On the Cap d’Antibes, we drive through the pillared entrance of the exclusive Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Never has a name seemed more appropriate; it’s like arriving in Eden. Tall pines tower over us as we wind our way down to a crystal blue sea. The car is valet-parked, but we’re early, and Greg suggests a stroll up to the bar at the main hotel, explaining that we’ve arrived at the restaurant, a separate building, on the water’s edge.
We walk through paradise. The people we pass are immaculately dressed and beautiful. Almost unreal. At the terrace bar, we find more of the same. Men in blazers and crisp open-necked shirts, hair slicked back. Slender, tanned women with long, straight hair wearing designer dresses and high strappy sandals. A man at the next table has just come off a boat and is telling his fan club about a party he has been invited to, hosted by a Hollywood star’s ex-wife. Greg rolls his eyes.
We have a quiet drink together, then, at eight thirty, we stroll back down to the restaurant. The view is incredible. The sea is no longer the Mediterranean, but a private lake belonging to the hotel, or so it seems. The sky is a wash of pale blue and pink. Lamps have been lit around the perimeter of the restaurant and candles glow on every table. A pale yellow moon and sidekick star hover overhead, the sky the ultimate ceiling. It is magical.
Breaking the spell, the maître d’ informs us that our hosts are at the table. We follow him. They stand when they see us. Ben’s greeting is a businesslike handshake. Ruth follows his lead.
We have our linen napkins opened for us by waiters and menus slipped into our hands.
Ben steers the conversation. It is formal and stilted. There are polite questions about the children, France and the weather. As usual, I feel we’re being judged.
As we’re finishing coffee, Ben says, ‘We’ve had a visit from Hilary.’
My heart thuds.
‘She seems worried. Is everything all right, Greg?’
‘Everything’s fine. Couldn’t be better, Ben,’ he says, flashing a wide smile. ‘I’m not sure what Hilary’s worried about.’
‘She’s concerned about the welfare of our grandchildren.’
Jesus.
‘The children are fine,’ Greg says, without faltering. ‘You can see for yourself tomorrow.’
‘Yes, yes. And how are you feeling?’
‘Never better.’
‘And the driving? No problems there?’
‘None.’
‘Good. Good. Getting plenty of rest?’
‘What is this, Ben?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Just making sure you’re all right. Not getting too much sun, that sort of thing.’ He’s fiddling with his tie.
‘Well, thank you for your concern,’ Greg says through gritted teeth. ‘But, as you can see, I’m a big boy. Quite able to look after myself. And my children.’ His coffee cup clangs against its saucer as he lands it down. ‘You know what? Let me get this, Ben.’
‘No, no. I wouldn’t dream—’
‘I insist.’ He calls the waiter, pulling out his wallet. He pays without looking at the bill.
Nothing more is said, apart from curt goodbyes.
Greg doesn’t speak until we’re pulling away. ‘Well, that was humiliating.’
I look at him. ‘You were right about something being up.’
He yanks at his seatbelt; it jams. ‘Who does Hilary think she is, upsetting them like that?’
‘She must have really freaked them out, to have them hopping on a plane to France.’
‘Of all the people to freak out.’ He pulls away, fast.
‘The tension at that table. He really has a problem with you, Greg. It’s more than him just being a snob, isn’t it?’
He doesn’t answer, just races past tiny beaches, families still swimming and picnicking in the moonlight. Finally, he says, ‘He blames me for Catherine’s death.’
‘What? Why?’
‘They both do.’
‘They said it was your fault?’
‘No. They’d never do that.’ He pulls in behind a parked car to let another through on the narrow road. ‘I just knew. Sensed it. They couldn’t look me in the eye. Not then. And not since.’
‘But how can they blame you? Catherine died in childbirth.’
He pulls out again. ‘Who got her pregnant?’
‘Oh, come on.’
He shrugs.
The traffic slows as we reach throbbing Juan-les-Pins. We stop at lights. He looks across at me.
