Finding Margo (7 page)

“We’ve met many times at horse trials,” Margo lied. “And when I was in Grenoble...”

One of the Comtesse’s eyebrows shot up. “Grenoble? You met him in Grenoble?”

“Yes. About a week ago.”

“How strange.”

“Why?”

The almond eyes were now colder than a Norwegian mountain lake. “Because, Mademoiselle, my son wasn’t in Grenoble this year.”

“Oh.” Shit, Margo thought. “I mean, somebody gave me this letter from him while I was there,” she said, trying to sound confident.

“I see.”

Margo squirmed under the frosty stare. There was a long pause. Then the Comtesse spoke again. “You’re not Irish,” she said sternly. “Nobody in Ireland speaks with that accent. Except for those dreadful Anglo-Irish. You’re not one of them, are you?”

“Well, no.”

“Of course not.” The Comtesse looked at her with more interest. “In that case, you can’t be this... this Gray...what was that name again?”

“Gráinne,” Margo mumbled. “Rhymes with ‘saw’,” she added automatically, “then ‘nya’.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.”

“Very well.”

They looked at each other during what Margo thought giddily to herself was a very pregnant pause. The game is up, she realised. I might as well just tell the woman the truth and get out. “No, I’m not,” she said. “Her, I mean. Gráinne.”

The Comtesse stared at her incomprehensibly, then shook her head as if to clear her mind. “Tell me then,” she demanded. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

“It’s a long story.”

The Comtesse opened a lacquered box on the inlayed coffee table, took out a cigarette, and put it in a long black holder. “
Racontez- moi
,” she ordered, crossing her long slim legs and lighting the cigarette with a Dunhill lighter. “I’m sure it’s very interesting.”

Margo looked on, fascinated, as the Comtesse blew out a thin stream of smoke through her perfect nostrils. The pungent smell of the French cigarette reminded her of something or someone but she couldn’t quite remember what or who.

“Well,” she started, “I was on holiday, you see. But I had a bit of bad luck with...with the tour bus I was on.”

“Tour bus?” One of the perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up again.

“Yes. It was going to Cannes.”

“A tour bus? To Cannes?
Vraiment
?” The Comtesse looked at Margo incredulously. “I had no idea that sort of thing went to places like Cannes.”

“Well yes, they do, but I never got there because—because—” Margo didn’t quite know how to continue, how to make her lie more convincing. “The bus stopped to refuel at a motorway station. I got off to—to powder my nose, and when I came out again, the bus had left.”

“The bus had left? How very inconsiderate of it.” The Comtesse looked faintly amused. “Then what did you do?”

“Well, I... I kind of changed my mind about going to Cannes and decided to try to get to Paris and then go back to London with the Eurostar or something. I was lucky enough to bump into a very nice woman who gave me a lift to Paris.” Margo was talking very fast now, as if this would make her story more believable. “That was Gráinne O’Sullivan, actually.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday. I see. So what did you do when you arrived in Paris?”

“I... Well, I looked up a friend who is living in Paris. Her husband works at the British embassy,” Margo babbled on, “and I thought she might put me up, but—”

“But?”

“Well, she couldn’t, as it turned out, because, well, that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Not really, no,” the Comtesse said in a bored tone of voice. “And where did you spend the night?”

“In a hotel in Rue St Denis.”

Now both the eyebrows shot up, nearly colliding with the hairline. “Rue St Denis? In a
maison de passe
?”

“Well yes, I suppose it was, but I didn’t realise until—”

“Must have been an interesting experience,” the Comtesse remarked with a hint of a smile.

“Not one I would care to repeat.”

“I should think not.”

“No.”

There was another long silence, during which the Comtesse continued to smoke with utmost elegance. “So,” she said finally, “this—this whatever her name was, that Irish woman who gave you a lift, told you to come here and pretend you were her and try to get this job?”

“No. She knows nothing about it.”

“You stole the letter?” the Comtesse’s lips curled.

“No Gráinne gave it to me.”

“She gave it to you, but she doesn’t know about the job?”

“No, she knew about
that
, but—”

“It’s all a pack of lies, isn’t it?”

Margo gave up. “I’d better go now,” she said getting to her feet. “Thank you for seeing me, Madame.”

