The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (17 page)

When the phone in the villa rings at three, I know without looking what time it is. I run to it.

‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Bonjour? Bonsoir? Hello?’

There’s someone there; I sense it.

‘Greg?’

The line goes dead. I wait by the phone in case it rings again. After five minutes, I go back to bed, relieved that it wasn’t the French police. Relief changes to rage when I think of what he’s
putting
me through. Next time I see him, he’s getting two words from me. I’m leaving. He’ll have to cop on then, he’ll have to remember his responsibilities. This is his problem, not mine.

Somehow, at some stage, I fall asleep.

At nine, I wake to the sound of hushed conversation and light footsteps on the stairs. Rachel and Toby are up. I throw back the sheet and go to Greg’s room to check if he’s there, though I already sense that he’s not.

I’m right.

I dress, then give the children a comfortable few minutes before heading down. I find them in the kitchen. Toby’s sitting at the table, legs dangling. He’s looking down at his bowl, into which Rachel’s pouring Coco Pops. There’s a protectiveness about the way she’s standing over him. She looks like a very vulnerable mini-mum. I get a sudden urge to save them.

Rachel turns. I’m graced with a scowl. Then it’s back to the business at hand. I’m not here.

‘Good morning,’ I say, brightly.

No answer.

‘Would anyone like some toast?’

No eye contact.

I busy myself making coffee, then sit at the table. Expecting continued silence, I’m surprised when Rachel speaks.

‘Did you stay here last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because your dad was out and I didn’t want to leave you on your own.’

‘Oh.’

Her eyes narrow again. ‘Where did you sleep?’

‘In one of the guest rooms. Why?’

‘No reason.’

Silence returns.

‘Where’s Dad?’ asks Toby, chocolate staining the edges of his mouth.

‘Gone again, as usual,’ Rachel says, with the exasperation and bitterness of a long-suffering wife. I know how she feels.

I sip my coffee, hoping they don’t work out that he’s been gone all night. ‘So, what would you like to do today?’

Toby glances at his sister. She frowns a silent warning. He looks down into his bowl.

‘How about Aqua-Splash?’ I ask.

His head pops up. ‘Yeah,’ he says. Then, ‘Ow,’ as his sister kicks him. He looks down again, gives a quick nod as if telling himself to be quiet.

‘We’re not going,’ she confirms for both of them.

He closes his eyes.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘are we going to get on with life, or are we going to mope around?’

‘Mope around,’ says Rachel, victoriously.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Suit yourself. I’ve plenty of work to do. I was just trying to make your day more enjoyable. But if you want to hang around here, fine.’

Toby looks pleadingly at his sister. But she won’t budge.

Despite my attempts at blasé, I keep an eye on them, dragging my laptop around wherever they go. If they’re in Rachel’s room, I’m in mine. If they’re downstairs, I am, too. I’m trying to be subtle about it, but, when they go for a swim, this becomes impossible. I
ap
pear in the water two minutes after they do. Rachel glares at me then turns to her brother.

‘Come on, Toby, let’s go,’ she says, without taking her eyes of
f me.

‘But we just got in,’ he whines.

‘Come.
On.
’

‘No.’

‘Fine,’ she says, furious at having to leave her accomplice behind.

I wink at him.

He smiles. It’s the one thing we share. We’re the youngest and we don’t always like it.

He has his mini-rebellion then goes back to his sister. They spend the rest of the morning in her room, door closed. When the
y e
merge, she’s fussing over him, getting drinks and food, or putting him in the bath to keep him cool. She even trims his fingernails. She’s becoming a little Hilary, with Hilary expressions and mannerisms. And just like Hilary, she doesn’t want me there. Let’s face it: I can think of a lot of places I’d rather be. I could kill Greg, out there in his own colourful, interesting, loud galaxy, while I’m stuck here, struggling with his children.

19.

L
ate morning, Fint calls. He wants me back in Dublin to brainstorm for the big pitch. There’s no way I can commit to that. Not with Greg gone and no idea of when he’ll return, not when I can’t trust him with the children
if he
does
return, and not when there’s the possibility of him leaving them alone again if I do go.

‘What do you mean you can’t come? We have to brainstorm on this. It’s a major opportunity.’

‘I know, Fint. I’m sorry, I just can’t come over immediately. The children’s nanny has walked out.’

‘So? Whose children are they, Lucy?’

‘Greg isn’t well.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I . . . I don’t know.’

‘I see,’ he says, sounding like he doesn’t.

‘Look, let me see if I can find someone, a new nanny. There must be agencies over here. Give me a week, OK? Just give me a week to find someone, then I’ll be over.’

‘A week? Are you kidding? Have you seen our deadline?’