‘They knew we’d been warned against having another child. When Catherine got pregnant, she told them it had been her idea. They still looked at me as if I was a complete idiot for allowing it to happen. I was as worried as they were. When she died, they couldn’t face me. And, to be honest, I couldn’t face myself – or them. Hilary used to take the children over to see them. It was easier for everyone.’
‘So, that’s how she knows them well enough to do this.’
‘Oh, they love Hilary. She looked after their grandchildren while the oaf tried to pick up the pieces.’
The car in front moves forward and we’re driving again.
‘Weird the way he said “our grandchildren”, – so possessively. As if they’re actually his kids,’ I say.
‘They’re his last link to Catherine. They couldn’t be more precious to him. And, though at times he drives me crazy, I suppose he does love them.’
Next day, we drop the children off at the Hôtel du Cap for an afternoon by the pool with their grandparents. There’s no way Greg will stay. And, to be honest, I get the impression we’re not welcome.
We return to the villa, where Greg starts to clear out his office. How, he wonders, did he let it get into such a state? He starts at the edges and works his way in. One by one, black bags appear outside the door, reassuring me that things are on the mend.
After two hours, I go in to drag him out. He’s sitting at his desk, head in his hands.
‘You OK?’
‘No.’
‘What is it?’
He looks up. ‘It’s rubbish. Everything I’ve been writing is rubbish. It just doesn’t make sense.’ He picks up page after page and shoves them at me. ‘Look. Look at this. Does any of this make sense to you? Because it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to me. And I wrote it. Apparently.’
I pretend to read it for the first time.
‘See? See?’
‘Well, it’s . . . It’s just very, very creative.’
‘Did I write that? Did I really write that shit? I must be losing my mind.’
How can he not know what he’s written? ‘Come on, take a break.’
‘Did you know I was writing this?’
‘No,’ I lie. ‘Come on. Come away from it. Start again later.’
‘What if I produce the same crap?’
‘You won’t. Just do the edits for A River Too Wide. That will get you into the swing of things.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Go out to the pool, have a swim, clear your head. I’ll tidy your desk. I won’t throw anything out. I’ll just file it—’
‘Dump it. Dump the whole bloody lot of it.’
‘OK. I’ll dump it. Now go.’
I shred what he’s written so he never has to face it again. I clear away books, magazines, DVDs, returning them to their cases. Any real rubbish, I bin. All that remains, apart from his computer, are the edits for A River Too Wide.
ater, we collect the children.
‘How did that go?’ asks Greg, twisting round in the front passenger seat.
‘All right,’ says Rachel.
‘Just all right?’
‘Boring,’ says Toby.
‘Yeah. They wouldn’t let us do anything. They wouldn’t let me go on the rope ladder even though I’m ten.’
‘They wouldn’t let us dive.’
‘They kept putting sunscreen all over us,’ says Rachel. ‘Even though we had some on and I can do it myself.’
‘Oh,’ says Greg.
‘They wouldn’t let us have Coke,’ says Toby. ‘Even though I said you let us.’
‘Or chips. And they kept asking us if we’re happy.’
‘I hope you pretended to be,’ says Greg.
‘No. Not with them. With you.’
I stall the car. Behind, a horn blows.
‘With me?’ Greg asks.
‘Yeah. They kept asking questions about you.’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘Were you cross with us? Were you talking funny? Were you driving funny?’
‘And what did you say?’ he asks quickly.
‘I lied,’ says Rachel. ‘I said you were fine.’
Greg and I exchange a glance. He looks so guilty. He turns back.
‘Well, thanks for sticking up for me, Rache,’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘And I’m sorry, guys, if I’ve been a bit, you know, snappy. It won’t happen again. I promise you that.’
‘’S’OK, Dad,’ says Toby. ‘At least you let us have Coke and chips.’
Just the reassurance he needs.
