The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (6 page)

6.

I
don’t make a habit of asking Grace’s advice. It’s not easy to listen to someone who never makes mistakes. But now I’ve asked and am waiting for an answer, watching her carefully from the other side of the ironing board. She is ironing and beautiful. Like an ad for it: You, too, could look like this, if you had an iron. Hard to believe we’re from the same gene pool. Why have I come? Do
I real
ly need the Voice of Reason?

‘They’re not easy, you know, children,’ says an amazing mum. Grace gave up her career as a doctor to stay at home with her kids.

‘But Shane and Jason are adorable,’ I say.

‘Not twenty-four hours a day, they’re not. What we’re
having
here is a rare moment of peace.’ Jason’s asleep and Shane’s at
Montessori
.

‘I know it’s hard, but they’re young. They get easier. Don’t they?’

‘They’d better,’ she laughs, lifting the iron. Jets of steam shoot out and up into her honey-blonde hair. It won’t frizz. ‘Look, Luce, you’re my little sis, so I’m going to be straight – as long as you don’t tell Mum . . .’

I look at her as if she’s just insulted me; I never tell Mum anything I don’t think she’ll find out.

‘Parenting is the hardest, most thankless thing I’ve ever done. I’m not complaining; it was our decision. They’re our kids and we love them. But his wouldn’t be yours. You’d get all the has
sle –
probably
more – but none of the good things that come with a child being a tiny piece of you. Have you thought that they mightn’t accept you?’

‘Maybe not at first. But in time . . .’

‘They might drive you apart. It happened to Colette.’ Her best friend, who fell in love with a divorced father of two.

‘She had to put up with manipulative teenagers; that’s
different
.’

‘All children manipulate their parents. They develop it into an art form. Trust me, even babies manipulate their parents.’

Jason’s up a lot during the night. Grace is tired; that’s all this is.

‘What about discipline?’ she continues, lifting the iron and drawing her head back to avoid the steam. ‘If you got married, who’d discipline them? Have you thought of that?’

In a word, no. I’ve been so focused on the dead, I forgot the living. ‘Greg will.’ I presume
.

‘Well, he should – if Colette’s experience is anything to go by. And when he’s not there?’

‘I don’t know. I’d have to, I suppose.’

‘And what if they turn around and say, “You’re not my mother”?’

‘They’ve a nanny!’ I suddenly remember. ‘Hilary. She’d do the disciplining.’ Thank God. ‘And I’m good with kids, Grace. You know how good I am with Shane and Jase.’

‘You spoil them. And that’s fine. An aunt should. But a parent can’t afford to. They’d turn into tyrants. Another thing: Parents can’t switch off. You hand them back to me at the end of the day, and off you go to your peaceful apartment. Parenting is full-time. They don’t go away. Just think about it, Luce, OK? It wouldn’t be easy, that’s all I’m saying.’ She places a folded pillowcase on a pile and takes a shirt from another with a sigh. ‘God, I hate ironing.’ She looks up at me. ‘I take it they know, the children?’

‘I haven’t said yes.’

‘But they know you’re seeing each other?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Haven’t you met them?’

‘Not yet.’

She throws me a look that says, ‘Don’t you think that would be a good idea?’

‘There’s no point unless I’m going to be in their lives, is there?’

She switches off the iron and comes to sit with me at the kitchen island. Her voice is gentle when she says, ‘Lucy, I just mentioned children to make you appreciate the practicalities of this. I know you’ve been through a tough time. More than anyone, you deserve
happiness
, but do you really need to say yes now?’ I’m about to say ‘No,’ but then she adds, ‘I mean, how well can you know someone after eig
ht weeks?’

I rush to defend what we have together. ‘I know Greg.’

‘But how? How can you know it’s love after just eight weeks?’

‘I feel it.’ I’m touching my heart. ‘I died with Brendan. Greg has brought me back to life, given me a reason to live.’

She says nothing.

‘He understands, Grace . . . He lost his wife.’

‘Ah.’

‘It’s not just that. I love him. He’s made me happy again. I never thought I could be.’

