the comfort of food, companionship, and a good night’s sleep.

“Lovely sausage,” she muttered through a mouthful.

“Yeah, not bad. Pity the bread is a bit hard. But that’s French bread for you. Doesn’t stay fresh for more than half an hour.” Gráinne chewed laboriously. “Tough as old leather,” she mumbled.

“I know. French people buy bread three times a day. I always thought it was such a chore having to go to the baker’s all the time.”

“How come you know so much about it?”

“I spent a year in Bordeaux as an au pair when I had just finished school. I thought I might do a degree in French or something.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No.” Margo cut herself another wedge of cheese. “This is nice. What kind of cheese is it?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Gráinne studied Margo. “What are you going to do when you get to Paris?”

“I’m going to look up a friend. Well, acquaintance, really. She’s been asking me to visit since she moved there from London.”

“Oh? What’s she doing there? Working?”

“No. She’s a solicitor but I think she took a career break when her husband was posted abroad. He works at the British embassy. He’s the agricultural attaché there.”

“What? In Paris? I didn’t think they had any agriculture there.” Gráinne bit off another piece of bread with her small white teeth. “I’ve only been there once, and I’ve never seen any cattle. Lots of pigs though but only of the two-legged male kind.”

Margo laughed. “I know what you mean.”

Gráinne peered at her. “Not too fond of them either?”

“Men? No, no at the moment. In fact I think I might give them up altogether.” Margo broke off a piece of bread.

“Good idea. I never could figure out what use they are, actually. Apart from the obvious.”

“You haven’t had much luck with men?” It was Margo’s turn to study Gráinne.

“Do you want another beer?” Gráinne asked. “There’s a can left, and I’ll split it with you if you like.”

“No, you have it,” Margo said, feeling that one can of lukewarm Irish beer was as much as she could cope with. “Thanks for supper. It was great.”

“Glad you liked it.” Gráinne took Margo’s plate and put it with her own into a plastic bag. “And no washing up. Do you feel like turning in?”

“Oh yes. I’m really tired.”

“OK. Let’s get organised, so. The sleeping quarters in this truck are not exactly five star. Hope you can cope with that.” Gráinne opened the door to the truck and climbed in. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Margo got onto the step behind her.

“This is my bunk here behind the front seat,” Gráinne explained. “And that’s where you’ll sleep tonight.”

“No, I couldn’t take your bed,” Margo protested.

“Yes, you will, and no arguments. I’ll set up the camp bed in the back of the truck. That’s where that bitch who ran off used to sleep. It’s quite all right, really.”

“Are you sure?”

“No bother,” Gráinne assured her, taking a bundle of blankets from a stack on the bunk. “Here.” She handed some white fabric to Margo. Hang those over the windows. They’ll stop the midges. Buggers would eat you alive.”

“Mosquito netting?” Margo turned the fabric in her hands. “You’re very organised.”

“Nah, just a couple of net curtains from back home. Try to get comfortable. Here’s a blanket and there’s a pillow over there. That’s all you’ll need in this heat. I’d take off those clothes and sleep in the buff if I were you. Much cooler.”

“Actually, I have a nightie,” Margo, said, suddenly realising that she had all her overnight requirements in the leather bag.

“Good. OK. That’s you organised.” Gráinne jumped down onto the ground. “I’m going to have a last fag, and then I’ll turn in as well. Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight and thanks a lot.”

“Ah sure, it was nothing.”

Margo secured the net curtains across the open windows and changed into her pretty white cotton night gown – the kind she had thought Alan would like, with lace around the low neckline and a slit to the thigh. She had hoped it would turn him on. Margo suddenly felt herself shiver. She lay on the hard bunk and pulled the blanket over her. She closed her eyes, but even though she was exhausted, she was too tense to sleep. She could smell faint cigarette smoke and hear Gráinne moving around on the other side of the partition, muttering to herself. Everything that had happened that day flashed through her mind; the row in the car, Alan’s rage, her sudden urge to run away, Gráinne, the truck, the horses... “Stan,” she mumbled, “the stream, Gráinne, Paris...”

***

“A
re you OK?” Gráinne asked, lighting up her first cigarette of the day, as they rumbled up the motorway. “Not too tired?”

“I slept quite well, really.” Margo smiled and scratched a midge bite on her arm.

