The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (36 page)

38.

I
n March, I’m sitting in the production studio of a national radio station, looking at Greg through a window. Headphones on, he’s being interviewed about his new book,
At Least I Don’t Snore
, chronicling his experience of bipolar disorder. He spent last night awake, convinced that he was on the verge of ruining his career – and life. Half an hour ago, waiting to go on, he was about to back out. The presenter, Gerry Glennon, came out to him. They sat and chatted about the type of questions Gerry would be asking. I could see Greg relax. Then it was time.

Now, it’s as if they’re having a quiet conversation between themselves, not broadcasting to a nation. And yet, Greg considers each question carefully as if searching for the most accurate answer. He’s not trying to entertain, impress or be funny. Just to be understood. He speaks about his high, his low, and his decision to end his life. To emphasise the importance of staying on lithium, he relates the story of our mountainside descent, admitting to having put his family in danger. The producer begins to reorganise the programme, cancelling other guests and letting the interview run. Texts and emails flood in. The studio phones are hopping. People all over the country are wishing Greg well – fans, sufferers, docto
rs –
and people with no connection who simply want to show support. The producer puts calls through to the studio. Greg handles each one with the same concentration that has characterised the interview.

When he finally emerges, the production team thank and congratulate him. Calls are still coming in.

Outside, I hug him. He’s just glad it’s over, and hopes it helped.

In fact, it’s just the beginning. As soon as Greg turns on his phone, it starts to ring. He takes back-to-back calls all morning. Until, finally, he turns it off.

Over the next few days, Copperplate’s publicist is on to him constantly. Newspapers want interviews; a late-night talk show wants him on. He has become a commodity. Which makes him nervous.

Public reaction is such that, within days of publication, a second, much larger print-run is ordered. By the time it arrives at the wholesalers, original stocks have almost been depleted. Matt takes his staff off current assignments to handle the flurry. He even
personally
delivers copies to the shops. Hundreds of fans turn up to Greg’s book signing. Reviews are rave. Greg’s reaction is one of
relief.

Back at work, Fint sticks his head around my door.

‘Come
in
.’ He usually doesn’t need to be asked.

He closes the door behind him, then sits on the corner of my desk. ‘I wish you’d told me.’

‘I’m sorry. I wanted to. Greg asked me not to say anything – to anyone.’

‘I never imagined . . .’ He pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘It must have been a nightmare.’

‘Hell, really. But it’s a year and a half ago now. And he hasn’t had another episode.’

He picks up my stapler and begins to fiddle with it. ‘If I’d known, I’d have been more patient.’

‘You were amazing, once you knew I was in trouble.’

‘I listened to him, live. He had me crying, the bastard!’

I smile.

‘Suicide.’ He puts the stapler down. Then he looks at me. ‘You’d be surprised how many people think of it, at one time or another.’

‘
You
?
’

He raises his eyebrows and nods. ‘A long time ago. When I was at school.’

‘
Why
?
’

He shrugs. ‘It was your typical all-boys’ school. If you weren’t into rugby, you weren’t one of the lads. And if you weren’t one of the lads, you were pretty much crucified. So, you’d pretend to be like them. But you weren’t like them. You knew that. They knew that. You hated yourself. And so did they. They called you girls’ names. Tripped you up. Let air from your tyres. Laughed in your face. For years. You couldn’t see a way out. You couldn’t tell anyone, especially not your parents; they had their expectations, and homosexuality wasn’t one of them. Sure, it was against the law in Ireland.’

I shake my head in disbelief. Poor Fint.

‘There was only one solution – or so I thought. Dad was in the army. He’d guns locked away at home. I knew where he hid the key. We all did. I got a gun, went to my room, loaded it as he’d taught me, put it to my head. But I couldn’t do it. I left it on the bed and ran. For miles. I wasn’t going back. But I did go back – at some point. When I got to my room, the gun was still there on the bed. No one had found it. I put it back, locked the cabinet, and returned the key to its hiding place. No one ever knew. I never tried again. I stuck it out at school, went to art college, and realised there were lots of people like me, and they were normal. It was OK to like beautiful things. It was OK to be myself.’

‘What age were you?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘I’d never have met you.’ The shock of that. ‘I’d never have known you, Fint. We’d never have had all those laughs, set up our business, created all those designs.’

‘And I’d never have fallen in love, tasted champagne, seen Paris.’

I think of his mum and dad, who are crazy about him. ‘Your parents would have been devastated,’ I whisper.

‘I didn’t see that, then. All I saw was this big secret between us. I thought they’d hate me if they ever found out.’

‘But they’re
fine
with it.’

‘Now, they are. It took a while for my mother to come around.’ He smiles. ‘Funny, I always thought that it would be Dad who’d have the biggest problem with it.’

