The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (15 page)

At eight, I ring Greg’s mobile. He’s back. I go down to the villa. Straight to the office. He’s frantically rummaging through a drawer. What’s he looking for, his next fix?

‘What happened earlier?’ I ask.

He looks up. ‘When?’

‘When you disappeared.’

‘What?’

‘You were supposed to take the children for ice cream, but you went off and never came back.’

‘Oh, right, that. I must have forgotten.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘To see a man about a dog.’

‘What man? And what dog?’

‘It’s an expression, Lucy.’

‘People hide behind expressions.’

‘I’m hiding behind nothing.’

‘So, where were you? And who were you with?’

He gives me a look that says ‘What have you turned into?’ But he does answer. ‘I was in Monte Carlo.’

‘Monte Carlo?’

‘A little principality beyond Nice.’

‘I know where it is, Greg. Not why you had to suddenly drop everything to go there.’

‘No reason.’

‘There must have been a reason.’

‘Well, if there was, I forget it.’

‘Just like you forgot the kids. You know, Greg, they dropped everything for you. And then you dropped them.’

He starts back at the drawer, mumbling, ‘I’ll make it up to them, OK?’

‘How?’

He pops his head up. ‘I don’t know. I’ll spend time with them.’

‘When?’

‘Now. If it’ll make you happy.’

‘It’s almost Toby’s bedtime.’

‘So? He can sleep in.’

‘He can’t sleep
at all
with the racket you make.’

‘What racket?’

‘Loud telephone conversations, music blaring . . .’

‘He’s imagining things.’

‘He asked to come and stay with me, today. He’s not imagining things.’

‘OK, OK.’ He gets up suddenly. ‘Stop nagging. I’ll keep the music down, OK?’ I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off with, ‘And I’ll go play with the children right now, if that’s what you want.’

‘Don’t you need to find whatever you’re looking for, first?’

He scratches his head. ‘I can’t remember what I was loo
king for.’

Let me help.
‘Speed, amphetamines . . .’

‘What?’

‘Drugs, Greg. I know you’re taking them.’

He laughs. ‘Well, you know more than I do.’

‘Admit it, Greg.’

His face changes. ‘What is your
obsession
with drugs? What is
wrong
with you?’

I feel like snapping the same back at him. But I don’t want to fight. I want to sort this out. I try to keep calm, focus on my
mission
.

‘Look, Greg, you’ve a problem. We both know it. If you could just admit it, we could do something about it . . .’

‘The only problem I have is you, Lucy,’ he says, turning and walking from the room.

He leaves me standing, winded. Hurt stops me from reacting immediately. Anger propels me forward. I go after him, ready to ask, ‘What do you mean I’m a problem? If I’m such a problem maybe
I should
leave?’ But I walk straight into a happy family scene. Toby, dressed for bed, is running to get paints, while Rachel is heading to the office for paper. I slow down, try to lift the expression on my face. That’s when I see Hilary, looking like she’s ready to start fitting.

‘Right,’ she snaps. ‘Forget routine. Fine. I’m going to my room. And I won’t be back down.’ She pounds up the stairs.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asks.

I keep walking; amazed he has the nerve to talk to me.

‘Where are you going?’ he asks cheerily, as if the argument between us never happened.

‘Bed,’ I answer only because the children are watching.

‘Don’t go. You’re great fun.’

I feel like clocking him.

They’re sitting down to paint as I walk out of the door. And I wonder how long it will be before Greg has to go somewhere, do something, or be with someone other than us.

17.

A
good night’s sleep helps my perspective. I love Greg. Or, at least, the Greg I met. He brought me back to life, gave me another future. I don’t want to throw that away. I didn’t get another chance with Brendan, but I have one with Greg. Whatever the problem is, he reacted the way he did because I was backing him into a corner. I should have tried to stay calm, support him more. If I’d been smart about it, I wouldn’t have mentioned drugs at all. I’d have told him I was behind him. Whatever the problem, we’d get help together.

Out on the balcony, watching the sun on the sea, I try to work out how to bring the whole thing up again, this time with tact. It won’t happen down at the villa. If he comes here and is in good form . . .

I spend the day working. It helps to steady me.

Late afternoon, I hear his key in the door. I turn. He breezes in, bright and cheery.

‘The kids are in the car. Are you coming up the mountains wi
th us?’

I hesitate. We won’t be able to talk with the kids there. And we can’t talk now because they’re sitting out in the car.

‘Come on, it’ll be great,’ he says, taking my hand.

And I think that, maybe, if we could just get on today, then later I could risk broaching the subject again.

Hilary’s in the back of the Range Rover with the children. Toby seems to be developing some kind of heat rash. I turn up the air conditioning.

Greg drives to Grasse and, from there, up into the Alps. As we climb, the temperature outside begins to drop from thirty-six degrees to thirty-two. The scenery is breathtaking. Sheer-drop cliffs, mountain streams, gorges, waterfalls. Tiny hillside villages perch precariously, prettily.

Higher and higher we go. We’re almost at the top, when over the precipice float paragliders slowly descending in smooth arcs, like skiers down a slope, leaning to the left then right and finally landing in a field beside the road. Without a word, Greg pulls over and hops out. We watch him approach the small group folding their wings like sails. When he returns, he has signed up fo
r lessons.

We make it to Gourdon, a tiny fairy-tale village with postcard views. In the car park we’re ambushed by a very cute and amateur sales force – little, blonde, Alpine children selling home-made bundles of lavender. We buy one for a euro and make their day. We wander through tiny streets, while Greg tears on ahead, stopping every so often to examine an item for sale or to strike up conversation with strangers.

Through open windows float the sounds of voices and crockery as families prepare for their evening meal. Rachel and Toby are
hungry
. We find a restaurant.

