The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (35 page)

‘I love you so much,’ I say into his chest.

For a long time, we’re quiet. I’m so grateful to be here with him, to have a second chance. To
understand
. I sit up suddenly. ‘You have to publish it.’

He smiles as if humouring me.

‘It’s brave, honest, from the heart . . . and it would help so many people.’

‘It’s private, Lucy. I wrote it for you.’

‘I know, but think of the people out there who’re going through what you’ve been through, not knowing what’s going on, their
families
totally at sea. If someone as high-profile as you stood up and said, “I have bipolar disorder and it’s not the end of the world,” think of what it would do.’

‘Yeah, end
my
world. People would run a mile. From me. From my books. Bye-bye, income. Bye-bye, security.’

‘I don’t think they would. OK, they might buy the book out of curiosity, but once they read it, they’d see the reality – you’re the same person, only stronger because of what you’ve been through. Imagine what that would do to the stigma of mental illness.’

He looks dubious.

‘Look at the alternative. Spending our lives hiding, covering it up, pretending, hoping the children won’t say anything . . . Greg, publishing this would help us, too.’

‘You’re overestimating it.’

‘Don’t you want to help people?’

‘I don’t want the world knowing my business.’

‘Even if that helps people out there on the verge of suicide?’

‘Lucy, I can’t tell my mother I’m bipolar. So that’s the end of it.’

‘Why not? Better to hear it from you than the children. At least if you tell her, you control the way she hears it. And, anyway, it’s not good for Rachel and Toby to be keeping secrets. There’s pressure in that, you know?’

‘Lucy, I need to get up.’

I get up, so he can.

He paces in front of the fire. Eventually, he stops and looks at me. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. Something that happened when I was a child.’

I look at him.

‘My father had depression. He took his own life. If my mother hears I have depression, it would kill her.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Never mention this to Rob, OK? He doesn’t know. No one does except my mother, the GP and me.’

‘But how do
you
know?’

Pain passes over his face.

‘Oh God. You found him, didn’t you?’

His sigh is filled with sorrow. ‘Hanging from his dressing gown belt. My mother sent me to call him for breakfast; he never could get up in the morning.’

‘Oh, Greg.’ I go to him and sweep him up in my arms as if he’s still that ten-year-old boy.

‘That’s what he left me, Lucy – that memory. I can’t think of him without thinking of that. So I don’t think of him. Don’t talk about him.’

This
is why Rob could talk endlessly about his childhood, while Greg has always refused to. It’s not the same childhood. Rob has a cloud-free version while thunderstorms rumble above Greg’s. There’s something else . . .

‘When you started feeling depressed, didn’t you worry that you had what your dad had?’

‘It crossed my mind,’ he says bitterly.

‘But I don’t understand. How could you have even
considered
suicide, when you know what it does to the people left behind?’

‘My logic was very different. I thought:
Better to get the inevitable over quickly. Save all that pain
.’

36.

R
ob calls Greg. To apologise. Phyllis knows that Greg is bipolar. She and Rob were trying to work out when exactly her nursing home had increased its fees. Rob remembered that it was around the time Greg was in hospital. She pounced, saying that she
knew
something was up. She wormed the truth out of him. In fairness to Rob, he didn’t know the full significance of keeping the news from her. And he
has
told Greg straight away. I’m not sure that Greg appreciates either of those points, though, as he hammers the punchbag, something he hasn’t done in months.

‘I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.’ Wham!

‘You’d better get over to her,’ I suggest.

The bag rebounds as another punch lands. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have told Rob.’

‘I couldn’t have coped without him. And you can’t hide everything. This just proves it.’

‘Fuck!’

‘It might not be the end of the world. At least you can be honest with her now. I mean, that’s good, isn’t it? All those secrets, Greg. No wonder you got sick.’

He swivels around. ‘Bipolar disorder is biological; it has nothing to do with secrets.’

‘Your mother’s a coper. Look at what she’s lived through.’

‘I’m responsible for her.’

‘You can’t protect her from everything. You can’t protect her from life. You’re human. You can’t manage the world.’

‘That’s for sure,’ he says in a defeated voice. He pats his trouser pocket for his car keys. ‘I’d better go.’

I kiss him. ‘Good luck.’

