the accidental life of greg millar Part 20A

At twelve, Greg’s still asleep. I’m sitting in the kitchen, nursing a coffee, when, on the table next to the keys to his Porsche, his iPhone begins to vibrate. Hilary’s name comes up on the screen. Finally, I think, and pick up.

‘Hello, Hilary.’

She kills the line. I should have known she would. I sigh and am about to put back the phone when I notice that Greg has missed calls. Hilary’s been ringing him non-stop for days, at all hours. For goodness’ sake, if she’s so desperate for her job back, all she had to do was call me. Why is Greg being so pig-headed? He must have heard some of the calls. And why didn’t she try the villa? That’s when I finally figure out the source of that silent calls – Hilary, ringing for Greg, and hanging up when I answered. This is more than wanting her job back. This is crazy.

It’s lunchtime when Greg surfaces. Dark circles ring sunken eyes. A long, red line runs down his cheek where he’s slept on a crease. He’s changed out of his wet clothes, but still looks shabby and unshaven. His T-shirt and trousers hang off him, making me realise how much weight he’s lost. He looks burned out, as if the last two weeks of sleepless nights have finally caught up with him.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Hi.’ He half smiles, half looks at me, dragging out a chair and slumping onto it.

I plug in the kettle, then turn, folding my arms and leaning against the worktop. Neither of us speaks; we just watch the rain through the open doors.

‘Hilary’s been ringing your mobile – constantly.’

‘Oh?’ He doesn’t look at me.

‘What does she want?’

‘Dunno.’ He gets up, goes to the fridge, pulls out a carton of juice and drinks directly from it.

‘She called here, too, and hung up when I answered. What’s going on?’

He shakes his head. Shrugs.

‘Surely, she got through to you at some point?’

‘She said something about wanting her job back. I told her it was out of the question.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t want her back, that’s all. Where are the kids?’ He looks to the door.

‘Upstairs.’

‘What are they doing?’ He puts the carton back. Yawns. Scratches the side of his face.

‘Avoiding me.’

‘Both of them?’

‘They think I told you to fire Hilary.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she told them I did.’

‘Jesus. Why?’

‘Who knows? Revenge. A parting shot.’ I look at him. ‘Greg, can you sit down for a sec?’

His eyes register that something’s up. But he doesn’t argue.

‘We’re in trouble,’ I say.

I see him swallow.

‘I can’t go on. Not like this. You snap at me and the children. Sack Hilary. Then disappear whenever you want for hours, nights at a time, without any explanation. I don’t know where you are, who you’re with, what you’re doing. You won’t talk to me. You don’t care. Just leave me here, minding your children as if I’m some kind of idiot. They’re your responsibility, not mine. At this stage, the only reason I’m still here is so that nothing happens to them. I can’t trust you to mind your own children, Greg. You’ve lost all sense of responsibility. You have a family, a successful career, a fiancée, commitments, but you just don’t seem to care. It’s as if all you want is to be out having a good time, getting high, to hell with the people who love you. Did you know I’ve had Matt hounding me for the edits to A River Too Wide?’ He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t let him. ‘I’ve had enough, Greg.’

‘I’m sorry, Lucy. I . . . I haven’t been myself. So restless. Always something else to do . . .’

‘You used to be a great father. I admired you for it.’

‘I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll change. I won’t go out . . .’

‘What is it, Greg? Are you bored with us?’

‘No.’

‘Isn’t life exciting enough for you?’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Is there someone else?’

‘No. No.’

‘Please, Greg. Just tell me what it is – I want to know what ended our relationship.’

He gets up, comes to me and takes my hands in his. ‘There’s no one else, Lucy. Just you. I love you. I won’t go out. I’ll stay in. I’m sorry. I just don’t know how I’ve let things get this out of hand. I don’t understand it myself.’ He sniffs. ‘I promise I’ll stick around, be here for you, for the kids.’ He rubs his bristly chin.

‘How do I know I can trust you, Greg? You say you’ll do all these things and then you don’t. I’m tired. So tired. I need to go home, now. Get Rob over here to help you with the children. They’re not my responsibility. I’ve tried to make this work. I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t do this any more. I just can’t.’ I look down at the beautiful triangular solitaire that reminds me of another time, another man. I close my eyes and begin to remove it.

‘No, Lucy. Please. I promise you, there’s nowhere else I want to be, just with you and the kids.’

