The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (13 page)

‘Life,’ Greg says, then, ‘Salut!’ raising his glass high.

‘Salut,’ everyone joins in, glasses clinking.

‘Ladies,’ he says to the women, ‘you’re both looking ravishing tonight.’

Ravishing? Is he kidding?

But the ‘ladies’ seem charmed. I wait for Greg to return his attention to our table, so I can raise the subject of Hilary. He doesn’t. Instead, he seems intent on involving as many people as he can in lively debate. The French couple concentrate hard for a while, but soon bow out. Still, Greg has a captive audience in Tony, Felicity, James and Janet. He guides the conversation like a conductor, his finger acting as baton. Hopping from one random topic to the next, he whips up laughter, a little heated discussion, and tops it off with argument – seeming to disagree with any arbitrary point for the sake of debate. Once he’s got everyone worked up about something, he changes the subject with a jokey, ‘Well, I’m glad we all agree on that.’ Interrupting is pointless. He is on a roll. And while he can be downright funny, I may as well not be here. After my first glass of champagne, I stop drinking, realising that Greg doesn’t intend to and someone has to drive back. For me, the evening and my plans for discussion have been ruined. All I can do is sit it out.

‘You know what you look like?’ Greg asks Tony.

Tony looks bemused, awaiting the punchline.

‘An Anglican parson.’

I try not to choke, remembering an Eddie Izzard comedy sketch about Anglican parsons having no arm muscles. I glance at Tony. He doesn’t seem offended, joking as he is about Felicity being the one who does the preaching in their house. It’s all very funny as long as people keep laughing. But what if they stop?

Greg’s remarks are becoming more and more risqué. It’s as if he’s testing the fine line between funny and insulting. Does he want to see how far he can push it with these people? Is that it, some bizarre social experiment? Well, if he’s not careful, he
will
cross that line. And the fun will end. Someone will stand up to him and make him stop. Why am I the only one to see this? Is it because I’m not drinking? Or is it because this is the man I love, not an amusing stranger I’ll never see again. I
care
what’s happening here. Because something
is
happening. It’s not drink; I’ve seen Greg drunk. This is something else. Something serious.

The restaurant begins to empty, our French neighbours leaving with a polite but unamused goodbye.

Felicity and Janet disappear to the Ladies, leaving me with the three men.

‘Guys,’ says Greg, ‘what do you think of Lucy’s dress?’

‘Smashing,’ says Tony.

‘Stunning.’ James is not far off leering.

‘Would you believe Lucy didn’t want to wear it tonight?’

‘But you look so good in it, love,’ says James.

‘D’you know what I had to do to convince Lucy to wear thi
s dress?’

‘Greg!’

‘Ah, come on, Luce, let’s tell them.’

‘Greg, if you say one more word, I’m leaving.’ And, by God,
I mea
n it.

The men are quiet, the atmosphere changing.

‘Let’s get another,’ says Greg, jovially holding up an empty champagne bottle.

Janet and Felicity return.

‘Is he always so entertaining?’ Janet asks me.

‘And cheeky,’ adds Felicity, eyelashes on full-bat.

I can’t trust myself to answer without unleashing the rage I feel. He’s been encouraging them all night. Flirting with them. The men, too, I’d think, if I didn’t know better. Unable to sit through any more without exploding, I excuse myself.

In the Ladies, I catch my reflection in a mirror. It’s not who I am. I look at the dress. Why did he get it? To turn me into someone else? Was Hilary right? Is this the beginning of the end?

When I finally come out, the restaurant is empty. I think that they’ve left without me. But then I see them, all five, at the top of the restaurant, Greg teaching his new pals what seem to be
Riverdance
steps. I glance at the waiters, expecting exasperation. In fact, they’re sitting at a table chatting together, sharing a bottle of champagne.
I k
now who’s paying. Suddenly, I wish myself back at my apartment in Dublin, in my own bed, alone with a quiet, dependable book. Thank God, my meeting with Fint is in the morning; thank God, I’m going home. That thought propels me forward.

I walk up to Greg and remind him of my early start. He looks surprised as if suddenly noticing my rage. He excuses himself from the happy group and goes to settle the bill.

Once outside the restaurant, he looks sheepish, as if expecting me to explode. I will. But in private. I make straight for the car, in the unusual position of being in front. Reaching it, I turn and speak for the first time. It’s brief.

‘Give me the keys. I’m driving.’

As soon as we’re inside, I turn on the engine for the air conditioning, but don’t pull out. Instead, I demand, ‘What was all tha
t about?’

‘What?’ he asks innocently.

‘That display, back there.’

‘The dancing?’

‘No, Greg, the general behaviour. What is
up
with you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Are you
on
something?’

