Finding Margo (36 page)

“Or that you won’t be coming at all, now that I’m here,” Jacques said in a determined voice.

“What do you mean? I don’t know if I—oh my God,” Margo suddenly gasped, putting a hand on her stomach.

“What?” Jacques cried. “What’s the matter?”

Margo looked at him her face white and her eyes shining. “He moved,” she whispered. “The baby just moved. Right here, inside me.”

“Oh,” Jacques whispered and put his hand on her stomach. “Can I?”

The baby kicked again, and they looked at each other without speaking while Margo’s stomach heaved once more and then was still. “It stopped,” she said. “He must have gone to sleep.”

Jacques took his hand away and put his arm around her. “Thank you,” he said softly. Without speaking, they lay down on the bed, their arms around each other. Jacques kicked off his boots, and Margo switched off the light.

“It would be so easy,” she whispered into the darkness, more to herself than to him. “To marry you and just let you take over. But I can’t, I just can’t. I want to be in charge of my own life, I want to be the one who decides where to go, what to do, and where to live. I know it won’t be easy, but—” She sighed, tightening her arms around him. “Maybe, if we waited a few years,” she continued, “until I’ve got my career going again, we could review the situation? Maybe then, we would be better able to decide whether we can live together, when we are completely equal? What do you think?”

There was no reply.

***

T
he baby moved again in the night, waking Margo. She turned away from Jacques and tried to get comfortable, but he pulled her close to him again.

“What time is it?” he mumbled.

“I don’t know. Four or something. I thought I heard the clock in the drawing room strike a while ago.”

“Oh.”

“What’s that noise?” Margo said, suddenly wide awake.

“What noise?”

“That creaking. Sounds like someone opening the front door very slowly.”

“But I thought you said everyone was home.”

“Yes, but maybe François went out again,” Margo whispered. “Maybe he had a date with his girlfriend?”

“His what?”

“His girlfriend. He told me about her when we had dinner. She’s a Brazilian nightclub singer, and she was probably working late.”

Jacques laughed softly. “What did you say? A Brazilian?” He laughed again.

“Why is that so funny?” Margo asked, still whispering. “He’s really in love with her, you know. And it’s so sad that they have to sneak around like that.”

“And why do they have to sneak around?” Jacques asked, sounding amused.

“Shh. Not so loud. I can hear the door closing. It’s because of your mother,” Margo continued into Jacques’ ear. “She wouldn’t approve, you see.”

“You bet she wouldn’t,” Jacques said.

“I can hear footsteps,” Margo said. “High heels on the parquet. He must have brought her home.”

“This I have to see,” Jacques declared and got out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going out to meet—what’s her name?”

“Paquita,” Margo said, tiptoeing after Jacques. “But wait. Are you sure we should? I mean, maybe we shouldn’t disturb them?”

Jacques didn’t reply but slowly opened the door and looked out into the dimly lit corridor. Margo craned her neck to see beyond him into the shadows and caught sight of the shape of someone walking carefully down the corridor.

“There,” Margo whispered. “She’s walking toward François’ room.”

Jacques stepped out into the corridor and walked swiftly and silently behind the woman. Margo padded behind him, trying to catch up. When Jacques was nearly at touching distance, the woman suddenly whirled around, stared at Jacques for a moment, gave a little gasp and then ran as fast as her high heels would allow towards the door of François’ bedroom. But Jacques was faster. He put out a hand and grabbed the woman by the shoulder.

“Paquita,” Margo stammered, “Wait! Jacques, what are you doing? Don’t pull her hair!’

But Jacques was already holding in his hand the shining blonde head of hair that Margo had so much admired. “It’s a wig, you dummy,” he said and turned the woman roughly around to face to her. Margo gasped.

“Meet Miss Brazil,” Jacques laughed triumphantly.

M
argo stared in horror at the woman, then at the blond wig in Jacques’ hand, then back at the woman again.

“François!’ she whispered, clutching her throat. “Oh my God!’

François, dressed in a silk dress and his brown eyes heavily made up, looked slightly grotesque without the blonde wig. “Oh Marguerite,” he sighed. “I should have told you. I should have explained.”