Next morning, I fly back to Dublin for the brainstorm. Last time I was in the office, I never got a chance to sit at my desk and take a few moments. Now, I swivel around in my chair. Flick on my computer. Slide open my drawers and peek inside. I pick up a chain of coloured paper clips I probably made during some brainstorm or other. When the screensaver comes on, it’s a picture of Greg and me, grinning at the camera. It seems so long ago since I put it up, but it’s still only weeks. We look so happy, vibrant, together. I run my finger over his face and my eyes fill with tears. We’ve been through so much in so little time. I make a wish that it’s all over, then I take a deep breath and get to work.
Half an hour later, we’re in the boardroom. Fint’s looking great – tanned and relaxed. Sebastian, too, is the picture of health.
‘So, what did you think of my proposal?’ I ask Fint.
‘Good.’
‘Only good?’ In the Dictionary of Fint, good means . . . well, bad.
‘No, no. It was good . . . Sebastian had some ideas too. Do you want to present them, Sebastian?’
A presentation? I thought this was a brainstorm.
Sebastian looks awkward, for Sebastian. He takes us through a PowerPoint presentation, his confidence building as he goes. I’m stunned by the freshness of his ideas, so innovative they show mine up as jaded. Which, I realise, they are. I look across at him as if seeing him for the first time. Whatever happened to my enthusiasm? How have I lost it? I had it before I left. I’ve never been the kind of person to applaud after presentations. But I do after Sebastian’s.
‘Sebastian, that was amazing.’
He beams. ‘Thanks, Lucy.’
‘And to think that if you hadn’t gone to France, we’d never have discovered this Natural Born Designer,’ Fint says.
I feel a stab of something – regret, maybe? A touch of envy? It isn’t that I resent him his talent – far from it; I just wish I knew where mine has gone. It’s not good, being away from the office. Too much is happening without me. I’m losing my handle on things. I should be at the centre of this project, not the perimeter. I need to come home more often. No, I need to be home, full stop.
I touch down in Nice, an hour late. With no baggage, I’m one of the first out. I look for Greg, but no one’s here to lift me up and swing me around. I check my watch. My mind takes off. Could something have happened? Has he reverted to his old ways? I’m about to pull out my phone when I catch sight of a blonde beauty rushing in the door, carrying a baby. Grace, as usual, is oblivious to the heads she’s turning.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says, out of breath. ‘I knew the flight was delayed, so I wasn’t rushing. Somehow, I ended up late.’
‘No worries.’ We hug. ‘Hey there, handsome.’ I kiss Jason. ‘I was just going to get a taxi.’
‘You should have known one of us would be here.’
We walk out into the sun.
‘Is Greg OK?’
‘Yeah. Fine. Though he seems a bit drained. Didn’t feel up to coming. He should probably take a tonic. He looks as if he might be coming down with something.’
‘He’s probably run-down. If we stop at a pharmacy on the way back, would you be able to pick out something?’
‘Assuming my French holds up.’
We get to the car and strap Jason in the back. Grace hops into the driving seat. I sit in beside her.
‘How’d your meeting go?’ she asks.
‘All right.’ I sigh. ‘Some bright young spark showed me up.’
‘Lucy, you’re not exactly old and dull,’ she says, before reversing out of the space.
‘Oh, yeah?’ It’s exactly how I do feel.
‘Is everything OK?’ She squints.
‘Yeah. I just should be back there more often.’
‘Maybe you should go over more regularly. Once or twice a week, say.’
‘Hmm. Maybe . . . Where’s Shane?’
‘At the villa. Rachel’s making up games for him and Toby. They’re in their element. She’s very good with them, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, still surprised at this fun side to her.
‘God, the way Shane trails around after her. It’s so cute. It reminds me of how you used to follow me around when we were kids, remember?’ She looks over.
‘All I remember is how you wouldn’t let me play with your friends.’ I smile.
‘You know, I still feel guilty about that. Let me take this moment to officially apologise.’
