Finding Margo (8 page)

“M
adame’s breakfast,” Justine declared the next morning while she prepared the tray, “is quite a tricky business.” Her stocky frame was encased in a blue cotton dress covered by a crisp white apron that crackled with starch as she moved. Her grey hair was pulled back so severely it looked as if the bun at the back of her head had been tightened with a wrench.

“Oh,” Margo said, feeling awkward standing there in the kitchen in a navy skirt and white blouse. “Tricky? Why?”

“Because she is never happy.” Justine poured orange juice into a crystal goblet, placed it on the starched linen cloth and looked up at Margo. “Those clothes fit you perfectly.”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it when I tried them on. And all the other things fit me too, even the shoes. But why is Madame – I mean Milady – never happy?”

“Milady?” Justine snorted. “Has she given herself a new title then?”

“Well, that’s what she told me to call her. And that is also what you would call a countess in English,” Margo explained. “But do go on. What is the problem with Milady’s breakfast?”

Justine shrugged. “Oh, you’ll see. No matter how hard I try, she always complains.” She put a small basket of fresh bread rolls beside the orange juice, followed by a plate, a knife, and a large cup, which she filled with equal amounts of coffee and hot milk. She put one and a half cubes of sugar into the coffee and placed a small bowl with jam and a saucer with two tiny rolls of butter beside it. Finally, after having placed a single red rose in a small vase on the tray, she lifted it up and handed it to a startled Margo. “Here, you take it in.”

“Me? But—” Margo backed away.

“Not fancy enough for you? Not the job of a personal assistant?” Justine almost spat out the last words.

“No, it’s not that. I—”

Justine glared at Margo.

“Oh, all right.” Margo took the tray. “Where do I go?”

“Go to the lobby, then take the corridor on the right, and it’s the second door on your left,” Justine replied.

Margo found the designated door and, trying her best not to drop the tray, managed to knock gently.

“Oui?”

“Breakfast, Ma—Milady.”

“Bring it in then!’

Margo turned the handle, pushed the door open with her shoulder, and walked into the still dark bedroom. “Good morning, Milady,” she murmured. I’m really good at this, she thought with delight.

“Where’s Justine?” the voice from the large four-poster bed demanded.

“In the kitchen. She asked me to—”

“Open the curtains,” the voice ordered.

Margo put the tray on a table near the door and walked over to the windows. She pulled the heavy brocade curtains apart, and the room was at once flooded with light. As she walked back to pick up the tray, she glanced around the huge room, noticing the beautiful Persian carpet, the deep red silk on the walls, and the exquisite French antiques. There were some impressive oil paintings, but Margo’s eyes were immediately drawn to a huge framed black and white photograph of a vaguely familiar woman. There was a big vase with fresh flowers and a silver candlestick on the table underneath. Margo nearly tripped on the carpet as she stared at the photo, trying to figure out who it was.

“Coco Chanel.” the Comtesse said. “The pillar of French haute couture.” She was sitting up in the huge bed, propped up by a number of pillows in lace pillowcases. With her dark hair and pale pink silk negligee, she looked like a very beautiful ageing diva. Margo put the tray in her outstretched hands, and the Comtesse put it across her knees. “Thank you,” she said graciously as she picked up the linen napkin and studied the contents of the tray. “This looks to be in order.”

Margo smiled back and walked to the door, wondering what all the fuss had been about. Justine was just trying to frighten me, she thought, opening the door.

“Wait!’

Margo froze.

“The coffee is not strong enough,” the Comtesse announced. “Take the cup back and make me some really strong coffee.”

Margo took the cup back to the kitchen. “It’s too weak,” she said.

Justine, who was sitting by the table enjoying her own breakfast while she read the morning paper, didn’t lift her eyes from the front page.

“Give it a minute, then take it back again,” she muttered through a mouthful of bread and jam.

“What? But shouldn’t I—” Margo gestured towards the coffee pot.

“She won’t notice. She only complains because she wants to be difficult. She thinks it makes her important.”

Margo walked back with the coffee which, as Justine had predicted, the Comtesse accepted without question.

“No good, that woman,” she muttered, cutting her bread roll in half. “Getting too old and confused. I should get rid of her, but she has nowhere to go. Been in the family for generations.”

