Finding Margo (22 page)

“Oh.” Margo looked into her cup and let out a sigh so deep it felt as if came from the bottom of her stomach. “It’s not something that would be easy to solve. And now is not really a good moment.”

François reached across the cups and plates and put his hand over Margo’s. “I understand. But if you feel you want to talk, I’m here. I’m a very good listener.”

“Thank you.” Margo smiled. “It’s nice to have a friend.”

“Things are not so easy for you.”

“How do you mean?”

“I know my mother is very—shall we say... tricky?” François removed his hand.

Margo shrugged. “She has her moments.”

“Be careful with her, or she’ll swallow you up.” His voice was suddenly serious.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t let her take over your life. Don’t let her—” He stopped.

“Let her what?” Margo asked with a little laugh. “You make her sound quite dangerous.”

“Oh, never mind. Forget what I said.” François closed his mouth, looking suddenly as if he had regretted his words. He glanced away and, for a fleeting second, Margo saw a strange expression in his eyes. But his features quickly resumed their usual bland, polite air, and she thought she had imagined it.

“Maybe you need a friend too?” she asked softly, just in case.

“Me?” François’ laugh sounded a little forced. “I don’t know what you mean.” He rose and gathered up the coffee cups. “Time to go. I have a very early meeting, and then I have a luncheon appointment.”

Margo got up and helped him put the dishes in the dishwasher. “You work very hard,” she said. “Don’t you go on holiday in August like everyone else?”

“In my job, it’s impossible to take long holidays. I can take a few days off here and there but not more than a week at a time.”

“Must be hard. Especially now when it’s so hot.”

François shrugged. “
C’est la vie.”

“I’d better get dressed,” Margo said. “I suppose I’ll see you at the château this weekend?”

“I hope so.” François stepped a little closer and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “
Au revoir,
Marguerite,
chère amie
,” he murmured softly into her ear. He smelled faintly of something strangely familiar, and as he walked out of the kitchen, Margo realised what it was.

***

T
he journey back was uneventful, if rather tiring. But Margo was happy she had managed to get her hair coloured and styled and exchange the bowl.

Milady looked at her with approval as she handed over the package. “Your hair looks nice. The cut is much better than before.”

“Thank you. It was François who thought I should have it done.”

“He has a good eye,” Milady said proudly. “Now, where is the box from Lalique?”

Margo handed her the box, and Milady looked satisfied as she unpacked it.

“That’s the right one, finally,” she said. “Now all that remains is to gift-wrap it, and then I’ll have to get ready. It’s going to be a very elegant party. Everyone will be there.”

The next hours were taken up with gift wrapping the parcel to Milady’s satisfaction (‘No, not gold paper, silver, I said. Please unwrap it and do it again.’) and selecting a dress suitable for such a glittering occasion (‘I said the cream Chanel, not the red one. And the skirt needs to be pressed.’). Then there was a heated argument between Milady and Jacques which made Margo feel both embarrassed and angry, and finally, the pair departed in a taxi. Feeling exhausted, Margo had a simple supper with Agnès and Bernard and then went into the library to find a book to take to bed. She scanned the shelves until she spotted a book about medieval art that looked interesting. She settled in the big sofa and started to leaf through it but found her eyes closing. God, I’m tired, Margo thought, and lay back against the soft cushions. I’ll just have a little nap and then I’ll...

“Hello? Anybody there?”

Margo’s eyes flew open. She blinked and stared at Jacques who was dressed in a dinner jacket and was standing in the library doorway, looking at her with an amused expression.

“I must have fallen asleep,” she mumbled.

Jacques walked into the room, took off his dinner jacket and threw it on a chair. He sat down beside Margo, loosened the black bow tie, and unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt. “Can’t stand black tie in this heat.”

“What time is it?” she asked. “Is the party over?”

“No, I left early. I couldn’t stand any more of the crap. So, when I had wished the birthday boy many happy returns and kissed all the old bags on the cheek, I sneaked off.”

“And your mother?”

