The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (3 page)

I come from behind the desk to shake the author’s hand. He beams, making my planned gesture too formal. I cancel it, leaving myself at a loss –
What am I supposed to do out here between him and the desk?

‘So,’ he says, checking a chunky diving watch. ‘How much time do we have?’

‘An hour should do it, I think.’

‘Great. Grab your coat; we’re going out.’

My eyes widen. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I . . .’

‘Oh, come on. Nice spring walk on St Stephen’s Green. We’ll talk business, get some air, feed the ducks. Think how creative we’ll be.’

I look at my desk, then back at him. I think of Matt, our biggest client. ‘All right, but I have to be back here at eleven.’ I tap my watch to make a point. Because evidence is mounting that Gr
eg M
illar doesn’t take no for an answer.

We do talk business. Then we just talk – not difficult when you share a passion for books. It’s strange how unsure he is about his work. He wants to know what he could have done better, which characters could have been improved. As if a) I’d know and b) I’d tell him. I do say what I liked, what worked for me.

‘Wow. You’d make a great editor,’ he says.

I laugh.

‘I’m serious. I should hire you on a freelance basis.’

‘You wouldn’t be able to afford me,’ I joke, with such ease it frightens me.

At twelve –
Is it really twelve?
– he has to go. To collect his children from school. Greg Millar is a dad. It changes my view of hi
m –
to someone safer, more human, somehow. We walk to his car. He unlocks it, but doesn’t get in.

‘So,’ he says, smiling. ‘Now you know. I’m just a regular guy, not a jumped-up prat in a fast car.’

I look down, embarrassed that he has seen through me.

‘Have dinner with me, Lucy.’

Oh God.
I think of Brendan. Visualise his face.

‘It’s just food,’ he says.

‘I know. It’s just that . . .’

‘Nothing serious. I swear.’ He criss-crosses his heart.

I haven’t seen that done since I was a child. It makes me smile.

‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll pick you up from work.’

I’ve enjoyed his company. He lifted my spirits. He’s a good guy. I wonder if we could just be friends.

‘I’ll take your stunned silence as a yes.’ He smiles. ‘I’ll call you in the morning.’

‘Well, you can
call
. . .’

Before I get the ‘but’ out, he says, ‘Great!’

I laugh. Because you’ve got to admire his persistence.

‘Can I drop you back to the office?’

I picture my desk covered in pink Post-it notes from Sebastian. I visualise the unfinished logo. ‘No, thanks. I feel like a walk.’

That night, in bed, I face reality. Seeing Greg Millar, even for one meal, would be a mistake.

The following day, when he calls, I try to tell him. It proves impossible. He talks like it’s a given. He’s booked the restaurant. Sounds so enthusiastic. ‘No’ just won’t come out. Oh, God, we
’re going.

By six, I’ve adopted a philosophical approach. It’s only dinner. I’ll keep it superficial. Impersonal. Work-focused. I’ll enjoy getting out of the apartment. And I’ll leave at eleven. Ten thirty.

He wanted to pick me up at six. I opted for seven thirty. At that exact time, I get a call from security to say that he’s downstairs in the lobby. I delay going down, not wanting him to think there’s anything special in my having dinner with him. In the bathroom mirror, I make myself look more businesslike than usual.

I take the stairs, like I always do. Rounding the last corner, I see him; perched at the edge of the red leather two-seater in the lobby we share with an architectural firm and PR agency. He’s leaning
forward
, forearms resting on legs, absorbed in
The Irish Times
, frowning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without him seeing me. He looks freshly showered, cleanly shaved. Crisp white shirt. Denim discarded in favour of linen. That he has made an effort softens something in me. He glances up. Catches me –
Oh, God
– smiling.
Why am I smiling?
He beams, stands and folds the paper. He lands it down on the glass-topped table and starts towards me and I swear it’s in slow motion. I laugh. Don’t know why.

Closer. He’s had a shaving accident. A tiny nick near his ear makes him vulnerable. Human. Borderline adorable.
What is
wrong
with me?
Reaching me, he stoops to kiss my cheek. Then the other. A scent of aftershave fills the intimate space between us. I stop breathing. Avoid his eyes. Remind myself of Brendan.

