the accidental life of greg millar Part 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 with 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 for 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 for 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 my 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 you, 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.

Next Part Will come Soon