‘I just wish you wouldn’t rush.’ I want to say ‘I’m not,’ but she ploughs ahead with, ‘There are so many hurdles – his fame . . .’

And I’m defending him again. ‘He’s a writer, not a movie star; people either don’t recognise him or don’t care.’

‘The age gap.’

‘Eleven years is nothing. And age doesn’t matter anyway when you’re with the right person. Greg’s so young in his outlook, Grace. Sometimes I feel I’m the older one.’

‘You’ve got the rest of your lives to be together.’

I look at her. ‘I will never’ – pause – ‘make the mistake of assuming that again.’

She stops. She rests a hand on mine. Her eyes well.

But I don’t want her pity. I want her approval. I want her to say ‘Do it.’ Because, suddenly, I want to. The more obstacles she puts in my way, the more I want to jump them. Every one. I don’t want anything to stop us. I love Greg and I want to be with him, be part of his life, his family. And out of nowhere, I have the strongest
feeling
that Brendan wants this for me, too.

‘It’s right, Grace. I know it is.’

She takes my hands in hers. ‘Then don’t listen to me. Always the cynic, always looking beyond what people say, never trusting. And still, I didn’t know the man I married until after I’d married him. Don’t listen to me.’ She smiles. ‘Sure, you never do anyway, do you?’

‘No.’ I smile back. It’s been hard to listen to the person I’ve been compared to and fallen short of all my life, the person who got a degree that pleased our mother, the person who got married young to a guy with no complications – not too old, not widowed, not a father and not famous. Kevin, Grace’s husband, shares the top percentile with her in looks, intelligence and in all that matters to society. They are a Mary Poppins couple: practically perfect in every way. There have been times I’ve caught Kevin looking at me as though thinking, ‘Thank God, I got the good sister.’ Which makes me glad he did. I can’t imagine being married to someone so judgemental. Not that it’s a problem for my sister. The only thing that keeps Grace and me on the same side is our mother. Even the perfect daughter isn’t quite good enough for her.

I sit on my bed in Brendan’s rugby jersey. I take his photo from its frame and press it to my cheek. It feels cold and one-dimensional. Because it is. A cheap imitation. But it’s all I have. I look into the eyes that once swept me off my feet – and kept me off them – for two magical years – right till the end. I run my finger over his mouth. And I’m crying.

‘I’ll never stop loving you. You know that. I’ll never forget.’

And maybe it’s my imagination, but I hear his voice – so clear
ly –
in my head, a voice that says, ‘Be happy.’

It’s what he would say.

7.

G
reg slips the ring onto my finger and sweeps me up into his arms, kissing me over and over until I’m laughing.

‘So, when can we do this?’ he asks.

I pull back. ‘When Rachel and Toby are ready, Greg. I don’t want to descend on them. They have their own lives.’

‘They’ll love you.’

I smile nervously. ‘I hope so.’

‘You’ll have to meet them!’ He thinks for a second. ‘I know, we’ll have a barbecue, and invite Rob.’ I wait for him to suggest the only other member of his family – his mother – but he doesn’t. ‘So, how about Saturday?’

‘Saturday?’ Only two days away. After all that Grace has said, I panic.

‘My place,’ he says.

I look at him. This is my future now; I can’t run from it. ‘All right, then,’ I say with false jollity.

Greg starts planning vegetarian options while I try to remember everything my sister said about stepchildren.

Greg comes to take me to his home, which will become my home, to meet his children, who will become my stepchildren. If I hadn’t spoken to Grace, would I be as nervous? I feel as if I’m going for an audition. If I arrive with presents, will they think I’m trying to win them over? If not, will they think me mean? Greg has told me not to worry about gifts. Did he check with the children, though? And what should I wear? I don’t want to look too young and highlight the age difference. Nor do I want to look as if I’m dressing like I’m trying to be their mother. Though Greg has already told me a lot about Rachel and Toby, all the way there I bombard him wit
h questions
.

‘Stop worrying, you’ll be fine.’

We’re driving along one of the most beautiful coastal roads in Dublin when Greg indicates and swings into a driveway. Up ahead looms something more than a house. It’s the kind of place that might be chosen for celebrity weddings. It has turrets. And grounds. It doesn’t just overlook the sea, it’s right on it. A blue, blue sea with little white caps.