“Still there, having a good time. She won’t notice I’m gone, until it’s time to go, and then I’ll miraculously appear at her side, ready to escort her home. That way, I can relax here at home, have dinner, watch the news, and avoid being bored to death. Clever, eh?” He grinned, showing his uneven, almost wolfish white teeth.

“You’re a genius,” Margo said flatly, trying to unravel her legs that seemed to have gone to sleep under her.

“You seem in a bad mood. Still tired?”

“No, I’m fine.” Margo had managed to get her legs free and her feet on the floor.

“You don’t seem fine to me. You look as if you were a little annoyed with me?” He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Was it that little argument you walked into earlier?”

“OK.” Margo looked at him coolly. “I know this is not any of my business, but I think you were horrible to your mother. She was very upset, even though she did her best not to show it.”

“You’re right. It
is
not your business.”

“Fine.” Margo started to get up.

“No.” Jacques’ tone was serious. He put a hand on her arm. “Just a minute. I want to explain. I don’t want you to think I—” He paused.

“Think what?” Margo sat down again and turned to look at him.

“I don’t want to be cast in the role of some kind of monster.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” Margo said. “I just think you behaved like a bad- tempered two-year-old. There is no excuse to speak to your mother the way you did, just because you didn’t want to go to a family party. If that is the way you behave every time things don’t go your way, I feel deeply sorry for her.”

“Deeply sorry?” He gave a little snort. “There is no need to feel the slightest bit sorry for her.”

“How do you mean?” Margo said, puzzled by his expression.

Jacques shook his head. “Never mind,” he murmured. “It is, as you said, none of your business.”

“Exactly.” Margo looked at him coldly. “I’d prefer to forget the whole thing, to be honest. Maybe it was my own fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I have a terrible temper,” Jacques said. “And sometimes I can’t control it.”

“Maybe you need therapy?” Margo suggested, touched by the contrition in his voice.

“Are you volunteering?” Jacques asked in a lighter voice.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“It would take a long time to straighten me out.”

“I’m sure it would.”

“But it might be a lot of fun.” Jacques laughed softly and sat back in the sofa with his arm draped along the back of it. He looked at Margo intently with an expression in his eyes she couldn’t quite interpret.

“I doubt it.”

“Maybe not.” Jacques sighed. “So,” he continued, “what happened to your girlfriend? The butch one from Ireland?”

“Gráinne? She’s gone to—” Margo stopped and stared at him, surprised by his tone. “Butch? What do you mean?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You must. Everyone knows what she is.”

“Everyone?”

“People talk, you know,” Jacques said, looking smug. “The horse world is very small. Everyone knows everyone else. There is a lot of talk all the time.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her through narrow eyes. “They talk. About that girl. That she is not a real woman. That she likes other girls, I mean.”

“Are you saying that people think Gráinne is gay?”

“That’s it. I know I’m right. And I thought maybe you and she—”

“Hold on a minute,” Margo said. “Just a second here.”

“Yes?”

“What business is this of yours?” she demanded. “So what if Gráinne is gay? Isn’t that her affair?”

“Uh—”

“And if she and I are having a relationship, what does that have to do with you? Why would that make you so angry?”

“Well, I—because...” Jacques’ voice faltered.

“Scares you, does it? The idea of two women—well, you know. Makes you feel a little inadequate?” Margo couldn’t help feeling a certain vicious satisfaction. He suddenly looked so foolish.

The expression in Jacques’ eyes changed, and he seemed to recover his poise.

“Oh,” he said coolly, resuming his position and putting his arm along the back of the sofa again, lightly touching Margo’s shoulder with his hand. “It’s just that I think it would be a shame. A waste of a beautiful woman.”

Margo sat up straighter to avoid his touch. “Why would it be a waste? If I was gay and had a relationship with another woman and we really loved each other, why would that be wasteful? Don’t you believe that love between two people, whatever their... inclinations, is always beautiful?” What am I saying, she asked herself. Why don’t I just walk out of here?

“Isn’t it love that is important, not the gender thing?” She ended with more passion in her voice than she had intended, but she felt suddenly disappointed that he was so narrow-minded.

