The following day, I go down to the villa to see if he has recovered. Hilary tells me he ‘popped out’ three hours ago to buy screwdrivers and hasn’t returned. I go into his office to call him.
‘Where are you?’
‘In Nice.’
‘Did you get the screwdrivers?’
‘Screwdrivers?’
‘You left three hours ago to get screwdrivers.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Screwdrivers. God, I’d forgotten. Why did I need them again?’
‘No idea, Greg.’
‘OK. It probably wasn’t urgent.’
‘What are you doing now?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I’ve just met some people. We’re having a beer. Anyway, listen, I’ve just booked a super restaurant for us tonight. I’ll pick you up from the apartment at seven.’
‘Aren’t you going to be back before then?’
‘I’ve one or two things to do. Just be ready at seven, OK?’
‘OK.’ I hang up.
I’m walking out of his office when Hilary appears.
‘Not coming back, is he?’
‘He’ll be back around seven,’ I say, so she can let the children know.
‘You know, I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you.’
Smug? What’s she talking about?
‘There’s a pattern, you see, with Greg. First, he starts to disappear, and before you know it, there’s a new woman on the scene.’
I laugh. ‘Thanks for the tip, Hilary.’
‘Well, here’s another: Be very careful what you say to your boyfriend, because it all comes back to me. We had a great laugh about how you thought I’d put in a good word with Rachel. Don’t look so surprised. Greg tells me everything.’
I can’t believe he told her when I specifically asked him not to. Were they laughing at me? No. Greg wouldn’t do that. She’s lying. But he must have told her. I can’t believe he did that. What else has he said? And who are these people he’s having a beer with?
Back at the apartment, I put an emergency call through to Grace.
‘You know what I think?’ she says when I finally pause for breath.
‘What?’
‘Greg thought he was doing you a favour, asking Hilary to have a chat with Rachel. And she’s twisted it to cause tension between you. Face it: she’s trouble, Lucy. I mean, can you really imagine Greg and Hilary in some corner somewhere giggling together at your expense? Come on!’
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘And so what if he’s staying out for a few hours? He’s been writing non-stop. Hasn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s obviously manipulative.’
‘D’you think she made up that stuff about other women?’ I ask.
‘Do you?’
‘Greg’s said there’s been no one since Catherine.’
‘Except Hilary.’
‘He doesn’t count Hilary,’ I say, as much to myself as to Grace.
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I don’t see why he’d lie. I mean, what’s wrong with having relationships as long as they’re one at a time?’
‘You need to talk to him, Lucy. Tell him what she’s been saying. Because if she’s saying things like that to you, who knows what she’s saying to him?’
‘God.’ I never thought of that.
‘Always beware the jealous woman.’
A wave of self-pity hits. ‘What has she to be jealous about? She’s the one the children love.’
‘Come off it, Lucy. Of course she’s jealous. You’re going to be part of the family, a stepmother. She’ll still be a hired employee. She was the mother figure until you arrived. You’ve taken that from her.’
‘No, I haven’t. She’s still like their mother.’
‘But you’ll be their stepmother.’
‘That’s just a title.’
‘A title she’d probably like. Think about it. From what you say, she doesn’t have much of a life outside work. No phone calls. No mention of friends, boyfriends. This family is her life. The closer you get to the children, the more she’ll be pushed out of the way.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get close to them.’
‘She probably still fancies Greg. I mean, she fucked him, didn’t she?’
I wish she wouldn’t keep bringing that up.
‘He’s an attractive man. She loves his kids. Maybe you’re the cuckoo in her nest.’
‘Jesus, Grace. Stop.’
‘Learning that she was infertile would have been extremely traumatic. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that she subconsciously substituted the family she couldn’t have with Greg’s.’
‘Grace, you’re scaring me.’ I watch a swallow zip by, its life free and easy.
‘All I’m saying is watch out. Your relationship is young. This is just another complication you don’t need. Nip it firmly in the bud, Luce. Talk to him. Tell him what’s going on, what she’s been saying. Get him on his own. Out of that claustrophobic villa. You need to sort this out. Now. Dress up. Take him out for dinner. Take control. Enough is enough.’