He takes my hand and we walk, in sync, out into the crisp air. He’s humming a song I’ve always liked. When he gets to the ‘knock me over stone cold sober’ bit, he sings the words. I look at his
profile
. And I know I should have said no.

3.

T
he restaurant is a two-star Michelin off Merrion Square. I’ve brought some of our bigger clients here for lunch occasionally, but I have never splurged on dinner in my time off. The
maître
d’ greets me like a regular, but Greg like a personal friend. He stays with us for a complimentary pre-dinner drink, then shows us to our table – one of the finest. A reverse snob by nature, I’ve never been able to fault this place. The art is the real thing – Louis le Brocquy, Roderic O’Conor – the ceiling high, the space open, the walls white to highlight the paintings. Dining tonight are three prominent businessmen, a celebrity dancer and her husband, and a TV anchorwoman. Those I don’t recognise have an air of confident, anonymous wealth.

I’m true to the promise I made myself and keep things superficial. This works until we’re waiting for our main courses to arrive, when a lull settles.

‘Lucy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s a little awkward. Well, I’ll just say it.’ He pauses. ‘Fintan told me about your fiancé.’

‘He
what
?’

He puts his hands up. ‘No details, just that he died. And that you’re . . . vulnerable.’

‘
Vulnerable?
I’ll give
him
vulnerable.’

‘He was just looking out for you. He saw us together in the pub and didn’t want you hurt.’

‘Didn’t want me hurt! Jesus! When did this conversation
tak
e place?’

‘You make it sound subversive. It wasn’t. After you and I . . . spoke,
I went out for a smoke. Fintan came out to set me straight. That’s it.’

I shake my head. ‘Unbelievable.’

We’re quiet. I imagine he’s regretting his honesty.

‘I’m glad he told me,’ he surprises me by saying. ‘When you said there was someone else, I was going to leave it.’

‘You should have.’

His eyes widen.

‘I shouldn’t be out – with anyone,’ I try to explain.

He seems to consider that, holding his chin, running a thumb along his lower lip. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle. ‘I felt like that for a long time – after my wife died.’ I want him to go on, but instead he says, ‘Listen, we don’t have to talk about this. It just didn’t feel right, me knowing and you not knowing I knew . . . God, there’s English for you!’

I smile.

‘Look, all I want to say is that I understand. That’s it.’

‘What was your wife’s name?’

‘Catherine.’ He looks past me. ‘Hard to believe it’s been five years,’ he says as if to himself.

I make circles on the table with my dessertspoon. Eventually,
I look u
p. ‘Does it get any easier?’

His mouth smiles, but not his eyes. ‘A bit.’

‘Only a bit?’

‘For a long time, I didn’t want it to; it would have meant
forgetting
.’

‘That’s how I feel!’ I’ve never told anyone that; didn’t think they’d understand.

We’re silent as the meal arrives and the waiters lift the silver lids from our dishes in one fluid, synchronised motion.

I pick at my food, appetite gone. ‘How did Catherine die? If you don’t mind me asking.’

He shakes his head. But his voice is hoarse when he says one word, ‘Childbirth.’

I didn’t expect that, not with modern medicine. ‘You don’t have to tell me . . .’

Rotating the salt cellar, he begins. ‘We’d been warned not to have another baby. The first had been very difficult for Catherine. She developed pre-eclampsia, which could happen again. She wanted to risk it. I didn’t. When our daughter was four, it came to a head. Catherine was heading for forty and wanted a brother or sister for Rachel before it was too late. Cathy had been an only child herself and didn’t want that for Rachel.’

‘So you agreed to go ahead.’

‘No. Cathy stopped taking precautions. She only told me after she became pregnant.’

‘Must have been hell going through that pregnancy.’

His eyes meet mine. ‘I was nervous, angry, but I never though
t . . . I
’d lose her.’ The last three words are a whisper.

I reach across and hold his hand. And then, I’m telling him. ‘
I us
ed to have this thing for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream – Phish Food. I’d always have a tub in the freezer. But this one night, we ran ou
t. Bre
ndan grabbed his coat. “Back in a sec,” he said. He was smiling when he walked out of the door. He never came back.’
I l
ook at Greg. ‘I killed him,’ I whisper.