‘It’s OK, Grace.’ I laugh. ‘I think I recovered without major psychological scars.’
‘You were great, though. Remember when you were five? That was it: no more being my personal slave. You’d had enough.’
I smile, remembering. We stop at lights. I glance at the car next to us. A guy in a baseball cap is nodding his head to music.
‘You never really liked me, though, did you?’ she says.
‘What? Are you mad? Of course I liked you.’
‘You called me Little Miss Perfect.’
‘Not to your face.’
‘Which was even worse.’ She pulls away from the lights.
‘We were kids, Grace. Just because I called you a dumb name doesn’t mean I didn’t like you.’
She looks at me. ‘So, why did you do it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, irritable at being cornered. ‘Because you were perfect. And everyone loved you. And you did everything right. And I didn’t . . . OK, I admit it, maybe I was a bit jealous.’ I can’t believe I’m admitting to her something I’ve never admitted to myself.
‘Well, you needn’t have been. I wasn’t Little Miss Perfect. I was Little Miss Wanna Be Perfect. And that’s how I’ve spent my life – trying. Trying to impress a mother who can’t be impressed, followed by a husband who can’t be impressed. Which is a bloody big waste of a life, I can tell you.’ Her voice breaks.
I reach across and put my hand on hers.
‘I’ve wasted my life, Lucy. I married someone because my mother liked him. How stupid is that? What about what I liked? Why didn’t I think of that? She doesn’t have to live with him. She doesn’t have to listen to him.’
‘Do you want me to drive?’
She shakes her head.
‘You sure?’
She nods.
I rummage in my bag for a hankie and hand it to her. ‘I’ll hold the wheel.’
She nods again. And blows. Then drops the hankie in her lap. ‘I’m fine. Fine.’ She sniffles. ‘I just needed to blow off steam. Tell someone.’
I rub her arm. ‘Well, I’m glad it was me. And I may only be your sister, but I think you’re perfect. You’ve always been there for me. You’ve always encouraged me, complimented every drawing, every sketch, urged me to go to art college. You were there for me after Brendan. And you’re here for me now. I’m embarrassed it’s taken so long to appreciate that. You couldn’t be more perfect.’
And then she smiles. ‘Thank you.’
‘No, Grace. Thank you.’ She just needs a break. She’s been under a lot of pressure, handling the boys by herself, Kevin working so hard. It’ll get better. He’ll miss her while she’s away. He’ll be more attentive when she gets back. More loving. It’ll be fine.
Grace wants to clean up before facing everyone so she drops me at the villa and goes on to the apartment with Jason. I find the children indoors, playing an old board game of Toby’s, Frustration. Rachel’s sitting up on the back of the couch. Toby’s draped across it. And Shane is surreptitiously picking his nose.
‘Hi there,’ I call.
They all look up. The boys say, ‘Hi.’ Shane asks where his mum is.
‘Just gone up to the apartment to let Jase have his nap.’ Rehearsed excuse, and partly true.
‘’K.’
‘Would anyone like a drink?’ I ask.
I’ve two takers – the boys. I quickly sort them out.
‘Where’s your dad?’ I ask Toby when I hand him his blackcurrant juice.
‘Outside.’
‘Thanks.’
Greg’s on the terrace. Just sitting. Not reading and sitting, or doing a crossword and sitting, not jotting down notes and sitting. Just sitting. He seems miles away.
‘Hi!’ I kiss his cheek.
‘Oh, hi.’ His smile is low voltage.
‘You OK?’ I ask.
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘I got you a tonic on the way back from the airport. Grace was saying you’re feeling a bit drained.’
‘I’d have come to collect you, but I just didn’t have the energy.’
‘Not to worry.’ I pull up a chair beside him. ‘Miss me?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘That much?’ I joke.
When he smiles, it seems forced.
‘How did you all get on?’
‘Fine,’ says the man who never uses one word if fifty will do.
‘So, what did you get up to?’