‘Will you braid my hair, Lucy?’ Rachel asks, from her bedroom.

‘Sure.’ I go in, remembering a time I was barred, a time when she’d have died before asking me to do anything for her. She has grown up so much, become so confident, and calm. Clothes are a big thing now. She has developed her own style that ignores trends. She has let her fringe grow out, taking her face from the shade. She is a beautiful girl.

She sits on her bed and I kneel behind her, holding brightly coloured braiding in my mouth.

‘Remember when you were five and you climbed out of your bedroom window and sat on the ledge?’ she asks.

‘Who told you that?’ I laugh. It can only have been Dad. Ever since the kids first started visiting my parents, he has taken it upon himself to tell them stories about when I was a child. Not all of them cute. His rationale, I discovered when I confronted him, has been to present me as a real person as opposed to the stranger who landed into their lives without their say. The whole thing has
mushroomed
.

‘Did that really happen?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘Was it because you were looking for attention?’

‘No! I was just getting fresh air.’

‘But Joe said you were looking for attention. He said you were jealous of Grace.’

‘Well, he’s wrong. I sat out on the window ledge because it was peaceful and quiet and away from everything.’ I’ve made it sound too tempting. ‘But, of course, it was very dangerous.’

‘
Were
you jealous of Grace?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes.’

‘Are you still?’

‘No. I appreciate Grace now.’

‘And were you really engaged before?’

‘Yup.’

‘And did he really die?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘Were you sad?’

‘Very.’

She is quiet for a moment. Then she turns her head and I have to move my hands to avoid pulling her hair. ‘If he hadn’t died, you wouldn’t be here now, on my bed, would you?’

‘No.’ I smile so she doesn’t think I regret it.

‘So, sometimes, good things can happen, can’t they, because of bad things?’

‘How wise you are.’ I think about Greg’s illness. Would I have ever become so close to him or the children without it?

Toby bursts in, looking like a skater boy.

‘You’re supposed to knock, Toby,’ says his sister.

‘I’ve got onto the Genie level,’ he shouts then sees me doing Rachel’s hair.

‘Will you spike mine? I’ll get the gel.’ And off he runs.

When Greg hasn’t returned, I take Rachel and Toby to a movie.
I l
eave a note and take my mobile. Even so, we get back before him.

When he finally returns, the children are in bed. I put down the novel I was trying to distract myself with.

‘D’you want a cup of tea?’ he asks.

‘Please,’ I say, trying to read his face. I follow him into the kitchen.

He puts on the kettle, leans against the counter and reaches for a schoolbook. He flicks through it. ‘God, I was crap at Irish.’

‘Greg, I’m dying here. What happened?’

He looks up. Smiles. ‘Poor Rob. He didn’t stand a chance. She dragged it out of him.’

‘So, she was OK about it?’ I gather from his face.

‘She was upset that I hadn’t told her and demanded to know everything. She had so many questions about depression. She really wanted to understand it – not just for me, but for herself. All our lives, we’ve avoided the truth; it was a heart attack, plain and simple. I’ve always tried to protect her and Rob from it. From everything, really. I’d failed my dad; I wasn’t going to fail them, too.’

‘You didn’t fail him.’

‘I didn’t get to him on time.’

‘Greg.’

‘I know. I know. But that has always been my thinking.
Anyway
, she doesn’t want my protection, she told me. That’s why she moved into a home rather than here. She needs her independence. She can look after herself. She wants to.’

‘You look relieved.’

‘You have no idea how relieved – to finally admit the truth and be able to talk about it. I told her about what I’ve written. She wants to read it.’

‘Does she know that you planned suicide?’ I ask, warily.

He nods. ‘We talked about it. I told her about lithium. And how you keep an eye out for mood swings and how supportive you are of me.’

I smile, knowing that she won’t hate me any less.

‘So, yeah, I think I’ll let her read it. It’s weird. I thought her finding out would be the worst thing in the world. It might just be the best.’

I think about that. ‘Maybe it’s time to tell Rob how your fath
er died.’

His voice changes. ‘That’s different, Lucy. I’ve kept it from him for so long. All these years.’