“Sit down,” the Comtesse ordered.

Margo sat again, startled by the sharp tone.

“
Allons
,” the Comtesse said. “Let’s forget about your story. How you got here is of no importance. I’m more interested in your skills.”

“My skills?” Margo asked, mystified.

“Yes. I might be able to use you. What is your profession?”

“Profession? Well, I suppose you could say that I’m a medical secretary.”

“Excellent. And you have a very nice accent. I take it that you would like to stay on in Paris for a while?”

Margo nodded, feeling a ray of hope.

“And that you might also prefer to be...shall we say, incognito?”

“Yes,” Margo mumbled.

“Are you involved in any kind of crime?”

“Absolutely not,” Margo declared.

“That, my dear, seems to be the first time you told me the truth.” The Comtesse looked at Margo shrewdly. “And what about your husband?”

“What makes you think I’m married?”

“Apart from your wedding ring and that rather vulgar diamond? Nothing. But you are quite attractive for an Englishwoman, and you’re not a teenager, so I assumed—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine.” The Comtesse removed what was left of her cigarette from the holder and stubbed it out in a marble ashtray. “I’m not interested in your love life, or lack of it.” Her gaze strayed to Margo’s hair. “That—that
coiffure
– is it on purpose or are you recovering from an illness?”

Margo touched her hair. “Well, no. It was a kind of an accident—”

“I don’t think I want to know. Let’s hope it grows out very quickly. Now, about your position.”

“But what do you want me for?” Margo managed to cut in. “I mean, what sort of job would it be? I don’t think I want to do housework or anything like that.”

“You would be my secretary, of course. Or...” The Comtesse seemed to consider the question for a moment. “Personal assistant? Yes. I had an assistant, but she just left to get married, and well, I was going to advertise the position but now that you’re here, I thought I might give you a chance. In any case, you’re the same size as...” She paused. “What do you think?”

“I—well...” Margo didn’t know what to say. What was going on here? she wondered. She had been sure the Comtesse was going to throw her out when she discovered that she had been lying, but now...

“Room, board, and three hundred euros a month,” the Comtesse breezed on. “All right?”

It seemed like the worst deal Margo had ever heard of and she was about to say so, but considering the alternative, she managed a feeble, “yes”. What have I got to lose? she thought. I can always leave when I’ve had enough.

“Excellent.” The Comtesse nodded, looking satisfied. “Now, all I want to know is your name. Now that we have established that you are not this Mademoiselle O’Sullivan, I mean.”

“Of course. My name,” Margo started, “is Mar—Margaret...” She glanced around the room for inspiration and caught sight of the television set. “Philips,” she ended. “Margaret Philips.”

The Comtesse followed her gaze. “That’s a Sony. Never mind. I will just call you Marguerite.”

“And what do I call you? Countess?”

“Oh, I don’t use my title these days. Nobody does. It’s because of the socialists.” The Comtesse paused. “You may call me Milady.”

“Very well.”

“And I expect you to be very discreet and not to gossip. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely,” Margo promised, wondering what sort of things there would be to gossip about.

“Good. Now, about your accommodation.” The Comtesse’s voice took on a businesslike tone. “There is a staff room on the top floor of this building. You will take your meals in the kitchen with Justine.”

“Justine?”

“My housekeeper. She let you in.” The Comtesse looked Margo up and down with a hint of distaste. “Do you have any other clothes?”

“No. I left my clothes—”

“On the bus?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?” The almond eyes bored into Margo.

“Yes, Milady,” Margo mumbled, feeling like a twelve-year-old.

The Comtesse nodded, looking satisfied. “Never mind your clothes. You will find your uniforms in the wardrobe of your room. One for daytime and one for evening. And some other things you might find useful. Give what you’re wearing to Justine for cleaning.”

Margo nodded.

“I think that’s everything,” the Comtesse announced, getting to her feet. “If you wait here, I’ll get Justine to give you some sheets and tell her to take you to your room. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Without another word, she glided out of the room and closed the door, leaving Margo feeling vaguely as if she had sold her soul to the devil.