He thinks for a moment, then abandons it. ‘Not much.’
‘Are you pissed off with me or something?’
He looks surprised. ‘No.’
‘Well, what’s wrong? You’re very quiet.’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m fine.’
I try a few openers, including how the ‘brainstorm’ went. He barely blinks. The only time he shows any interest is when I tell him that Grace is unhappy with Kevin. He’s sympathetic to the point of appearing personally sad about it. I take out the tonic and suggest two spoonfuls as a kick-start.
Later, when everyone’s asleep, I slip into his bedroom. And bed. In all the weeks we’ve been together, this is the first time I’ve initiated sex. He does get into it, eventually, but his enthusiasm doesn’t see him through. He can’t maintain an erection. This has never happened before. I don’t know what to say, or even if I should say anything. He doesn’t want to talk about it, just turns from me, saying he’s tired. I should have just accepted the fact that he was exhausted and left it at that. I wait until he’s asleep to leave.
The children have not commented on the fact that I’m still staying at the villa, perhaps because they’ve become used to me being around – as long as I stay in the guest room. And perhaps they, too, are nervous that their dad might revert to old ways.
In any case, there’s no room at the apartment for me now. Which is fine. The villa’s a very different place – with air conditioning, without Hilary, and with Greg back to normal. The office has changed, too. Gone are the chaos and noise. I work alone in the mornings while Greg sleeps. Grace insists on minding the children, with Rachel a willing and able helper.
One morning, I’m busy working on the supermarket job, which, to my humiliation, I’m now doing in conjunction with Sebastian, when Greg appears. He’s getting later and later. It’s practically lunchtime. I smile hello and watch him settle at his computer. His edits are finished and he’s attempting a new novel.
At first, I don’t notice that he’s having problems. It’s the silence that draws my attention. There’s none of the usual frantic keyboard tapping I associate with Greg. There’s no sound at all. He’s sitting, staring at the screen, fingers ready but not moving. I pretend not to notice and carry on with my work. But then he slams a fist on the desk.
‘Just one clear thought, is that too much to ask?’ He leaves before I can react.
After half an hour, I go looking for him. I find him lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. I don’t go in. Just close the door. He needs peace, a quiet place to think about Cooper and plots and pace and all those things writers have to get right. I wonder what it must be like to be expected to come up with something fresh and creative and not be able to. What am I talking about? I do know. I’m going through it. And I appreciate that you just have to keep pushing through to the other side. Then again, a design isn’t a whole novel. Maybe that’s what’s stopping him, the magnitude of what’s ahead. Knowing there’s nothing I can do to help, I return to my own work.
Over the next few days, Greg spends less and less time in his office and more and more time lying down. When he’s up, he mopes in a chair, doing nothing, nothing at all. Except smoke.
‘Dad, are you coming for a swim?’ Rachel tries.
He doesn’t hear.
‘Dad?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Are you coming for a swim?’
‘No. No, thanks. You go ahead.’
‘OK.’ She walks off, looking back at him.
I sit beside him. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
I know he’s not. ‘I’m sure all writers go through this. I wouldn’t worry about it, Greg.’
‘I haven’t been a good father, have I?’
What? ‘You’re a great father.’
‘I’ve neglected the kids. Neglected you.’
‘Come on, Greg. Forget about that. You’ve been fine since we talked. Everything’s OK now.’
‘No.’ The word seems to reverberate in the silence that follows, making me realise the truth. This is more than writer’s block. This is more than Greg being run-down. I remember the websites on amphetamines and the list of symptoms caused by withdrawal. It’s like a blow to the chest. All of this has been about drugs. Which means: one, he’s stopped. And two, he lied.
‘I think I’ll lie down for a while,’ he says.
I could do with one myself.
He heaves himself up from the chair as if it takes all the energy in the world. And as I watch him go, I tell myself: It’ll be OK. In a few days, it’ll be OK.