‘My God, Greg!’

He dismisses it as ‘bricks and mortar’.

‘A lot of bricks and mortar.’

‘Could all be gone in the morning; nothing’s certain in life.’

One thing’s certain to me: Greg’s home has to be worth
millions
.
This is life on a different scale. While I’m trying to digest this, he jumps from the car, comes round and opens my door. He takes my hand and we crunch gravel till we get to the steps. He slips a key into the lock. But there is no grand tour.

‘They were out the back when I left. Let’s go see.’

I catch a fleeting glimpse of old and new – original features combined with stripped wooden floors and architectural furniture. I want to stop and admire the art – all modern, all wonderful. Oh, and there’s a library! He drags me on.

We reach the patio. On a newly cut lawn, bordered by swings, a climbing frame, trampoline and basketball hoop, two children are playing football with two adults. They are so absorbed, they don’t see us. It’s not a challenge to work out who’s who. The slight, dark-haired boy with the khaki combats and light blue top featuring multi-coloured skulls looks about five: Toby. The equally da
rk an
d slender, but much taller girl in three-quarter-length denims an
d a
cerise top has to be Rachel. I try to remember what I was like at ten, what I thought about, liked, disliked. Wish I knew more about older kids. Greg’s brother, Rob, has the trademark family
colouring
and build, though his face is more boyish than Greg’s. You can tell there’s six years between them. Only Hilary, the nanny, stands out as different – fair and sturdy, her hair pulled back into a tight
ponytail
. She is wearing a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt over st
retch denims.

Rachel tackles Rob.

Hilary shouts, ‘Go, Rachel.’

Toby calls to his uncle, ‘Over here, I’m open.’

I smile.

Rachel gets the ball. Rob retreats to the goal. He dives as she kicks hard. Toby groans and holds his head while Hilary and Rachel cheer and high-five each other.

‘Guys,’ Greg calls. ‘Come meet Lucy.’

Four heads turn in our direction. Rob’s smile is immediate and wide. He starts towards us. Hilary has to say something to the children to get them to move. I feel guilty for interrupting their game.

‘Welcome to the family,’ Rob says, his handshake firm.

It feels premature, but I smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘I see he hasn’t offered you a drink.’ He tut-tuts at his brother. ‘Can I get you a beer?’

‘That’d be great, thanks.’

Hilary arrives with the children. She looks younger, close up. More my age. A year or two older, maybe. The heaviness of her body in the distance must have added years.

Greg introduces us all.

‘Hello,’ I say, smiling from one to the other.

‘Hi,’ says Toby, yanking up his trousers.

Hilary says, ‘Nice top.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ I look down to remind myself what I’m wearing. ‘Oh, BT2. Greg got it for me.’

As Rachel’s face clouds over, I realise my mistake. How
stupid
to say Greg got it.

‘Rachel, say hello to Lucy,’ prompts Greg.

‘Hello,’ she mumbles, looking at the ground.

‘That was a good goal,’ I say.

She shrugs without looking up.

‘I’m a good kicker,’ declares Toby. ‘Did you see me?’

‘Yes, I did. You were great out there on the pitch.’

He looks to where they were playing, then back at me as if I have visual problems. ‘It’s just the garden.’

‘True enough,’ I say, feeling like a fool.

‘Can we have our Coke now?’ Rachel asks Hilary, as if that was the bribe for coming over.

The nanny looks at Greg.

‘Sure,’ he says.

She takes the children inside.

‘Back in a sec,’ Greg says, and goes in after them.

Rob hands me a Corona. ‘Cheers,’ he says, raising his bottle.

‘Cheers.’ I clink mine to his.

The beer calms me. I remind myself that this is never easy. For anyone.

Then Greg is back, clapping his hands and heading for the
barbecue
. ‘OK, let’s get this show on the road.’

‘Want a hand?’ I offer.

‘Nah. You’re grand. Get to know your future brother-in-law. There’s a knack to this thing.’

Rob and I sit at the long, wooden patio table.

‘So, how did you two meet?’ Rob asks, as if I’m a novelty.