‘He’s not going to get rid of her.’
‘Let him decide.’
‘If I ask him to, it would be like a showdown – what’s good for me versus what’s good for his family. I know who’d lose.’
‘Then don’t ask. Just tell him what’s happening. And keep working. Don’t let all this interfere with your career. Don’t let it swamp you. You’ve something you’re good at, something you enjoy. Don’t let that slip.’
There suddenly seems an awful lot at stake.
I spend much of the afternoon trying to work out what I’m going to say to Greg and how I’m going to bring it up. I will, though, as soon as he arrives.
But he arrives a different man.
‘Your hair!’
‘What d’you think?’ he asks, turning full circle.
‘It’s . . . It’s certainly different.’ It’s white. Not blond. White. And short.
‘I was just so bored with it,’ he says, sounding like Fint.
Then I notice his ear. There’s a diamond in it. ‘Did you get your ear pierced?’
‘Cool, eh?’ Now he sounds like Toby.
I stare at him. His shirt is red silk. His tie, black leather. He looks like a pimp.
‘Here. I got you something too.’ He produces a designer carrier bag and stands over me while I take out the glossy box within. I slide off the lid. I lift the crispy, white paper to reveal more red silk. Slowly, I lift it out. It’s a dress, though there’s not much of it. So, this is what he was doing.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say.
‘Try it on.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
I pretend to be fine about wearing something so daring. I strip to my thong and slip into the silk sheath. I stand in front of the mirror. And frighten myself. It’s a fabulous dress – if you’re a supermodel. If you have that confidence, posture and poise. If you don’t mind your nipples showing through the fabric. If you’re comfortable with the fact that most of your breasts and legs are on display. If you want every curve of your body highlighted. I’d die if I had to wear it in public.
‘Wow,’ he says.
I nod. ‘Very nice. Thanks. Great. Lovely.’ I start to take it off.
‘What are you doing? Aren’t you wearing it?’
‘I thought I’d keep it for a special occasion.’
‘This is a special occasion.’
I think of Hilary, Rachel and Toby. What would they think if they saw me in this? What would anyone think, especially given how Greg’s dressed?
‘You know, Greg. I don’t think it’s me.’
‘Of course it’s you. You look fantastic. So fantastic you’d better not move.’
His hands are on my breasts, his mouth on mine. We need to talk, not fuck. He cups my arse in his hands, caresses it through the silk. It’s my weakness and he knows it. I’m putty. He slips the straps off my shoulders and explores my breasts with his tongue. He takes a nipple in his mouth. I groan at him to stop. He knows I mean the opposite. He lifts me and flings me onto the bed. There’s something so masterful about the way he does it that I’m turned on. That he looks different becomes suddenly exciting. I look down and run my hands over his white stubble. With every kiss, he whispers that I’m sexy, with every caress that I’m hot. Which makes me feel it. He doesn’t remove the dress. Just my inhibitions.
When I see my reflection in the mirror again, I’m a different woman. Proud, confident, sexy. Able for such a dress. No problem. I’m a woman. Should I be afraid to show it?
In the car, I have to tell him to slow down. He slips a CD into the player and the car fills with a Japanese language lesson. I smile as he tries to repeat what he’s heard. It’s impossible. Doesn’t stop him trying again after the next burst.
By the time we arrive in Cannes, we’re sore from laughing. Parking, always at a premium, seems non-existent. The traffic is backed up. We crawl past the art deco Martinez, then the more traditional Carlton, lit up in all its glory. We inch past Christian Lacroix et al. Still no parking. Greg’s getting jittery.
Finally, he zips into an underground car park and is lucky enough to find a Jeep pulling out. He parks, hops out and opens my door. The heat takes my breath away.
By the time we’re at street level, I feel like I’ve been in a sauna. I wipe moisture from my upper lip and turn my face to the sea in the hope of a breeze. There isn’t a puff. The back of Greg’s shirt is beginning to stick to him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. People who pass us are flagging – children being carried, looking flushed and tired, a man wiping the top of his head with a folded handkerchief, a woman fanning herself with a street map. The only person who appears to have any energy is Greg, walking briskly and talking non-stop.