‘You don’t regret telling them?’

‘Are you kidding? The relief of just being able to go home and be myself. No more secrets. The freedom of that.’

39.

A
month after the publication of
At Least I Don’t Snore
, Greg and I are having coffee in the kitchen. He’s just back from a book tour of the US, and I’ve taken a few days off to be with him.

The doorbell rings.

Jet-lag-free, I go.

Standing outside is a small, thin woman in a grey business suit that has seen better days.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to Greg Millar, please.’ She has a package in her hand.

‘Do you want me to just give him that?’ I ask to save him getting up.

‘No. I have to give it to him in person.’ There is something about the way she says it.

‘Just a second, then.’ I go to get him, leaving the door open.

I return with Greg.

‘Greg Millar?’ she asks.

‘Yes?’

She holds out a large, yellow, padded envelope. Greg is about to take it from her when she taps him with it, saying, ‘You are served.’

‘Sorry?’ Greg asks, looking at the envelope that has been thrust into his hand.

But she has already turned and is hurrying away to a dusty
Nissan
Micra. She starts the engine after two attempts, and drives off.

Greg looks at me. ‘Probably some chancer trying to get money out of my publisher or something. Wouldn’t worry.’

In the kitchen, he examines the envelope. Turning it over, he starts to remove the clips securing it. He takes out legal documents. Eyes scanning them, his face changes.

‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘What?’

‘They want the children.’

‘Who? Who wants the children?’

‘Ben and Ruth. They want custody of Rachel and Toby.’ He looks up, wounded. ‘They think I’m an unfit parent. They heard me on the radio. They read the book. They think I’m a danger to their grandchildren.’

My hands go, automatically, to my face.

‘They think I’m going to top myself in front of the children, or drive off a mountain with them in the car.’ He throws the papers onto the table, and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Fuck.’

I pick up the papers as if they might spontaneously combust. The first page is a solicitor’s letter explaining that this is ‘a court order, made ex parte, granting interim custody to the applicants, with a motion for a court hearing, grounded on an affidavit’.
Whatever
that means. It’s like a foreign language. Which makes it even scarier.

‘Are you sure that’s what it means?’

‘Read it. If we don’t hand Rachel and Toby over to them within twenty-four hours, we’ll be in contempt of court. They can get a bench warrant for my arrest for failing to comply with the terms of the court order.’

‘But they can’t do that! They can’t just take the children.’

‘Here, give me the letter.’

I hand it to him.

He underlines a sentence with his finger. ‘It says here that, according to the Guardianship of Infants Act, they can. They think I’m mad. They think their grandchildren are in danger.’ He looks at me. ‘I shouldn’t have written that bloody book. I should have kept my mouth shut. This is what I get for messing with stigmas.’

‘No. It’s an important book. It had to be written. But we should have talked to them before it came out. We should have explained.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t we think of Ben?’

I think back. ‘Phyllis was our concern, remember? And then everything happened so quickly with the book. Then the wedding. Everything was going so well with Ben and Ruth at that stage, the children visiting them every week, we forgot what they’d been like when they thought there was a problem.’

He’s pacing the kitchen. ‘I’m calling our solicitor.’

After a brief conversation, Greg hangs up. He looks at me. ‘We need a family law solicitor. Harry knows someone. He’s calling her now and will get straight back to us.’ He goes to the drinks cabinet and opens it, but, to my relief, slams it shut again, hands empty.

The phone rings.

Greg has a longer conversation with Harry.

‘What did he say?’ I ask as soon as it ends.

‘They’ve gone to the High Court and convinced a judge that I’m a danger to the children. Without us even being
consulted
, she granted them temporary custody until a court hearing decides who they should stay with for good.’ His voice falters.

‘OK. We’ll just tell the court the truth. You’re not a danger. And that’s that. When is the family law solicitor coming?’

‘She’s in court all day, and normally wouldn’t be available after that, but, apparently, she owes Harry one. She’ll be here as soon as she’s free. In the meantime, she’s sending a courier to collect the legal documents. She’ll try to look at them in between cases and on her way out here.’

‘Why are they doing this?’

‘We lied to them, Lucy. We told them everything was OK. And they believed us. Now they know the truth. Hilary wasn’t
exaggerating
. They think I’m a danger. And I don’t blame them.’ He sounds gutted. He finally sits, cradling his head in his hands.

‘You’d never do anything to harm Rachel or Toby. This is
ridiculous
.’

‘I’ve a mental illness. They heard me loud and clear on the radio saying how I put you all in danger. They heard me say I was suicidal. As far as they’re concerned, it could happen again. And they’re right. It could.’

‘But you haven’t had an episode in almost two years.’

‘I could have one tomorrow.’

