Innocent Obsession. Anne Mather
and she tanned quite easily, which Margot never had, and if her looks were only interesting, whereas Margot’s were striking, that was only fair when Margot’s appearance was so much more important to her.
‘I think you should write to Leon,’ Sylvie said now, looking across the table at her sister again. ‘Explain the situation. Tell him that it’s impossible for you to get away at this time. Ask him if there isn’t someone else who could take care of Nikos.’
Margot’s lips tightened. ‘You think it’s that simple, don’t you?’ she demanded. ‘You really think if I write to Leon and explain the situation, he’ll make other arrangements?’
Sylvie grimaced. ‘I don’t see why not.’
Margot made an impatient sound. ‘You forget, Sylvie, Leon isn’t like us. He’s not English, he’s Greek. And Greek men have an entirely different idea of women from Englishmen.’
‘He married you, didn’t he?’ Sylvie frowned. ‘He knew you were an actress.’
‘He knew I was trying to be,’ retorted Margot shortly. ‘I hadn’t actually done anything. As a matter of fact, I was desperate. If Lewis hadn’t suggested I joined his modelling group for that trip, I’d never have met Leon, would I? Never have married him!’
Sylvie absorbed this. Seven years ago, when Margot married Leon Petronides, she had been eleven, and scarcely old enough to understand her sister’s situation. All she remembered was Margot’s elation when she came home from the modelling trip to Athens, her exuberance at having met Aristotle Petronides’ son, and later on, her excitement when Leon followed her to London. The wedding that followed soon afterwards had seemed like a dream come true. Despite his parents’ disapproval, Leon had refused to give Margot up, and their honeymoon in Fiji had been the envy of all her friends. It was only as Sylvie grew older, after Margot’s son, Nikos, was born, that the flaws in their relationship became evident, and although Margot’s life with Leon had seemed idyllic, she had begun to get bored.
Twelve months ago, things had come to a head. After six years of behaving as Leon’s parents expected their sons’ wives to behave, her own father had died, and as Leon was away at the time on a business trip to the United States, Margot had flown home alone to attend the funeral.
Unfortunately, she had not wanted to go back. Initially, using her mother’s grief as an excuse, she had stayed on, sharing the house in Wimbledon with Sylvie and her mother, littering the place with her make-up and perfumes, monopolising the bathroom in the mornings, when Sylvie was trying to get ready for school.
Eventually, of course, she had been unable to resist contacting her agent, Maurice Stockton, and as luck would have it, he had just the part for her, in a play that was about to go on tour. The actress who had originally accepted the role had been taken ill, and Margot had jumped at the chance. She had moved out of the house in Wimbledon, much to her mother’s relief, and by the time she returned to London, she had enough money to rent this furnished apartment, in a converted Victorian mansion in Bayswater.
Leon had objected, of course, and Mrs Scott, Sylvie’s mother, had tried to placate him on those occasions when he had rung the house; but she found it hard to be convincing when she objected, too, and was alternately worried about her grandson and the precarious state of her elder daughter’s marriage.
At Easter, Leon had come to London to take his wife home, only to find her embroiled in rehearsals for a new play. He had ranted and raved, but Margot had been all-appealing, all-persuasive, earning herself a further three months’ grace. But now, Leon was adamant. Margot must come home—not least, because the nursemaid who had taken care of Nikos since his babyhood was leaving to care for her sick mother.
‘Anyway,’ Margot went on now, ‘Leon won’t listen to me. Don’t you think I’ve tried? It’s that family of his, of course. They’ve put him up to it. Without their interference, I could probably have wheedled another six months out of him, but—–’
‘What about your son?’ Sylvie broke in protestingly. ‘It’s almost a year since you saw him. Don’t you care about him at all?’
Margot assumed a brooding expression. ‘Of course I care,’ she retorted sharply. ‘But I’m an actress, Sylvie. I have a career, and to succeed in any profession you have to be dedicated.’
‘Then get a divorce,’ declared Sylvie practically. ‘Tell Leon the truth. Tell him you don’t want to be married to him any longer. You’re a British citizen. He can’t force you to go back to Greece.’
Margot gave her sister an irritated look. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to be married, did I?’ she exclaimed, and while Sylvie stared at her incredulously, she continued: ‘I—well, I want to do both. Other women do. Other women have both a marriage and a career.’
‘Not when their husband lives in Greece, and they live in London,’ replied Sylvie crisply. ‘Oh, Margot, why won’t you be honest? What you really mean is, you don’t want to let Leon go because he’s a meal ticket, a sure-fire insurance to fall back on, when—if—your acting career falls flat!’
‘You little prig! Don’t you dare to preach to me like that,’ Margot declared angrily, her voice rising ominously. ‘You know nothing about it. Just because you’ve got a few academic qualifications, you think you know it all, don’t you? Well, you don’t. When it comes to the real world, you’re sunk! And don’t think three years at Oxford will make the slightest bit of difference, because it won’t!’
Sylvie sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and rose to her feet, glancing down at her uniform of jeans and tee-shirt without resentment. Margot was probably right. She was only eighteen, after all, and she had just finished her final exams. Going to Oxford was important to her, but she had to admit that compared to Margot’s experiences, her own were prosaic. She had never mixed with artistic people, gone on modelling assignments, had handsome men phoning her at all hours of the day and night; and no wealthy Greek was likely to defy his parents and marry her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help thinking that such experiences seemed far more desirable from a distance, than they did close to.
‘So you won’t help me?’ Margot stated, looking up at her with cold accusing eyes, and Sylvie felt a moment’s contrition.
‘I can’t,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t such a soft conscience. ‘I’m sorry, but this is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself, Margot.’
‘Then I’ll ask Mummy,’ her sister declared, standing up also, tall and slim and vaguely intimidating, and Sylvie gasped.
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Oh, I would,’ Margot nodded. ‘I’m desperate, Sylvie. One way or the other I’m going to do this play, and no one’s going to stop me.’
Sylvie sought about for words to dissuade her. ‘But—but Mummy would hate it,’ she exclaimed. ‘She doesn’t know Leon’s family. Why, she hardly knows Leon himself.’
‘I know that.’ Margot was unmoved.
‘But, Margot, she’s just making a life for herself here.’ Sylvie spread her hands. ‘Since Daddy died, you know how lonely she’s been, but now she’s joined the Women’s Institute, and she plays bridge every Friday—she’s even learning to play golf! You can’t take her away from all that.’
Margot moved across to the screened fireplace and took a cigarette from the pack lying on the mantel. Lighting it, she said, slowly and deliberately: ‘Do you think she would turn her back on Nikos? Do you think she would allow him to be cared for by strangers?’
Sylvie made a sound of impatience. ‘That’s blackmail, Margot!’
‘No, it’s not.’ Margot swung round, exhaling delicately. ‘If you won’t help me, there’s no one else.’
Sylvie’s shoulders hunched. ‘Leon will never agree—–’
‘We won’t tell him,’ declared Margot dispassionately.