‘On something?’

‘Greg, you’re high as a kite.’

‘I’m in good form and you think I’m
high
? Get a life, Lucy.’

‘You insulted those people.’

‘I did not.’

‘You don’t think that telling a man he looks like a parson is insulting?’

‘No.’

‘You were lucky they hadn’t seen Eddie Izzard. And you were lucky they were in such good form.’

‘And who put them in good form? Me, that’s who.’

‘You humiliated me.’

‘I
humiliated
you? Just how, exactly, did I do that?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. You were going to talk about our sex life – in public.’

‘So?’

‘
So?
’
Is he serious?
‘That was completely out of line.’

‘I don’t see why. Everyone has sex. I was just being open about it, that’s all.’

‘It didn’t cross your mind,
at all
, that
I
mightn’t feel like being as “open”?’

‘Not until you got all prissy about it, no.’

‘Prissy! Jesus! You were flirting with those women.’

‘I was being friendly.’

‘Friendly? What is
wrong
with you? What is it – speed? Ecstasy?’

He laughs. ‘You think I’m on drugs?’

‘You’re high, Greg. Don’t sit there and tell me you’re not high.’

‘OK. Maybe I
am
high – on life.’

‘Oh, come off it.’

But no matter what I say, he won’t admit to anything.

I speed back, drop him at the villa and drive on. He can have the car back in the morning.

Inside the apartment, I can’t sit still. Out on the balcony, the whole evening replays in my mind. How dare he treat me like that? And he
was
flirting. I remember Hilary’s warning. That we never got to discuss that makes me feel like putting my fist through a wall.

15.

O
n the flight home, all I can think about is Greg. He’s on something, no question. But what? And when did he start? He’s always been energetic. But then I remember Rob saying how he’d changed. Could he have started taking something back then? Even Grace commented on his energy. What if she saw something I didn’t? I need to talk to her . . .

As soon as I get to Dublin, I change my return flight to allow an overnight. In a taxi to the office, I ring Grace and ask to stay. She’s delighted; Kevin’s off at a medical conference in Barcelona for the week and she thinks she might be reverting to the mental ag
e of two.

I arrive at the office two hours before the meeting. I hug Fint tighter than usual and try not to cry. Then it’s into the boardroom and down to business.

‘I emailed you the newsletter template yesterday,’ I say. ‘Did you get it?’

‘Yeah, I’d a quick look.’

‘It’s not the final final, but it’s nearly there.’

‘It’s good. Do you want to take the jacket for Copperplate’s latest chick lit author, Clodagh Hughes?’

‘Sure.’ In fairness to Copperplate, they let us be creative with their women’s fiction. They don’t insist on a picture of a smiling woman every time.

Fint hands me the brief.

Moving on, he tells me he wants to give Sebastian more responsibility, maybe send him on a course. I think it’s a good idea. We discuss various projects for current clients and what we’re doing to attract new business. Then Fint briefs me about the retail giant we’re about to meet and we go through our new business
presentation
, which has been modified to highlight the work we’ve done on corporate identities, particularly for fast-moving consumer goods
companies
. We run out of time for lunch.

The meeting goes well. The MD seems a pleasant enough man. He speaks about the project, then his marketing director gives us the brief. It will be a major job if we get it – just the kind of account w
e ne
ed to stretch us as a firm.

Afterwards, Fint and I go for a late lunch. It takes a while to comfortably bring up the question that I’ve been wanting to ask since I got to the office.

‘Remember that guy in college, what was his name, again, River?’

‘That nutter?’

‘Was he on something?’

‘Ye-ah.’

‘What?’

‘Dunno, some sort of speed. Why d’you ask?’

‘No reason. I was just thinking about him today, that’s all.’

‘Not getting enough excitement in your life?’

I smile. ‘Whatever happened to him?’

‘Couldn’t tell you. Probably fried what little brain he had.’

‘Ah, come on, Fint. Some of his work was really creative . . .’

‘Yeah, but what a cop-out, having to get high to get creative.’

My heart stops as it all starts to make sickening sense.

It’s four by the time we finish up. I pop into the St Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre and buy pyjamas and fresh underwear. I’m thrilled to find Bart Simpson T-shirts. I get two, as promised. Rachel is trickier. In the end, I opt for a black top with a square of fabric sewn on the front, featuring a black and white shot of two cuddly kittens, framed with a red velvet trim. It’s either that or a similar one in grey with puppies, or a completely different stripy one. Even if I’ve made the right choice, it’ll be the wrong one for Rachel. I buy wine for Grace and toys for the boys. Then catch a cab there.

She’s unloading shopping from the car when I arrive and, though casually dressed in a grey T-shirt and skinny jeans, looks stunning, as usual. She could be Norwegian. I can see why Dad used to call us Snow White and Rose Red. Always so different.

