Sitting in the departure lounge at Nice Airport, I’m hoping the children will be OK. They have Hilary, who will stay with them through anything. But Hilary hasn’t exactly been coping. I wish I’d thought to leave her the key to the apartment. But then, could I trust her with the letter I left Greg? I’m distracted by a woman coming through Passport Control. Weird how thinking about a person can make you see them in others. She looks just like Hilary. She even has the same denim jacket. Hair. Posture. I stare as she turns. It is Hilary, arriving in the departure lounge pulling her case behind her. What the hell is she doing here?
‘Hilary?’ I call, starting towards her.
She looks in my direction. There’s a moment of connection. Then she looks straight ahead, about to walk past.
‘Hilary. Stop. Wait. What are you doing?’ Up close, I see that her eyes are rimmed red, her face puffy. ‘What happened?’
‘Ask your boyfriend,’ she spits and starts to take off.
‘Hilary. Stop. Please. Tell me what happened. How could you have left the children alone with him after last night?’
‘How could you?’
Instant guilt. ‘I have to go home for a while. I knew you’d be there. I was relying on you.’
‘It’s hard to mind children you no longer work for.’
‘You resigned?’
She squints at me. ‘You always were a bit slow, weren’t you?’ This time, she does walk off.
They pick that moment to call my flight.
I have to get on that plane. But I see Toby’s tired little face in my mind. Shit.
I call the villa. The phone rings and rings. What if Greg has left them alone and they’re afraid to answer? I call again. And again. I’m getting desperate when Rachel, finally, picks up.
‘Hello?’ She sounds so young, so scared.
‘Rachel? It’s Lucy. Is everything OK?’
The line dies.
Oh, God. He has left them alone.
I dial again. How have I allowed myself get into this situation? I look up. People are lining up for the flight. I can’t go. I can’t believe it. But I can’t go. I want to kill Greg – if he hasn’t already driven off a road somewhere. I want to kill the immature, irresponsible gobshite he’s become.
I leave Departures in a state and have problems explaining why I can’t get on the flight. Major fuss. For security reasons, they need to get my bag off the plane. The flight will have to be delayed. But security is security. And these guys mean business. They won’t let me go until I’ve the bag firmly in my possession. I tell them I don’t care about the bag. They can dump it, blow it up for all I care. I just have to get somewhere. It’s an emergency.
Red tape first, emergencies second, mademoiselle.
I burst through the door of the villa to find Greg absorbed in a mural he’s started on the living room wall. It’s all over the place. He’s covered in paint, as is the floor.
‘Where are the children?’ I demand.
‘Upstairs.’
‘Are they all right?’
‘Of course they’re all right, why wouldn’t they be?’
‘I met Hilary.’
‘Where?’
‘At the airport. What happened, Greg?’
He stops painting and looks at me. ‘What were you doing at the airport?’
‘It’s not important. What happened with Hilary?’
Leonardo abandons his fresco in favour of a whiskey. ‘Want one?’
‘No, Greg. I don’t drink whiskey, as you know. What happened?’
He sighs dramatically. ‘Hilary, Hilary, what’s the fascination with Hilary?’
‘Greg!’
‘All right, if you’re so concerned – I let her go.’
‘Why?’
‘I was sick of looking at her. Moody cow.’
‘And that’s a good enough reason to fire her?’
He doesn’t answer, drains his whiskey and returns to the wall.
‘Rachel and Toby love Hilary. They need her. Especially now.’
He twists around. ‘What do you mean, especially now?’
‘Nothing.’
‘They’ll get over it.’
‘Will they?’ I squint. ‘Are you sure?’
He looks straight at me. ‘There was nothing great about Hilary.’
‘She’s been with you since Catherine died. She helped you through that—’
‘I helped myself through. If you think I can’t survive without Hilary, you’re mistaken. I’m perfectly capable of looking after—’
‘Did something happen?’
‘No,’ he says, too quickly, too loudly.
‘Then why?’
‘I had enough of her, OK?’
‘When did this happen, when did you fire her? It must have been last night if she managed to get a flight today.’
He ignores me, daubing buttercup yellow on the wall.
‘Did you even take her to the airport?’
No answer.
‘She was your responsibility, Greg. Did you even check to see if she’d enough money to get home?’
‘If you met her at the airport, she obviously did.’
‘What is the matter with you? You used to be thoughtful. You used to appreciate people.’ I pull out my mobile, look up her number and dial. Her phone goes to voicemail. I leave a message asking her to call me. I tell her that the children miss her (which is a given) and that Greg’s sorry.
‘I’m not fucking sorry,’ he says before I can hang up. ‘I don’t want her back here. And you’d better not ask her again if she rings back.’
