Finding Margo (29 page)

“I see. You want to fire me.” Margo shrugged. “Go ahead. I think it’s time for me to move on, in any case. This job was just a pit stop for me, actually.”

“Oh God.” François sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying.” He reached across the table and took Margo’s hand, squeezing it hard. “I’m sorry. Please Marguerite, don’t even think of leaving right now. We can’t manage without you.”

“Rubbish.” Margo snorted, pulling her hand away. “Of course you can. You just don’t want to. You don’t want to have to deal with your mother, and you want me to try to get Jacques to come back so that everything will fall back into place.”

“Do you think you could?” François asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Get Jacques to come back?” Margo exclaimed. “Certainly not. I don’t think he should, to be honest. He must go away now and start afresh – get a new life on his terms and nobody else’s. It’s the only way for him to be happy.”

“What about me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How can I be happy?”

“You?” Margo asked, surprised at the question. “I don’t know you, François. I know nothing about your life, so how could I know what you should do with it?” She thought for a moment. “Maybe you could start by cutting the cord?”

“The cord?” François looked mystified.

“Yes. The umbilical one, I meant.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes,” Margo said, feeling reckless. “Take the thumb out of your mouth, throw away the teddy bear and the security blanket, and go out there and take your chances. The world is a great place, you know. Maybe not so pretty, and it might ruffle your hair and mess up your clothes.” She stopped and studied him critically. “It might make you less bland. Less like a mannequin in a shop window. A very elegant shop, of course,” she added to take the sting out of her words.

He looked at her without replying.

“Oh come on, François,” Margo said, trying to suppress an urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “
Do
something with your life. Tell your mother to take a jump, and do something dangerous. I bet that in your whole life, you’ve never really misbehaved.” She suddenly laughed for no particular reason, only because it was such a relief to say exactly what was on her mind and because she had had the courage to do so. It was a heady feeling, making her almost dizzy. She looked at François defiantly, expecting him to be shocked at her outburst.

François didn’t look shocked but made a sound that was halfway between a chuckle and a laugh.

Margo stared at him in astonishment as a slow, wicked grin transformed his face. “That, my darling Marguerite,” he said in a deep voice, so different from his normal way of speaking, “is because you don’t know me. You don’t know me at all.”

He looked and sounded, at that moment, so like Jacques it took her breath away.

“S
o, Mademoiselle, are you happy to be back in Paris?”

Margo looked up from the silver teapot she was polishing and looked at Justine in surprise. It was so unusual for the old housekeeper to initiate a conversation for no reason, and they had been cleaning silver in the kitchen for more than an hour with only the music from the radio breaking the silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Margo looked from Justine to the kitchen window, where the rain was making dirty streaks on the glass. It had been raining for the best part of a week now, and even though the rain was welcome after the terrible drought, it was beginning to feel very dreary. Margo pondered the question for a moment.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s certainly different. What about you? Do you prefer Paris to Tours?”

Justine shrugged. “It’s all the same to me. Life is life, wherever you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every place has its ups and its downs,” Justine said, looking as if she was regretting taking the initiative to talk.

“Yes, but there are some places where it’s easier to deal with the downs.”

“Like the château, you mean?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I meant. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Knew you’d like it,” Justine muttered, rubbing a particularly dirty silver dish. “Just your kind of place.”

“How do you mean?”

“Romantic,” Justine grunted as if the word was making her choke.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Margo said, turning her attention back to the teapot. “I think we’re running out of polish.”

“Here, there’s some left in this tin,” Justine said, pushing it across the table. “And there’s another one in the pantry. We have to get this done before Madame is back. She wants the tea service this afternoon and the big silver dishes for the dinner party tomorrow.”

“We’d better speed it up, then,” Margo said, giving the teapot a last rub and putting it with the cleaned silver at the end of the table.

“How many for dinner tomorrow?” Justine asked.

“Ten. Milady has invited nine guests, and as François has gone down to the château for a few days, that makes it ten all together.”

“That’s a bad business,” Justine mumbled. “Very bad indeed.”

“What is?”

“What happened at the château. Monsieur Jacques leaving like that and Monsieur François having to take over.” Justine looked suspiciously at Margo over the edge of a big silver dish with ornate decorations on the rim. “I have a feeling you know a lot more about it than you let on.”

“Me?” Margo looked at Justine, her eyes wide.

“Yes, you, Mademoiselle. I knew you’d cause trouble the minute you walked in that door.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Margo said. But she did. She knew exactly what Justine meant. The relatively calm life of the Coligny family had been turned upside down because of her. As the result of an innocent remark from me, Margo thought, Jacques has gone, François is left with looking after the property, and Milady has to spend her evenings alone or in the company of guests. It reminded her of how once, when she was a little girl, she had poked an anthill with a stick and watched the ants running around, trying desperately to put their nest back together again. She had gone back the next day to see if they had managed to build it up again and found that they had, even though their home was not as perfect as before.

“Monsieur François has changed,” Justine said glumly. “He looks different. Younger. Happier.”

“I know,” Margo said with a little laugh. It was true, she thought. Ever since that argument in the kitchen, François had changed. The difference was very subtle but he seemed a lot more carefree and, despite the fact that he had to both hold down his job at the ministry and keep an eye on the property in the country, he seemed more relaxed and at ease than ever before.

“But you don’t,” Justine said. “You look worse.”

“I have been feeling a little under the weather since I came back,” Margo admitted. “Probably just the change of air or something. And, of course, it’s been pretty hectic around here lately.” But it was more than that, she thought. I’m so tired and listless. She slept well, but it seemed as if she couldn’t get enough sleep, and she dragged herself out of bed every morning without enthusiasm for the day ahead. There had been no word from Jacques, and although Margo tried her best to put him out of her mind, she missed him so much it was like a constant pain in her chest. Maybe it’s just that, she thought, maybe I’m simply lovesick. It will probably go away in time. One day I will be over him. In about fifty years or so.

