You OK?’ Grace asks when she opens the door.
I shake my head and the tears come.
‘Greg?’
I nod. She puts an arm around me and walks me into the sitting room, where she sits me down on the couch.
‘It’s all gone wrong.’ I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands. ‘He’s miserable. He’s drinking. He snaps at me for the least little thing.’
‘Shhh, it’s OK,’ she says, rubbing my back.
‘He’s so down. He has no energy, can’t work, won’t eat. He’s grinding to a halt, Grace. I keep telling myself it’s because he’s come off drugs, but he’s getting worse, not better.’
‘Did he tell you he was on drugs?’
‘No. But what else could it be? He has all the signs . . .’
‘Have you ever seen any evidence of drugs?’
‘No. But it has to be . . . He was talking gibberish. His writing was bizarre.’
‘Can I ask you a question? When he was high, was he overspending, making any impulse buys?’
How could she possibly know? ‘Why? It’s not a medical complaint. Is it?’
She takes a breath. ‘It can be. Sometimes.’
‘Of what?’
‘What kind of things did he buy?’
‘A Porsche.’
She raises her eyebrows.
‘A diamond earring – for himself.’
She nods.
‘He dyed his hair white.’
I watch jigsaw pieces click together in her eyes. She scratches her hand, the way she always does when nervous. ‘Lucy, there is one other thing that maybe we should consider . . .’
‘What? What is it?’
‘I’ve seen patients with symptoms similar to Greg’s.’
‘And?’
‘Well, something I might have considered with them was bipolar disorder. Have you thought of that?’
My world stops. ‘No. No way. He doesn’t have a mental illness. He couldn’t. Not Greg.’
She clears her throat. ‘I’m not saying that’s it. Only that it’s a possibility.’
My mind is racing. ‘Spike Milligan had it. I remember now. Oh, God. It never goes away. You have it for life, don’t you? It’s up and down and up and down. And you can get hallucinations. And . . . Oh my God . . .’ I’m twisting my hair round and round until it’s tight like a rope.
‘Lucy. It can be treated – successfully – with medication. It’s caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain and that imbalance can be adjusted with medication. And I’m not saying that he has it, only that it’s one option. There are others . . .’
‘But if he has it, if he is bipolar, why didn’t he tell me?’
‘He may not know. It can come on at any stage . . .’
‘What if he does know? What if he’s just not telling me?’
‘No, Lucy. Think about it. If Greg had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, Rob would have been alert to the symptoms. Families have to be. If he’d noticed a change in Greg’s behaviour, as he did at the barbecue, he’d have been very concerned, seen it as a warning of an approaching high. No. If Greg is bipolar, this is his first episode.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘Lucy, there are loads of other reasons Greg could be depressed – coming off speed, if he was on it, ME, glandular fever, brucellosis . . . Bipolar disorder is just one possibility. Greg does need to see a doctor, though, ideally back in Dublin. You should try to get him home. The sooner the better. I’ll come back with you, speak to a friend of mine, Karl, a really great GP. He’s so copped on. He’d be a friendly face who could give Greg a thorough general examination.’
One of the boys starts to cry. Sounds like Jason.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Timed beautifully, as usual.’ She sighs. ‘Back in a minute.’
I watch her disappear down the hall and try not to envy her the normality of her life. Try not to envy her relationship, a relationship that may be under pressure, but at least is normal. Mental illness. This is the kind of thing that happens to other people, not me. I’m not strong enough for it. I don’t want to be. I want to run. Far away. But it might not be mental illness. It could be brucellosis . . . Brucellosis; I thought cows got brucellosis. Or it could be ME. If it is bipolar disorder, then none of this is his fault. He hasn’t lied. He can’t help it. He can’t control his moods and doesn’t understand why. If that is what’s happening, how can I walk out on him? I wouldn’t expect him to do it to me.
The following day, Grace takes Rachel and Toby off so I can talk to Greg. Who is still in bed.
‘Let’s go out,’ I suggest, hoping that we might be able to talk, away from the villa.
‘I don’t want to go out.’ This is the man I couldn’t keep in.
‘Come on. Your edits are done. No more deadlines. Let’s forget our responsibilities and just go to the beach like normal people.’
‘What do you mean, “normal people”? Are you saying I’m not normal?’
‘No. I just said we should go to the beach, not work so hard.’
‘You said, “like normal people”, implying I’m not.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t implying anything. We work too much and I just think we need a break.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘I know. I know that. Of course there isn’t. I just think that maybe you could have a shower, get dressed and we could go out, the two of us, get a bite to eat. We haven’t been out in ages.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘It’d do you good.’
‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. Out.’
‘OK, OK. Jesus.’ I get up to go. No point talking to him when he’s like this. ‘It doesn’t matter that I might like to go out, I suppose?’ I grumble my way to silence.
‘You don’t love me,’ he says.
That stops me. I turn.
‘And I don’t blame you. I’ve been a bastard.’
I come back to him, sit down. ‘Greg, of course I love you.’
‘I’m old, incompetent. I can’t even get it up, for fuck’s sake.’
What I say now seems very important. I take a deep breath. ‘Greg. No man can be expected to perform a hundred per cent of the time.’
‘Perform. That’s it. I can’t perform. On any front.’
I’m not letting the conversation down that route. ‘I love you, Greg.’ I lie down, facing him.
‘You’re lying.’
I sit up. ‘I’m not lying. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘You’re going.’
‘I’m going to Dublin tomorrow, for the supermarket pitch, that’s all. I’ll be over and back in the same day. If I could get out of it, I would. But I can’t. This is a big deal for Get Smart. I can’t let Fint down. Grace will be here.’
‘You’re going to leave, like Catherine left . . .’
‘Catherine died.’
‘Because of me.’
‘That’s your father-in-law’s logic. Not yours.’
‘I made her pregnant.’
‘Stop this.’
‘I killed her.’ He squeezes his eyes shut. I’ve never seen him cry.
‘Greg, please. Don’t do this. It wasn’t your fault. You know it wasn’t.’
‘If I’d only kept my stupid dick to myself.’
‘OK. That’s enough. You’re being ridiculous, and you know it. Let’s go home. Let’s just go back to Dublin.’
He’s silent.
‘You’re depressed.’ There, I’ve finally said it. It’s an actual relief.
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not fine. You’re definitely not fine. I’m worried about you, Greg.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You need to see a doctor.’
‘What kind of doctor? A shrink, is that what you mean?’
‘I don’t mean anything. All I know is that you’re depressed. And we need to do something about it. You need to see a doctor, someone who can just tell us what’s wrong.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘Please, let’s go home.’
‘I said I can handle it.’
‘Well, I can’t. I’m about to crack up, here. We have to go home. We have to sort this out.’
He closes his eyes, blocking me out.
‘Is it drugs? Were you taking drugs? Are you having withdrawal symptoms? Is that it?’
He looks at me slowly. ‘Lucy, I have never in my life taken drugs.’ His voice sounds tired – exhausted, but honest. And I believe him.
‘Have you ever been depressed like this before?’
‘When Catherine died . . .’
‘No, I mean when there was no reason to be?’
He suddenly seems to realise where this is leading. ‘I’m not depressed, I’m just exhausted. Burned out. I’ll be fine. Just let me sleep.’ He turns his back to me.
I leave the room, feeling like a failure.
When Grace arrives back with the children, she looks at me expectantly. I shake my head.
‘I shouldn’t go tomorrow,’ I say in a low voice.
‘You have to. I’ll be here; don’t worry. And, Lucy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I didn’t expect him to say yes immediately. It’s not easy to admit you’re in this kind of trouble.’
Colour is leaking into an indigo sky when the alarm goes off. Careful not to disturb anyone, I get ready, but can’t pass Greg’s room without checking on him. I know instinctively that he’s awake.
‘Are you OK?’ I whisper.
No answer. He’s breathing through his mouth, head turned into the pillow. Silently crying.
I sit on the bed beside him, take his hand in mine. ‘I’ll be back later. Grace’ll be here.’
He nods.
‘I love you, Greg. You know that, don’t you?’
He turns to me. ‘Why, Lucy? Please, tell me why.’
The need in this once confident voice almost breaks my heart. I think back to when we met. ‘Greg, I was asleep until I met you. You made me see the world from a different place. You taught me so much – how to let go, take risks, have fun, laugh. You inspired me. Taught me passion. Love without fear.’ I’m in tears now. I miss him so much.
‘Do you know that I wake up, every morning, with such a sense of dread that I can’t move, asking myself how I’m going to make it through another entire day . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Lucy. I’m so lonely.’
‘How can you be lonely?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sounds totally exasperated with himself.
‘You’ve Rachel and Toby and me. And we love you so much.’
He sighs the deepest, most hopeless sigh.
‘I won’t go,’ I say, deciding.
‘No, you have to.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Lucy, go. Please, I want you to. I’ll see a doctor while you’re gone.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Greg, that’s great. It’s the right thing. I know it is.’ I hug him, believe him.
Next Part Will come Soon