The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (31 page)

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘In future, I’ll take her out to lunch with the children, and maybe Rob – if that’s OK with you.’

‘That’s a better idea.’

‘It was Betty’s.’

‘Clever woman.’

‘She said something else.’

‘What?’

‘Most first trips home end in disaster.’ He bumps me with his shoulder.

Hilary keeps phoning the house in search of Greg, then hanging up when I tell her he’s not here. I’m not surprised when she turns u
p a
t the front door, late one evening, but I’m determined to end this.

‘Greg’s not here,’ I say, beating her to it.

‘I don’t want to talk to Greg. I want to talk to you.’

I fold my arms. ‘I can’t help you, Hilary.’

‘I don’t want your help. I want to tell you something. About your precious boyfriend.’

I don’t want to hear this. But I do.

She tries to come in.

I block her. ‘Whatever it is, you can tell me here.’

‘Suit yourself,’ she says with a tilt of her head. ‘He hasn’t exactly been faithful to you, you know.’

No matter how untrustworthy the messenger, it’s never something you want to hear.

I work hard at sounding bored when I say, ‘Hilary, your lies are getting predictable. Don’t you think Greg and I talk? Don’t you think I
know
there were no other women, no private jokes at my expense?’

‘OK. Maybe not women, but there was
a
woman.’

‘Sure.’

‘Oh, I’m sure all right. Because it was me. Why d’you think he sacked me?’

‘He told me why. You came on to him.’

She laughs. ‘Actually, he came on to me. Not that it matters. The end result was the same. He fucked the hired help, and didn’t feel too good about it. Why d’you think I’ve been ringing him? Because he can’t get off that lightly. You think you’re so goddamn wonderful. Well, you’re not . . .’

‘OK. You’ve had your say.’ I close the solid walnut door and slide down it. I wrap my arms around my legs and place my chin in the safe place between my knees.
He didn’t do it
, I tell myself.
He wouldn’t.
But I remember back. He was out of control, fired up, over-sexed. And it wouldn’t have been his first time with Hilary.

Fingers fumbling, I call Grace.

‘I have to ask him, straight out.’

‘No. You can’t confront him now. You have to wait until he’s up to it. Then you can talk. For now, you have to believe that whatever he did when he was high doesn’t count. Off limits.’

‘I can’t. If he and Hilary . . .’

‘Stop, Lucy. What’s important is how Greg is normally. Tha
t’s all.’

‘So I should let him of
f
? He can do anything he likes when he’s high and I can’t say a thing?’

‘You’re actually accusing him of something he probably didn
’t do.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Lucy. Stop. You said yourself, you can’t believe anything she says.’

‘This time I do.’

‘Talk to Rob.’

‘Why? He wasn’t there.’

‘No. But he knows what Greg’s normally like . . .’

My God;
I
don’t.
The words come slowly: ‘I don’t know what Greg’s normally like.’

‘That’s not what I said.’

But it’s true. If he was hypomanic when we met, then I don’t know what he’s like when he’s not. The very things I fell for in Greg are also symptoms of hypomania: enthusiasm, optimism, impetuousness, wit, energy, adventurousness, a busy mind. What if I didn’t fall for Greg at all, just a bunch of symptoms? What if I love an
illness
, not a man? Do I even
know
him?

‘Lucy? Are you there?’

I can’t speak.

‘You have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Be fair.’

‘I’m sick of being fair.’

‘Talk to Rob.’

‘No. This is too big for me. I don’t want it. It’s not worth it.’

‘Talk to Rob.’

‘No, Grace. I’ve had it. I want out.’

‘Listen to me. If anyone should leave their relationship, it’s me. I don’t have what you have. I never did. You’re mad about each other. The way you look at one another, the way you touch. The first time I saw you together I knew what was missing between Kevin and me. Passion, love . . .’

‘But—’

‘You’ve been through so much and you’re still together. Don’t give up now when things are about to get better just because that manipulative bitch shows up on your doorstep. Wait till he’s ready, then hear his side. Don’t give up on what you have, Lucy. Not everyone has what you have.’

‘But
do
I have it?’

‘Trust me. You do.’

‘How does this always happen? How do I consistently end up in a mess?’

‘At least you didn’t create it. I’ve no excuse. I walked into this marriage, trying to do the right thing for the wrong person. It’s not going to get any better for me. Kevin will always be Kevin. He’ll still be checking my legs for cellulite when I’m ninety. He’ll still be expecting perfection – from me, from the boys. Greg will get better, Luce. And you can try again. Give yourselves that chance.’

‘But what if it doesn’t work out?’