Margo turned to Jacques. “You knew,” she said angrily. “All this time you knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

“Would you have believed me?” Jacques asked.

“No, probably not,” Margo said. “But I really didn’t need to know at all, did I? Why didn’t you leave well enough alone? Why did you have to do this?”

She looked back at François who seemed to a have recovered some of his cool and was now shaking out the wig, looking at it with great concern.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” she assured him. “It doesn’t matter at all. I have always felt that people should be allowed to be whatever they are. And being gay is nothing to be ashamed of.”

François looked up. “Gay? I don’t know, to be honest.”

“What?” Margo looked at him, confused. “But what’s all this then?” she asked, gesturing at the dress – a light blue Chanel vintage – and the wig.

“It’s—” François stopped. “How can I explain?”

“I need a drink,” Jacques said. “Let’s go to the study and have something to calm ourselves down.”

“I’ll make some tea,” Margo said.

“And I’ll go and slip into something a little more comfortable,” François suggested. “These heels are killing me.”

A little later, they sat in the study, looking at each other without saying anything.

François, the makeup washed off and dressed in a silk dressing gown, was the first to break the silence. “I’m not gay,” he said to Margo. “Well, not completely anyway.”

“What are you then? A cross-dresser?”

“That’s right. I like women, and I like the clothes even more.”

“You don’t like men?” Margo asked, trying to understand.

“I don’t know,” François said with a sigh. “I have always been confused about who I am. It used to make me so unhappy.” He stopped and looked at Margo. “I shouldn’t burden you with all this, I suppose.”

“
Bien sûr que non
,” Jacques murmured.

“No, François,” Margo protested. “Don’t worry. If it helps you to talk, go ahead.”

“It’s thanks to you,” François said, “that I am beginning to feel a lot better about myself, about not being really what you would call normal.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Yes. I used to feel ashamed about wanting to dress up like this. I felt like some kind of freak. But then you told me to do my own thing and not worry about conventions. And then I realised that it doesn’t matter what you are, as long as you don’t hurt anyone or—” He paused again, glancing at Jacques, who was swirling his brandy around in the glass, looking as if he wasn’t even listening. “I still don’t know what I am, but I’m having a lot of fun finding out,” François ended, smiling shyly.

“But dressing up in women’s clothes, is that a new thing?”

“No. It all started years ago when I was doing a
stage
at the
sûreté
,” François said. “That’s the special branch of the police force. I worked with the guys on the drug squad, and they often had to dress up as women because they were going to drag clubs undercover, and then, well, I started to really enjoy it, the dressing up, I mean. And I got lots of praise for the way I looked and for my figure. But of course, I had access to the best wardrobe in Paris. And I was lucky enough to fit into my mother’s clothes. Did you know,” François said, looking at Margo with great excitement in his eyes, “that she has a huge wardrobe of the most beautiful vintage fashion?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“I’ve been borrowing from that for years. It’s been such fun.”

“So there is no Paquita, then?” Margo said, feeling a little disappointed.

“No. I am Paquita. I work as a singer in this drag club at night. I have quite a good voice, you know.”

“He used to be a choirboy,” Jacques said. “I think that’s where it all started.”

Something suddenly occurred to Margo. “That voice,” she exclaimed, “that lovely signing the other night. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” François said modestly.

“Such a beautiful voice,” Margo said.

“Thank you.” François smiled happily. “And you said you thought it was good enough to be a CD, remember?”

“Yes it is, definitely.”

“You don’t know how right you are,” François said. “I have – I mean Paquita – has been offered a record deal. Isn’t that exciting?”

“But that’s fabulous!’ Margo exclaimed. “I’m sure you – she’ll – be very successful.”

“If it works, I can give up my boring old job at the ministry,” François said.

“That’s fantastic,” Margo beamed.

“Mother will be ecstatic,” Jacques said dryly.

“But one more thing,” Margo said. “Last summer, that dress – the Galliano—”

“I borrowed it, yes.” François nodded. “There was a special jazz evening at the club, you see, and that little black number was perfect. I didn’t think she would notice, I thought she was going to wear the navy Yves St Laurent that night, but she must have changed her mind.”