‘I’m really sorry, Fint, but I can’t come yet. Not till I sort thi
s out.’

‘Can’t? Or won’t?’

‘Can’t.’

‘Lucy, I really think you need to look at your priorities. Your personal life is taking over. I can’t keep making concessions. You made a commitment to come home for meetings. Well, this isn’t just any meeting. This is huge. This is an opportunity to bag the biggest, most prestigious account we’ve ever had, and you’re prepared to blow it. We’re supposed to be a team.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry.’

‘So come.’

My stomach is knotted so tightly I could throw up. ‘I’ll try. I’ll find a nanny agency . . .’

‘I’m carrying this partnership,’ Fint continues, his voice telling me he’s barely holding his anger together. ‘You know, Lucy, if you can’t keep up your business commitments, well, I don’t know, maybe it’s time to start talking about—’

‘Fintan, you know that if I could come right this minute,
I woul
d. I’m sorry. But I can’t help it. I can’t leave these kids.’

‘You’re putting babysitting before Get Smart. This is a partnership, Lucy. The effort is supposed to be fifty-fifty.’

‘If you want me to quit, I’ll quit. OK? I can’t take this. I’ve had enough. I’ll ring you tomorrow, and we can sort this out.’

‘Right, that’s really mature. First you back out of your commitments, then you quit . . .’

I hang up.
What’s the point? What’s the fucking point?

I ring Grace. My relationship, my career . . . my
life
is falling apart.

‘I’m coming over,’ she says.

‘What d’you mean you’re coming over? You’ve the kids . . .’

‘I’m bringing them.’

‘There’s a heatwave . . .’

‘Have you air conditioning?’

‘In the apartment.’

‘Fine.’

‘You don’t need to do this. There must be nanny agencies o
ver here.’

‘So. You find an agency, what then? Is your French good enough to wade through CV after CV, conduct interview after interview in a foreign language? Even if you manage to get someone, will they last? I mean, who’d want to work for a person in Greg’s condition?’

I feel like wailing.

‘Look. I may as well be over there as here for all I see of Kevin. I’m bored out of my tree, stuck in the house for the last week because of the rain. It’s not as if my diary’s full of prior engagements. It’s not as if I have a bloody diary. Lucy, I need a challenge. And let’s face it: you could do with a hand.’

I say nothing; I need her to come, but it’s too much to ask.

‘I am
not
going to let you give up your career,’ she says. ‘One in the family is enough. Let me talk to Kevin. But, in the mood I’m in, fuck Kevin and the horse he rode into town on.’

‘Grace, I warn you; it’s a circus over here.’

‘Lucy, I think I’ve a fair idea.’

Mid-afternoon, Grace calls to confirm that she’s coming. I feel my body deflate in relief. In under a week, they’ll be here. I call Fint before he leaves the office.

‘It’s me,’ I say.

‘I thought you’d quit?’

‘Don’t you watch the movies? You weren’t supposed to accept my resignation. You were supposed to shower me with compliments and beg me to stay.’

‘Are you kidding? I was furious with you, Lucy.’ He stops. ‘But it’s OK. I’ve calmed down now.’ He pauses. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Grace is coming over to give me a hand.’

‘Grace?’ He sounds surprised, as if there really might be a problem after all. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Greg OK?’

‘Yeah. No. Look, I’m sorry about earlier. The last thing I wan
t t
o do is let you down. You’ve been great, really great.’ I’m starting to
g
et upset.

‘Forget it, Lucy, I’d a brainstorm with the guys. Sebastian sat in. He was amazing.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Incredibly creative. We’d a very productive meeting.’

‘That’s good,’ I say, beginning to feel left out.

‘Look, if things are so difficult over there right now, we may be able to manage without you. We’ve some really good ideas to go o
n now.’

‘No, no. It’s fine. I’ll be over. How’s a week today?’

He checks his diary. ‘Fine.’

‘OK. I’ll let you know when I’ve booked a flight.’

Within minutes of hanging up, I get a call from Matt. He wants to know where Greg’s overdue edits are. He can’t get Greg, so he’s using his clout as one of my biggest clients to see what I can do, to ‘hurry things along’.

I check Greg’s desk. It’s chaotic, cluttered with mounds of paper, books, half-eaten food, three overflowing ashtrays, CDs, newspapers,
Asterix
comics. The mess spills onto the floor and along it like a creeping virus. Handwritten notes and computer printouts are covered in doodles, diagrams and cartoon sketches, all outlining ideas. He’s written on everything from paper to receipts, napkins, bags, even toilet paper. Instead of his usual loose scrawl are tiny letters and words, jammed together, as if he’s trying to condense an epic onto a postcard.