I start leafing through the stack of legal documents as though I can somehow single-handedly solve a problem I don’t even understand. I look up. ‘I don’t believe it! There’s something here from Hilary!’

‘Hilary?’

I hand him a document.

His eyes scan quickly. ‘Great! Just what we need! A sworn statement from the trusted, reliable nanny, going into vivid detail about how terrified she and Rachel were in the car in France, how out of control I was, and how I wouldn’t listen to reason. It’s all here. Black and white.’ He slaps it with the back of his hand.

I feel sick. She has finally found a way. ‘Sexual harassment seems minor by comparison.’

We look at each other.

‘I think you should ring Ben,’ I say. ‘Try to explain, tell him we didn’t want to worry them.’

‘Why should he believe me now?’

‘You could bring a letter from Professor Power saying that everything is under control, that you haven’t had a relapse in almost two years.’

He looks doubtful.

‘It’s worth a try, Greg. Anything is.’

‘Maybe I should check with Harry first.’

‘OK. Yeah. Maybe.’ I haven’t a clue. I’m so out of my depth, I’m drowning.

According to Harry, it should be OK to call as long as we don’t make any threats or say anything that could be used against us. This we interpret as ‘Be nice’.

I hold my breath as Greg dials. Then watch as he drops the handset. He looks at me. ‘It was Hilary. What’s she doing over there?’

‘We need that solicitor.’

But we have all day to wait.

Unable to stay still, we have to get out of the house. We find ourselves pacing Dun Laoghaire Pier, oblivious to the wind that has others stooped, heads down, hands in pockets.
We’re silent, each of us trying to work out a solution. Every so often, one of us stumbles on an idea. But we have no clue if any of them are relevant. Law is something you either know, or you don’t. We don’t.

It’s time to collect the children from school. We go together. We do our best to act normally. But it’s hard not to cling to them. We notice everything they do, every word they say. I cook their favouri
te –
tuna pasta. It reminds me of that first day in France when Rachel said she hated me. It seems so far away. And preferable to this.

We let them watch TV and wonder how important homework really is in the scheme of things. I try not to think that they could be gone in under twenty-four hours.

Freda Patterson has a strong handshake. She delivers a brusque apology for being so late – apparently, there was a crisis at home. Her crisis means that Rachel and Toby are in bed when she arrives, which is something. It also means that, presumably, she has a
family –
so, hopefully, also empathy.

We show her in.

She slips out of her coat, but when I go to take it from her, she tells me, ‘It’s fine.’ She folds it over the side of the armchair. In her business suit, she looks efficient.

‘I’m sorry, I never offered you tea or coffee,’ I say, getting to m
y feet.

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

I sit back down.

She pulls the documents from her case. ‘Now . . .’

‘Can they do this?’ I ask.

She looks up, seems to consider me for a second. ‘Yes. I’m afraid they can.’

‘How?’

‘Well,’ she says, putting her briefcase back on the floor. ‘They’ve based their claims on a published book, a broadcast radio interview and a sworn affidavit from what looks like a reliable childminder, given that she worked for you for five years.’

Even to me, it doesn’t sound good.

‘By granting this injunction, the judge has indicated that she considers the children’s father a danger. And, in family law, the welfare of the children is the primary concern.’

What does she mean, “the children’s father”? He’s sitting opposite her. He has a name. ‘Greg,’ I say. ‘The children’s father’s name is Greg.’

‘Yes, of course. Greg. I’m sorry.’

‘Is there anything we can do to stop them being taken tomorrow?’ Greg asks.

‘I’m afraid not. No.’

‘There has to be
something
,’ I say. ‘You can’t just go to court and swear that someone is a bad parent and have their children taken away. There has to be some safety net against that happening.’

‘In this case, Greg has publicly admitted to endangering the children’s lives by driving dangerously with them in the car. The fact that he still has the condition that caused him to do so means that, technically, there is a risk that it could happen again. In situations like this, where a serious yellow flag has been raised in terms of the welfare of a child, and where a relative or health board mounts a legal challenge, the courts will look at it. And they will consider the welfare of the child a priority.’

I am sick.
Sick.

‘What about Lucy?’ Greg asks. ‘Lucy’s my wife and the children’s stepmother. Doesn’t her being here count for anything?’

Freda doesn’t look optimistic. ‘Lucy was in the car during the dangerous driving incident and allegedly unable to influence your behaviour. Her role in protecting the children could be legally challenged. Aside from that, step-parents are not considered, in law, to be as significant as flesh and blood. Legally, the children’s grandparents have a stronger claim on them because there is a blood link.’

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Greg interrupts. ‘Doesn’t it matter,
at all
, who the children are closer to, who would do a better job of parenting them, who the children would prefer to be with?’

‘Greg, if you were to die in the morning, Rachel and Toby would be removed from Lucy’s care, immediately.’