Finding Margo (30 page)

“I know. Pity.” Margo sighed deeply. “I could have done with some from time to time. But that’s my problem and nobody else’s, so why should I expect you to care?”

“But I do,” François said, taking Margo gently by the shoulders. “I care enormously. I was going to say a while ago that you have been really good for us, for this family. You gave us the wake-up call we all needed. And I have to tell you that even though I have to work a lot harder now, I have never felt better. You see, my dear Marguerite, you gave me the courage to be myself and not worry about what anybody thinks. I have the most amazing life in Paris, and now I’m on the threshold of something.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Maybe one day I will tell you about it. And this place,” He made a big sweep with his arm to include the château, the garden, and the park, “is unique. I didn’t realise how important it was to me until now or how much I love it.”

“Even the farm?”

François laughed. “Well, no, not the farm. I’m no good at that. I don’t like mud and manure. Not my thing at all. But I know what I’m going to do with it.”

“You do? What?”

“I’m going to sell the stock and let the land to another farmer. It won’t bring in the same income, but it will still pay some of the bills.”

“Jacques won’t like that.”

“It’s none of his concern anymore, is it? He’s gone.”

“I know,” Margo said, her voice bleak.

“And I’m glad he went,” François declared without noticing the look in Margo’s eyes. “It was very painful for him, I know. But it was the best thing for him in the end. It wasn’t right for him to stay here.”

“Do you know where he is?” Margo asked, trying to sound casual.

François sighed, picked up a stick from the ground, and flung it away into the darkness. “No. But I’m sure he’ll be in touch eventually. I know Jacques. He won’t stay away from the family forever. He’ll come back. But not until he’s ready. So you see, Jacques will also be very happy in the end, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me,” Margo muttered. “Great.”

“That’s right.” François put his arm around her shoulders and they continued walking, the gravel crunching under their feet.

“But what about your mother?” Margo asked. “She’s in a terrible state. I’m really worried about her, to be honest. When she’s in Paris she’s like a whirligig. And when she’s here – well, you know what’s she’s like. Listless and apathetic. She just sits there with that smelly old Milou in her lap, staring into space.”

“I know. But she’s grieving. Not your fault.”

“Jacques’ leaving didn’t help,” Margo sighed.

“She’ll get over it. She’s very strong.”

“I suppose you’re right. It just makes me sad to see her like that.”

François stopped and looked into her eyes. “You’re very kind, Marguerite. You really care about people. But maybe you shouldn’t try to carry everybody’s burden like this. And you shouldn’t feel guilty about what happened to us. Life changes. It would have happened anyway. But,” he added, squeezing her shoulder, “we are lucky you are here to help us. That day you walked into our lives was a lucky one indeed.”

Margo opened her mouth to protest, to tell him what a fraud she was. Instead of the kind, caring person he imagined, she was a woman capable of walking out on her husband of ten years and then cheat on him with another man, who happened to be François’ own brother. That she had ‘forgotten’ to mention the small detail of a ten-year marriage on the rocks. And, if she had the chance to sleep with Jacques again, she would. In a heartbeat. But as she looked through the gloom at François’ sweet face and saw the concern in his eyes, she changed her mind. It wouldn’t be fair to shatter his illusions. He already had enough to cope with, and it was quite nice, if she was honest with herself, to be cast in the role of an angel.

“I suppose I shouldn’t worry about it,” she murmured.

“No. Absolutely not. Feeling better now?”

“Yes. A little.”

“Good.” François smiled and let go of her. “I’m glad we sorted that out.” He felt in his pocket. “You don’t mind if I smoke?”

Margo stared at him as he took out a cigarette and lit it with one of his mother’s gold lighters. “I didn’t know you smoked,” she said, shocked, as the acrid smell of the Gauloise stirred something at the back of her mind. Oh my God, she thought, is it really possible?

“Only occasionally.” François blew out a plume of smoke that hung in the still, cold air like a small cloud. “I stole this one from a packet I found in the study. I think it belongs to Bernard. He’s not supposed to smoke because of his bad chest, but he has one now and then when he thinks Agnès isn’t looking. He goes out and smokes one on the sly in the woods from time to time. He’s been at it all summer.”

