The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (8 page)

9.

R
emember that day we spent working from home?’ Greg asks one evening when we’re out for dinner.

I smile. ‘We’ll have to do it again; I’m feeling filthy.’

He reaches across the table, takes my hand and runs his thumb across my knuckles.

‘I’ve a better plan. Why don’t we work from the South of France for the summer?’

I laugh.

‘I’m serious. I always spend the summer there with the kids. I’ve a villa—’

‘Greg, much as I’d like to, I’m a partner in a business. I have responsibilities.’

‘Doesn’t that make you
more
flexible?’ asks the man who never sees obstacles.

‘Not really.’

‘The villa’s set up with everything – Internet, Wi-Fi
. . . An
d w
e could buy anything else you need. Think of the work environment: sun, sea, sand . . . and showers.’ He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

‘My clients, Greg. They need to see me.’

‘You could pop back for meetings. I’m sure Fint would be open.’

‘I don’t know. It’d be asking a lot. Maybe I could take a three-week holiday and after that pop over for weekends.’ The idea of a holiday at all is a novelty.

‘Why not run the idea by him, at least?’

‘Greg, even if he was happy with me working from there and my clients were OK with it, and everything was fine on the work front, what about the children?’

‘What about them?’

‘Would they really want me there?’

‘Lucy, this would give you a chance to spend more time with them, for you all to get to know each other better.’

I see the merit in that. As it is, every time we meet it’s around some specific activity, which makes everything seem formal and stilted. Maybe if we were all on holiday . . .

Then again, ‘Where would I stay? I couldn’t stay with you; imagine how they’d feel. Me suddenly moving in.’

He reflects – for a split second. ‘You could stay nearby; it wouldn’t be a problem. I could look into it . . .’

I run it by Fint, still not convinced it’s what I want. When I see his face, I realise that this is the first time that his joint roles as Cupid and business partner have come into conflict. He tries to hide his surprise, then asks a series of logistical questions, the replies to which inform him that the villa is fully equipped, that I can be on a plane and home in two hours for brainstorms, meetings et cetera, and that Greg will cover the cost of flights.

‘It’d just be for the summer, right?’ he confirms.

‘I won’t stay that long.’

He sucks a thumbnail. ‘It
is
our quietest time.’ He mulls it over. Then his face brightens. ‘You know, it’s not a bad idea for one of us to cover base while the other takes a decent break. Maybe next year I could finally organise that trip to South Africa I’ve always dreamed about. Stay a decent amount of time . . .’

‘Of course. But, Fint, I’m not sure I want to spend the whole summer there. I was thinking of just playing it by ear for two or three weeks – you know, work while I’m there, see how it goes. If it’s not working out, I’ll just come home,’ I say to myself as much as to him. ‘And I’ll be over and back all the time.’

‘Let’s try it, then. See how it goes.’

Before heading to France, we organise a night out so that Greg can meet Grace and Kevin. We keep it simple, opting for a popular
Italian
restaurant in town.

‘So, who
inspires
you?’ Kevin asks Greg. It’s the fifth in a series of literary questions. ‘Who’s your
muse
?’

Greg looks across at me as if to say, ‘Help!’

‘Lucy! Of course!’ Kevin misinterprets.

‘I hope I don’t inspire scenes of murder and destruction,’ I say.

‘You
know
you do.’ Greg smiles.

Kevin’s sudden bark of laughter sounds false.

Leaving the restaurant, Greg turns to us. ‘Let’s check out that casino in Merrion Square.’

Grace’s face lights up.

But Kevin grimaces. ‘I think we should call it a night, hon.’ He looks at Greg apologetically. ‘I’m the medical director of a
pharmaceutical
start-up. Crazy busy, as you can imagine. Shouldn’t even be out tonight.’ He turns to his wife. ‘Grace?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to the casino.’

Go, Grace.

‘But Jason wakes at six.’

‘Have I ever not woken up to feed our children?’ Grace snaps. ‘I’ll see you back at the house, Kevin.’

From outside, the casino looks like any other three-storey, Georgian redbrick on the square. Inside, it’s like a gentlemen’s club. Grace and I are slow to part with our chips, expecting to lose. And that’s exactly what we do. Greg piles his chips high and barely looks as the wheel spins. And yet he wins. Consistently. He starts to give away chips – for luck.

Grace and I retire to the bar.

‘Is Greg OK?’ she asks.

‘Yeah, fine. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing. I was just wondering – is he always so energetic?’

I laugh. ‘Always.’

‘He never seems to stop, though. Does he?’

‘He’s just one of those people who’s always on the go.’

‘Must be exhausting.’

I eye her. What’s she getting at?

