Finding Margo (2 page)

“There’s a petrol station a few miles ahead,” Alan said, sounding marginally calmer as they passed a large sign. “We’ll stop there and fill up.”

Margo didn’t reply.

“And I’ll have a look at the map and try to find out where the
fuck
we are,” he continued.

Margo turned her head away and stared blindly out the window, trying to block the sound of his voice from her mind.

“Sulking now are we?” Alan’s voice dripped contempt. “Feeling sorry for ourselves?”

Margo laughed bitterly to herself as she was tempted to ask him what his patients would say if they saw him now: all those women who found him so caring and wonderful, the best plastic surgeon in London with the wonderful bedside manner.

Alan shook his head. “Jesus. Women,” he muttered. “Can’t read a fucking map.”

Margo rummaged in her bag.

“What are you doing now?” Alan demanded.

“Nothing. Just looking for a hanky.”

“You’re going to turn on the tears now, I suppose. Jesus Christ, you really are pathetic.” He tightened his hands on the steering wheel, and the car suddenly surged forward.

Margo closed her eyes, humming a little tune to herself. Alan said something she didn’t hear, his voice only a distant murmur as the car swept around the next bend.

***

“H
ere we are,” Alan said as he slowed the car and turned into the entrance to the motorway station. “But look at that queue. Shit! I should have known it would be like this at this time of year. Why does everybody go on holiday in July? We’ll have to wait at least half an hour now.”

Margo looked around. It was one of those huge stations with about twenty petrol pumps, a picnic area, a playground for children, a cafeteria, restaurant, and a shop in a separate building. She took her handbag and started to get out of the car.

“I’m going to the loo,” she announced, taking her black leather tote bag as well, thinking she could change her sweaty T-shirt for a fresh one.

“Yeah, sure,” Alan muttered, staring ahead, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

“I’ll see you in the cafeteria when you’ve finished filling the car,” Margo said as she left.

Alan just glared at her without replying. She shrugged and hurried away from the car, across the hot tarmac baking in the afternoon sun, and into the coolness of the restaurant.

***

M
argo looked at herself in the mirror as she dried her hands on the paper towel in the surprisingly clean ladies’ toilet. God, I look a mess, she thought. Her face was pale, and there were traces of mascara under her eyes. She pulled out the scrunchie that held up her hair, and the dark blonde curls tumbled onto her shoulders. She dampened a tissue to wipe away the smudges under her eyes, to no avail. She still looked tired and dishevelled despite having changed into a fresh blue T-shirt. Her white linen trousers were more wrinkled than fashionably creased. She sighed and took a comb from her bag and then tried to fluff up her hair. I’ll have to wash it as soon as we get to the hotel, she thought, tying it up again. She put away the comb, took out a lipstick, and quickly touched up the colour on her mouth, which made her look only slightly better. A good night’s sleep, she thought. That’s what I need. I can’t wait to get to the hotel. Alan will have calmed down, and we’ll have a nice dinner, some wine, and then I’ll do my best to cheer him up. And tomorrow we’ll be in Cannes. The conference will keep him occupied and maybe improve his mood.

Margo wandered out of the ladies’ toilet into the shopping area and started to walk around the aisles. There was an amazing amount of luxury goods for sale: perfumes, soaps, expensive chocolates, even bottles of wine and champagne. She chose a small box of Belgian chocolates and a tray of tiny soaps, not because she needed them but because it cheered her up to buy something.

“That’s forty-four euros and fifty cents,” the girl at the checkout said.

Margo handed her a fifty from the euro notes Alan had given her early that morning, when they had gone to the cash machine at the ferry port. He had told her to keep the European ‘funny money’ in her purse for emergencies, as you never knew when you might need to pay for something in cash. She didn’t have a credit card. Alan wouldn’t permit it. Not that he was stingy, but he didn’t want her to buy things he hadn’t approved of first.