“I see,” Margo mumbled. She turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d go and—until you’ve finished your breakfast.

“The newspaper. Give it to me.”

“Oh, right. Where—”

“It should be on my tray. That woman has forgotten it again. Go and get it, and come back here at once.”

“Right away.” As Margo walked out of the room yet again, she had the peculiar sensation of playing the part of some kind of a go-between in an elaborate minuet.

“I would leave, but she can’t manage without me,” Justine said in the kitchen, handing Margo the newspaper. “I should go and live with my cousin in Tours. She has been asking me for years.” Justine shook her head. “But I can’t leave the family. They need me badly.”

Back in the bedroom, the Comtesse was waiting impatiently. “My eyes are a little dry this morning. I would like you to read the paper to me. Start with the first page. The headlines. Then the main stories, the theatre, and book reviews, and the social pages. Then the weather. In that order.”

“In French?”

“Of course,” the Comtesse barked. “What else? You might as well practice.”

Margo read the newspaper, having her pronunciation corrected at nearly every word. When the Comtesse was satisfied she was au fait with what was going on in the world, she announced she was getting up.

“Draw me a bath,” she ordered, “and lay out my clothes. The blue linen Chanel today, I think. Cream shoes and handbag. Fresh underwear. You’ll find it all in the dressing room.”

It took Margo some time to find, first the dressing room, then the required items in one of the huge oak wardrobes that lined the walls of the dark and gloomy room. The wardrobes were full to bursting with beautiful clothes squashed together in no particular order. When she finally spotted a pale blue linen ensemble and had rummaged around on the floor of the wardrobe for the shoes, she went back to the bedroom, where the Comtesse was pacing up and down on the carpet, talking rapidly into a mobile phone. Margo blinked and stared. The Comtesse was fully dressed in a blue linen dress, beige Chanel sling-back shoes, and her hair and make-up were immaculate. She switched off her phone and stared at Margo. “Where have you been?”

Margo held up the clothes. “I went to get—” she stammered. “You said the dressing room.”

“
Mon dieu,”
the Comtesse exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Not
that
room! You must have gone in the wrong direction. That is my vintage collection you have been going through. Did I not tell you to go to the dressing room?”

“Yes, but I thought that
was
...” Margo’s voice trailed away.

“No, no!’ The Comtesse walked across the room and threw a door open. “In here. This is where my current wardrobe is kept. What you have there is the pre-nineteen-eighties clothes.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Yes.” The Comtesse sighed with the exasperation of someone forced to be kind to a very small and very slow child. “Hang those clothes back, please.
Exactly
where you found them.”

“All right, Milady.”

“Good. I am going out now and won’t be back until late afternoon. I have written out a list of instructions and left it on my desk in my study. And by the way, my son will be home for dinner tonight at eight o’clock.”

Margo wanted to ask whether it was the dinner that was at eight o’clock or the return of her offspring, but the Comtesse had swept out of the room. Margo could hear her heels on the parquet as she walked swiftly down the corridor and the loud bang of the heavy front door as it closed behind her.

***

M
argo tidied the bedroom, took the breakfast tray back to the kitchen, managed to gulp down a piece of bread and some cold coffee and then helped Justine wash the breakfast dishes.

“How do I get to Milady’s study?” she asked as they worked. “I find this apartment and all the corridors so confusing.”

“Go to the inside lobby,” Justine replied, “then take the corridor toward the hall. Turn left, then left again. Second door on the right after the
grand salon
. All the corridors start at the lobby, and if you get lost, you can always go back there and start again.”

“Does this apartment take up the whole floor of the building?”

“That’s right. It’s the only one that is still the original size. The other ones have been split into two and sometimes even three apartments.”

“How many rooms are there?”

Justine shrugged. “Who knows?”

“But there are a
lot
of rooms,” Margo said.

“And a lot of locked doors,” Justine added with a strange look in her steel grey eyes.