‘Dad was shattered after playing golf with him.’

‘Wait! Did Dad talk to you about Greg?’ It feels like a deception, somehow.

‘He just mentioned the game, that’s all. Greg wanted to go for another eighteen holes.’

‘He was probably joking, Grace. He
does
have a sense of humour.’ I can’t believe they were talking about Greg behind my back. ‘Grace, are you trying to tell me something here?’

‘I’m just wondering why he’s so highly charged . . .’

‘Greg lives life. He experiences it. And d’you know why? Because he knows it could be snatched from him at any moment. Maybe if you’d lost someone you love you’d be “highly charged”. Greg’s alive, Grace. And he’s making the most of it.’

She bites her lip. ‘Sorry.’

‘Forget it.’

‘No. You’re right. More of us should live like that.’

I’m sorry, then, for snapping. ‘The boys are young. And Kevin’s snowed under. Start-ups are always like that. Remember when Fint and I set up Get Smart? I don’t think anybody saw us from one end of the day to the next – unless, of course, they were working for us. It’ll get better, Grace.’

‘Might help if he’d a sense of humour.’

‘Who? Kevin?’

‘Who else?’

Where has this come from? OK, he was a bit annoying in the restaurant, but I’ve never heard Grace complain about Kev
in – ever.

‘He’s so serious,’ she continues, moving her swizzle stick around the glass. ‘He . . . never . . . laughs.’

‘He was laughing tonight.’

She gives me a look that cuts right through me. ‘That wasn’t laughter. That was him trying to be the alpha male. He was competing with Greg; didn’t you see that?’

‘I thought he was just in good form.’ And, OK, a bit of an idiot.

She shakes her head sadly. ‘Competing.’

‘Men do that, though, right?’

‘
Some
men.’

‘Kevin has other qualities,’ I say optimistically.

‘Name one.’

Jesus.
This is the guy who looks down his nose at me. ‘He works hard?’ I try.

She scoffs.

Then it hits me. ‘He’s stressed! You know when your mind’s on something – like, say, your new business – you probably try too hard to be social because you’re not feeling social at all!’ I’m a psychological wizard.

She shrugs miserably.

‘Grace! This is Kevin we’re talking about. You’re crazy about Kevin. You’re the perfect couple.’

Her ‘Yeah’ sounds tired. She reaches for her bag and stands. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

We find Greg behind a skyline of chips, looking perky and adorable.

‘Hey, Greg, let’s go,’ I say.

He looks up as though lost in the world of risk. ‘Oh, hey! You out of chips? Here, have some of mine.’

‘No. Let’s actually go.’

‘OK, sure.’ He stands immediately.

‘Sir, your win!’ says the croupier.

‘Oh, OK, great. Thanks.’

I shake my head in disbelief as more chips are pushed his way.

Greg collects our coats and holds them up for us as we put them on. ‘How about a club?’

Grace looks at me. ‘You go. I’ll catch a cab.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Greg says. ‘We’ll all go.’

We flag down a taxi and drop Grace home. Then it’s back into town to a club. Because we could all be dead tomorrow.

10.

G
reg, Hilary and the children go ahead to France while I finish up a job at the office. A week later, Greg collects me at Nice Airport. Looking tanned and fit, he lifts me up and twirls me round. I laugh. It’s only been a week, but I’ve missed him so much.

He grabs my case and takes off. I have to run to keep up.

Outside, his Range Rover is parked illegally. He throws my case in the back and makes for the front. I think he’s opening my door for me, like he always does, but when he jumps inside, I realise my mistake. Left-hand drive.

I go around.

The engine’s already running when I climb in. The car’s an oven. ‘Gordon Is a Moron’, a punk favourite of Greg’s, is blaring. Two months ago, I’d never heard of it. And, though it’s hilarious,
I turn it dow
n and the air conditioning up.

We follow a sign for Marseilles, Cannes, Antibes. The grey and green of Ireland have been replaced by hazy blue and faded olive. We hit a motorway. Sea on our left; mountains on our distant righ
t. We r
eally are on the Côte d’Azur.

Greg’s hitting a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. The
limit’s
a hundred and thirty. Even that seems high.

‘Could you slow down a bit, Greg?’

‘Christ, sorry,’ he says when he sees the speedometer.

Soon, we turn off the motorway for Antibes and make our way through the outskirts.

‘Nearly there,’ he says, resting a hand on my leg.

At a roundabout, we take a smaller road. Then a smaller one again. We begin to climb.