‘So, what are you going to do? Who’s going to mind the children while you write? Who’s going to keep the place tidy? Who’s going to cook the meals?’ And who’s going to be here when you do your disappearing stunts?
‘I’ll hire someone else.’
‘Just like that? An English-speaking nanny the children will love as much as they did Hilary. You’d better start looking in the sky, Greg, because I hear Mary Poppins is good.’
He ignores that.
I can’t believe I’m saying it, but . . . ‘You need Hilary. She’s been with you five years. If she calls, then I’m inviting her back.’
‘She won’t come back. Trust me.’
What has he done? What has he said? He isn’t telling me everything, that much I know. Something must have happened. Something definitely happened.
I go upstairs, check Toby’s room. Empty. I go to Rachel’s. The door is closed. All’s quiet, but I sense they’re inside. I knock gently.
No answer.
‘Can I come in?’
Still nothing.
I open the door a fraction, peep around. Rachel’s sitting on the bed, Toby’s head in her lap. She’s smoothing his hair, over and over.
‘Hi,’ I say.
Rachel doesn’t budge. Toby sits up, but says nothing. He’s been crying. I smile at him and go sit on the edge of the bed.
‘Get off my bed,’ Rachel says, with hate in her eyes.
I stand. ‘Sorry.’
I squat down and talk to Toby. ‘Are you OK?’
Nothing.
‘Are you sad about Hilary?’
‘Yeah,’ he says.
‘Toby,’ says Rachel.
‘Sorry, Lucy,’ he says, ‘but I can’t talk to you.’
‘I’m so sorry about Hilary. It’s hard when someone goes away . . .’
‘Goes away?’ Rachel’s chin is jutting out. ‘You mean is sent away, fired. You got Dad to fire Hilary.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You heard me.’
‘I heard you, but you’re wrong. I had nothing to do with this.’
‘Yes, you did. You were jealous because we love her, not you . . .’
‘Rachel, I wasn’t even here.’
‘You told Dad to fire Hilary before you left. Hilary told me and she doesn’t lie. You’re the liar. You’re the one who spoils everything. You.’
‘I’m sorry you think that, Rachel.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re happy because Hilary’s gone. You think we’ll like you now. But we won’t. We won’t even talk to you. And we won’t cooperate.’ She folds her arms.
‘Well, I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’
‘Don’t worry, we won’t.’
I go back downstairs, furious with everyone: with Hilary for lying, with Rachel for being impossible and with Greg for creating this whole bloody mess. I prepare dinner because I know that he won’t have thought of food all day.
My efforts are wasted. Greg has gone to get turpentine for the mural and hasn’t returned. Toby has a sick tummy. And Rachel? Well, Rachel’s response to what I put in front of her is, ‘I’m not eating that.’
All of a sudden, I need to hear Dad’s voice. I go outside and call home.
Mum answers. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about us.’
‘Sorry. It’s been a bit hectic – workwise.’
‘Oh, I’m glad, Lucy. I wouldn’t want you to fall down on your job just because you’re engaged. I was a bit worried when you said you were spending the summer in France.’
‘Is Dad there?’
‘Always look after yourself, Lucy – in any relationship.’
‘Yeah, OK. Is Dad around?’
‘He’s here beside me. I’ll hand him over in a sec.’
‘Mum, I’m ringing from France.’
‘Of course, sorry. Here he is now.’ I hear her warn him not to be long. I feel guilty then.
As soon as Dad gets on the phone, I sit down.
‘Hi, pet. How’re you doing?’
I smile at the sound of his voice. ‘Good. You?’
‘Never better. How’s Greg?’
‘Fine.’
‘And the kiddies?’
‘They’re all right.’
‘These things take time.’
‘Yeah.’ Suddenly, I’m close to tears. I shouldn’t have called.
‘How’re you coping with the heatwave? It’s all over the news. People have died in Paris. Others are leaving the country.’
‘We’re managing.’
‘No doubt Greg has the place air conditioned.’
I could wail – honestly, wail.
‘Better let you go,’ he says. ‘This must be costing you a fortune.’
‘No. No. It’s fine.’ My voice starts to crack, my eyes to smart.
‘You all right, love?’
‘Yeah, yeah, fine,’ I say, a little too high. ‘Actually, I think I’ll go. I haven’t talked to Grace in ages.’
‘Good idea, love. Ring your sister.’
‘Bye, Dad. Love you.’
‘You too.’
I can’t ring Grace. I can’t do anything. Except cry.