I’m relieved when we get to the restaurant, a chic spot with cream parasols, crisp white tablecloths and a clientele of glitterati.
Greg seems to know the maître d’, slapping him on the back with an ‘Ah, bon soir, Philippe’. Under his breath, to me, he adds, ‘Hope he’s feeling energetic tonight.’
We’re led to a quiet table in a corner.
‘Ah, mais non, Philippe,’ says Greg, gesturing to a table we passed on the way in. It’s positioned between two others. ‘That one would be much more sociable.’
My heart sinks. ‘Greg, this a much better table.’
‘Aw, Lucy, let’s be sociable tonight.’
I’m about to tell him we need to talk when he turns and makes for the ‘sociable’ option. Philippe, looking surprised but accommodating, follows. Reluctantly, I do, too.
Once seated, Greg whips his serviette in the air to open it, almost hitting the woman at the next table.
‘Pardon, madame,’ he bows, flamboyantly.
She shakes her head. ‘Ce n’est pas grave.’
The sommelier hands a wine list to Greg who, after a quick glance, snaps it shut and orders three bottles of champagne.
‘Three?’ I ask.
‘We have neighbours,’ he says, glancing from one table to the other.
‘We don’t know these people,’ I say in an urgent whisper.
He shrugs. ‘It’s a gesture of goodwill.’
Greg’s not a showy person, what’s he doing?
The dewy metal buckets arrive, as, shortly after, do surprised but enthusiastic thanks – ‘Merci beaucoup’ from the couple on our left, and a mix of ‘Thank you very much’, ‘Most kind’, ‘You shouldn’t have’ and ‘Fantastic’ from the two English couples at the table to our right. They ask if we’re celebrating something.
‘Life,’ Greg says, then, ‘Salut!’ raising his glass high.
‘Salut,’ everyone joins in, glasses clinking.
‘Ladies,’ he says to the women, ‘you’re both looking ravishing tonight.’
Ravishing? Is he kidding?
But the ‘ladies’ seem charmed. I wait for Greg to return his attention to our table, so I can raise the subject of Hilary. He doesn’t. Instead, he seems intent on involving as many people as he can in lively debate. The French couple concentrate hard for a while, but soon bow out. Still, Greg has a captive audience in Tony, Felicity, James and Janet. He guides the conversation like a conductor, his finger acting as baton. Hopping from one random topic to the next, he whips up laughter, a little heated discussion, and tops it off with argument – seeming to disagree with any arbitrary point for the sake of debate. Once he’s got everyone worked up about something, he changes the subject with a jokey, ‘Well, I’m glad we all agree on that.’ Interrupting is pointless. He is on a roll. And while he can be downright funny, I may as well not be here. After my first glass of champagne, I stop drinking, realising that Greg doesn’t intend to and someone has to drive back. For me, the evening and my plans for discussion have been ruined. All I can do is sit it out.
‘You know what you look like?’ Greg asks Tony.
Tony looks bemused, awaiting the punchline.
‘An Anglican parson.’
I try not to choke, remembering an Eddie Izzard comedy sketch about Anglican parsons having no arm muscles. I glance at Tony. He doesn’t seem offended, joking as he is about Felicity being the one who does the preaching in their house. It’s all very funny as long as people keep laughing. But what if they stop?
Greg’s remarks are becoming more and more risqué. It’s as if he’s testing the fine line between funny and insulting. Does he want to see how far he can push it with these people? Is that it, some bizarre social experiment? Well, if he’s not careful, he will cross that line. And the fun will end. Someone will stand up to him and make him stop. Why am I the only one to see this? Is it because I’m not drinking? Or is it because this is the man I love, not an amusing stranger I’ll never see again. I care what’s happening here. Because something is happening. It’s not drink; I’ve seen Greg drunk. This is something else. Something serious.
