The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (20 page)

It’s official: Grace and the boys are a hit.

That night, when Greg comes to my room, he’s as gentle and caring as he used to be before a whirlwind overtook his body. After, when he holds me close and tells me he loves me, I do believe him. And when he tells me that there’s never been anyone else, I believe him, too. In the morning, the one week I promised him is up.

I’m not going anywhere.

When the phone rings around eleven, I half expect the line t
o die.

It doesn’t.

‘Hello,’ says an older male voice I recognise but can’t pinpoint immediately. ‘Might I speak to Greg, please?’

‘I’m afraid Greg’s not available right now. Can I help?’

‘Is this Lucy?’

‘Yes.’ It’s Ben, I realise.

‘This is Ben Franklin. We met—’

‘Oh, yes, of course, Ben. How are you?’

‘Well, thank you. I was hoping to have a word with Greg.’

‘Actually, he’s in bed. I’ll just run up and see if he’s awake.’ I do. He isn’t. I run back down. ‘He’s out cold. Will I get him to give you a call when he gets up?’

‘When do you think that will be?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Actually, Lucy, perhaps you could pass on a message. If you could just tell him that Ruth and I are popping over to Antibes for a few days and we were hoping to meet up with him. Perhaps we could take you both out to dinner tomorrow night?’

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised, knowing how things are between them. ‘That sounds lovely. I’m sure it would be fine. When Greg gets up I’ll ask him to give you a call.’

‘How is everything?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘How are the children?’

‘They’re well. Would you like to speak to them? They’re just upstairs . . .’

‘No, no, I won’t disturb them. I’ll see them tomorrow, or the day after. Well, I’d better go.’

‘Thanks for the call. And the invite.’

‘Odd,’ Greg says, when I tell him. ‘Ben hates the South of France. You should have heard him when we bought the villa. In all the years we’ve had it, they’ve never been out.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I wonder what’s on his agenda.’

‘Does he have to have an agenda?’

‘Ben Franklin always has an agenda. I just wish I knew what it
was.’

22.

O
n the Cap d’Antibes, we drive through the pillared entrance of the exclusive Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Never has a name seemed more appropriate; it’s like arriving in Eden. Tall pines tower over us as we wind our way down to a crystal blue sea. The car is valet-parked, but we’re early, and Greg suggests a stroll up to the bar at the main hotel, explaining that we’ve arrived at the restaurant, a separate building, on the water’s edge.

We walk through paradise. The people we pass are immaculately dressed and beautiful. Almost unreal. At the terrace bar, we find more of the same. Men in blazers and crisp open-necked shirts, hair slicked back. Slender, tanned women with long, straight hair wearing designer dresses and high strappy sandals. A man at the next table has just come off a boat and is telling his fan club about a party he has been invited to, hosted by a Hollywood star’s ex-wife. Greg rolls his eyes.

We have a quiet drink together, then, at eight thirty, we stroll back down to the restaurant. The view is incredible. The sea is no longer the Mediterranean, but a private lake belonging to the hotel, or so it seems. The sky is a wash of pale blue and pink. Lamps have been lit around the perimeter of the restaurant and candles glow on every table. A pale yellow moon and sidekick star hover overhead, the sky the ultimate ceiling. It is magical.

Breaking the spell, the maître d’ informs us that our hosts are at the table. We follow him. They stand when they see us. Ben’s greeting is a businesslike handshake. Ruth follows his lead.

We have our linen napkins opened for us by waiters and menus slipped into our hands.

Ben steers the conversation. It is formal and stilted. There are polite questions about the children, France and the weather. As usual, I feel we’re being judged.

As we’re finishing coffee, Ben says, ‘We’ve had a visit from
Hilary
.’

My heart thuds.

‘She seems worried. Is everything all right, Greg?’

‘Everything’s fine. Couldn’t be better, Ben,’ he says, flashing a wide smile. ‘I’m not sure what Hilary’s worried about.’

‘She’s concerned about the welfare of our grandchildren.’

Jesus.

‘The children are fine,’ Greg says, without faltering. ‘You can see for yourself tomorrow.’

‘Yes, yes. And how are you feeling?’

‘Never better.’

‘And the driving? No problems there?’

‘None.’

‘Good. Good. Getting plenty of rest?’

‘What is this, Ben?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Just making sure you’re all right. Not
getting
too much sun, that sort of thing.’ He’s fiddling with h
is tie.

‘Well, thank you for your concern,’ Greg says through gritted teeth. ‘But, as you can see, I’m a big boy. Quite able to look after myself. And my children.’ His coffee cup clangs against its saucer as he lands it down. ‘You know what? Let me get this, Ben.’

‘No, no. I wouldn’t dream—’

‘I insist.’ He calls the waiter, pulling out his wallet. He pays without looking at the bill.

Nothing more is said, apart from curt goodbyes.

Greg doesn’t speak until we’re pulling away. ‘Well, that was
humiliating
.’

I look at him. ‘You were right about something being up.’

He yanks at his seatbelt; it jams. ‘Who does Hilary think she is, upsetting them like that?’

‘She must have really freaked them out, to have them hopping on a plane to France.’

‘Of all the people to freak out.’ He pulls away, fast.

‘The tension at that table. He really has a problem with you, Greg. It’s more than him just being a snob, isn’t it?’

He doesn’t answer, just races past tiny beaches, families still swimming and picnicking in the moonlight. Finally, he says, ‘He blames me for Catherine’s death.’

‘What?
Why
?
’

‘They both do.’

‘They said it was your fault?’

‘No. They’d never do that.’ He pulls in behind a parked car to let another through on the narrow road. ‘I just knew. Sensed it. They couldn’t look me in the eye. Not then. And not since.’