‘Then it doesn’t work out. But you’ll never be able to blame yourself for not trying. Not all relationships can withstand the pressure of bipolar disorder. There’s no shame in it not working out. I just think you should at least see how things go when Greg has stabilised. I think you should give your relationship that chance.’

32.

T
hree weeks since Greg was hospitalised and he’s due home for a full weekend. Considering the last visit and what’s going on in my mind, I’m dreading it.

The children and I spend the afternoon making a vegetable curry. At five, we collect Greg. Toby talks, without pause, all the way home.

We eat together. Then Greg spends time with the children, curled up on the couch, watching a movie.

‘I can’t get over Rachel,’ he says after they’ve gone to bed. ‘She’s making such an effort.’

‘Huge. Tidying her room, helping around the house . . .’

‘You seem to be getting on better?’

‘Ever since your mum’s visit.’

‘Don’t mention the war.’

He can still make me smile. ‘Rachel was so sweet to me after you left that day.’

‘Sorry I wasn’t up to staying.’

I remember what Grace said about hospital being a sanctuary. ‘I’m sorry too – for what I said.’

‘No. I’m glad you said it. It woke me up. Lucy, I want to thank you. For everything. For sticking by me, for taking such good care of the kids. I knew you would. At times, I may not sound like I appreciate you, but I do. So much.’ He closes his eyes.

‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry for anything I’ve ever said or done to upset you . . .’

I think of Hilary. ‘It’s OK. Forget it.’ Can I, though?

‘When I think of what I’ve put you through, I just can’t . . .’ His voice is crumbling.

‘Greg, I understand. Honestly.’

‘I love you.’

‘I know. I know you do.’

‘And I know you love me,’ he says.

God.

‘You wouldn’t still be here if you didn’t. You wouldn’t be minding
the children, coming to see me every day . . . I’ve been trying, Lucy.’

‘I know. I know you have.’

‘Attending every therapy, talking myself stupid. Forcing myself to get up, shave, get dressed, make an effort, eat . . . OK, I still can’t sleep, but it’s a matter of time. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘You’re doing great.’

‘I have to fight this, keep fighting it. I’ll get out of it. I know
I wi
ll.’

‘You’ve already started.’

He smiles crookedly. ‘Never thought
I’d
be the one they’d be telling, “Keep taking the tablets.”’

We head up to bed early. Outside my room, he stoops to kiss me goodnight. It’s our first kiss in weeks, a simple peck. I force a smile, but break down as soon as the door is closed behind me.

Somewhere in the house, the phone rings – and is answered.
I f
reeze, hoping it’s not Hilary. I pray that she’s not hounding him, right now. I haven’t told him about her calls, to protect him from that stress. But if it
is
Hilary, I’ve wasted my time.

To distract myself, I dress for bed and wash my face and teeth.
I r
oot in the drawer for one of my dog-eared books on step-
parenting
and climb into bed.

There’s a gentle knock on my door. Greg pops his head in. ‘Sorry for disturbing you, Lucy.’

I hold my breath.

He comes in. Closes the door. ‘That was Ben.’

‘Ben? What did he want at this time?’

‘To know if it would be OK for Hilary to be there tomorrow when we take the kids over for their visit. He read somewhere that cutting off contact abruptly with childminders can be traumatic for children. He thought it would be good for them to see her.’

‘And he didn’t mention,
at all
, did he, what
Hilary
might like?’

He smiles. ‘I’ve always loved you when you’re angry.’

‘I hope you said no.’

‘Of course I said no. I haven’t completely lost my marbles.’

I smile at that. ‘What excuse did you give?’

‘I just told him you don’t like Hilary.’

‘You did
not
.’

‘No, I did not.’ He smirks.

I fire a pillow at him.

He puts his hands up. ‘Careful. Delicate man, here.’

And I’m smiling again. ‘So, what
did
you tell him?’

‘Just that I’d prefer if she wasn’t there. And, in his usual, reserved way, he didn’t ask why.’

‘So, that’s that, then.’

‘That’s that.’ His gaze lingers. ‘You look nice.’

No make-up, grey T-shirt over pyjama bottoms, I don’t thin
k so.

He comes over, stoops and kisses me slowly on the cheek. ‘Goodnight.’

‘’Night,’ I say hoarsely.

And when he closes the door, it hits me with force – I need to talk to Rob.

The day I’ve been dreading arrives. Though Greg has asked the children not to worry Ben, I’m terrified that something will slip out during the interrogation that their grandfather will, no doubt,
subject
them to.

Their Glenageary home, a two-storey-over-basement redbrick, is on one of Dublin’s most prestigious roads. It is in mint condition, with a glossy black door and gleaming brasswork. Rich, heavy drapes are visible through the windows. Perfectly maintained box plants fill the matching metal window boxes that adorn each sill.