Greg is talking, on and on, at high speed, about French
politics
. Another day, another monologue. The rest of us eat in silence,
Hilary
moving her Coke to avoid grains of rice that fly, every so often, from Greg’s mouth. Then something happens to drag us from our now practised inertia. Greg stops making sense. One minute he’s talking about politics, then about going somewhere in the car. Then the car turns into a boat, as happens in dreams.

I’m afraid he’ll worry the children, so I try to jolt him back to reality before he gets any worse. ‘Greg, we’ve never been on a boat together.’

He doesn’t seem to hear. Just carries on. ‘The boat went twenty knots an hour, shower, power, flour.’ Gibberish.

My God!

‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ asks Toby. ‘He’s talking funny.’

Greg snaps at him. ‘Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?’

After that, no one talks. No one eats – apart from Greg who finishes his meal in minutes and reaches over to help himself to mine. I give him my plate. Toby’s head is bowed, his shoulders raised. He doesn’t make a sound, but I know he’s crying. I want to tell him everything will be all right, put my arm around him. But Hilary gets there first, with hers. He looks exhausted, his little face flushed, his hair damp with sweat. I ask for the bill and am told, by my fiancé, that I’m no fun. Once out of the restaurant, he bounds ahead back to the jeep. We follow behind, a quiet group. Somehow, I end up carrying Toby.

‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ whispers Rachel.

And while Hilary struggles for an answer, I say, ‘It’s hot, Rachel. He’s been working very hard. Doing too much. He just needs sleep.’

Hilary raises an eyebrow at me.

‘I need sleep, too,’ says Toby.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Just close your eyes and rest on my shoulder. Everything’ll be fine.’

By the time we get to the jeep, Toby’s asleep, his face damp against my T-shirt. I feel a wave of responsibility for him. Even fo
r Rachel.

Greg has the engine revving.

I ease Toby onto his booster seat and strap him in.

I open Greg’s door. ‘I’ll drive,’ I say.

‘What do you mean, you’ll drive? I’m already driving.’

‘Greg, please don’t make a scene. Just let me drive.’ I say it quietly.

‘Is there something wrong with my driving? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No. I just think I should drive. You’ve had a beer.’

‘One beer. Below the limit. I’m driving.’ That’s that. Adamant.

I climb in the front passenger seat, in silence.

Darkness is falling on the way back down the mountain. Greg insists on returning by a different route from the one we came, despite my telling him that it looks like a very minor road on the map. It is, we discover, wide enough for one car only. He is
tearing
down it, making childish ‘vroom vroom’ noises and ‘weees’ on hairpin bends. He takes the corners so fast I imagine us going over the edge. I hold the door handle, close my eyes and pray. My heart’s pounding. My foot keeps hitting an imaginary brake. Just inches away from the wheels, the ground falls away into a gorge. A
beautiful
gorge that tourists snap on a daily basis. A gorge that will become world famous if Greg Millar’s Range Rover ends up smashed at the bottom.

‘Greg, slow down.’

He ignores me.

‘Dad, please slow down,’ says Rachel, sounding terrified.

It’s as if he hasn’t heard her.

‘Greg,’ I say, quietly so they can’t hear at the back. ‘If another car comes around that corner, we’re over the edge.’

‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’

‘Greg, please. You’re going too fast.’

‘I’m not going too fast,’ he snaps.

Silence now. But he does slow. I turn around to check the children. Toby’s still asleep, which shows just how exhausted he is. Rachel’s face is burrowed into the side of Hilary’s formidable chest. She’s sucking her thumb, something I’ve never seen her do. My eyes meet Hilary’s. Slowly, she shakes her head. I sit back and close m
y eyes.

No more.

Somehow, we make it back to the villa. I carry Toby up to bed while Hilary puts her arm around a shaken and visibly upset Rachel. Together they go into her room, Hilary whispering reassurances. The door closes behind them.

I find Greg in the kitchen, knocking back a glass of water.

I’m much too angry to be supportive. ‘What’s wrong with yo
u, Greg?’

‘Why do you keep asking what’s wrong with me? Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?’

‘Why were you like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, come on, don’t tell me you don’t know. You were driving like a madman. You could have killed us all.’

‘Rubbish.’ He slams down the empty glass. ‘I was totally in control.’

‘Is that right? So, what would you have done if another car had come round the bend? Where would you have pulled in? How would you have stopped in time?’

‘You’re such a panic-merchant. I’d have handled it.’

‘In that case, you’re deluded. There would have been no way out. If you can’t see that, you have a serious problem.’

He laughs. ‘Lucy, it’s not me who has the problem, it’s you.’

‘Don’t twist this, Greg. What’s going on?’

‘If you bring up drugs again, God help me, I’ll lose it.’

‘You’re high, Greg. Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not high. And, whatever the cause, it has to stop. It’s got to a point where it’s dangerous. You could have killed us up there. You could have killed your own children. Do you hear me, Greg?’

‘Lucy, love, you really should see a doctor.’

I explode. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re the one with the problem. Tearing around, awake all night, snapping at the
children
, living in your own fast-paced world, becoming so detached from me and yet expecting sex like it’s your God-given right. It’s you who needs a doctor. You!’

I’ve given him too much rope. And he’s hanging me with it. Holding in a scream, I storm from the villa.

Tears distort the lights of the oncoming cars.

I’m having no impact. It makes no difference to him whether I’m here or not. I have to get away. Put distance between us. Maybe then I can think, work out what to do, find a way forward, if there is a way forward. For now, I have to go.

Back at the apartment, I write Greg a letter, explaining. I won’t drop it off at the villa. Better for him to find me gone, to experience the shock of that, to read from start to finish what he never allows me to explain to his face. Better to have him react. I book the first available flight home. It leaves tomorrow afternoon, return open.