“
Ah oui, l’amour
,” he murmured, lightly touching the back of her neck with his fingers, making her shiver. “I don’t really care,” he continued. “I have never felt that strongly about it. Until now.”

“Why now?” Margo asked, even though she knew what he was going to say. It was as if she suddenly had a compulsion to feed him his lines.

“Because I am interested in
you
, Mademoiselle Marguerite.” His arm was now lightly around her shoulder, but she didn’t move, didn’t try to get away from his touch. “If you are, well, that way inclined,” he continued, “I would like to know, so—”

“So you won’t waste your time flirting with me?” Margo said, turning to look at him. Their faces were so close, their lips nearly met, and she pulled away slightly.

I’m a married woman, she said to herself, but it didn’t seem real somehow; it was as if she was another person, not Margo, Alan’s wife, but Marguerite, young and free and available. That was what she felt at that moment, with Jacques’ arm around her and his warm breath tickling her neck. She glanced at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like to kiss him and looked away, afraid he would guess what she was thinking.

“That’s right,” he said with a little laugh. “I don’t like wasting time. Life is far too short for that. Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose,” she murmured, looking away from his burning eyes. She felt trapped, but couldn’t get away – didn’t really want to, if she was really honest with herself.

“You smell nice,” he said, leaning forward, touching her neck with his nose. “What is that perfume?”

“No perfume,” she said, her voice oddly hoarse. “Just soap. Lily of the valley.”

“And the scent of your skin,” he said, turning her face and kissing her so suddenly she jumped. She could smell his aftershave and feel his hot, slightly damp skin through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. Unable to stop herself, she slid her arms around his neck.

His arms came around her waist, and he held her gently while he kissed her again, this time sliding his tongue into her mouth. She gasped with shock and pleasure. He kissed her again and again with such skill, she could not help being carried away; she didn’t want him to stop. What am I doing? she thought. I must be mad. She had never been kissed like this before, never felt like this in any man’s arms, not even Alan’s. The thought of her husband made her stiffen slightly, and Jacques pulled away, looking searchingly into her eyes. Unable to speak, Margo leaned her head against his shoulder, trying to catch her breath and still her racing heart.

“Marguerite,” he murmured. “
Mon amour.”
He started to kiss her again, her face, her eyes, and her neck. As his mouth travelled further down, she felt her pulse quicken and her body respond in a way she hadn’t thought possible. He murmured something in French and started to undo the buttons of her dress as his fingers brushed her nipples. Margo lifted her hand weakly to stop him but then let her hands fall and allowed him continue. She closed her eyes as she felt his lips on her breasts.

A phone rang somewhere in the house. “Oh God,” she murmured and, momentarily coming to her senses, pulled his hands away. “No, please. Stop.”

“Why?”

“The phone,” she said. “It’s ringing.”

“So? Let it ring.”

She tried to push him away. “We can’t. We mustn’t.”

He sat up. “You’re right. Not here. We can’t do it here.”

“Not anywhere,” Margo said buttoning her dress. “This is crazy.”

“What’s crazy about it? Didn’t you just say that when two people love each other—”

“Love?” Margo said. “We hardly know each other. This is not love. And I’m a—” The phone started ringing again. Margo lifted her head and listened. It stopped and then, after a few minutes, rang again. She looked at Jacques. “It’s late. Your mother—the party.”

“
Merde
, you’re right.” He pulled away from her and glanced out the window. “It’s dark. What time is it?” In answer to his question, the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chimed. “Oh God, it’s one o’clock,” he said, getting up. “She’ll be spitting nails by now.”

Margo stood up and pulled up the straps of her dress. “Well, we can’t stay here all night in any case.”

“No, Mademoiselle Marguerite, we can’t,” Jacques minced. He put his arms around her. “Will I see you later? When I have picked up my mother and—”

“No, please,” Margo said, pulling out of his arms. “Please don’t.”

The phone rang again.

“My mother is getting impatient,” Jacques said. “I’d better go.”

“Be nice to her.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do better,” she ordered.

“I’ll be back,” Jacques said, putting on his jacket and retying his bow tie. He kissed his fingers to her and left.