Margo put the change away, picked up her purchases, and walked toward the restaurant. He must still be in that queue, she thought. I’ll have something to eat while I wait. I’ll order him a salad or something, that’ll cheer him up. He hates waiting around for meals. Or...maybe he doesn’t want anything to eat? He might get irritated again if I buy him a meal he doesn’t like, and then he’ll be in a mood for the rest of the evening. She idly picked up a tray and went to the buffet, where an array of rather tired salads and sandwiches was displayed. She picked up a plate of chicken salad, a bread roll, a piece of apple tart, and a bottle of water. What if he’s really hungry, she thought, and then he’ll be annoyed that I didn’t get him something...

“Madame?” the man at the cash register said.
“Vous voulez autre chose?”

“
Non
,” she said, shaking her head to emphasise her words and paid the bill. She sat down at a Formica table and tucked into the meal. The salad, followed by the apple tart and a cup of strong coffee from the espresso bar, improved her mood, and she felt more hopeful. He’s just tired, she thought. All that driving would exhaust anyone. If only we could share the driving, it would be so much better, but he never wants me to drive.

Where was he? She looked toward the entrance, but all she could see was a group of Italians arguing about who should get the last pasta salad and a couple with two children choosing ice cream. She looked out the grimy window and spotted Alan, standing by the car which had inched forward only two spaces since she left. He looked hot and irritated, and Margo could see him wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. Oh God. This will make him even worse, she thought. She lifted the cup to her lips to finish her coffee but found her hand was shaking so much she couldn’t hold it steady. Oh, I hope he’ll be able to fill the tank soon, she prayed, so we can get going...

A few minutes later, Margo looked out again and saw Alan gesticulate in an evident rage at a uniformed youth holding a bucket and mop. Hit him, she silently willed the bewildered young man. Hit him right in the face. But the young man just backed away. Margo turned back to her coffee. How is it possible, she asked herself, for a man with such charm to be so horrible when he’s angry? And he has been a lot worse lately, losing his temper for no apparent reason at all. The week in Cannes should be good for us both. We’ll be able to talk things through, really get close again...

Margo turned her gaze to the window opposite and looked at the view of the motorway that was crossed by a footbridge that lead to the lay-by on the opposite side, where a large number of trucks were parked. She stared at the footbridge and at the motorway with the traffic roaring in both directions, then turned around and glanced at Alan again. Now he was kicking a wheel of the car. He looked up and peered at the windows of the cafeteria, and she could see him, still scowling. She knew he couldn’t possibly see her, but she cringed all the same. She looked through the other window again, at the footbridge and the people walking across it. She wished she was one of them, someone, anyone who didn’t have to get back into that car with Alan in the mood he was in. She wished she was back in London, at work, out shopping, anywhere but here in this café waiting to confront him again. I’d better go back to the car, Margo thought. He’ll be even worse if he has to wait for me. She sighed, slowly gathered her things, and started for the main entrance. When she was half way across the restaurant, she suddenly stopped, turned, and on an impulse, walked out the side door instead, around the back of the building, across the tarmac, away from the petrol pumps and the line of cars. She kept walking, staring ahead, as if guided by an inner voice that kept telling her to keep going. Suddenly, someone shouted, but she walked on, her heart pounding, afraid to look around. The shouting stopped. She glanced behind her. A man had caught a small boy by the shoulder. Margo clapped her hand to her chest to slow her heart and stood for a moment, trying to catch her breath and regain her cool. She breathed in deeply and, like a sleepwalker, started to walk again – across the car park, through the playground and the picnic area, up the steps and over the bridge.

T
he small green truck was parked in the shade of a tree a short distance away from the group of big articulated lorries. The paint was flaking off its sides, and the lettering spelling the word ‘Horses’ above the front windscreen was barely visible. Margo had been wandering around the parking area in a dazed state, wondering what to do next. She kept looking over her shoulder expecting to see Alan coming across the footbridge ready to drag her back to the car. The urge to get away was the only thing on her mind now. I have to get a lift quickly, she thought, studying the truck drivers – mostly big, swarthy, unshaven men who were laughing, joking, or snoozing in the shade. She tried to spot the one that looked the least likely to attack her first chance he got. But none of them looked in any way friendly or even particularly appealing. I have to get out of here before Alan finds me, she said to herself, panic rising in her chest. Then she saw the small truck. Margo tightened her grip on her bag and walked toward it. She went around the side, where a young man, his back to her, was drinking deeply from a beer can. He was short and stocky with dark, slicked-back hair. He wore a loose blue shirt and jeans, and he was flicking ash from a cigarette held carelessly in his other hand.