‘You’ve spent your life protecting him. And I understand why. But there’s a downside. When you’re in trouble, you don’t let him in. He’s wanted to help so many times, to pay you back for all you’ve done for him. But you turn him away. It happened when Catherine died. At least this time, you asked him to look out for us. He really appreciated that.’

‘He told you this?’

‘He’s such an open guy. He’s been so good to me, Greg, so good to the children. And so loyal to you. You said your mother is a grown woman. Well, Rob’s a grown man. He can handle this. Tell him. It would explain a lot to him. I honestly think he needs it, deserves it. I think you do, too. You all do, as a family.’

For the first time, he isn’t dismissive.

37.

G
reg gives Phyllis the manuscript. For days, we hear nothing.

Then she rings. She wants him to come over.

After thirty years of trying to forget, to pretend it never happened, Phyllis has gained an insight into her husband’s depression and suicide. The manuscript has brought her a kind of peace. It wasn’t her fault, after all. If they’d argued less, it wouldn’t have made a difference. If she’d been a better wife, it wouldn’t ha
ve st
opped him. It has to be published, she insists, for people like her who have had their lives ruined by an illness they underestimated. She is
adamant
. And calls him every day. Until, after two weeks, he relents.

He sends it to his agent, who reads it overnight and sells it, next day, to Copperplate Press and Greg’s international publishers. From being a contract-breaker, Greg has become Mr Popularity.
Publication
will be rushed to have the book out in early January.

Greg did not include anything about his father in the book. That is his story, nobody else’s. He does finally tell Rob, though, who reacts with fury at Greg having felt he wasn’t up to the truth, at there having been a secret of such enormity between them for all these years, and at the only other members of their little family
having
conspired to keep him living a lie.

I call to see Rob. To explain that, at first, his brother and mother had just been trying to protect a little boy from something that had traumatised them so much; and, after that, they had tucked the past away, even from themselves. Ultimately, Rob sees the positives, as only he can. He has an explanation for all those times Greg pushed him away. Most importantly, there’s no longer a need for Gre
g to do so.

The final manuscript is delivered to the publishers soon
afterwards
.

That evening, we’re celebrating with hot chocolate and a
blazing
fire. On the couch, I snuggle into Greg.

‘Can I have my ring back?’ he asks.

I laugh. ‘Feck off.’

‘I’m serious,’ he says gravely.

I sit up and look at him. He
is
serious. I don’t understand.
I tho
ught we were OK. Better than OK. Heart pounding, I start to wriggle the ring – so precious to me now – off my finger. I hand it to him.

‘Thanks,’ he says, taking it.

‘What is it?’ I whisper.

He gets up from the couch. ‘It’s good we never got married.’

‘What?’ I whisper, tears threatening.

‘You didn’t know what you were taking on, Lucy.’ He gets up from the couch.

‘I know
now
.’

‘You do.’ He gets down on one knee and holds out the ring so reverently. ‘Lucy Arigho, more than anything in the world, I’d love for you to be my wife. But I’m a different man and I’ll totally understand if—’

‘Shut up! Shut up! Jesus. Of course I’ll be your wife! My God, Greg! You frightened the shit out of me.’ I slip the ring back into position and feel right again.

‘Sorry. That wasn’t the plan. I just wanted to give you a chance to, you know, reconsider in light of . . .’

I get up, take his hand and pull him up. ‘I love you, Greg. Now more than ever. And it
is
good that we didn’t get married – because you’ll always know that I stayed with you because I wanted to.’

He hugs me ferociously. And with my ear pressed against his chest, he asks, ‘How does October sound?’

I smile. ‘October sounds perfect.’ But then I pull back. ‘Do you think the kids will be OK with that?’

He raises an eyebrow as he looks down at me. ‘Oh, I think so. Given that Rachel keeps asking me when I’m going to “get my act together”.’

I laugh, so suddenly happy. I never thought this day would come.

Once, I dreamed of a wedding gown, of tuxes with white rosebuds, official photographs and a string quartet. That dream involved another man. With Greg – and Rachel and Toby – that kind of wedding would feel wrong. We opt for low-key, casual, cosy. Friends and family only. Thirty, max.

This brings its own problems.

I spend days looking at dresses. In desperation, I recruit my sister.

‘What can a bride wear that’s casual, but
appropriate
?’ I demand. ‘Tell me because I’d
love
to know.’