“Bernard?” Margo said, both relieved and alarmed. “Oh my God. So that’s—” She stopped and suddenly giggled, imagining what Gráinne would say when she heard.

“What so funny?”

“Nothing.” The laughter died on Margo’s lips as she decided not to tell François that Bernard was guilty of a lot more than smoking. She didn’t feel like stirring up more trouble. What good would it do? Poor Agnès. How would she cope? Let’s leave it for now, Margo thought. In any case, it’s too cold for skinny dipping in the weir.

“Come on, let’s go in,” François said with a shiver in his voice. “It’s really cold now. I asked Bernard to light a fire in my study. We’ll have a hot whiskey to warm up.”

“Mmm. Lovely.”

They walked back through the gloom toward the château, where the soft light from the study lit up the darkness. As they walked up the steps to the terrace, they could see the fire flickering in the fireplace, illuminating the oak-panelled room in a warm glow.

“It looks so lovely,” Margo said. “Like a fairy tale. As if nothing bad could ever happen there.”

“And nothing will,” François said, throwing away his cigarette, making a shower of sparks in the darkness.

Margo watched as the cigarette butt glowed and died on the wet tiles of the terrace. “I hope so,” she whispered, breathing in the last faint wisps of smoke.

“S
orry I’m so late,” Fiona panted as she arrived at the table in the small restaurant on the Left Bank. “I couldn’t get a taxi.”

Margo looked at Fiona’s flustered face and wondered why she had agreed to ‘do lunch’ as Fiona had suggested when she had called the day before. The call had come out of the blue on a very dull Monday at the beginning of November, and Margo had agreed, partly because she was feeling a little lonely and also because she felt she needed to get out of the apartment. “My treat,” Fiona had said, sounding very eager to meet.

“Why didn’t you take the Metro?” Margo asked. “It’s much more reliable.”

“The Metro?” Fiona stared at Margo as if she had just suggested a trip down the sewers.

“Yes. It’s an underground railway system. Not unlike the Tube in London.”

“I know what it is,” Fiona snapped. “But I never use it, if I can help it. It stinks of garlic, and there is always a nasty kind of draught that ruins my hair and makes my eyes water.” She looked at Margo for a moment. “How are you?” she continued. “You look marvellous. What do you call that look? Bohemian chic?”

“It’s just clothes,” Margo said. “A skirt and jacket. Why does everything have to be a ‘look’ with you?”

“It’s Paris,” Fiona said, “You just get into the habit of thinking that way. And you seem to be having the run of the best wardrobe in town.”

Margo shrugged. “I get the odd hand-me-down. No big deal.”

“Lucky you,” Fiona sighed. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch until now, but September was such a pain with all the school stuff for Rufus and then getting back into the swing of entertaining and all that. How was your stay at the château?”

“Not bad. Rather nice, actually. Most of it anyway. How was Scotland?”

Fiona shrugged. “It was a nightmare from hell, if you must know. It rained most of the time, the roof leaked, and the garden flooded. I got athlete’s foot from wearing wellies all the time, and to cap it all, Rufus caught chickenpox, and nobody with children wanted to come near us for over a fortnight. Then it was the bloody ‘glorious twelfth’ and we had to spend days on end on the moors shooting grouse wearing those stupid Barbours. You have no idea how glad I am to be back in Paris.”

“I can imagine.” Margo opened the menu a waiter had just handed her.

“What would you like?” Fiona asked. “The oysters are marvellous here.”

Margo swallowed. The thought of the slimy molluscs made her feel more than a little sick. The fatigue that had started when she got back to Paris had not gone away. She didn’t sleep well and often felt both exhausted and weepy. In the last week or so, she had also started to feel nauseous. At first, she had thought she had eaten something that didn’t agree with her, but when the nausea and fatigue didn’t go away, she was beginning to suspect that it was some kind of virus, and she just had to wait until it cleared up. She felt a lot better today though and was hoping she was beginning to improve but when Fiona had started talking about oysters...

“I don’t like oysters,” Margo said, trying to push down the bile that was rising in her throat.

“Oh?” Fiona said from behind her menu. “Try the scallops then. They do them in this lovely buttery sauce with cream and leeks.” She looked up as Margo suddenly rose from her chair. “Where are you going?”

