Finding Margo (9 page)

“Margo?”

Startled, she looked around. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw who was standing there. Shit, she thought. Rufus. Shit, shit, shit. “
Comment
?” she asked, sitting down again. “
Je crois que tu te trompes.”

Rufus squinted at her with his small eyes. “But it
is
Margo,” he insisted. “You did something to your hair. But your face – I know it’s you.”

Margo shook her head.
“Non, pas du tout.”

“But—” Rufus looked a little unsure of himself. Margo noticed the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip, even though he was only twelve. He held a dripping ice cream cone in one of his fat hands and there were sweat stains on his T-shirt. “Why did you turn around when I called your name if you’re not Margo, then?” he asked.

“Rufus?” a voice called, and a young woman ran toward them. “What are you doing here? Come on,” she ordered. “The rest of the class is getting on the bus.”

Rufus didn’t take his eyes off Margo. “I know it’s you,” he said, “I just know it.”

“He seems to think he knows you,” the teacher said in bad French.

Margo shrugged. “I don’t know why,” she said with a little laugh. “I have never seen him before in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” the teacher said. “He’s a very difficult child.” She took Rufus by the arm and started to drag him away. “Come on now. Stop bothering the lady.”

“But—” Rufus said as they walked away, his eyes still on Margo. “It’s her. She looks so much like—”

The teacher made some soothing noises, and Rufus reluctantly walked with her to the queue of children who were boarding a minibus. Margo could see him staring at her through the grimy rear window as the bus drove off.

***

“G
ood evening, Marguerite,” Milady said as she swept into the drawing room, where Margo was arranging a big bouquet of roses and freesias in a blue Delft vase. The French windows were wide open, and the lace curtains swayed slightly in the cool evening breeze.

“Good evening, Milady.”

“How did your first day go?” Milady asked as she sat down on a gilt chair and took out a cigarette. She had changed into a superbly cut black sleeveless silk shift and matching shoes with stiletto heels. Margo couldn’t help noticing that, despite her age, her arms were slim and smooth.

“Very well, I think.”

“You have done all the things I put on the list?”

“Yes.”

“You wrote the invitation cards?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you included a list of the guests with each one?” Milady asked as she fitted her cigarette into the long black holder.

Margo’s hand froze in mid-air. “I’m sorry?”

“A guest list,” Milady repeated impatiently. “A list of all the guests and their occupations.”

“Uh, no, I didn’t. There didn’t seem to be one.”

“But I left a stack of them beside the cards. Surely—”

“I didn’t see anything like that.” Margo pricked her finger on a thorn and dropped the rose on the floor.

“Probably because you didn’t look for it.” Milady snapped open her gold lighter and lit her cigarette.

“Well, you didn’t say,” Margo tried to defend herself while she sucked her finger.

Milady blew out a stream of smoke and flicked ash into a Sèvres ashtray. “When we invite people to dinner,” she explained with forced patience in her voice, “we must include information about their fellow guests.”

“Why?” Margo asked despite herself.

“Because that way they don’t have to ask questions like ‘What do you do?’ and ‘Is your wife here?’ It makes conversations smoother. It also prevents ladies wearing the wrong clothes.”

“How?”

“Can’t you guess? Imagine that you are going to a party and you receive a list of the guests.”

“Eh, yes?” Margo bent to retrieve the rose.

“Don’t you see?” Milady said impatiently. “You will know immediately what dress to wear because last time you met Madame X, you wore your blue dress or whatever, so now you can choose something different, and that way you can be absolutely sure that you won’t be seen wearing the same outfit twice in a row. Which would be—”

“A fate worse than death?”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, of course not,” Margo said hurriedly, fitting the last flower into her arrangement. “It’s just, well, that kind of thing doesn’t seem terribly important in the scheme of things. If you look at the problems of the world today, I mean.”

“Believe me, they are,” Milady stated. “You see, my dear,
la politesse
is really about consideration, about making it easier for people to—” She stopped and looked around as the door opened. “Here he is,” she announced with sudden girlish excitement in her voice.