In the study, Margo stared at the list she had found on the polished mahogany desk. It consisted of two A-4 pages. She sat down on the
directoire
chair by the desk while she slowly read through her chores for the day.
Write invitations and address envelopes for dinner party next Thursday (list, cards and envelopes on small table by the window in petit salon),
she read,
then post same. Collect dry cleaning, walk Milou
(a child? a dog?),
buy fresh flowers for dining and drawing room, help Justine with big tablecloths
,
iron silk blouses, press black linen trousers and jacket. After lunch
—

“Whaddyamean after lunch?” Margo muttered. “It’s eleven o’clock already.” She sighed.
After lunch,
she read again,
Galeries La Fayette
—there was a long list of things she was supposed to buy in said department store and charge to ‘Milady’s’ personal account. She would find metro tickets in a drawer in the hall table. Then another long list of things to do after that: silly little things like buying the evening newspaper, going to the English bookshop on Rue de Rivoli and enquire about a book Milady had ordered, walking “Milou’ again
(don’t forget bag to pick up droppings)
. I hope Milou is a nice dog, Margo said to herself. She looked up at a huge portrait of Napoleon over the period fireplace. He was sitting on a rearing white horse, his cloak billowing around him, pointing at the dark hills in the distance.
Victory at Marengo, 1800,
it said on a plaque on the bottom of the gilt frame.

“I suppose you never had to pick up doggie poo,” Margo mumbled. Napoleon stared back at her with an air of superiority in his burning black eyes. “Remember Waterloo?” Margo asked him. “Bet you didn’t look so snooty when that was all over.”

***

F
ollowing consultations with Justine, Margo established that Milou was a bad-tempered, very elderly West Highland terrier who lived in what was called the
arrière cuisine,
a kind of laundry room cum pantry off the main kitchen. He lay in his basket, snoring lightly, on a silk cushion embroidered with his name.

“Hello there, Milou,” Margo cooed, trying to sound cheery. “Are you ready for walkies?”

Milou didn’t stir. He opened one eye briefly, then closed it again and appeared to go back to sleep.

“Oh, come on,” Margo said. “You’ll love it. Lots of lamp posts. We might even meet some lovely girl doggies. Paris is full of poodles, you must know that.” She nudged the basket with her foot. Milou growled softly.

Margo tried to lift him out but pulled her hand back when he snapped. She stared at the dog, trying to figure out what to do, and he glared back with eyes like little black buttons.

“You stupid mutt,” she mumbled under her breath. “You flea-bitten mongrel.”

Milou closed his eyes again.

“What are you doing to the dog?” Justine called from the kitchen.

“Nothing. I can’t get him to move.”

“He’s lazy,” Justine said. “Lazy and spoiled.” She walked into the room and glared at the dog. “
Allez, Milou
,” she snapped. “Behave yourself and get out of there.”

The dog sighed and slowly got out of the basket. Justine clipped his lead onto his collar and handed it to Margo. “There, take him out for a walk on the
Champs de Mars
. And don’t let him get his own way. Show him who’s boss.”

“Right,” Margo said, trying to sound confident.

“Have you got a bag for the
crottes
?” Justine demanded.

“No, I forgot.”

“Here.” Justine handed her a plastic bag with the logo of a well-known shop on it.

Margo laughed. “That’s a very fancy bag to put dog poop in.” She jiggled the lead. “OK, come on then, Milou.”

Milou sighed again and ambled after Margo as she walked to the front door.

“Have fun,” Justine said with more than a hint of malice in her voice.

***

T
he Champs de Mars, the big park that forms a wide avenue between the Eiffel Tower and
l’Ecole Militaire
was situated a stone’s throw from the apartment building. Today, it was hot and dusty. After walking around the park for a while, Margo dragged the unwilling dog to a bench under a wilting acacia, where he collapsed in the dust and fell asleep. Margo sat down on the bench and wiped her forehead, grateful for the shade and the faint breeze. She leaned her head against the trunk of the tree and looked idly at the long queue of tourists waiting to go up the Eiffel Tower. It was nice to sit here and just let your mind drift, look at the people, the dogs, and the flowers, and trees. She looked up at the summer sky where a jet plane left a long vapour trail that slowly dispersed She could hear the sound of bells jingling nearby and looked around. It was an ice cream van. It parked near the fountain and was at once surrounded by children, jostling each other to get first in the queue. Margo suddenly felt parched, but she had no money. Oh, well, she thought, I’ll have a drink of water when I get back to the apartment. She was about to get up when someone said her name.