***

T
he lift creaked and groaned, shook and rattled as it slowly rose through the building, and Margo wondered if they would ever reach their destination. She hugged the pile of bedclothes tighter to stop it from sliding out of her grip and looked at the small, sturdy figure beside her. Justine had not uttered one word since they entered the lift and looked straight ahead with an expression of great pain on her plain face.

“So, isn’t this strange,” Margo said in French, trying to sound jolly, “we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

Justine shrugged.

After a long silence, Margo tried again. “Have you been working for the family long?”

“All my life,” Justine muttered.

“Oh. That’s a very long time.”

“Hmm.”

“And are you happy working here?”

“It’s a living.”

“The Comtesse seems very nice. A very interesting lady.”

“Hah.”

“What about her husband?” Margo asked, pretending not to have noticed the sour note in Justine’s voice. “Is he nice?”

“Dead. Died a long time ago,” Justine muttered.

“Oh no. How sad for her.”

“He was very old. A lot older than her.”

“Yes,” Margo said, “but it’s still sad to lose your husband.”

“She got over it.”

“I see.” Margo tried to think of something that would lighten the atmosphere, but the lift had come to an abrupt stop, and Justine heaved the cast iron gates open and stepped out onto the landing. She walked up another flight of stairs, and Margo followed. She looked around, amazed at the difference between the attics and the floors below. There was no oak panelling or marble floors, only peeling paint and creaking floorboards. They walked down a long corridor, past a number of doors through which could be heard a mixture of sounds: voices arguing, music from a radio, the occasional cry of a child. The heat was stifling under the low ceiling, and the air smelled of cabbage, garlic, and exotic spices. As Margo walked behind Justine, the pile of bedclothes grew heavy in her arms. She felt as if she had stepped into some kind of time warp. Finally, Justine came to a stop. She took out a big key, put it in the lock, and threw the door open.

“
Voilà
she said, walking in. “
La chambre de bonne.”

Margo followed Justine into the little room with the old-fashioned wallpaper, sloping ceilings, and worn linoleum on the floor. “Oh,” she said, looking around. “It’s—it’s kind of sweet, really.”

Justine didn’t reply but took a set of keys and handed them to Margo. “That’s the key to the door. This one is to the toilet and shower, down the hall.” She paused, holding out a hand. “Now,
Mademoiselle
, I would like your clothes.”

“My clothes?” Margo stammered, putting her burden on the old-fashioned mahogany bed.

“Yes. Madame said to take them and clean them at once. It would be better to burn them, in my opinion.”

“But I have nothing else to wear.”

“There are clothes in that
armoire
over there. And a dressing gown.”

Justine stood in the middle of the floor, her arms folded across her ample bosom, while Margo undressed.

“It’s strange though,” Margo remarked, handing Justine her T-shirt, “how she offered me this job just like that. I wonder why?”

Justine didn’t reply. She took the clothes one by one in her thumb and index finger as if they were contaminated and walked out, leaving Margo standing in her underwear in the middle of the room.

When she had left, Margo walked to the big walnut wardrobe, opened the door, and surveyed its contents. A frayed navy blue dressing gown and a number of items of clothing, all wrapped in plastic, hung inside on wire coat hangers. Without looking at the rest of the clothes, Margo took down the dressing gown and wrapped it around her. Feeling totally shell-shocked, she flopped onto the bed, asking herself what on earth she was doing there. Is this really happening? she asked herself as she looked up at the ceiling with the cracked plaster and the light bulb hanging from an electric wire. Am I really going to live in this dump and work for that woman?

Margo sat up again, got off the bed, and walked across to the open window. Peering out, she could see rooftops and windows and balconies, all higgledy-piggledy. Above them was a patch of blue sky and, if she leaned out precariously, she could catch a glimpse of the top of the Eiffel Tower. Two pigeons were cooing from the small terrace opposite, where a number of terracotta pots were spilling out geraniums in a profusion of colour. She stood there for a while and watched the sky turn from blue to pink, enjoying the cool breeze against her face. Then she made up the bed and put her few possessions into the cavernous wardrobe. She washed her face and hands, dried them on a towel that smelled faintly of cologne, and after taking off the dressing gown, crawled in between the cool linen sheets and put her aching head on the pillow. She closed her eyes, listened again to the soft cooing of the pigeons, and just as in the truck with Gráinne, fell into a deep sleep.