Finding Margo Read Free

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