the accidental life of greg millar Part 7

Greg slips the ring onto my finger and sweeps me up into his arms, kissing me over and over until I’m laughing.

‘So, when can we do this?’ he asks.

I pull back. ‘When Rachel and Toby are ready, Greg. I don’t want to descend on them. They have their own lives.’

‘They’ll love you.’

I smile nervously. ‘I hope so.’

‘You’ll have to meet them!’ He thinks for a second. ‘I know, we’ll have a barbecue, and invite Rob.’ I wait for him to suggest the only other member of his family – his mother – but he doesn’t. ‘So, how about Saturday?’

‘Saturday?’ Only two days away. After all that Grace has said, I panic.

‘My place,’ he says.

I look at him. This is my future now; I can’t run from it. ‘All right, then,’ I say with false jollity.

Greg starts planning vegetarian options while I try to remember everything my sister said about stepchildren.

Greg comes to take me to his home, which will become my home, to meet his children, who will become my stepchildren. If I hadn’t spoken to Grace, would I be as nervous? I feel as if I’m going for an audition. If I arrive with presents, will they think I’m trying to win them over? If not, will they think me mean? Greg has told me not to worry about gifts. Did he check with the children, though? And what should I wear? I don’t want to look too young and highlight the age difference. Nor do I want to look as if I’m dressing like I’m trying to be their mother. Though Greg has already told me a lot about Rachel and Toby, all the way there I bombard him with questions.

‘Stop worrying, you’ll be fine.’

We’re driving along one of the most beautiful coastal roads in Dublin when Greg indicates and swings into a driveway. Up ahead looms something more than a house. It’s the kind of place that might be chosen for celebrity weddings. It has turrets. And grounds. It doesn’t just overlook the sea, it’s right on it. A blue, blue sea with little white caps.

‘My God, Greg!’

He dismisses it as ‘bricks and mortar’.

‘A lot of bricks and mortar.’

‘Could all be gone in the morning; nothing’s certain in life.’

One thing’s certain to me: Greg’s home has to be worth millions. This is life on a different scale. While I’m trying to digest this, he jumps from the car, comes round and opens my door. He takes my hand and we crunch gravel till we get to the steps. He slips a key into the lock. But there is no grand tour.

‘They were out the back when I left. Let’s go see.’

I catch a fleeting glimpse of old and new – original features combined with stripped wooden floors and architectural furniture. I want to stop and admire the art – all modern, all wonderful. Oh, and there’s a library! He drags me on.

We reach the patio. On a newly cut lawn, bordered by swings, a climbing frame, trampoline and basketball hoop, two children are playing football with two adults. They are so absorbed, they don’t see us. It’s not a challenge to work out who’s who. The slight, dark-haired boy with the khaki combats and light blue top featuring multi-coloured skulls looks about five: Toby. The equally dark and slender, but much taller girl in three-quarter-length denims and a cerise top has to be Rachel. I try to remember what I was like at ten, what I thought about, liked, disliked. Wish I knew more about older kids. Greg’s brother, Rob, has the trademark family colouring and build, though his face is more boyish than Greg’s. You can tell there’s six years between them. Only Hilary, the nanny, stands out as different – fair and sturdy, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She is wearing a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt over stretch denims.

Rachel tackles Rob.

Hilary shouts, ‘Go, Rachel.’

Toby calls to his uncle, ‘Over here, I’m open.’

I smile.

Rachel gets the ball. Rob retreats to the goal. He dives as she kicks hard. Toby groans and holds his head while Hilary and Rachel cheer and high-five each other.

‘Guys,’ Greg calls. ‘Come meet Lucy.’

Four heads turn in our direction. Rob’s smile is immediate and wide. He starts towards us. Hilary has to say something to the children to get them to move. I feel guilty for interrupting their game.

‘Welcome to the family,’ Rob says, his handshake firm.

It feels premature, but I smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘I see he hasn’t offered you a drink.’ He tut-tuts at his brother. ‘Can I get you a beer?’