‘But how can they blame you? Catherine died in childbirth.’

He pulls out again. ‘Who got her pregnant?’

‘Oh, come on.’

He shrugs.

The traffic slows as we reach throbbing Juan-les-Pins. We stop at lights. He looks across at me.

‘They knew we’d been warned against having another child. When Catherine got pregnant, she told them it had been her idea. They still looked at me as if I was a complete idiot for allowing it to happen. I was as worried as they were. When she died, they couldn’t face me. And, to be honest, I couldn’t face myself – or them. Hilary used to take the children over to see them. It was easier for
everyone
.’

‘So, that’s how she knows them well enough to do this.’

‘Oh, they love Hilary. She looked after their grandchildren while the oaf tried to pick up the pieces.’

The car in front moves forward and we’re driving again.

‘Weird the way he said “our grandchildren”, – so possessively. As if they’re actually his kids,’ I say.

‘They’re his last link to Catherine. They couldn’t be more precious to him. And, though at times he drives me crazy, I suppose he does love them.’

Next day, we drop the children off at the Hôtel du Cap for an afternoon by the pool with their grandparents. There’s no way Greg will stay. And, to be honest, I get the impression we’re not welcome.

We return to the villa, where Greg starts to clear out his office. How, he wonders, did he let it get into such a state? He starts at th
e edg
es and works his way in. One by one, black bags appear outside the door, reassuring me that things are on the mend.

After two hours, I go in to drag him out. He’s sitting at his desk, head in his hands.

‘You OK?’

‘No.’

‘What is it?’

He looks up. ‘It’s rubbish. Everything I’ve been writing is rubbish. It just doesn’t make sense.’ He picks up page after page and shoves them at me. ‘Look. Look at this. Does any of this make sense to you? Because it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to me. And I wrote it. Apparently.’

I pretend to read it for the first time.

‘See? See?’

‘Well, it’s . . . It’s just very, very creative.’

‘Did I write that? Did I really write that shit? I must be losing my mind.’

How can he not know what he’s written? ‘Come on, take
a break.’

‘Did you know I was writing this?’

‘No,’ I lie. ‘Come on. Come away from it. Start again later.’

‘What if I produce the same crap?’

‘You won’t. Just do the edits for
A River Too Wide
. That will get you into the swing of things.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Go out to the pool, have a swim, clear your head. I’ll tidy your desk. I won’t throw anything out. I’ll just file it—’

‘Dump it. Dump the whole bloody lot of it.’

‘OK. I’ll dump it. Now go.’

I shred what he’s written so he never has to face it again. I clear away books, magazines, DVDs, returning them to their cases. Any real rubbish, I bin. All that remains, apart from his computer, are the edits for
A River Too Wide
.

Later, we collect the children.

‘How did that go?’ asks Greg, twisting round in the front passenger seat.

‘All right,’ says Rachel.

‘Just all right?’

‘Boring,’ says Toby.

‘Yeah. They wouldn’t let us do anything. They wouldn’t let me go on the rope ladder even though I’m ten.’

‘They wouldn’t let us dive.’

‘They kept putting sunscreen all over us,’ says Rachel. ‘Even though we had some on and I can do it myself.’

‘Oh,’ says Greg.

‘They wouldn’t let us have Coke,’ says Toby. ‘Even though I said you let us.’

‘Or chips. And they kept asking us if we’re happy.’

‘I hope you pretended to be,’ says Greg.

‘No. Not with them. With you.’

I stall the car. Behind, a horn blows.

‘With me?’ Greg asks.

‘Yeah. They kept asking questions about you.’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘Were you cross with us? Were you talking funny? Were you driving funny?’

‘And what did you say?’ he asks quickly.

‘I lied,’ says Rachel. ‘I said you were fine.’

Greg and I exchange a glance. He looks so guilty. He turns back.

‘Well, thanks for sticking up for me, Rache,’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘And I’m sorry, guys, if I’ve been a bit, you know, snappy. It won’t happen again. I promise you that.’

‘’S’OK, Dad,’ says Toby. ‘At least you let us have Coke
and
chips.’

Just the reassurance he needs.

Next morning, I fly back to Dublin for the brainstorm. Last time I was in the office, I never got a chance to sit at my desk and take a few moments. Now, I swivel around in my chair. Flick on my computer. Slide open my drawers and peek inside. I pick up a chain of coloured paper clips I probably made during some brainstorm or other. When the screensaver comes on, it’s a picture of Greg and me, grinning at the camera. It seems so long ago since I put it up, but it’s still only weeks. We look so happy, vibrant, together. I run my finger over his face and my eyes fill with tears. We’ve been through so much in so little time. I make a wish that it’s all over, then I take a deep breath and get to work.

Half an hour later, we’re in the boardroom. Fint’s looking grea
t –
tanned and relaxed. Sebastian, too, is the picture of health.

‘So, what did you think of my proposal?’ I ask Fint.

‘Good.’

‘Only good?’ In the Dictionary of Fint, good means . . .
w
ell, bad.

‘No, no. It was good . . . Sebastian had some ideas too. Do you want to present them, Sebastian?’

A presentation? I thought this was a brainstorm.

Sebastian looks awkward, for Sebastian. He takes us through a PowerPoint presentation, his confidence building as he goes. I’m stunned by the freshness of his ideas, so innovative they show mine up as jaded. Which, I realise, they are. I look across at him as if seeing him for the first time. Whatever happened to my enthusiasm? How have I lost it? I had it before I left. I’ve never been the kind of person to applaud after presentations. But I do after Sebastian’s.