She smiles calmly. ‘I’d go for a simple wedding gown, if I were you. At least we’d know where to
start
.’

I think about that. Rachel wants a proper flower girl dress anyway. And if
she
has one, then Grace, as bridesmaid, probably should, too. My sister is going to upstage me whatever I wear (i
t’s her
job), so I should probably glam up
a bit
. And why the hell am I worrying? This is supposed to be laid-back.

Somehow, on the day, I look out of the bedroom window and the marquee is standing where it should be, overlooking the sea. Th
e cater
ing company is setting up. The band is on its way. And I know (because I’ve asked him) that Greg remembered to buy the disposable cameras Toby will hand out to the guests instead of us having a formal photographer.

Rachel, Grace and I help each other get ready.

Rachel is stunning in purple.

And Grace? A vision.

I slip into a sheath of cold, cream silk.

Grace zips me up, then bursts into tears. ‘You’re beautiful!’

‘I need a drink.’ My knees are shaking. And my stomach is doing flips. I don’t know why, because I want to do this more than anything.

Grace produces a bottle of champagne from her changing bag and two flutes.

‘You girl scout,’ I say.

‘Hey, I’ve only ever been asked to be bridesmaid once. I’m going to do this right.’

The champagne makes me giddy. I wander over to the window. Down below, Greg and Toby are taking a manly stroll, in matching navy shirts and chinos. My heart swells with love. Like magic, I stop shaking. We have almost made it. We are almost, almost a family.

At last, it is time. Music starts up downstairs. The shakes ar
e back.

I’m convinced I’m going to fall on the stairs. But I don’t. I look up and Dad is waiting at the bottom with his arm crooked for mine. In jeans and white shirt, he looks very Paul Newman. I ignore his arm and hug him.

‘My little girl,’ he says hoarsely.

Arm in arm, we walk outside. Entering the marquee, I see so much at once. Mum, Fint and Sebastian have broken the dress code and glammed up in dazzling and flamboyant silks. The fashion conspiracy makes me smile and I love each of them just a little bit more. At the top of the aisle, the best man is waiting in a white T-shirt and faded denim. Rob looks so good it’s almost sacrilegious. But it’s the groom who takes my breath away, my man, facing me now, eyes bluer than blue, teeth whiter than white. Or is that just me? I can’t stop smiling.

And then we are walking. And the snappy dressers – all three – burst into tears.

‘God, I love that woman,’ Dad whispers.

I decide, right at that moment, that this is the happiest day of my life.

Greg and I lock eyes and everything else fades. The pull to him is magnetic.

Together at last, we hold hands.

And then the priest does his thing. We stand. We sit. We stand. And sometimes we stand instead of sitting and try not to laugh.

Then comes the moment. The ‘for better or for worse’ moment. After ‘worse,’ Greg pauses. He looks into my eyes as if to say, ‘You can still change your mind.’ I shake my head, tears not far off. And there must be something funny about the way I say ‘I do’, because a titter of laughter runs through the congregation. Maybe it was too loud, too definite?

Rob passes Greg the platinum band. Greg looks deep into my eyes before slipping it onto my finger, taking me in his arms and kissing me.

And then it’s over. We’ve done it. Everyone’s clapping and hugging us. Taking photos. Throwing confetti.

The speeches were meant to be short. But Dad gets all philosophical. Greg’s speech – so appreciative, so honest, so loving – makes me cry. Rob’s is outrageous – despite the presence of Phyllis. She and I avoid each other, even today. I guess that’s how it will always be. But I’m used to the idea now: just because we both love the same man doesn’t mean we have to love each other.

Rachel and Toby stay with my parents while we honeymoon in
Sicily
. It’s our first time holidaying on our own together. I feel like a new bride should – in love and in lust. Hand in hand, we stroll along narrow, cobbled streets, wandering in and out of tiny shops, buying each other gifts that involve thought, not extravagance. We visit small harbours, Greek temples and a tiny mountain-top village with views of Mount Etna. It is like a sunny spell at the end of a grey summer.

When we get home, and I am so, genuinely, happy to see and hug Rachel and Toby, I know that it has happened. We have become a family. We are a unit. The world has become an optimistic, friendly place.