Margo glanced up from her roses as a shadow fell across the polished parquet floor.

“
Bonsoir
,” the man said as he strolled into the room. With the evening sun in her eyes, Margo could only see the outline of his head and shoulders, and she squinted at him as he bent to kiss his mother on the cheek.

“
Bonsoir, chéri
,” Milady purred. “You’re home a little early.”

“Yes, I know. One of my meetings was cancelled so I—” He paused and looked at Margo. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know we had a guest.”

“Oh no,” Milady said with a little laugh and switched to English. “Darling, this is Marguerite, my new secretary. Marguerite, this is my son, François Coligny de la Bourdonnière.”

“
Enchanté, Mademoiselle
, the man said and walked closer to Margo. “How nice to meet you.” He lifted her hand to his lips in a polite French hand kiss, and as he turned slightly, she could see him clearly. Of medium height, he looked to be in his early forties, and despite the fact that he had the same dark hair and patrician features as his mother, he had something she lacked: a sweetness of expression. There was real warmth in his brown eyes as he looked at Margo.

“Good evening, Monsieur le Comte,” she said.

“I told you about Marguerite last night,” Milady reminded him. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

“No, I remember now,” he said. “I just didn’t expect her to be so young and attractive.” He sounded as if he was merely stating a fact and not paying Margo a compliment. “What a stroke of luck you just happened to walk in like that,” he continued. “What was it my mother said? Something about a letter?” His English was as fluent as his mother’s but with less of an accent.

“Well, it was a kind of a mix-up, really,” Margo said, picking up a rose petal from the table. “I was really looking for a job at your château. With the horses. Gráinne, my friend, couldn’t take up the position you offered her, and I thought, as you seemed to be so short handed—”

“I beg your pardon?” The Comte looked a little mystified.

“The event horses,” Margo explained. “The ones you have to get ready for...” her voice trailed away. What’s the matter with him? she thought. He doesn’t look as if he knows what I’m talking about.

The Comte shook his head. “I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with me. It must be my brother you’re talking about.”

“Your brother?” Margo said. “Oh, I see.”

“Yes,” the Comte said. “My brother, Jacques. He runs a yard for event horses at our château. He is an excellent rider and trainer, one of the best in France. I am François, the eldest son, and I work at the department of justice. I don’t know one end of a horse from the other,” he added with a little laugh. “
Maman,”
he chided, “you should have explained to Marguerite.”

Milady sighed. “Never mind that. Come here and sit down. Tell me about your day before we change for dinner.”

“How about a drink?” The Comte unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt and loosened the knot of his blue silk tie. “I could do with one, I have to say.”

“Good idea,” Milady nodded. “We have plenty of time. I’ll have a gin and tonic. What about you?”

“I’ll have a Scotch.” The Comte took off the jacket of his linen suit and draped it over the back of a chair.

“All right,” Milady said. “Marguerite?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ll have a sweet Martini,” Margo said, sitting down on a chair. “On the rocks, please,” she added. She was quite tired after all the chores and errands and a drink would be lovely.

There was a brief, embarrassed silence during which Milady flared her nostrils and glared at Margo with ill-disguised contempt.

It suddenly dawned on Margo what was going on. “Oh,” she said, getting up again, her face red. “I mean I’ll get the—”

“Let me get the drinks,” the Comte interrupted, walking to a cabinet by the big sofa and opening the doors. “You must be very tired, Mademoiselle Marguerite. You do look a little pale. I’m sure my mother is keeping you
very
busy.”

“François!’ Milady snapped. “What are you doing? This is really not
comme il faut.”

“What,
Maman
?” the Comte asked as he made a very large gin and tonic. “You mean offering your secretary a drink? On the contrary, I think it is very nice. Why not celebrate her first day with a drink and wish her welcome?” He handed his mother the glass and quickly made Margo’s drink and his own. He held up his glass.

“To Mademoiselle Marguerite. I hope you will enjoy working with my mother.”

“Thank you,” Margo replied, feeling a little foolish as she held up her glass. “
A votre santé
.” The ice cubes rattled against her teeth as she knocked back the Martini in one go.