We climb the dust-free, granite steps.

Both grandparents appear at the door almost immediately after we knock.

‘Children, Lucy, Greg,’ exclaims Ben. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Hi, Granddad, hi, Gran,’ say Rachel and Toby together, walking past them into a tiled hall.

Ruth follows, chatting to them, quietly stroking Toby’s hair. It’s clear she loves them.

‘Bye, guys,’ Greg calls.

They turn. ‘Bye, Dad.’

‘Would you like to come in?’ Ben asks, his voice empty of
welcome
.

‘No, thanks, we’re off to the movies,’ says Greg, almost inviting ridicule.

‘Good, well, I’d better go in. We’ll see you later, then? What time will you be here to collect them?’

‘When the movie’s over. Six-ish?’

I feel that Ben would like the time pinned down, which is probably why Greg is keeping it open.

‘Good, good. See you then, then.’ He closes the door firmly.

‘I wish we didn’t have to leave them there,’ I say as we get into the car.

‘Don’t worry. They won’t say anything.’

Much to my relief, Greg proves to be right. When we collect th
e c
hildren, Rachel boasts of how she stopped Toby from spillin
g th
e beans. Toby denies this and a fight breaks out, each claiming to be best at keeping secrets. I worry about how much we’re asking of them.

On Sunday, Greg takes his mother out to lunch with Rob and the children. I make a long-overdue visit to my neglected apartment. So glad to be home, I kick off my shoes, throw my keys on the counter, open all the windows, check what’s in the DVD player: Barbara Streisand and the Bee Gees. That’ll do.

I take a Coke from the fridge and lounge across the couch. My eyes take a slow trip around the familiar, alighting on the paintings I’ve collected over the years, ever since my first pay cheque – the sparseness and simplicity of Robert Ryan, the richness of Stephen Cullen and the special attachment I feel to works done by friends.

I gaze at the Shona sculpture Brendan bought me in Sonoma Valley on that magical Californian holiday when he proposed. ‘The Lovers’ is carved from soapstone and features a man with hair like ropes, his arms wrapped protectively around his woman. I love it. Always have. I close my eyes and try to visualise Brendan’s fac
e, h
is smile. In the end, I have to find a photo. I run my finger over hi
s t
anned, vibrant face, then close my eyes.
Help me, Brendan. Please. Tell me what to do. Keep going? Or come home?

I close my eyes and pray for a sign to take the decision from me. I’ve done this before – and nothing. But I open my eyes, anyway. Again, nothing. At first. Then in through the window flutters a tiny butterfly in chaotic, bouncy flight. It is such an unusual colour.
Iridescent
blue. I don’t remember ever seeing one like it. It has no goal, no sense of direction; its flight light, optimistic, happy. And suddenly I know what to do – give Greg and our chaotic relationship a chance, talk to Rob, and try harder to understand. I stay watching that butterfly until it flies free, then it’s time to go.

I begin to lock up. On my way out, I stop at the Shona sculpture, run my hand over its cool, smooth surface, and lean to kiss it.

‘Thank you,’ I say to the man who was my life.

Mid-afternoon, Rob returns to the house with the children, having dropped his mother to her home and Greg to the hospital.

‘He’s great, isn’t he?’ he says enthusiastically.

‘Much better,’ I agree.

‘So much fitter, brighter. I know a lot of that’s pure effort and he probably collapsed as soon as he got back to the ward, but, still, he’s trying.’

‘True. Rob?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have you any plans for the rest of the day?’

He looks at me, knowing something’s up. ‘Nope.’

‘Will you stay for a while?’

‘Sure.’

I try not to think about what I have to ask him, and simply enjoy the entertainment the children are providing. Rachel’s acting as seamstress. With needles, thread and felt that Mum gave her, she’s for some reason making a pair of white felt underpants for Toby, opting for a simple design – two pieces of (stiff) cloth, cut into the shape of a T. Without realising it, she’s making her brother a thong. She holds it up against his skinny little body and nods in silent satisfaction. Her stitches are big and blue.

She has to bribe him with sweets to model it. When he tries it on over his trousers, the seams burst. But he’s done the job and wants the sweets. No sweets, Rachel insists, until she fixes the problem and he tries it on again. Toby’s having none of it.

I broker a deal – one sweet now, and the rest after the next
and final
fitting session.

Peace reigns in time for dinner. Then, I free the thonged superhero from the sewing enthusiast and give him a quick bath bef
ore bed.

Wrapped in a towel, with another draped over his head, he looks like a nun. A cute nun.

‘Who are you, again, Sister Alfonsis Xavier? Or Sister Glorious Halleluiah? I can never tell you apart.’