It’s eleven and there’s no sign of him. What if I walked out, behaved as irresponsibly? Would he cop on then? No, probably not. I punch his number into my phone. And seethe as it goes unanswered. Where the hell is he? In a nightclub, music pumping? With these ‘other women’ Hilary enjoyed mentioning? Or speeding along the motorway, radio blaring? Or maybe he’s looking at his phone right now, seeing it’s me and ignoring it. Or he’s on his way home, hearing the phone, reaching for it, going over a ravine, car sailing through the air in slow motion and ending up overturned, wheels spinning? Stop, Lucy. Stop it. He’ll walk through the door any second, without a scratch. And what good will all the worrying have done? None. Get some sheets, make up a bed. Sleep. Don’t think.
I carry bed linen to one of the guest rooms, make the bed and go find a fan. I. Am. Not. Going. To. Worry. I look at my mobile. He’s fine. I get under the sheet. Pull it back, again. Check my watch. Where is he? I close my eyes. Open them. Get out of bed. Check on the children. Return to bed.
When the phone in the villa rings at three, I know without looking what time it is. I run to it.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Bonjour? Bonsoir? Hello?’
There’s someone there; I sense it.
‘Greg?’
The line goes dead. I wait by the phone in case it rings again. After five minutes, I go back to bed, relieved that it wasn’t the French police. Relief changes to rage when I think of what he’s putting me through. Next time I see him, he’s getting two words from me. I’m leaving. He’ll have to cop on then, he’ll have to remember his responsibilities. This is his problem, not mine.
Somehow, at some stage, I fall asleep.
At nine, I wake to the sound of hushed conversation and light footsteps on the stairs. Rachel and Toby are up. I throw back the sheet and go to Greg’s room to check if he’s there, though I already sense that he’s not.
I’m right.
I dress, then give the children a comfortable few minutes before heading down. I find them in the kitchen. Toby’s sitting at the table, legs dangling. He’s looking down at his bowl, into which Rachel’s pouring Coco Pops. There’s a protectiveness about the way she’s standing over him. She looks like a very vulnerable mini-mum. I get a sudden urge to save them.
Rachel turns. I’m graced with a scowl. Then it’s back to the business at hand. I’m not here.
‘Good morning,’ I say, brightly.
No answer.
‘Would anyone like some toast?’
No eye contact.
I busy myself making coffee, then sit at the table. Expecting continued silence, I’m surprised when Rachel speaks.
‘Did you stay here last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because your dad was out and I didn’t want to leave you on your own.’
‘Oh.’
Her eyes narrow again. ‘Where did you sleep?’
‘In one of the guest rooms. Why?’
‘No reason.’
Silence returns.
‘Where’s Dad?’ asks Toby, chocolate staining the edges of his mouth.
‘Gone again, as usual,’ Rachel says, with the exasperation and bitterness of a long-suffering wife. I know how she feels.
I sip my coffee, hoping they don’t work out that he’s been gone all night. ‘So, what would you like to do today?’
Toby glances at his sister. She frowns a silent warning. He looks down into his bowl.
‘How about Aqua-Splash?’ I ask.
His head pops up. ‘Yeah,’ he says. Then, ‘Ow,’ as his sister kicks him. He looks down again, gives a quick nod as if telling himself to be quiet.
‘We’re not going,’ she confirms for both of them.
He closes his eyes.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘are we going to get on with life, or are we going to mope around?’
‘Mope around,’ says Rachel, victoriously.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Suit yourself. I’ve plenty of work to do. I was just trying to make your day more enjoyable. But if you want to hang around here, fine.’
Toby looks pleadingly at his sister. But she won’t budge.
Despite my attempts at blasé, I keep an eye on them, dragging my laptop around wherever they go. If they’re in Rachel’s room, I’m in mine. If they’re downstairs, I am, too. I’m trying to be subtle about it, but, when they go for a swim, this becomes impossible. I appear in the water two minutes after they do. Rachel glares at me then turns to her brother.
‘Come on, Toby, let’s go,’ she says, without taking her eyes off me.
‘But we just got in,’ he whines.
‘Come. On.’
‘No.’
‘Fine,’ she says, furious at having to leave her accomplice behind.
I wink at him.
He smiles. It’s the one thing we share. We’re the youngest and we don’t always like it.
He has his mini-rebellion then goes back to his sister. They spend the rest of the morning in her room, door closed. When they emerge, she’s fussing over him, getting drinks and food, or putting him in the bath to keep him cool. She even trims his fingernails. She’s becoming a little Hilary, with Hilary expressions and mannerisms. And just like Hilary, she doesn’t want me there. Let’s face it: I can think of a lot of places I’d rather be. I could kill Greg, out there in his own colourful, interesting, loud galaxy, while I’m stuck here, struggling with his children.
Next Part Will come Soon