‘That’d be great, thanks.’

Hilary arrives with the children. She looks younger, close up. More my age. A year or two older, maybe. The heaviness of her body in the distance must have added years.

Greg introduces us all.

‘Hello,’ I say, smiling from one to the other.

‘Hi,’ says Toby, yanking up his trousers.

Hilary says, ‘Nice top.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ I look down to remind myself what I’m wearing. ‘Oh, BT2. Greg got it for me.’

As Rachel’s face clouds over, I realise my mistake. How stupid to say Greg got it.

‘Rachel, say hello to Lucy,’ prompts Greg.

‘Hello,’ she mumbles, looking at the ground.

‘That was a good goal,’ I say.

She shrugs without looking up.

‘I’m a good kicker,’ declares Toby. ‘Did you see me?’

‘Yes, I did. You were great out there on the pitch.’

He looks to where they were playing, then back at me as if I have visual problems. ‘It’s just the garden.’

‘True enough,’ I say, feeling like a fool.

‘Can we have our Coke now?’ Rachel asks Hilary, as if that was the bribe for coming over.

The nanny looks at Greg.

‘Sure,’ he says.

She takes the children inside.

‘Back in a sec,’ Greg says, and goes in after them.

Rob hands me a Corona. ‘Cheers,’ he says, raising his bottle.

‘Cheers.’ I clink mine to his.

The beer calms me. I remind myself that this is never easy. For anyone.

Then Greg is back, clapping his hands and heading for the barbecue. ‘OK, let’s get this show on the road.’

‘Want a hand?’ I offer.

‘Nah. You’re grand. Get to know your future brother-in-law. There’s a knack to this thing.’

Rob and I sit at the long, wooden patio table.

‘So, how did you two meet?’ Rob asks, as if I’m a novelty.

I tell him. Briefly.

He laughs. ‘Greg Millar flirting in traffic! Wonders will never cease. As for getting engaged after two months . . . I don’t know what you’ve done to him.’

‘What I’ve done! It’s completely the other way around. It’s what he’s done to me.’

‘Now, now. Don’t get smutty.’

I laugh. ‘He has such a great philosophy, though . . .’

‘Greg? A philosophy?’ He looks dubious.

‘Yeah,’ I say, surprised. ‘Live for the moment. Embrace life.’

‘Greg?’

‘Yes, Greg.’ What’s his problem?

‘Well, I don’t know what your secret is, but I’ve never seen him so . . . so zesty.’

We look over at him. He’s singing and acting out an Eartha Kitt song, in between flipping burgers.

‘But he’s always like that,’ I say.

‘Maybe with you.’

‘Not just with me, with everyone. He’s so . . . well, as you say, zesty.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Must be love.’

‘What are you two talking about over there?’ Greg calls.

‘You,’ I say. And, as I get up and go to him, I rationalise. Lots of people are different with their families: more responsible, serious. I am, with my mother.

Hilary and the children come out onto the patio.

Automatically, I take a step back from Greg.

Rachel’s carrying a fishing rod; Toby, a pair of binoculars; and Hilary, a picnic basket.

‘Where are you all off to?’ asks Rob.

‘Down to the sea for picnic!’ calls Toby excitedly. ‘Wanna come?’

‘No, thanks, buddy; someone has to eat the barbecue.’

They head for a gate at the end of the garden.

‘Why aren’t they eating with us?’ I ask Greg.

He looks awkward. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Luce. These things take time.’

Which basically means they didn’t want to eat with me. That’s OK, I tell myself. It’s not personal. They’re just not ready for a stepmother. Any stepmother. And ‘These things take time’ is a lot more realistic than ‘They’ll love you’. How he ever thought they’d just automatically love me I don’t know. At least he didn’t force them to eat with us. They’d have really hated me then.

Later that evening, Greg’s upstairs reading Toby a bedtime story. Rachel and Hilary are in another room watching a movie that Rachel has, apparently, been dying to see. And Rob’s telling me something I didn’t know.