But it’s not OK. In the days that follow, rather than improving, Greg stops communicating completely, not only with us, but with the world at large. Phone calls, post, emails are all ignored. It’s the same with TV, radio, newspapers, even books. The only thing he embraces is drink. From mid-afternoon on, he’s nursing something. If it’s to lift his spirits, it doesn’t work. And it sure doesn’t do anything for mine.
Down, down, down everything goes – his head, shoulders, the edges of his mouth, his mood, even his voice. Every movement looks like it requires huge effort. Everything he does is in first gear.
He’s still in bed, one afternoon, when his father-in-law rings. ‘How is everything?’ Ben asks me.
‘Fine, Ben, thank you.’
‘And the children?’
‘Very well, thanks. Would you like to speak with them?’
‘Yes, yes, in a moment. Could I have a quick word with Greg first, please?’
I’m not telling him he’s in bed, not when he’s so obviously called to check up on him. ‘Just a moment and I’ll find him.’
I go up to the room. It’s dark, stifling, shutters and windows closed. Air conditioning off. He’s lying on his side, a pillow over his head.
‘Greg?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Ben’s on the phone.’
‘Tell him to fuck off.’
I laugh, assuming he’s joking, then turn on the air conditioning.
‘Go away,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Please. Leave me alone.’
‘What is wrong with you?’
‘I just need peace. Is that too much to ask?’
‘OK, OK, I’ll tell him you’ll call back.’ Jesus.
‘And turn the air conditioning off. The noise drives me mad.’
Biting my tongue, I do as he asks, then head for the door.
‘Lucy?’
‘What?’
‘Can you keep them a bit quieter?’
The children aren’t making a sound. I say nothing, just go back to the phone. Ben’s hung up. I find his number on Greg’s mobile and call him back.
‘Ben, I’m sorry for keeping you. I was working when you rang and hadn’t realised Greg’s actually taken the children to the beach. I’m sorry. I’ll get him to call you when he comes in.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine. I’ll get Greg to call you.’
‘All right,’ he says, not sounding happy.
‘Thanks for calling.’
When Greg does appear, an hour later, he doesn’t look like a man who has spent the day in bed. He looks like he could do with one. I remind him of the phone call. This time, he rings Ben back. And I hope he’s a bit more charming than he was with me.
At dinner, he won’t eat. Instead, he drinks. Wine. Then whiskey.
Later, on the terrace, while he stares off into the distance or absently watches two geckos scale the wall of the villa in search of moths, I try to read. I go inside to get a drink. When I come back out, he’s picked up the autobiography I was reading and is examining the cover. He opens it and runs his finger under the first line. He goes back over it. Can’t seem to get beyond that. Over and over it he goes until he slams the book shut. I watch, in horror, as he flings it through the air. It lands in the pool with a splash.
‘I was reading that!’
‘That? The guy’s a writer, you’d think he’d know what plain English is.’
‘Maybe I’d have liked to have decided that for myself. For God’s sake, Greg. You’ve just ruined my book.’ I go get the net to fish it out of the pool.
His eyes register what he’s done. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to destroy it. I just got so frustrated. I couldn’t get beyond that first line. Here, let me do that.’ He reaches for the net.
I give it to him and he goes to fish the book out of the pool.
‘You might as well bin it,’ I say, when he gets it.
‘Sorry,’ he says again.
‘What’s wrong with you, Greg? Why are you like this?’
He walks back to the table, reaching for the whiskey bottle.
‘Drinking isn’t going to help.’
‘I’ll drink if I bloody well want.’
‘Right. Fine. You do that. Just don’t expect me to hang around and watch. I’m going. I can’t take this any more.’
‘Where?’ He sounds panicked. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Then, suddenly, I do. ‘The apartment.’
‘Don’t.’
‘I’ve had enough for one night. If you insist on being miserable, fine, be miserable, but don’t take it out on me.’ I leave, wondering how I ever thought that depression would be acceptable over a high.
Next Part Will come Soon