“Madame is frantic,” Justine said. “I have never seen her so restless.”

“She’s just trying to get back into the swing of things,” Margo said, even though she thought that Milady’s behaviour was bordering on the hysterical. Previously very selective about the invitations she accepted, she now went to every single social event she was invited to, often going from lunch to cocktail party then onto dinner, only popping back to the apartment to quickly change into a different outfit.

“She is behaving really strangely,” Justine argued. “She even went to a pop concert last week.”

“And a cat show yesterday,” Margo said with a laugh. “She said she was thinking of getting one, that a Siamese might match her new Chanel twinset. And then, last week, she wanted to go to Eurodisney for the afternoon, but I had to explain to her that a flyer with ‘Come to Euro Disney’ was not a personal invitation, just junk mail. And now I have to check her post before I give it to her.”

“Madness,” Justine said, shaking her head. “Maybe we should tell Monsieur François to talk to her doctor?”

“I don’t think it’s any of our business,” Margo said sternly.

“Yes, but if she’s ill—” Justine looked worried, and Margo suddenly realised how much the old woman cared about the Comtesse. Margo also thought she knew the reason for Milady’s behaviour. She was trying to turn her mind away. Her grief for her dead lover must still be very real, and this was the only way Milady could deal with it.

“I’m sure she’ll calm down soon,” Margo soothed. “We’re going down to the country at the weekend. That should help her relax for a bit.”

“If only Monsieur Jacques would at least write,” Justine sighed. “I think Madame is very upset about the way he left.”

“Yes, maybe,” Margo muttered, bending her head over the silver sugar bowl she was cleaning. Why doesn’t he write to
me
? she thought.

“
Attention
, Mademoiselle,” Justine suddenly warned. “You’ve made a big mistake.”

“What?” Margo snapped her head up so fast it made her neck hurt.

“You have put scouring cream on the silver,” Justine mumbled, gently taking the bowl from Margo.

***

“I
sn’t it strange how life keeps changing?”

“How do you mean?” Margo asked, looking at François as he walked beside her through the park of the château; the autumn leaves were falling around them, and heavy drops slowly fell from the bare branches of the big trees.

“When I was younger, I thought my life would always be the same,” François explained, putting up the fur collar of his suede jacket. “I thought I would always be the way I was – work at the ministry, come here for my weekends. Jacques would be looking after everything for us and my mother would run our social life. I thought that maybe one day I would get married, but that wouldn’t change things, really. I would just do the same things, only with a family. But now—” He stopped.

“Now?”

“Now things have changed. And I have changed. And I want to go on changing. Give up my job and do something completely different.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t tell you that yet,” François said, sounding oddly elated. “Only that it is something new and exciting and a little risky at the same time.”

“Really?” Margo asked, mystified. “Risky? How?”

“I can’t talk about it just yet. But I can tell you this – I used to be afraid of taking risks. But now I’m not afraid anymore, only happy and excited.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“How about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you not think your life would always be the same?”

“Yes, you’re right, I did,” Margo said, putting her hands into the pockets of the old waxed jacket she had found in the cloak room. “I thought when I got married, it would be forever. That I would always live in London.” Her voice trailed away and she suddenly shivered.

François looked at her and put his arm through hers. “Cold?”

“Not really. It’s a little damp, but the air is nice.”

“It will be dark soon.”

“I know.”

“Let’s continue walking for a bit.” François pulled Margo along, and she fell into step beside him. They walked in companionable silence for a while, kicking the leaves, until François suddenly stopped and turned to face her. “Marguerite?” he said softly. “What’s the matter? You seem so down. Is something troubling you?”

Margo looked away, blinking furiously. “No, I’m all right,” she said, trying to sound calm. “Just feeling a little—”

“What?” François put his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. “You look terrible,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

The gentle concern in his voice was too much for Margo. She leaned her forehead against his chest and let her tears run. “It’s nothing,” she sobbed, “I’m just going through some stuff, that’s all.”

“Stuff? How do you mean?”

“Oh, just my life and how it’s slowly sliding into the toilet,” she said bitterly. “How I don’t seem to be able to do anything right. How I’ve hurt a lot of people, including myself. And how I don’t know what the
fuck
I’m going to do now.”

“You must be very upset,” François said. “I’ve never heard you use that word before.”

Margo lifted her head. “Not a word I’d use normally. But I’ve learned what a great word it is when you’re really pissed off.”

“And right now, you are, uh, pissed off?”

“Yes.” Margo nodded. “Mostly with myself.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you see?” Margo exclaimed, thumping François in the chest so hard he had to take step backwards. “I’ve ruined every body’s life. Milady’s, Jacques’, yours.”

“Not mine,” François protested. “Not at all.”

But Margo didn’t listen. “You were perfectly happy, and then I come along and just—” She stopped and looked at François. “What?”

“I said you haven’t ruined my life. In fact,” he continued, “you have saved it.”

“What do you mean?” Margo sniffed, rummaging around in her pocket for a tissue.

“Here.” François handed her a crisp white handkerchief. “Blow your nose and cheer up. Nobody is miserable except you.”

Margo blew her nose noisily. “That’s a great help. You know,” she continued, “I’m one of those people who puts things together before looking at the instructions and then only if it doesn’t work. The thing I was trying to make, I mean.” She handed the hanky back to François, but he shook his head, and she stuffed into her own pocket. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Of course,” François mumbled with the air of someone who was trying to humour a lunatic.

“I mean, I’m like that with my life too. I just jump in with my two big feet and do what comes into my mind without looking at the instructions.” She drew breath.

“Life doesn’t come with instructions,” François said.