“Really? I wonder how? I must have snored like a fuc—fecking elephant.”

“You did. But that didn’t really bother me.”

“You must have been really wrecked if you could sleep through my snoring,” Gráinne remarked.

“I was. But now I feel great. And I had a lovely dip in the stream this morning.”

“You seem to be hooked on cleaning yourself.”

“I thought you went in as well.”

“Nope. Last night was enough.”

“But I could have sworn—” Margo stopped. “Do you smoke French cigarettes?”

“You mean those fat ones that smell like old socks? No way. I prefer a good old Marlboro.”

“Oh.” Margo stared ahead without seeing the cars and trucks, remembering getting out of the water and a faint smell of a Gauloise.

Gráinne glanced sideways at Margo. “So, you’re going to stay with these friends in Paris, is that it?”

“That’s right.”

“Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jesus, I mean what the feck are you going to do when your visit’s over? Are you going back to London or what?”

“I don’t know.” Margo suddenly felt butterflies in her stomach. “I might stay on for a bit. I like Paris. It’s my favourite city.”

“You know your way around then?”

“Oh yes. I’ve been there many times.”

“OK, here’s the exit you asked for,” Gráinne announced. “Are you sure that’s where you want to get off? I mean you could go with me a bit further.”

“No, this is fine. I can take a train to Paris and then the Metro to my friend’s apartment. And this way you don’t have to go all the way into the city centre.”

“OK. Suit yourself.” Gráinne turned into the exit and drove up the slip road to the roundabout. They could see the train station as they drove into the small village.

Gráinne pulled up the truck. “Here we are,” she announced. “Right at the station. Fecking brilliant driving, even if I say so myself.”

“Absolutely,” Margo agreed. She gathered up her bags. “Well, this is it then. Thank you and—”

“Hang on,” Gráinne said, rummaging around in the glove compartment. “I’ll give you my mobile number. Just in case, right? You never know when you might need to get in touch. Got to have something to write on somewhere... Here we are.” She picked up a piece of crumpled paper and scribbled something on it. “There. Give us a shout if – well, you know.”

“Thanks.” Margo shoved the piece of paper into her handbag.

“Well, that’s it. See ya around sometime.” Gráinne hesitated and then suddenly held out her hand. “Goodbye and good luck and all that crap. Thanks a lot for helping out with the horses.”

“No, thank
you
so much. For—for—everything.” On impulse, Margo leaned over and gave Gráinne a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh shit,” Gráinne muttered, turning red. “It was nothing.”

Margo opened the door and climbed down onto the street. She looked up at Gráinne for a moment. “Goodbye,” she whispered and without looking around, walked swiftly across the street into the railway station.

***

M
argo rang the bell and heard it echo inside the apartment. There was no sound for what seemed like an age and she pressed the button again. Still nothing. She was about to turn around and leave when the big door suddenly swung open. She smiled expectantly as a slim woman wearing a black dress, at least five rows of pearls and with her dark hair swept up in a French twist, came into view.

“Fiona! Hi!’ Margo stepped forward, ready to kiss her friend on the cheek, but Fiona stepped back, a look of horror on her face and stared at Margo as if she had seen a ghost.

“Margo,” she gasped, putting a hand to her chest. “You’re alive. Thank God.”

“Alive?” Margo said. “Of course I am. What’s the matter? I know it must be a huge surprise, and I should have called first to tell you I was in town, but I thought—”

Fiona grabbed Margo roughly by the arm and pulled her into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her.

“What are you—,” Margo protested, trying to shake loose.

“Shut up,” Fiona hissed. “Come with me.” She propelled Margo through the hall, down a corridor, and through a large kitchen where two waitresses making canapés looked at them curiously. “Just carry on,” Fiona snapped at them and pulled a door open. She dragged Margo into a small sitting room. “We can talk here.”

“But Fiona,” Margo panted, trying to catch her breath after the sprint from the front door. “What’s wrong?”

“Sit down,” Fiona ordered as she locked the door.

“OK.” Margo sat down on a small sofa and stared at Fiona. “Please, why are you so...”

Fiona twirled around. “Why am I so
what
?” she snapped. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t you know everybody’s looking for you?”

“Everybody? What do you mean? Who is looking for me?”