The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (12 page)

The following morning, there’s an email from Fint. Get Smart is up for a big pitch. Four agencies, three of them international, are in the running for an account to design the corporate identity for a retail giant planning a shopping mall in a busy suburb of Dublin. Fint wants me home next week to meet the managing director and take the brief.

I ring him straight away. He’s as excited as I am. This is an opportunity to move us up a notch, to become one of the big guys.

I go down to the villa to tell Greg. But he’s not there. According to a sour-looking Hilary, he has taken the children off on his own. I’m surprised he didn’t tell me. Still, he must need time alone with them, especially Rachel, so I just text him to have fun.

I return to the apartment to try to finish the projects I’m working on so I can be free next week to tackle that pitch.

At dinnertime, I return to the villa, assuming they’ll be back. They aren’t. I ring Greg. They’re in Cannes – at the kiddies’ bumper cars. He’d forgotten the time, but says they’ll grab a pizza rather than come home yet.

On my way out, I notice that Hilary has started to prepare dinner.

I let her know that they won’t be back.

She slams down a knife. ‘He could have told me.’

‘I think he lost track of time.’

‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ She looks at the half-prepared food.

‘I’m sure it’ll keep till tomorrow.’

‘That’s not the point,’ she says, moodily.

I leave her to it.

At ten, Greg calls to say they’re on their way; he’ll meet me at the villa. I arrive before them and keep out of Hilary’s way, reading a book on the terrace. I get up when I hear the car outside. Greg bounds through the front door, an inflatable swimming ring around his neck, roller-blades in one hand, a giant, blow-up
toothpaste
tube under an arm, keys in his mouth, eyes incredibly bright. I stop laughing when I see the children, sunburnt and laden down with shopping bags and exhaustion. Rachel closes the door with her heel. Toby lets his bags spill onto the floor and slumps down beside them.

‘I’m thirsty,’ he says.

‘Anyone for a swim?’ Greg asks, heading for the pool.

Hilary’s face is thunderous. ‘Can’t he see they’re exhausted?’

I say nothing; just go to get two glasses of water. When I return to the hall, she’s lifting Toby up, muttering about how children need their sleep.

I follow them upstairs. When she settles Toby, I give him his drink and say goodnight.

Rachel refuses hers. I leave it by her bed, anyway.

I go back downstairs and out to the pool. Greg’s churning through the water like a human propeller. I stand and watch. Up, down, up, down. Not stopping, not resting. Where is he getting the energy? Is this what happens when he hits a creative burst? He overworks, then has to blow off steam? Is that what this is, some sort of stress? Looking at him is making
me
stressed. I call out that I’m going back to the apartment. He doesn’t seem to hear.

14.

T
he following day, I go down to the villa to see if he has recovered. Hilary tells me he ‘popped out’ three hours ago to buy screwdrivers and hasn’t returned. I go into his office t
o call him.

‘Where are you?’

‘In Nice.’

‘Did you get the screwdrivers?’

‘Screwdrivers?’

‘You left three hours ago to get screwdrivers.’

‘Oh. Yeah. Screwdrivers. God, I’d forgotten. Why did I need them again?’

‘No idea, Greg.’

‘OK. It probably wasn’t urgent.’

‘What are you doing now?’ I ask.

‘Oh, I’ve just met some people. We’re having a beer. Anyway, listen, I’ve just booked a super restaurant for us tonight. I’ll pick you up from the apartment at seven.’

‘Aren’t you going to be back before then?’

‘I’ve one or two things to do. Just be ready at seven, OK?’

‘OK.’ I hang up.

I’m walking out of his office when Hilary appears.

‘Not coming back, is he?’

‘He’ll be back around seven,’ I say, so she can let the children know.

‘You know, I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you.’

Smug? What’s she talking about?

‘There’s a pattern, you see, with Greg. First, he starts to disappear, and before you know it, there’s a new woman on the scene.’

I laugh. ‘Thanks for the tip, Hilary.’

‘Well, here’s another: Be very careful what you say to your
boyfriend
, because it all comes back to me. We had a great laugh about how you thought I’d put in a good word with Rachel. Don’t look so surprised. Greg tells me everything.’

I can’t believe he told her when I specifically asked him not to.
Were
they laughing at me? No. Greg wouldn’t do that. She’s lying. But he must have told her. I can’t believe he did that. What else has he said? And who are these people he’s having a beer with?