“How about another one?” the Comte offered, taking her glass. “I don’t seem to have put enough in that one.”

“Oh no,” she stammered. “That’s all right. I have to go and—”

“Please, relax,” he said. “I’m sure there is nothing really urgent you have to do at this time.” He quickly refilled Margo’s glass, handed it to her, and sat down in a big leather armchair, crossing his legs as he sipped his drink.

“Well, no, not really,” Margo agreed. “I have finished for today, unless there is something else Milady wants me to—”

“Milady?” the Comte asked with a little laugh. “Is that what you call my mother? Hmm. Milady. Yes, I like it. It suits you to a tee,
Maman.
It’s like something out of an old English novel.” He smiled fondly at his mother, who looked only slightly mollified.

Margo sipped her drink and felt the alcohol slowly making her feel more confident and at ease. She smiled at the Comte, and he returned her smile as he finished his drink. “So, Mademoiselle,” he started.

“Oh please, call me Marguerite,” Margo said. “In any case, I’m not—”

“But then you must call me François,” he immediately replied.

“Really!’ Milady snorted.

“Why not,
Maman
? Oh, don’t be so stuffy! We have entered the twenty-first century, you know.
De haut en bas
is no longer in vogue, I’m happy to say.”

“You speak wonderful English,” Margo said.

“Thank you. I spent some time in London during my student years.”

“Oh? What did you study?” Margo asked, draining the last drops of her Martini.

“My son is an
énarque
,” Milady said.

“
Enarque
?” Margo said, putting her glass on the small table by the sofa. “Is that French for dyslexic?”

“No,” François laughed, “it means I went to ENA.
l’Ecole Nationale d’Administration
. It’s, well, one of the
Grandes Ecoles,
the great schools of France where we learn to be—to run this country. Maybe you have heard of them?”

“You mean a kind of training school for higher civil servants?” Margo asked.

“Something like that, yes,” Milady nodded. “But a lot more. You have to be
very
talented to get in. And then it’s very hard work. But François—”

“Enough,” François laughed. “Or you’ll have me declared a national monument. I’m not any more illustrious than anybody else in the French public service. You see, Marguerite, it’s Jacques who is the real star of this family.”

“Really?” Margo said, intrigued. “Why is that?”

“He is, as I said before, an excellent rider and trainer,” François explained. “But, more than that, he has won many medals while on the French show-jumping team. His picture has been in Paris Match and even Time Magazine when he won an Olympic gold medal a few years ago.”

“You might have heard of him,” Milady said with pride in her voice.

“No, I don’t think I have,” Margo said. “But I’m not really into equestrian sports.”

“Women who meet Jacques find themselves suddenly very interested in horses,” François said with a little laugh. “And when
you
meet him, you’ll see why.”

“Oh, but I won’t, will I?” Margo said, confused. “Except if he comes to Paris, of course.”

“But you’re coming with us when we go to the country,” Milady stated. “I’ll need you there even more than here in the city.”

“Don’t frighten Marguerite,
Maman
” François laughed. “I’m sure she’s more than busy already.” He got to his feet. “But now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and change. A pleasure to meet you, Marguerite.
A bientôt.”
He took his jacket, swung it over his shoulder and walked out of the room.

***

T
hat first evening drink became a daily routine. They didn’t really say very much to each other, just made polite conversation about the weather and world events. Margo would not have continued to accept his invitation if wasn’t for Milady’s obvious disapproval. Margo took a certain wicked pleasure in sitting down in the drawing room with her drink, sensing Milady’s seething anger. François didn’t seem to notice his mother’s annoyance. There was a hint of conspiracy between them as he and Margo chatted, pretending to ignore the chilly silence in which Milady sipped her drink. François always looked at Margo with bland politeness, but she sometimes imagined she saw a little smile deep in his eyes. She loved listening to him when he spoke French, which he did more and more frequently. It was like listening to music. And when he said her name, even that sounded like a compliment. Margo wondered why such a man wasn’t married. Maybe he was just very picky? Or maybe
Maman
won’t let him go?