I tell him. Briefly.

He laughs. ‘Greg Millar flirting in traffic! Wonders will never cease. As for getting engaged after two months . . . I don’t know what you’ve done to him.’

‘What I’ve done! It’s completely the other way around. It’s what he’s done to me.’

‘Now, now. Don’t get smutty.’

I laugh. ‘He has such a great philosophy, though . . .’

‘Greg? A philosophy?’ He looks dubious.

‘Yeah,’ I say, surprised. ‘Live for the moment. Embrace life.’

‘Greg?’

‘Yes, Greg.’
What’s his problem?

‘Well, I don’t know what your secret is, but I’ve never seen him so . . . so
zesty
.’

We look over at him. He’s singing and acting out an Eartha Kitt song, in between flipping burgers.

‘But he’s always like that,’ I say.

‘Maybe with you.’

‘Not just with me, with everyone. He’s so . . . well, as you sa
y, zesty.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Must be love.’

‘What are you two talking about over there?’ Greg calls.

‘You,’ I say. And, as I get up and go to him, I rationalise. Lots of people are different with their families: more responsible, serious.
I
am, with my m
other.

Hilary and the children come out onto the patio.

Automatically, I take a step back from Greg.

Rachel’s carrying a fishing rod; Toby, a pair of binoculars; and Hilary, a picnic basket.

‘Where are you all off to?’ asks Rob.

‘Down to the sea for picnic!’ calls Toby excitedly. ‘Wanna come?’

‘No, thanks, buddy;
someone
has to eat the barbecue.’

They head for a gate at the end of the garden.

‘Why aren’t they eating with us?’ I ask Greg.

He looks awkward. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Luce. These things tak
e time.’

Which basically means they didn’t want to eat with me.
That’s OK
, I tell myself.
It’s not personal. They’re just not ready for a
stepmother
. Any stepmother. And ‘These things take time’ is a lot more realistic than ‘They’ll love you’. How he ever thought they’d just automatically love me I don’t know. At least he didn’t force them to eat with us. They’d have really hated me then.

Later that evening, Greg’s upstairs reading Toby a bedtime story.
Rachel and Hilary are in another room watching a movie tha
t Ra
chel
has, apparently, been dying to see. And Rob’s telling me something I didn’t know.

‘Yeah, Greg basically brought me up.’

‘He
did
?’

‘Didn’t he tell you? Our father died when I was four. Greg wa
s ten.’

I’m stunned. ‘I knew your dad had died; I just assumed it was relatively recently.’

He shakes his head. ‘I have two memories of my father. One is him wrapping me up in a warm towel after a bath. The other is him letting me blow my nose into his hand when we didn’t have a hankie. That’s it, apart from a few photos.’

‘You said Greg brought you up – what about your mum? Didn’t she look after you?’

‘She had to go out to work. Two jobs, both paying shite: a supermarket and a dive that called itself a hotel. She was always gone. Greg did everything. Got me to school, fed me, helped with homework, put me to bed. Never complained. Every night he read to me: Sinbad, Biggles, Superman, Spiderman, the Hobbit . . . Our heroes came from the library.’

‘I can’t imagine how hard it must have been, becoming a fathe
r at ten.’

‘You know, he never made me feel it was a chore, never treated me like some stupid kid he was stuck with. He spoke to me man to man. I fucking worshipped the guy. Trailed around after him. Copied everything he did. Wanted to be just like him. He wasn’t like a father. And he was better than a brother. He was my hero, you know?’

I wonder why Greg has never told me. I imagine them, Little and Large, side by side, but not holding hands. Large looking out for Little.

‘I was tough work, though,’ Rob continues. ‘Always first to put up the fists. I’d lose it, like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Greg was the one who stopped me hanging out with troublemakers. He taught me to fight through hard work, getting somewhere, not lashing out. He kept my eye on the ball, until I learned to do it for
myself. He
put me through teacher training college while he worked, in
printers
first, then bookshops, until his own books started to get published. I was so fucking proud of him when they did. If there was one
person
who deserved it, it was Greg.’

‘Wow.’

‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. If I was him, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.’