‘Yeah, Greg basically brought me up.’

‘He did?’

‘Didn’t he tell you? Our father died when I was four. Greg was ten.’

I’m stunned. ‘I knew your dad had died; I just assumed it was relatively recently.’

He shakes his head. ‘I have two memories of my father. One is him wrapping me up in a warm towel after a bath. The other is him letting me blow my nose into his hand when we didn’t have a hankie. That’s it, apart from a few photos.’

‘You said Greg brought you up – what about your mum? Didn’t she look after you?’

‘She had to go out to work. Two jobs, both paying shite: a supermarket and a dive that called itself a hotel. She was always gone. Greg did everything. Got me to school, fed me, helped with homework, put me to bed. Never complained. Every night he read to me: Sinbad, Biggles, Superman, Spiderman, the Hobbit . . . Our heroes came from the library.’

‘I can’t imagine how hard it must have been, becoming a father at ten.’

‘You know, he never made me feel it was a chore, never treated me like some stupid kid he was stuck with. He spoke to me man to man. I fucking worshipped the guy. Trailed around after him. Copied everything he did. Wanted to be just like him. He wasn’t like a father. And he was better than a brother. He was my hero, you know?’

I wonder why Greg has never told me. I imagine them, Little and Large, side by side, but not holding hands. Large looking out for Little.

‘I was tough work, though,’ Rob continues. ‘Always first to put up the fists. I’d lose it, like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Greg was the one who stopped me hanging out with troublemakers. He taught me to fight through hard work, getting somewhere, not lashing out. He kept my eye on the ball, until I learned to do it for myself. He put me through teacher training college while he worked, in printers first, then bookshops, until his own books started to get published. I was so fucking proud of him when they did. If there was one person who deserved it, it was Greg.’

‘Wow.’

‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. If I was him, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.’

Much later, it’s just me and Greg sitting in front of the fire, waiting for a taxi to take me home.

‘Rachel and Toby are so well-behaved, and seriously beautiful,’ I say.

‘It’s the genes.’ He smiles.

‘I’m glad they went off on the picnic. I don’t want them to feel like they have to like me, you know? I’m hoping it will happen by itself – in time.’

He kisses my cheek. ‘They’ll love you.’

How can he be so sure? What if they never do? And what if he can’t love me if they don’t? I need to stop thinking.

‘You and Rob seemed to hit it off,’ Greg says, playing with my hair.

I turn to him and smile. ‘He’s lovely. Almost as nice as you.’ I look at him. ‘I can’t believe you never told me you pretty much brought him up on your own. That’s a big deal, Greg.’

‘He’s exaggerating.’

And he’s being modest. ‘I bet you were such a cute kid. I can just imagine you. Curly hair, shorts, long socks, a cut on your knee . . .’

He smiles. ‘Sounds a bit Little Lord Fauntleroy to me. We were more like the scruffy kids in a Beano comic.’

‘I wish I’d lived next door.’

‘So do I. Think what we could have got up to.’ He smiles suggestively.

‘Not with my mother around.’

‘Dead right, too. Look how lovely and innocent she’s kept you.’

‘Though I do occasionally get “filthy” and need a good cleaning.’

He laughs.

‘Must have been so hard, though, growing up without your dad.’

He shrugs. ‘It was no big deal. We were fine.’

‘Rob said it was a heart attack.’

He looks at his watch. ‘This taxi’s taking ages. I think I’ll give them a shout.’ He pulls out his phone and makes the call. ‘It’s on its way,’ he says. Like I don’t know that.

‘Greg, if your dad died so young from a heart attack, you should have, like, a cardiac check-up or something.’

‘Yeah, probably,’ he says vaguely.

‘Definitely.’

‘You know what, Lucy? I’m tired. Let’s talk about this another time.’

‘Sure.’ It’s not just modesty. It must have been so hard, he doesn’t want to go back there.

Next Part Will come Soon