“I just have to—not feeling very well,” Margo said as she stumbled toward the ladies’. Once inside the pink-tiled interior, she staggered into one of the cubicles and neatly threw up her entire breakfast into the toilet bowl. Gasping for breath, she wiped her face with some soft, pink toilet paper and leaned against the wall until she felt a little better. When she had rinsed her face, brushed her hair and applied a little blusher to her pale cheeks, she went back into the restaurant and sat down on her chair again.

“Sorry,” she said to Fiona, “I was just feeling a little off.”

“Off?” Fiona stared at her. “You look bloody awful.”

“A moment ago you said I looked marvellous.”

“I was just being polite. You look like shit, to be honest, darling.”

“I’m OK, really.” Margo smiled reassuringly and took a sip of water. “It’s just—well, I have been feeling a little strange lately. Some kind of virus, I think.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“No. But I’m sure that’s not really necessary. I’m beginning to feel better.”

“Mesdames? Vous avez choisi?”
A waiter had materialised at their table, pad and pen at the ready.

“Not yet,” Fiona snapped, with a wave of her hand as I she was swatting a fly.

“But I have,” Margo said and picked up the menu. “I’ll have the marinated salmon, followed by breaded sole with asparagus and new potatoes.”

“What?” Fiona stared at Margo. “But I thought you weren’t feeling well?”

“I’m starving now,” Margo beamed. “I told you I’m not that bad.”

“Et vous Madame
?” the waiter said, glaring a Fiona.

“A dozen oysters,” Fiona said, her eyes still on Margo. “And half a bottle of Chablis.”

“Just water for me,” Margo said. “I have to go back to work, remember.”

“So,” Fiona said when the waiter had gone, “you’re suddenly feeling better?”

“Oh yes. It’s very strange but this virus seems to hit my stomach all of a sudden like that, and when I’ve been sick, I’m starving again.”

“Very peculiar,” Fiona said, breaking a piece of the bread roll on her side plate. “What other symptoms have you been having?”

“Nothing really. I just feel very tired all the time. Kind of drained, you know?”

“Hmm,” Fiona said. “I really think you should see a doctor. Have some blood tests. You could be suffering from mononucleosis. I had that last year, and it took me ages to get better. I felt totally drained all the time. Even getting dressed was an effort.”

“Glandular fever? But I don’t have swollen glands.”

“Neither did I. My doctor didn’t know what was wrong until the results came back. But it could be something else. Toxoplasmosis or listeria. You get those from eating French food. All that raw meat and mouldy cheese.” Fiona shuddered. “You must have some tests.” She picked up her handbag and, after having rummaged around in it, pulled out a card. “Here. This is the address of my doctor. He runs this marvellous clinic for women on Avenue Montaigne. You can have everything examined, from top to toe. You can even have a mammogram and all those gynaecological tests and heart and lungs and so on. You go in the morning, and a doctor has a look at you and decides what you need to have done. They take blood and urine and do an ECG test. I really think you should go there.”

“OK, I will,” Margo said, suddenly touched by the concern in Fiona’s voice. “Thanks.” She put the card in her bag.

“No problem,” Fiona said, putting a piece of bread in her mouth. “Alan is coming to Paris,” she said through her mouthful.

“Who?” Margo stared at her for a moment, as if the name had awakened an unpleasant and very distant memory.

“Alan. Your husband, sweetie, remember him?”

“Oh, him. Well yes. Vaguely.”

“I’m so glad you haven’t totally erased him from your mind,” Fiona said ironically. “Even if you seem to have completely forgotten about this conference he is going to.”

“No,” Margo said very slowly. “I remember. I booked the hotel and everything myself last spring. Seems like a hundred years ago now.”

“Marcus said that Alan is hoping to see you and that he has decided to leave you alone until then. He said he would be willing to forgive you and start again.”

“How very big of him,” Margo said, lifting her knife and fork, ready to dig into the plate of salmon the surly waiter had just brought. “This looks divine.”

“Glad to see your appetite is back,” Fiona said, picking at an oyster.

“I’m absolutely starving,” Margo said, putting a huge piece of salmon in her mouth.

“So you will see him, then?”

Margo looked up from her plate. “See who?”

“Alan! You will see him when he comes to Paris? I think you should,” Fiona said without waiting for an answer. “And maybe by then you’ll feel differently. You might even—”