‘Then, why aren’t you?’ I manage to prise the ring off a finger swollen from the heat. I hold it out to him. ‘Take it. Please take it.’

He looks desperate. ‘I love you, Lucy, I swear. Give me a chance to prove it, Luce, please. Give me a week. You’ll see.’

Can I believe him? Can I trust him?

‘One week,’ he says.

I enclose the ring in my fist. For once, we are talking. He is actually listening. Promising to try. All he wants is a week. And, much as I want to, I can’t deny him that. ‘One week, Greg. That’s it. One week.’

He hugs then kisses me. ‘Thank you, Lucy. Thank you. You won’t be sorry, I swear.’

Neither of us moves. He hasn’t held me in a simple hug like this for what feels like a very long time. Eventually, I ask him to call the children for lunch – they might come for him.

They look wary, not sure what to expect.

‘Hi, guys,’ Greg says.

Toby looks at me.

I smile reassurance.

‘Hi,’ he says quietly, taking his place at the table.

‘Hi, Dad,’ says Rachel, eyeing her father carefully.

We sit down to eat. For a long while, no one speaks. The children look like they’re on full alert, as though expecting an outburst or a sudden ingenious idea that spells disaster.

‘Maybe, when the rain’s stopped, we could go for a swim?’ he suggests in a voice that sounds very calm – for him.

Toby looks at Rachel, unsure.

She seems to mull it over. ‘Can Lucy come too?’ she asks without looking at me.

Though I know why she’s asking, I’m still surprised.

‘Of course,’ Greg says.

After lunch, the children go upstairs to change into their swimming togs. Greg helps me clear the table.

‘They hardly said anything over lunch,’ he says.

‘They didn’t want to upset you.’

He stops halfway between the table and the sink, glasses in hand. ‘Why would they upset me?’

‘Greg, everything upsets you lately. Especially the people who love you.’

He looks bemused.

He needs his next hit. Any minute now, he’ll go.

But he doesn’t. There’s no next hit, no more high. Instead, over the next few days, he glides slowly back to earth, to us, his boundless energy fading like a dying wind, his restlessness with it. He seems content with our company again, no longer desperate to befriend the world. Gradually, he resumes the simple acts of living that I once took for granted – eating, sleeping, listening. At times, I wonder if I imagined it all. But then, there’s a silver sports car outside, an unfinished mural on the wall, an office that looks like a hurricane struck, a diamond earring, white hair and a red dress.

And there are worried children.

‘Dad, what was wrong with you before?’ asks Toby one night, sitting on his father’s lap having his toenails cut.

Greg doesn’t take his eyes off Toby’s feet. ‘When?’

‘Before. When I didn’t know what you were saying.’

Now he looks at Toby, confused and worried. ‘You didn’t know what I was saying?’

‘No.’ Toby’s eyes search mine for confirmation.

‘None of us did,’ I say.

Greg seems stuck. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, finally. ‘Must have been the heat. Yes, that was it. The heat.’

No way. Not just heat.

‘But it’s still hot, Dad,’ insists Toby.

‘Not so hot, though. It’s cooled down a good bit, hasn’t it? And you can understand me now, can’t you?’ He smiles and ruffles his son’s hair.

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, then. That’s what matters, isn’t it? Everything back to normal.’

Is it, though? I’m still waiting for the next disappearing act. Despite how wonderful he’s been over the last few days – staying at the villa, cooking the meals, swimming with the kids, listening – I can’t allow myself to believe that this is over. After all that’s happened, for Greg to stop, just like that, seems too good to be true. Still, I ring Grace to let her know. No point in her embarking on a wasted journey. She’s relieved that Greg’s feeling better, but, as she has the flights booked and could do with a change of scene, she’s going to stick to her plan.

I was hoping she might.

The following day, when they come through Arrivals, I feel almost teary to see them. My own, personal cavalry. In one hand, Grace is pushing the trolley. In the other, she’s carrying a heavy-looking Jason. Shane’s sitting on the cases like he’s king of the castle. I wave like mad. Grace has to stop the trolley as Shane decides to suddenly disembark. I squat down and he runs to me. I squeeze him tight and stand with him in my arms. I plant a raspberry on his cheek. When Grace reaches us, I pop Shane down and take Jason from her. It’s good to feel his podgy little arms around my neck, though it reminds me of the gulf between Greg’s children and me.

Next Part Will come Soon