I start to help. The boys are both asleep in their car seats. They look so cute – flushed and soft-skinned. Two angels. I can’t help remarking on it.

‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw them in the supermarket. Jesus, they had me driven demented.’

We take the shopping inside and, while I start to unload it, Grace goes out to the car to get Jason. She sets him down in the portable car seat on the kitchen floor. I offer to get Shane, but she doubts that I’ll manoeuvre him out of his seat and upstairs to bed without him waking. I doubt it, too.

‘I think he’s coming down with something,’ she says when she returns to the kitchen. ‘He normally wakes when the car stops. And he was so cranky. He only gets that bad when he’s sick, poor littl
e guy.’

‘Poor you,’ I say, about to put lettuce into the crisper.

‘Forget the lettuce. Get the wine open.’

I laugh and do as instructed.

‘Right then. We’ll have a stir-fry – when we’ve had a glass or two. Come on, let’s go into the sitting room.’ She carries Jason. I
carry the
wine.

The place is in chaos. Toys everywhere. Children’s feeders. Baby bottles. A heap of clothes that Grace must have taken out of the dryer and abandoned before sorting. This is
not
Grace. She catches me looking at her.

‘Excuse the mess,’ she says, not looking at all bothered. ‘When the cat’s away . . .’

‘I thought you were the cat.’

‘Lucy. One cat in any home is enough. Anyway . . .’ She shakes her head as though clearing the thought. ‘How are tricks?’

I look down at the glass I’m twisting around by the stem. ‘Pretty crap, actually.’

‘Hilary?’

‘No. Greg.’ I look up at her. ‘There’s something wrong, Grace.’

She sits forward.

‘Remember when you asked me if he was all right and I told you he was fine?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, I thought he was. But now he’s not. Definitely not. You said he was energetic, then. You should see him now – he’s hig
h, Grace.’

She nods quickly, as if to say, ‘Go on.’

I talk through the events of the night before.

‘Wow,’ she says, putting her glass down. ‘That’s pretty extreme.’

‘It has to be drugs, right?’

She pulls her legs up beside her. ‘I wouldn’t be sure without seeing him, Lucy.’

‘I know, but you must have
some
idea.’

‘He’s never mentioned a tendency to get high?’

‘No. Sure, he doesn’t even think he
is
high.’

‘Or low?’

‘No. He’s always in great form. Just not
this
great.’

‘OK.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘What about his family? Have any of them commented on his behaviour?’

‘Rob, his brother, mentioned how “zesty” he was, and how much he’d changed since he met me.’

‘But he didn’t seem worried?’

‘No. He thought it was great. He thinks it’s love.’ What a ridiculous concept that seems now.

‘OK,’ she says again.

‘He’s taking something, isn’t he?’ I whisper.

She takes a long breath. ‘It’s a possibility, Lucy, though, without seeing him, I’d be slow to pin it down to any one thing.’

‘What kind of drugs?’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions . . .’

‘OK, if it
were
drugs, which ones?’

‘
If
, then most likely amphetamines. Speed. But he’d want to be taking a hell of a lot . . .’

‘Are they addictive?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But not dangerous?’

‘Well, not at low doses. But someone taking high doses over a long period . . .’

‘What could happen?’

‘Lucy, it may not be drugs.’

‘What could happen?’

‘Well, there would be a risk of paranoia and stuff, but I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. You have to talk to him, first, Lucy. Get him to admit there’s a problem. Because something’s
definitely up.’

‘But that’s exactly it. He doesn’t think there is.’

‘Well, then you have to show him how his behaviour’s affecting other people.’

‘I tried, last night. He thinks the problem’s with me. He called me prissy.’

‘Well, show him what this is doing to the children.’

‘I don’t think it’s actually affecting them.’

‘Trust me, Lucy, if it’s affecting you, it’s affecting them.’

‘No. They enjoy his energy. He can be great fun. Very adventurous. OK, they get tired sometimes . . .’

‘He’s not irritable, at all?’

‘Only last night, when I cornered him. Otherwise, no.’

‘Something, at least. Still, Lucy, you’ve got to act. He’s unlikely to do so himself. Highs are addictive. Once you’re up, you want to stay there.’

‘Maybe I should join him. Must be a hell of a lot better th
an reality.’

She smiles. ‘I know what you mean. Just keep at him, though, until he admits there’s a problem. Then get him to a doctor,
preferably
at home. You know I’ll help in any way I can.’

It sounds so easy. I know it’ll be anything but. Still, at least I have a goal, a sense of direction. And I have something else: the feeling that I’m not alone. I hope I can hold on to that when I’m back in France.