“She certainly did,” Jacques said. “And it wasn’t much fun to have to explain it to the police.”

“She called the police?” François asked, looking appalled. “Oh,
mon Dieu
, I’m sorry.”

“More tea?” Margo asked, lifting the teapot.

“No thanks, dear Marguerite,” François said. “I think I’ll have a cognac instead.”

“All right.” Margo refilled her cup. “It was kind of sad to find out that there’s no Paquita,” she said. “I thought you might be very happy together. She – I mean
you
– are very pretty when you’re her.”

“Thank you.” François poured brandy into his glass. “But she’s not as beautiful as you, my dear Marguerite.” He looked at her while he swirled the cognac around in his glass. “You have the most beautiful body – slim, long-limbed, like a dancer. Especially in the nude.”

“What?” Margo nearly dropped her cup.

“What do you mean?” Jacques demanded.

“Please,” François said. “Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” Jacques demanded, looking angrily from his brother to Margo. “That you and she—?”

“Don’t be silly,” François chided, sitting down again, smoothing his dressing gown. “There’s nothing between us. I happened to see Marguerite when she was swimming.”

“At the weir,” Margo said, staring at him, trying to take in his latest revelation. “You mean—” she stammered, “
you’re
the peeping Tom? Oh God! Gráinne and I were talking about that. We knew there was someone lurking in the bushes spying on us, but I thought it was Bernard. Thank God I didn’t say anything.”

“
Merde
,” Jacques mumbled, sinking down on his chair again. “Tell me I’m dreaming. Tell me this is not really happening.”

“Peeping Tom?” François said. “Sounds worse than it is – was, I mean. It was not really like that. It was more like looking at something beautiful. Like a painting. It didn’t turn me on. Or off,” he added with a laugh. “It was just, well, curiosity, I suppose. It was interesting to look at two women that were so totally different.”

“
Two
women?” Jacques exclaimed.

“Gráinne,” Margo whispered. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“She is also quite attractive,” François said, taking a sip of cognac. “But more full-bodied and heavier than you.”

“Can we stop this now?” Jacques pleaded. “I’ve had enough.”

“What’s going on?”

They all looked around at Milady standing in the doorway tying the belt of her white silk dressing gown. “What are you all doing here in the middle of the night?” she demanded. “And Jacques? When did you arrive? Why does nobody tell me anything?”

Jacques rose and kissed his mother on the cheek. “
Bonsoir, Maman
,” he said. “I arrived very late and didn’t want to disturb you. I had to talk to Marguerite. We had things to discuss.”

“Of course you do,” Milady said, sitting down on the sofa beside François. “You have a lot of things to sort out. But François, what are you doing here? I thought you went to bed hours ago.”

“I went out later, after you had gone to bed,” François said.

“And then,” Margo started, “later on, I heard something, and I thought someone was breaking in.”

“And I went out to investigate,” Jacques filled in. “And I discovered François, who was arriving home. So then, when we had sorted all that out, we came in here for a drink.”

Milady looked at them, and one of her eyebrows shot up. “Really?” she said.

“That’s right,” Margo nodded. “That’s what happened.”

“I see.” Milady started to get up from the sofa. “Well, it’s a great relief there was no burglar. I can go back to bed then.”

“Good night,
Maman
,” François said.

“Good night,” Milady said as she walked to the door. She stopped for a moment, turned around and looked at François. “I just wanted to say to you, darling—”

“Yes?” François said.

“If you wanted to borrow the Galliano,” Milady continued, “why didn’t you just ask?”

There was stunned silence during which they all stared at Milady.

“What?” Jacques said. “You knew?”

“Darling boy,” Milady sighed. “So like his father—”

“My father?” François blanched. “Did he—was he—?”

“Oh yes,” Milady nodded. “Except
he
preferred Givenchy.”

***

“W
hat are you doing?”

“Packing.” Margo folded her navy pullover.

“At this hour of the night? I mean, the morning,” Jacques said.

“I have to get out of here. I can’t stay another minute. This family is beginning to get on my nerves. Talk about dysfunctional,” Margo muttered. “I’m afraid that if I stay, it will rub off on me. I’ve already found myself oddly attracted to Justine lately.”