Back at the apartment, I put an emergency call through to Grace.

‘You know what I think?’ she says when I finally pause for breath.

‘What?’

‘Greg thought he was doing you a favour, asking Hilary to have a chat with Rachel. And she’s twisted it to cause tension between you. Face it: she’s trouble, Lucy. I mean, can you really imagine Greg and Hilary in some corner somewhere giggling together at your expense? Come on!’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘And so what if he’s staying out for a few hours? He’s been
writing
non-stop. Hasn’t he?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She’s obviously manipulative.’

‘D’you think she made up that stuff about other women?’ I ask.

‘Do you?’

‘Greg’s said there’s been no one since Catherine.’

‘Except Hilary.’

‘He doesn’t count Hilary,’ I say, as much to myself as to Grace.

‘Do you believe him?’

‘I don’t see why he’d lie. I mean, what’s wrong with having relationships as long as they’re one at a time?’

‘You need to talk to him, Lucy. Tell him what she’s been saying. Because if she’s saying things like that to you, who knows what she’s saying to him?’

‘God.’ I never thought of that.

‘Always beware the jealous woman.’

A wave of self-pity hits. ‘What has she to be jealous about? She’s the one the children love.’

‘Come off it, Lucy. Of course she’s jealous. You’re going to be part of the family, a stepmother. She’ll still be a hired employee. She was the mother figure until you arrived. You’ve taken that from her.’

‘No, I haven’t. She’s still like their mother.’

‘But you’ll be their stepmother.’

‘That’s just a title.’

‘A title she’d probably like. Think about it. From what you say, she doesn’t have much of a life outside work. No phone calls. No mention of friends, boyfriends. This family is her life. The closer you get to the children, the more she’ll be pushed out of the way.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get close to them.’

‘She probably still fancies Greg. I mean, she fucked him, didn
’t she?’

I wish she wouldn’t keep bringing that up.

‘He’s an attractive man. She loves his kids. Maybe you’re the cuckoo in her nest.’

‘Jesus, Grace. Stop.’

‘Learning that she was infertile would have been extremely traumatic. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that she
subconsciously
substituted the family she couldn’t have with Greg’s.’

‘Grace, you’re scaring me.’ I watch a swallow zip by, its life free and easy.

‘All I’m saying is watch out. Your relationship is young. This is just another complication you don’t need. Nip it firmly in the bud, Luce. Talk to him. Tell him what’s going on, what she’s been saying. Get him on his own. Out of that claustrophobic villa. You need to sort this out. Now. Dress up. Take him out for dinner. Take control. Enough is enough.’

‘He’s not going to get rid of her.’

‘Let him decide.’

‘If I ask him to, it would be like a showdown – what’s good for me versus what’s good for his family. I know who’d lose.’

‘Then don’t ask. Just tell him what’s happening. And keep working. Don’t let all this interfere with your career. Don’t let it swamp you. You’ve something you’re good at, something you enjoy. Don’t let that slip.’

There suddenly seems an awful lot at stake.

I spend much of the afternoon trying to work out what I’m going to say to Greg and how I’m going to bring it up. I will, though, as soon as he arrives.

But he arrives a different man.

‘Your hair!’

‘What d’you think?’ he asks, turning full circle.

‘It’s . . . It’s certainly different.’ It’s white. Not blond. White. And short.

‘I was just so bored with it,’ he says, sounding like Fint.

Then I notice his ear. There’s a diamond in it. ‘Did you get your ear pierced?’

‘Cool, eh?’ Now he sounds like Toby.

I stare at him. His shirt is red silk. His tie, black leather. He looks like a pimp.

‘Here. I got you something too.’ He produces a designer
carrier
bag and stands over me while I take out the glossy box within.
I slide o
ff the lid. I lift the crispy, white paper to reveal more red silk. Slowly, I lift it out. It’s a dress, though there’s not much of it. So, this is what he was doing.

‘It’s lovely,’ I say.

‘Try it on.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

I pretend to be fine about wearing something so daring. I strip to my thong and slip into the silk sheath. I stand in front of the mirror. And frighten myself. It’s a fabulous dress – if you’re a supermodel. If you have that confidence, posture and poise. If you don’t mind your nipples showing through the fabric. If you’re
comfortable
with the fact that most of your breasts and legs are on display. If you want every curve of your body highlighted. I’d die if I had to wear it in public.

