AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"I hurt her by staying, too. So either way I'm of no use to her. At least in Milan I can try to put some of my own pieces back together. I need money, I need work."
"You need." Eyes cool, Ann studied her daughter. "Well, then, that naturally comes first. I'll arrange for your cab to the airport."
"Mum." Washed with regret, Margo took a step after her. "I'm trying to do what's right. If it's a mistake, then it's a mistake, but I'm trying to do what I think is best. Try to understand that."
"I only see you're going when you've hardly come home." Ann closed the door behind her, the only good-bye Margo would have.
Chapter Six
Contents - Prev | Next
Margo had fallen hard for Milan at first sight. She had been dazzled by Paris, awed by Rome, amused by London. But Milan, with its busy streets, impeccable style, and easy panache had won her heart.
Her career had fulfilled her childhood dream of travel, tickled the wanderlust that had always been part of her soul. Yet, in her own way, she had needed roots, a base, a place to call her own.
She had chosen the flat on impulse, because she liked the look of the building, the charming terraces that offered a view of the street and a glimpse of the spearing towers of the Duomo. And because it was a convenient stroll from her door to the elegant shops of the Montenapoliane.
She stood on her terrace now, sipping chilly white wine, watching the late-evening traffic punctuated by the high, dou ble-toned blare of sirens. The sun was setting, gilding the view and making her lonely for someone to share it with.
She had been right to come back. It was perhaps the first selfless thing she'd done in too long to remember. Though Laura had argued until the cab whisked Margo away, and Josh had simply stood eyeing her coolly with an expression that accused her of running, she knew she had done what was best.
Still, doing what was right wasn't always comforting. She was miserably lonely. Fears of the present and the future weren't nearly as difficult to overcome as the isolation.
In the week since her return, she hadn't answered the phone, or returned any of the messages already crowding her machine. Most of them were from reporters or acquaintances hoping for a tidbit of gossip. Mixed among them were a few offers she was afraid she would have to consider.
If she
were truly brave and daring, she mused, she'd shimmy into some little black dress and stroll into one of her old haunts to set the room buzzing. Maybe she would before it was done, but for now she had a few more wounds to lick.
Leaving the terrace doors open, she walked into the living area. Other than a few gifts, she'd chosen each and every piece herself. She hadn't wanted a decorator, but had enjoyed the adventure of hunting down every pillow and lamp.
It certainly reflected her taste, she thought with a wry smile. Eclectic. Hell, she corrected—scattered. An antique curio cabinet crowded with Limoges boxes and Steuben glass. The japanned chest that served as coffee table was topped with a huge Waterford compote that was in turn filled with colorful handblown fruit.
There were Tiffany lamps, Art Deco ones, even a Doulton Flambe that featured a seated Buddha and had cost her some ridiculous amount at auction just to sit there and look ugly.
Every room of the two-bedroom flat was crammed with more. Inkwells she'd collected during some passing stage.
Russian boxes, paperweights, vases, bottles—all purchased for no other reason than that they were what she had been acquiring at the time.
Still, it made a lovely, cluttered, and homey place, she thought, as she settled down on the deeply cushioned sofa. The paintings were good. She'd been told she had an eye for art, and the street scenes that lined her walls were clever and lovely and brought the world into her rooms.
Her world. Her rooms. Temporarily, at any rate, Margo thought and lighted a cigarette. But she wasn't going to be able to hide in them for much longer.
Maybe she would take the offer from Playboy and drive the wolf back, away from her door. Her eyes narrowed in consideration, she drew in smoke. Why not? Why not sell her pathetic story to the tabloids that called daily to clutter her answering machine tape? Either way, she'd have money again. Either way, she would strip herself naked for the grinning world.
What were those few shreds of pride really doing for her?
Hell, maybe she should shock the civilized world and drag all her furnishings out onto the street for one wild, goes-to-the-highest-bidder bazaar.
Laughing, she envisioned how it would distress her very polite and proper doorman, her elegant neighbors. And how it would delight the ever-hungry press.
So what if she spread herself out on the centerfold of a glossy men's magazine with a couple of strategically placed staples? Who would care if she prostituted her pride to whine about her. troubles in a Sunday supplement or supermarket paper?
No one expected any more or any less from her. Perhaps, she thought, tiredly crushing out the cigarette, neither did she.
But to sell her possessions, to publicly barter things for money, that was so… middle-class.
Well, something had to be done. The bills were piling up, and she wouldn't have a roof over her head much longer if she didn't pass over considerable lire.
