Remember that day we spent working from home?’ Greg asks one evening when we’re out for dinner.
I smile. ‘We’ll have to do it again; I’m feeling filthy.’
He reaches across the table, takes my hand and runs his thumb across my knuckles.
‘I’ve a better plan. Why don’t we work from the South of France for the summer?’
I laugh.
‘I’m serious. I always spend the summer there with the kids. I’ve a villa—’
‘Greg, much as I’d like to, I’m a partner in a business. I have responsibilities.’
‘Doesn’t that make you more flexible?’ asks the man who never sees obstacles.
‘Not really.’
‘The villa’s set up with everything – Internet, Wi-Fi . . . And we could buy anything else you need. Think of the work environment: sun, sea, sand . . . and showers.’ He raises his eyebrows suggestively.
‘My clients, Greg. They need to see me.’
‘You could pop back for meetings. I’m sure Fint would be open.’
‘I don’t know. It’d be asking a lot. Maybe I could take a three-week holiday and after that pop over for weekends.’ The idea of a holiday at all is a novelty.
‘Why not run the idea by him, at least?’
‘Greg, even if he was happy with me working from there and my clients were OK with it, and everything was fine on the work front, what about the children?’
‘What about them?’
‘Would they really want me there?’
‘Lucy, this would give you a chance to spend more time with them, for you all to get to know each other better.’
I see the merit in that. As it is, every time we meet it’s around some specific activity, which makes everything seem formal and stilted. Maybe if we were all on holiday . . .
Then again, ‘Where would I stay? I couldn’t stay with you; imagine how they’d feel. Me suddenly moving in.’
He reflects – for a split second. ‘You could stay nearby; it wouldn’t be a problem. I could look into it . . .’
I run it by Fint, still not convinced it’s what I want. When I see his face, I realise that this is the first time that his joint roles as Cupid and business partner have come into conflict. He tries to hide his surprise, then asks a series of logistical questions, the replies to which inform him that the villa is fully equipped, that I can be on a plane and home in two hours for brainstorms, meetings et cetera, and that Greg will cover the cost of flights.
‘It’d just be for the summer, right?’ he confirms.
‘I won’t stay that long.’
He sucks a thumbnail. ‘It is our quietest time.’ He mulls it over. Then his face brightens. ‘You know, it’s not a bad idea for one of us to cover base while the other takes a decent break. Maybe next year I could finally organise that trip to South Africa I’ve always dreamed about. Stay a decent amount of time . . .’
‘Of course. But, Fint, I’m not sure I want to spend the whole summer there. I was thinking of just playing it by ear for two or three weeks – you know, work while I’m there, see how it goes. If it’s not working out, I’ll just come home,’ I say to myself as much as to him. ‘And I’ll be over and back all the time.’
‘Let’s try it, then. See how it goes.’
Before heading to France, we organise a night out so that Greg can meet Grace and Kevin. We keep it simple, opting for a popular Italian restaurant in town.
‘So, who inspires you?’ Kevin asks Greg. It’s the fifth in a series of literary questions. ‘Who’s your muse?’
Greg looks across at me as if to say, ‘Help!’
‘Lucy! Of course!’ Kevin misinterprets.
‘I hope I don’t inspire scenes of murder and destruction,’ I say.
‘You know you do.’ Greg smiles.
Kevin’s sudden bark of laughter sounds false.
Leaving the restaurant, Greg turns to us. ‘Let’s check out that casino in Merrion Square.’
Grace’s face lights up.
But Kevin grimaces. ‘I think we should call it a night, hon.’ He looks at Greg apologetically. ‘I’m the medical director of a pharmaceutical start-up. Crazy busy, as you can imagine. Shouldn’t even be out tonight.’ He turns to his wife. ‘Grace?’
‘Yeah. I’m going to the casino.’
Go, Grace.
‘But Jason wakes at six.’
‘Have I ever not woken up to feed our children?’ Grace snaps. ‘I’ll see you back at the house, Kevin.’
From outside, the casino looks like any other three-storey, Georgian redbrick on the square. Inside, it’s like a gentlemen’s club. Grace and I are slow to part with our chips, expecting to lose. And that’s exactly what we do. Greg piles his chips high and barely looks as the wheel spins. And yet he wins. Consistently. He starts to give away chips – for luck.
Grace and I retire to the bar.
‘Is Greg OK?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, fine. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. I was just wondering – is he always so energetic?’
I laugh. ‘Always.’
‘He never seems to stop, though. Does he?’
‘He’s just one of those people who’s always on the go.’
‘Must be exhausting.’
I eye her. What’s she getting at?
‘Dad was shattered after playing golf with him.’
‘Wait! Did Dad talk to you about Greg?’ It feels like a deception, somehow.
‘He just mentioned the game, that’s all. Greg wanted to go for another eighteen holes.’
‘He was probably joking, Grace. He does have a sense of humour.’ I can’t believe they were talking about Greg behind my back. ‘Grace, are you trying to tell me something here?’
‘I’m just wondering why he’s so highly charged . . .’
‘Greg lives life. He experiences it. And d’you know why? Because he knows it could be snatched from him at any moment. Maybe if you’d lost someone you love you’d be “highly charged”. Greg’s alive, Grace. And he’s making the most of it.’
She bites her lip. ‘Sorry.’
‘Forget it.’
‘No. You’re right. More of us should live like that.’
I’m sorry, then, for snapping. ‘The boys are young. And Kevin’s snowed under. Start-ups are always like that. Remember when Fint and I set up Get Smart? I don’t think anybody saw us from one end of the day to the next – unless, of course, they were working for us. It’ll get better, Grace.’
‘Might help if he’d a sense of humour.’
‘Who? Kevin?’
‘Who else?’
Where has this come from? OK, he was a bit annoying in the restaurant, but I’ve never heard Grace complain about Kevin – ever.
‘He’s so serious,’ she continues, moving her swizzle stick around the glass. ‘He . . . never . . . laughs.’
‘He was laughing tonight.’
She gives me a look that cuts right through me. ‘That wasn’t laughter. That was him trying to be the alpha male. He was competing with Greg; didn’t you see that?’
‘I thought he was just in good form.’ And, OK, a bit of an idiot.
She shakes her head sadly. ‘Competing.’
‘Men do that, though, right?’
‘Some men.’
‘Kevin has other qualities,’ I say optimistically.
‘Name one.’
Jesus. This is the guy who looks down his nose at me. ‘He works hard?’ I try.
She scoffs.
Then it hits me. ‘He’s stressed! You know when your mind’s on something – like, say, your new business – you probably try too hard to be social because you’re not feeling social at all!’ I’m a psychological wizard.
She shrugs miserably.
‘Grace! This is Kevin we’re talking about. You’re crazy about Kevin. You’re the perfect couple.’
Her ‘Yeah’ sounds tired. She reaches for her bag and stands. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
We find Greg behind a skyline of chips, looking perky and adorable.
‘Hey, Greg, let’s go,’ I say.
He looks up as though lost in the world of risk. ‘Oh, hey! You out of chips? Here, have some of mine.’
‘No. Let’s actually go.’
‘OK, sure.’ He stands immediately.
‘Sir, your win!’ says the croupier.
‘Oh, OK, great. Thanks.’
I shake my head in disbelief as more chips are pushed his way.
Greg collects our coats and holds them up for us as we put them on. ‘How about a club?’
Grace looks at me. ‘You go. I’ll catch a cab.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Greg says. ‘We’ll all go.’
We flag down a taxi and drop Grace home. Then it’s back into town to a club. Because we could all be dead tomorrow.
Next Part Will come Soon