“
Excusez-moi, monsieur
,” Margo said politely.

The young man whipped around. “What the fuck...?” Despite the hoarseness, the voice was not male.

“Oh, sorry,” Margo smiled nervously, “I thought you were—”

“A fucking French guy?” The young ‘man’ put her cigarette in her mouth, tucked her shirt into her jeans with one hand, revealing an impressive bust, and crushed the beer can with the other.

“Well yes, but I only saw you from the back and—”

“I looked French?” The woman shook her head and laughed. “
And
you thought I was a man. Jesus, that’s a laugh.” She stubbed out her cigarette against the side of the truck, looking Margo up and down. “You look hot.”

Margo backed away. “Well, I’m—”

“You in some kind of trouble?” The woman spoke with a strong Irish accent.

“No, not really.” Margo laughed nervously. “I was...” She swallowed, trying to think of a likely story, “on this—this bus, and we stopped for a break, and then—then—it just drove off.”

“That’s a pisser.”

“Mmm, um, yes.”

The woman studied her for a moment through narrowing eyes. “So now you’re looking for a lift, is that it?”

“That’s right.”

“Where are you going?” the woman asked, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “I mean where was that bus taking you?”

“To Cannes,” Margo blurted out without thinking. “I mean, no, I mean—” She stopped, feeling both confused and embarrassed. “I want to go to Paris,” she heard herself say.

“You were on a bus to Cannes, and now you want to go to Paris?” The woman looked at her suspiciously with her small brown eyes. Like currants in a bun, Margo thought.

“Yes, that’s right,” she replied, trying to sound confident. “I’ve changed my mind about Cannes. I’ve decided to look up a friend in Paris instead.”

“You don’t say,” the woman muttered ironically. “Why do I have the feeling something really weird is going on here?”

“Weird?” Margo straightened her shoulders and gazed innocently at the other woman. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Like you’re up to something. Like you’re in some kind of trouble. You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

“Not lately, no,” Margo tried to joke.

“And the police aren’t after you or anything?”

“No, of course not,” Margo replied with feeling.

The woman looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. “Know anything about horses?” she suddenly asked.

“Horses?” Margo said, confused.

“Yeah. That’s what I have in the truck here. Two of the best event horses in Ireland. I’m bringing them back from a competition in Grenoble. I had someone to help me, but the bitch let me down. Decided to go off with a groom from Italy, and now I have to look after the horses on my own. So if you think you could give me a hand with ‘em, I’ll be happy to give you a lift and drop you off somewhere near Paris.”

“Horses?” Margo said again. “Well yes, as long as it’s not too complicated. I went to pony camp once when I was younger. But that was a long time ago.”

“Pony camp, eh? Well then, you would know the basics, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Great. OK.” The woman wiped her hand on the back of her jeans and held it out to Margo. “By the way, I’m Gráinne.”

“I’m sorry? You’re what?”

The woman laughed. “I get that all the time. It’s my name, very common in Ireland. Seems to confuse English people big time. Gra, rhymes with ‘bra’, for someone with your la-de-da accent, then ‘nya’. Try it, ‘gra-nya’.”

“Gráinne.”

“Brilliant. What’s your name?”

“M—” Margo started. “Maggie.”

Gráinne grabbed Margo’s hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Maggie. Are you ready?”

Margo nodded, feeling oddly excited, as if she was embarking on some kind of adventure. “Yes, I’m ready,” she said.

“Want to nip into the jacks before we go? It’s just across that footbridge.”

“No!’ Margo exclaimed. “I’m all right. And thank you so much for helping me.”

“No bother. OK, let’s go then,” Gráinne said and opened the door to the driver’s side.

Margo ran around to the other side, opened the door, climbed up, and settled into the passenger seat. Gráinne put on her seat belt, turned the key in the ignition, and the truck’s engine came alive.

“OK?” she shouted over the rumble. Margo nodded again, clutching her bag and looking straight ahead, a feeling of elation making her heart beat faster.