‘You did
not
kill him.’

‘No. I know. The dangerous driver, the wet surface . . . But if I hadn’t wanted that
bloody
ice cream . . . he’d be alive.’ The pain tugs at my heart. The empty hollowed-out feeling expands inside me. The anger flares. ‘We just
assume
when someone walks out through that door, they’ll be back. Back in a sec. We were two weeks away from our wedding. Had so many plans.’ I smile. ‘He used to threaten me with ginger children. I told him I
wanted
ginger children. Lots of ginger children. But really just two children. I thought two would be enough.’ And then the first tear falls. ‘I’m sorry. I should “let him go”, “move on”, take all the advice, but I can’t.’ I
b
ow my head. ‘
I don
’t want to.’

He steals his hand back and enfolds mine in both of his. ‘Screw the advice.’

I wipe a tear. ‘Was she your soulmate?’

He smiles and nods. And his eyes well suddenly, surprisingly. He laughs. ‘The state of us. Here.’ He passes me his serviette.

I dab my eyes with it.

‘I gave it to you for your nose.’

I laugh. ‘Are you
kidding
? People will have to clean it.’

‘True enough.’ He roots in his pocket. ‘Used hankie?’ he asks doubtfully.

‘Better,’ I say. ‘As long as it’s dry.’

He smiles. ‘It’s dry.’

I put my hand out for it. Then blow my nose.

‘OK, I need it back now.’

I laugh as he uses it – in all its freshly soggy glory.

‘We’re like blood brothers now,’ he says, putting it back in his pocket.

‘Bonded by snot.’

‘And loss,’ he says, suddenly serious.

I look into his eyes as the truth hits. ‘Did you even get time to grieve? With a baby and a little girl?’

He shrugs. ‘At first, it was hard. Rachel was only five and for a long time she blamed her baby brother for taking her mum away. There were times – like four in the morning when he woke up hungry – that I found myself resenting him, too, and Cathy, and myself.’ He smiles. ‘But he’s a gorgeous kid who won us over without even trying. We got through it. As you do.’

It’s been so hard without Brendan, but I’ve never imagined how much harder it would have been if I had two little people relying on me to keep their world spinning.

‘How did you manage?’

‘I got help.’

‘A psychologist?’

He laughs. ‘A nanny, someone to look after Toby while I tried to cope with Rachel.’

‘What about your family? Didn’t they help?’

‘Well, there’s only my mother and my younger brother, Rob. It’s not in me to rely on them – or anyone, really.’ He smiles. ‘R
ob wa
s pretty stubborn, though, insisting on taking Rachel out; it got her away from the warzone for a while.’

‘How are they now, your children?’

‘Great, thankfully. Hilary – the nanny I hired – is still with us. She loves them as if they were her own.’

‘You were lucky to find her.’

‘Don’t know what we’d have done without her.’

‘Still hard, though.’

‘If it wasn’t for my writing and the kids themselves, I don’t know . . .’ His voice trails off.

‘I don’t have kids, obviously, but I’ve never been more productive at work,’ I say. ‘It’s become my life. I don’t want another on
e –
not without him.’

‘I saw that pain in your eyes, the day we met. It was what made you remarkable.’

I’ve never in my life changed my mind so dramatically about a person. ‘And your driving . . . You understand now why it drove me crazy?’

He nods. ‘Brendan. I’m sorry.’

‘The wine gum was a nice touch, though.’

‘I thought so.’

We share a smile.

The tables around us have emptied. There’s so much left to say, though. It little matters where, but my apartment is close and
neither
of us feels like being in anonymous company in some noisy, packed venue.

It isn’t as if we fall into each other’s arms the minute we get through the door. We’re just talking. Some small memory makes me cry. He wipes away my tears. When I look up, his face is incredibly close, his eyes, lips. Then I’m kissing him as much as he is me. The attraction I felt in the pub erupts, stronger now. Comfort,
passion
and understanding consume the past. Our shared
melancholy
ignites us as we rush to fill the void in each other’s lives, to patch each other up, to end a pain that haunts us. This is different to
anything
I have known. And afterwards, when Greg starts
making
five-year plans that include me, I laugh, though I know he is serious.