‘There it is,’ he says, pointing up the hill. I catch a glimpse of a large, two-storey villa, surrounded by pine and eucalyptus trees. It has a terracotta roof and walls of a lighter shade, hidden in places by bright purple bougainvillea. Its shutters are a friendly light blue.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I’ve found an apartment for you, about a kilometre up t
he road.’

‘Great, can we dump my stuff there first?’

‘Ah, come say hi to the kids first.’

Tired after the early morning flight, I was hoping to rest for a bit. Still, I shrug. ‘OK.’

As we pull up outside the villa, he gives my hand a squeeze.

He swings open the heavy wooden door. Inside, it’s darker, but only a little cooler. Overhead, fans slowly rotate. Terracotta tiles flag the floor. The walls are a warm yellow. Floor-to-ceiling pillars remind me of ancient Rome. In the living room, a fireplace dominates. It’s in the shape of the sun’s face, its wide-open mouth
housing
the hearth. Around it, three couches are strewn with children’s clothes, sunscreen tubes, books, a bottle of Evian and an inflatable, bright green turtle. A large, mahogany chest acts as a coffee table. On it is a pottery vase filled with eucalyptus and bougainvillea. A woman’s touch. Hilary, no doubt. I stop at an entire wall of books, wanting to explore.

‘There’ll be time later,’ he says, taking my hand.

From outside comes an echoey distant scream, followed by a splash.

‘Come on, they’re in the pool,’ he says.

We walk out to blinding white light. Everything seems over
exposed. I lower my sunglasses. To my left, beyond a low, stone wall,
the view down to the bay is spectacular. Straight ahead, a wooden table is charming in its simplicity. Multi-coloured towels hide the chairs that surround it. On the ground are flip-flops and sandals, scattered as though abandoned in a hurry. Wet patches have small footprints leading to and from a large rectangle of blue in the nea
r distance.

There they are: Toby being hurled into the air by Hilary, and Rachel swimming towards them. Toby reminds me of Mowgli from
The Jungle Book
: slight and sallow, with longish, dark hair and a little red triangle of swimming togs. His goggles are huge compared to the size of his face, making him look half alien, half fighter pilot. Rachel is a streak of dark hair and splashing arms and legs. Hilary, looking robust in a black one-piece, spins Toby around in the water.

‘Hi, guys,’ calls Greg as we approach the pool.

They turn.

‘Dad!’ shouts Toby. ‘Did you see that?’

‘You should be in the circus, Tobes.’

‘I know. Yeah.’

I smile.

‘Do you want us to come out?’ asks Hilary.

‘No, Hilary, we’re coming in.’

I look at Greg. My bikini’s packed at the bottom of my case. I’m visualising it when he grabs my hand and jumps, taking me with him.

‘Whee!’ he calls.

The sudden drop in temperature adds to the shock. I find myself underwater, face up, legs higher than the rest of me. His hand is gone. I can’t see him. I turn over in the water then kick and swim to the surface, breaking through into dazzling light, gasping for air and coughing. I make it to the side of the pool, where I cling, head down, trying to restore normal breathing. At last, I look up. He’s already out of the pool, shaking himself like a dog. I open my mouth to say ‘You big eejit,’ but close it again, remembering the children. Then I hear them. Laughing. I turn around. Clearly, I’m the entertainment. I smile to show I’m a good sport then press my palms on the hot slabs lining the pool and push myself up and out.

Greg comes to me with a towel.

‘That’s mine,’ says Rachel, who has stopped laughing.

‘It’s an emergency,’ says Greg, handing it to me.

‘It’s
mine!
I don’t want her to have it.’

Mortified, I hand it back to him.

‘I’ll get you another,’ he says, disappearing into the villa.

I stand alone, feeling conspicuous, stupid and wet.

‘Your legs are bleeding,’ Toby calls.

I look down. The dye from my red leather sandals is running in little streams down my feet. It looks like a scene from the Old
Testament
. I want to disappear, vanish. I make for the villa,
dripping red.

‘Here you go,’ Greg says when I get inside. He wraps a large white towel around me.

I stare at him. ‘Why did you do that, Greg?’

He stops, as if considering that for the first time. ‘I don’t kno
w. Fun?’

‘I’m trying
so hard
to make an impression with Rachel and To
by
. . .’

‘But they thought it was hilarious.’

‘No, Greg. They thought
I
was hilarious. I want them to like me, not think I’m a joke. I felt like such a fool out there.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘How can they respect me if you don’t?’

He looks hurt. ‘I do.’

‘Well, that’s not how it seemed. It was such a stupid thing t
o do.’

‘I’m sorry, Luce. I was just trying to break the ice. Everyone’s so nervous. But you’re right, it was stupid. I’m sorry.’

We drive in silence to the apartment.