I go to turn on his computer and realise it’s already on, screen blank from not being used. When I move the mouse, what he’s been working on comes up. It seems to be a novel. But the sentences don’t follow on from each other normally. They’re unlinked in thought, connected only by words, either words that rhyme or the actual same word at the beginning and end of two adjacent sentences. Is it some sort of experiment? One thing’s for sure: no publisher is going to accept it. No publisher is going to
understand
it. Better to show Matt nothing, than this.

I save and close the file, then search for the completed edits. Without success. What will I tell Matt? A wave of hopelessness crashes down on me. I realise that, whatever’s wrong with Greg, it’s much too big for me. Maybe even for Grace. I rest my forehead against the cool mahogany of the desk and close my eyes.

There’s a rumble of distant thunder. I open my eyes and see how dark it’s become. I go to the window. Angry storm clouds, the colour of charcoal, are gathering on the horizon like soldiers preparing for battle. The air’s heavy. I swing open all the shutters. Out on the terrace, I gather in bone-dry clothes, towels and togs. A weak flash of lightning. Then the sound of a bowling ball running along a wooden floor. Faites attention! Nous venons! I stand on the terrace, arms folded, and wait.

The rain, when it comes, is torrential, blotting out all other sound. The children come to the doorway and watch. And there we stand, transfixed by the storm, my only thoughts how much trouble we are in.

The storm rages all evening until it loses its novelty value for the children. At nine, Rachel decides it’s time for bed. When Toby starts to protest, as he always does, she promises to read him
Captain Underpants.
As they climb the stairs, I hear her telling him that they should brush their teeth first, to get it over with.

I call, ‘Goodnight.’

Only Toby turns. He gives me a little smile, then carries on up the stairs, his sister holding his hand.

Apart from intermittent lightning flashes, it is fully dark when the sound of a loud and unfamiliar engine outside alerts me. I go to the window. Headlights dazzle, then die, leaving darkness.
Someone’s
coming to the door. I switch on the outside light and peer out. Sitting in the drive is a beautiful silver sports car, top down in the middle of a thunderstorm. I open the window and stick my head out to see who’s at the door.

Greg.

He’s soaked through, white hair glistening under the light, as he fumbles with his keys.

I open the door.

‘Oh. Hello!’ he says, surprised.

‘Whose is that?’ I ask.

‘The car?’ He turns to admire it. ‘What do you think? Porsche Boxster. Cool, eh?’

‘Yeah. But whose is it?’

‘Mine.’ His chest expands.

‘You bought it?’

‘Yup. Nought to a hundred in six seconds. Put that in your drum and bang it.’

‘Where’s the jeep?’

He runs a hand through spiky, albino hair. ‘I traded it in.’

‘Where’s all the stuff that was in the boot?’

He bites his lip.

‘Where will the children sit? How will we fit anything into that little boot?’

He drags two distressed fingers across his forehead. He looks down at his open-toe sandals and tanned, sandy feet. Then he lifts his head, throws his arms in the air in a ‘Who cares?’ gesture, as if the process of thinking is just too much.

‘And you remembered to change your insurance, right?’

He looks like he’s about to blow, an android suffering a circuit overload.

‘Greg. We need to talk. This has gone on too long. You need to stop, OK? You need help.’

‘I buy the coolest car and I need help.’ He rolls his eyes, then turns a hundred and eighty degrees.

‘Where you going?’

‘For a run.’

‘We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm,’ I call after him.

He legs it down the drive, his shirt clinging to his back.

I slam the door. Kick it. An angry crack of thunder causes the windows to vibrate. The car alarm goes off. Lightning illuminates the entire room. Immediate thunder sounds like a plank of wood cracking. Blue light invades the room. Flash, waver, flash. Smack. The rain is heavier than ever.

I check on the children and find them in a deep sleep on Rachel’s bed, back to skinny back. I cover them with a sheet, turn off the fan. I gaze at them and sigh. They don’t deserve this. Nobody does. How can such a great father just lose interest in his family? Can drugs really do that to a person?

I go to my room, sit on the bed and wrap my arms around my knees. I never thought I’d say it, but if only I’d never met him. My world was safe.
I
controlled it. Why did I have to go and expose myself to this? Wasn’t it enough to lose one man? Because I’m losing Greg. He’s living his own life now, separate from me. To him, I’m a bore. So, why not offer me the drugs? Maybe he did, the night of the red dress and the restaurant. If so, he got his answer when I told him I didn’t want to be treated like that. And I don’t. I want to live in the real world. And I want the man I love to want the same. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. Which leaves me with only one option – to end this, to leave the man I love because he has chosen a meaningless, hurtful and destructive path. That I’ve made that decision breaks my heart.