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All her years of inviting herself to prominent galas, sneaking into fundraising events meant for the check-writing wealthy, and praying to gods unworthy, had at last paid off. If only her high school friends could see her now. They would widen their backbiting eyes with hidden resentment, even as they gushed over the extravagance she now lived in; the imported Persian rugs, the gold inlay around the fireplace mantle, the gleaming marble floors reflecting the garish crystal chandelier. The private beach with exquisite views of the ocean.
True, her new husband was as old as the grandfather clock in the foyer, but that would not matter. Elliot didn’t matter. Not to her. She had snared him with her youth and beauty, her fake and constant adulation, her phony cultured pedigree, all lies. She was a wealthy woman now.
Holding the expensive Versailles teacup, delicately, one pinky extended, Margot strode not too quickly, yet with an inward urgency, to the wide glass window. It overlooked the yacht harbor, the fleet of pristine vessels, blinding white, bobbing lazily on unseen tides. And beyond, glimpses of other mansions, hidden mostly by high walls and manicured foliage. She smiled at her vague reflection and stirred her tea with a silver spoon, watching the leaves settle to the bottom. She foresaw larger ships and private islands in the dregs at the bottom of the cup.
She toyed with the pearls around her neck, an early birthday present from Elliot. On a whim she bit down on them. For luck. Elliot was away on business, and if her upcoming birthday wishes were to come true, he would drop dead, leaving all this to her to enjoy as she pleased. Oh, the life she could have, traveling the world, wearing Tiffany diamonds and Oscar De La Renta gowns. And a dead Elliot could not admonish her, as he had done just before his trip, restricting her extravagance. True, his reprimand had been more of a suggestion, but it had annoyed her.
“Margot, darling,” he had said in his quiet, yet rasping elderly voice, “I want you to have all you desire, all that my money can buy,” he began. He shifted his weight, leaning on his walker. “But, my beautiful girl, tone the spending down a notch, will you, dear?”
“Why, Elliot, you want me to be happy, don’t you?” and she had waved her hand at the new purchases strewn across her luxurious satin sheets; real furs, designer dresses, and gem-studded heels among the hastily opened boxes and tissue paper. “Besides,” she cooed, coming over to wrap her arms around his shoulders, “I only want to look pretty for you,” and she gave him a peck on his clean-shaven cheek, inwardly grimacing at the old man odour that was never entirely masked by his favourite, but cheap, Old Spice aftershave.
Elliot patted her hand. “Of course, of course,” he smiled. “I just came to say the limo is waiting. I shan’t be gone but a few days this time. And when I return, we shall celebrate your birthday. You think about the party you’d like and make a guest list. Give Cook a gourmet menu that will have him flustered with perfectionism, nit picking orders to the kitchen staff over every magnificent dish.” Margot had walked him to the stained-glass double doors and waved until he was helped into the stretched, black Cadillac. Then turned away, giddy with expectation.
In the days that followed, Margot threw herself into her party preparations. The first thing she did was inform Cook, the longstanding chef that had been with the family since before she was born, that ‘no offense’ but she wanted a catered affair, and for him to make arrangements with Si Bon Café. Definitely appetizers with brie and avocado, followed by French onion soup, and a spinach salad with walnuts and kalamata olives.
“Tell them I’d like three main entrees for my guests to choose,” and she paused. “Certainly, the blackened shrimp and linguini with baby clams, and the Grand Marnier souffle. For the third,” and she put a ruby-ringed finger to her chin. “Just have the chef surprise me.” Then she handed the guest list to him. “I have an appointment with Madam Piccard for my final gown fitting this afternoon.” Then Margot gave Cook a wicked smile. “Don’t disappoint,” she said, but her tone was arrogant, implying that should he not do exactly as she wished, he would find himself unemployed.
On the morning of Margot’s thirty-third birthday, she opened her eyes and tittered with girlish glee. All day yesterday, there had been people coming and going with eccentric decorations, and more people bedecking the grand parlour with hundreds of gold and ivory streamers and balloons, and extravagant floral arrangements; a stage had been erected for a live band, and the room cleared of furniture for dancing until dawn.
Her glittering gown hung on her dressing partition, and she drew the covers up to her chin, giggling and kicking her feet like a child. The gown had cost almost forty-five thousand dollars, but she thought it worth every penny. It was at this happy moment that there came a light tapping on her bedroom door.
“Yes, what is it?” she cried out sharply, annoyed at this intrusion into her thoughts.
“Darling, are you awake?” It was Elliot. She was told he would be flying in this afternoon, to attend her party. Of course, he would attend. But what was he doing here now? Margot glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand. Only eight-o-five in the morning.
“Elliot? Back so soon? Just a moment. Let me put on my dressing gown at least.” But she stayed under the sheets and waited for his predictable reply, that he would come back later, that he was sorry he bothered her, that she should take her time and he would see her at breakfast. But Elliot did not say any of these things.
“Yes, my darling! Do put on your dressing gown. Happy birthday, by the way,” he said instead, and Margot pictured his head of thinning grey hair leaning against the closed door. “I … that is … before the guests start arriving, I brought you the first present of this wonderful day. Margot?”
Shit, she thought, and threw back the covers. “Oh, how exciting, Elliot. How kind,” she called out. “Well, okay, I’m putting on my robe. One sec …” and she grabbed the lovely party gown and shoved it behind the closet doors. “Come in,” she said sweetly, hastily tying her robe. At first, the door opened slowly, and she thought she would go mad with impatience. But then, the door flew back on its hinges and banged against the wall. Elliot stood there, hunched slightly, grinning like a schoolboy. And standing in front of his walker was a small child.
“Happy birthday, Margot,” Elliot said quietly, still grinning. “I thought and thought, now what in all the world could I give my dearest Margot, that she wouldn’t think to buy for herself?” And he looked down at the child, a little girl wearing a flounced dress of pink crinoline and beaded tulle. This is Beth,” he said. “And she is yours.”
“It’s Elizabeth, father,” the tiny girl said to Elliot in a correcting tone, then ran to the stunned Margot, throwing her arms around Margot’s waist and hugging her tightly. “Oh, mother! I’m so glad to meet you at last! Can I call you Mommy? Happy birthday, mommy. Oh, mommy, I simply love this robe,” and the child caught a glimpse of something sparkly sticking out of the closet. Leaving Margot, she rushed to the half-closed wardrobe and flung open the doors, revealing the party gown. “Is this what you’re wearing to our party?” she asked. “It’s simply divine,” she cried. “Oh, mommy, is there time for me to have a dress like this made for me, too?”
Margot turned to Elliot, who still had that satisfied grin on his jowly, sagging face. “Is this a joke? Is this an effing joke?” she cried. “Who does she belong to? Whose daughter is this? Not funny, Elliot. Not funny in the least!”
“Now, Margot. Please watch your language in front of Beth,” and he glanced at the child who was rummaging through the rest of the clothes. “It’s all been arranged. All adoption papers have been signed and documents notarized.” Elliot paused. “I can’t give you my own children. But I thought, now what would a young woman of your age pine for the most? And the answer was so very simple. All women want to be mothers. Darling, she’s yours. All yours. Your daughter. You have a daughter, a child. Now, when I pass on, you will never be alone. I’ve already had my attorneys draw up a new trust …”
“It’s Elizabeth, father,” the headstrong little girl interrupted, and taking Margot’s hand into her own, small, sticky one, began humming a childish tune, looking up at Margot who saw trouble and mischief in the child’s pretty blue eyes.