‘Wow,’ he says.

I nod. ‘Very nice. Thanks. Great. Lovely.’ I start to take it off.

‘What are you doing? Aren’t you wearing it?’

‘I thought I’d keep it for a special occasion.’

‘This is a special occasion.’

I think of Hilary, Rachel and Toby. What would they think if they saw me in this? What would anyone think, especially given how Greg’s dressed?

‘You know, Greg. I don’t think it’s me.’

‘Of course it’s you. You look fantastic. So fantastic you’d better not move.’

His hands are on my breasts, his mouth on mine. We need to talk, not fuck. He cups my arse in his hands, caresses it through the silk. It’s my weakness and he knows it. I’m putty. He slips the straps off my shoulders and explores my breasts with his tongue. He takes a nipple in his mouth. I groan at him to stop. He knows I mean the opposite. He lifts me and flings me onto the bed. There’s something so masterful about the way he does it that I’m turned on. That he looks different becomes suddenly exciting. I look down and run my hands over his white stubble. With every kiss, he whispers that I’m sexy, with every caress that I’m hot. Which makes me feel it. He doesn’t remove the dress. Just my inhibitions.

When I see my reflection in the mirror again, I’m a different woman. Proud, confident, sexy. Able for such a dress. No problem. I’m a woman. Should I be afraid to show it?

In the car, I have to tell him to slow down. He slips a CD into the player and the car fills with a Japanese language lesson. I smile as he tries to repeat what he’s heard. It’s impossible. Doesn’t stop him trying again after the next burst.

By the time we arrive in Cannes, we’re sore from laughing.
Parking
, always at a premium, seems non-existent. The traffic is backed up. We crawl past the art deco Martinez, then the more traditional Carlton, lit up in all its glory. We inch past Christian Lacroix et al. Still no parking. Greg’s getting jittery.

Finally, he zips into an underground car park and is lucky enough to find a Jeep pulling out. He parks, hops out and opens my door. The heat takes my breath away.

By the time we’re at street level, I feel like I’ve been in a sauna. I wipe moisture from my upper lip and turn my face to the sea in the hope of a breeze. There isn’t a puff. The back of Greg’s shirt is beginning to stick to him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. People who pass us are flagging – children being carried, looking flushed and tired, a man wiping the top of his head with a folded handkerchief, a woman fanning herself with a street map. The only person who appears to have any energy is Greg, walking briskly and talking non-stop.

I’m relieved when we get to the restaurant, a chic spot with cream parasols, crisp white tablecloths and a clientele of glitterati.

Greg seems to know the maître d’, slapping him on the back with an ‘Ah, bon soir, Philippe’. Under his breath, to me, he adds, ‘Hope he’s feeling energetic tonight.’

We’re led to a quiet table in a corner.

‘Ah, mais non, Philippe,’ says Greg, gesturing to a table we passed on the way in. It’s positioned between two others. ‘That one would be much more sociable.’

My heart sinks. ‘Greg, this a much better table.’

‘Aw, Lucy, let’s be sociable tonight.’

I’m about to tell him we need to talk when he turns and makes for the ‘sociable’ option. Philippe, looking surprised but accommodating, follows. Reluctantly, I do, too.

Once seated, Greg whips his serviette in the air to open it, almost hitting the woman at the next table.

‘Pardon, madame,’ he bows, flamboyantly.

She shakes her head. ‘Ce n’est pas grave.’

The sommelier hands a wine list to Greg who, after a quick glance, snaps it shut and orders three bottles of champagne.

‘Three?’ I ask.

‘We have neighbours,’ he says, glancing from one table to
t
he other.

‘We don’t know these people,’ I say in an urgent whisper.

He shrugs. ‘It’s a gesture of goodwill.’

Greg’s not a showy person, what’s he doing?

The dewy metal buckets arrive, as, shortly after, do surprised but enthusiastic thanks – ‘Merci beaucoup’ from the couple on our left, and a mix of ‘Thank you very much’, ‘Most kind’, ‘You shouldn’t have’ and ‘Fantastic’ from the two English couples at the table to our right. They ask if we’re celebrating something.