The restaurant begins to empty, our French neighbours leaving with a polite but unamused goodbye.
Felicity and Janet disappear to the Ladies, leaving me with the three men.
‘Guys,’ says Greg, ‘what do you think of Lucy’s dress?’
‘Smashing,’ says Tony.
‘Stunning.’ James is not far off leering.
‘Would you believe Lucy didn’t want to wear it tonight?’
‘But you look so good in it, love,’ says James.
‘D’you know what I had to do to convince Lucy to wear this dress?’
‘Greg!’
‘Ah, come on, Luce, let’s tell them.’
‘Greg, if you say one more word, I’m leaving.’ And, by God, I mean it.
The men are quiet, the atmosphere changing.
‘Let’s get another,’ says Greg, jovially holding up an empty champagne bottle.
Janet and Felicity return.
‘Is he always so entertaining?’ Janet asks me.
‘And cheeky,’ adds Felicity, eyelashes on full-bat.
I can’t trust myself to answer without unleashing the rage I feel. He’s been encouraging them all night. Flirting with them. The men, too, I’d think, if I didn’t know better. Unable to sit through any more without exploding, I excuse myself.
In the Ladies, I catch my reflection in a mirror. It’s not who I am. I look at the dress. Why did he get it? To turn me into someone else? Was Hilary right? Is this the beginning of the end?
When I finally come out, the restaurant is empty. I think that they’ve left without me. But then I see them, all five, at the top of the restaurant, Greg teaching his new pals what seem to be Riverdance steps. I glance at the waiters, expecting exasperation. In fact, they’re sitting at a table chatting together, sharing a bottle of champagne. I know who’s paying. Suddenly, I wish myself back at my apartment in Dublin, in my own bed, alone with a quiet, dependable book. Thank God, my meeting with Fint is in the morning; thank God, I’m going home. That thought propels me forward.
I walk up to Greg and remind him of my early start. He looks surprised as if suddenly noticing my rage. He excuses himself from the happy group and goes to settle the bill.
Once outside the restaurant, he looks sheepish, as if expecting me to explode. I will. But in private. I make straight for the car, in the unusual position of being in front. Reaching it, I turn and speak for the first time. It’s brief.
‘Give me the keys. I’m driving.’
As soon as we’re inside, I turn on the engine for the air conditioning, but don’t pull out. Instead, I demand, ‘What was all that about?’
‘What?’ he asks innocently.
‘That display, back there.’
‘The dancing?’
‘No, Greg, the general behaviour. What is up with you?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Are you on something?’
‘On something?’
‘Greg, you’re high as a kite.’
‘I’m in good form and you think I’m high? Get a life, Lucy.’
‘You insulted those people.’
‘I did not.’
‘You don’t think that telling a man he looks like a parson is insulting?’
‘No.’
‘You were lucky they hadn’t seen Eddie Izzard. And you were lucky they were in such good form.’
‘And who put them in good form? Me, that’s who.’
‘You humiliated me.’
‘I humiliated you? Just how, exactly, did I do that?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. You were going to talk about our sex life – in public.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ Is he serious? ‘That was completely out of line.’
‘I don’t see why. Everyone has sex. I was just being open about it, that’s all.’
‘It didn’t cross your mind, at all, that I mightn’t feel like being as “open”?’
‘Not until you got all prissy about it, no.’
‘Prissy! Jesus! You were flirting with those women.’
‘I was being friendly.’
‘Friendly? What is wrong with you? What is it – speed? Ecstasy?’
He laughs. ‘You think I’m on drugs?’
‘You’re high, Greg. Don’t sit there and tell me you’re not high.’
‘OK. Maybe I am high – on life.’
‘Oh, come off it.’
But no matter what I say, he won’t admit to anything.
I speed back, drop him at the villa and drive on. He can have the car back in the morning.
Inside the apartment, I can’t sit still. Out on the balcony, the whole evening replays in my mind. How dare he treat me like that? And he was flirting. I remember Hilary’s warning. That we never got to discuss that makes me feel like putting my fist through a wall.
Next Part Will come Soon