It’s in a small, upmarket block. On the second floor, Greg opens the door, then hands me one of two keys. My first impression is of a bright, airy space. Very modern, with clean lines and white walls. Most importantly, it’s air conditioned.

‘Where’s the shower?’ is all I say.

It’s a relief to be alone, warm water pounding down on me.
I close my ey
es and breathe deeply. I wash my hair and start to calm down. Red dye swirls down the plughole, taking my anger with it.

Finally, I reach for a white towelling bathrobe. It still has its sales tag on. That he has thought to go out and buy this for me reminds me of what’s important – Greg’s a good guy who meant well. Normally, I love his childlike approach to life. Normally, it’s refreshing. Maybe if I hadn’t been so tense, so eager to make a good impression on his children . . . I don’t know. I wrap my hair in a towel and go in search of him.

He’s sitting on the bed, looking guilty.

And suddenly I wish it was just the two of us – no children, no complications, no one to impress or win over. I shake free my hair from the towel and the thoughts from my head. I sit beside him, wrap my arms around him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I should have given it more thought.’

‘Forget it.’ I smile when I say, ‘It cooled me down.’

He kisses me then gets up. ‘Come see the view from the
balcony
.’

Outside, the air is hot and dry and carries the fragrance of . . . I’m not sure, herbs? The cicadas sound as if they’re in overdrive. Off in the distance, a glittering sea merges with a clear, blue sky. Pine trees in the near distance are heavy with cones, like eco-friendly Christmas decorations. Closer still, almost within touching distance, is a eucalyptus, its drooping silver-green leaves looking cool and unruffled in the heat. Its bark is peeling off in thin strips, like flesh-coloured stockings, revealing smooth white skin underneath.
I turn to
tell Greg how magical it all is and how happy I am to be here with him, only to discover that he’s gone back inside. I find him sitting up in bed, bare-chested and beaming, clothes abandoned on the floor. He has draped a leg over the sheet in fake seductiveness. He raises and lowers his eyebrows. I laugh, let my robe drop and join him. And soon, I’ve forgotten everything, except how much I adore him.

When we eventually return to the villa, Hilary has made dinner – a tuna pasta dish, and the children’s favourite, apparently. Greg must have forgotten to mention that I’m vegetarian. I can’t afford to be more different than I already am. So I tuck in with what I hope looks like enthusiasm. At least it’s not steak.

I wear a friendly face, say little and listen, hoping to learn as much as I can about this pre-prepared family I’ve promised to become part of. Toby chats about sharks; in particular the fact that they have to keep moving to stay alive, which means they have to swim in their sleep.

‘Imagine that!’ he concludes.

That he seems oblivious to me is reassuring. Maybe I’m not such a big deal to him. Rachel, on the other hand, I frequently catch peeping out at me from behind a curtain of hair she’s let fall between us. When I smile, she looks away.

When dinner’s over, I start to collect the dishes. Hilary stands quickly, taking the plates from me.

‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘No, no. I’d like to help, Hilary.’ I certainly don’t expect to be waited on.

‘It’s OK,’ she says, looking down at the plates in her hand. ‘
I know whe
re everything goes.’

‘At least let me carry things to the kitchen.’

‘I’m fine. Honestly. Thanks,’ she says firmly.

She disappears into the kitchen.

I look at Greg, wondering how I’m ever going to feel part of this family.

He smiles reassuringly.

‘Do you want coffee?’ I try.

‘That would be lovely, thanks, Lucy,’ he says like he
understands
.

The kitchen is beautiful, with an old-fashioned sink and simple wooden cupboards painted pale green. The work surfaces are oak, as is the chunky, basic furniture. Really, really pretty.
I wond
er if
Catherine
designed it, or whether she and Greg did it together, or i
f it was like
this when they bought the villa. That they shared so much reminds me of what little history Greg and I have. I bring myself back to the present – coffee. I start to search the obvi
ous places.

‘What are you looking for?’ Hilary asks.

Instinctively, I feel I’ve walked into her territory. ‘Coffee?’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Hilary, look, I don’t want you to feel that you have to do anything for me. I’m going to be around a bit and I’d like to pull my weight.’ Her face is blank; I can’t read it. ‘It would be great, though, if you could show me where the coffee is.’

Without a word, she goes to various cupboards and pulls out an original steel coffee percolator (so romantic!) and the paraphernalia that goes with it.

‘Thanks,’ I say, and set to work.

‘Sorry, but could you move, please?’ she says after two seconds. ‘I have to use the dishwasher.’

‘Sorry.’ I shift along, thinking that maybe I should stay out of the kitchen for a while. I do
not
want to make an enemy of Hilary.