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      "body": "Congratulations @steembudy! You received a personal award!\n\n<table><tr><td>https://steemitimages.com/70x70/http://steemitboard.com/@steembudy/birthday1.png</td><td>Happy Birthday! - You are on the Steem blockchain for 1 year!</td></tr></table>\n\n<sub>_You can view [your badges on your Steem Board](https://steemitboard.com/@steembudy) and compare to others on the [Steem Ranking](https://steemitboard.com/ranking/index.php?name=steembudy)_</sub>\n\n\n###### [Vote for @Steemitboard as a witness](https://v2.steemconnect.com/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=steemitboard&approve=1) to get one more award and increased upvotes!",
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      "memo": "Hi mate, please consider taking my survey about wellness and technology. I need as many answers as possible. It's anonymous and takes only 2 mins. (To express my gratitude I will hold a lottery among the participants for 20Steems). Thank you in advance. https://steemit.com/contest/@nomad-magus/contest-kind-of",
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      "body": "Congratulations @steembudy! You have completed the following achievement on the Steem blockchain and have been rewarded with new badge(s) :\n\n[![](https://steemitimages.com/70x80/http://steemitboard.com/notifications/voted.png)](http://steemitboard.com/@steembudy) Award for the number of upvotes received\n\n<sub>_Click on the badge to view your Board of Honor._</sub>\n<sub>_If you no longer want to receive notifications, reply to this comment with the word_ `STOP`</sub>\n\n\n\n**Do not miss the last post from @steemitboard:**\n<table><tr><td><a href=\"https://steemit.com/steemitboard/@steemitboard/steemitboard-witness-update-2018-09-07\"><img src=\"https://steemitimages.com/64x128/http://i.cubeupload.com/7CiQEO.png\"></a></td><td><a href=\"https://steemit.com/steemitboard/@steemitboard/steemitboard-witness-update-2018-09-07\">SteemitBoard - Witness Update</a></td></tr></table>\n\n> Support [SteemitBoard's project](https://steemit.com/@steemitboard)! **[Vote for its witness](https://v2.steemconnect.com/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=steemitboard&approve=1)** and **get one more award**!",
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      "body": "I upvoted your post.\r\n\r\nMabuhay, keep steeming.\r\n@Filipino\r\n\r\nPosted using https://Steeming.com condenser site.",
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      "author": "cheetah",
      "body": "Hi! I am a robot. I just upvoted you! I found similar content that readers might be interested in:\nhttps://ceramicartsnetwork.org/freebies/free-guides/ceramic-mold-making-techniques/",
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      "body": "## Making Prototypes\nEach new piece begins with a prototype, generally made of wood or MDF, from which I create a plaster mold. The prototypes can be made from clay, but I prefer using wood for its durability. I’m not the savviest mold maker, so if at some point I have an accident during the mold-making process, the prototype is safe and intact. I’ve also found that making prototypes from wood is great for achieving sharp, transitional lines and edges (figure 1). Once I’ve settled on a design, I produce two scale drawings—one illustrating the side view or profile, which includes the number of stacked pieces of MDF I will need to make the model, and one illustrating the top view. Using the first drawing as a blueprint, disks of MDF are cut, glued together, stacked, and turned on a lathe to make a solid round form whose shape is close to the side profile of the finished piece (figure 2). Tip: You can use a Surform tool to shape the MDF if you do not have a lathe. The second drawing works as a cutting template that is glued to the top of the form (see figure 2). \nUsing a band saw, I cut into the shape of the form, carefully following the outside edges of the glued-on template. The sides of the form are then sanded smooth to erase any irregularities from sawing. Finally, the prototype is sealed with one coat of Minwax Sanding Sealer and two coats of polyurethane.\nThe casting slip I use has a 16% shrinkage rate so the prototype must be made appropriately larger to accommodate the final size of the pot (see the reverse shrinkage equation for help with the math). Always test the shrinkage rate of your casting slip before making the prototype.\n\n## Making the Mold\nWhen making molds, it’s important to remember that casting, like any other building method, is strictly a means to a desired end. It doesn’t have to be an overly technical venture and, depending on the form, can be quite easy. I’ve learned to make molds simply by reading books on the subject, and by asking for help from others. \nThe biggest trick to making molds is figuring out the number of parts to cast. Most of my molds are made with four parts—a bottom, two sides, and a top piece used as a pouring gate or slip reservoir. Before I make a mold, I take my prototype and draw seam lines on it with a black marker so that I know how many parts I will need for the mold (figure 3). Then I add a clay slab to the top of the prototype for a pouring gate (see figure 4). By making my pouring gate just a little taller than need be, I can control the quality of the rim after the piece has been cast. \nNext, I embed the form into a block of clay up to the seam lines marking off the first section of the mold, set up cottle boards, seal the seams between the blocking clay and the cottles, and pour the plaster. Parts of the blocking clay are removed as I’m ready to cast successive sections. The image shows the mold halfway through the casting process, with the bottom and first side cast, and the second side and slip reservoir or pouring gate still to be cast (figure 4). Note that the location of the seams has been planned so that they correspond to edges or places where planes and curves shift, rather than flat faces of the form. This makes them easier to clean up, and makes them less noticeable in the finished form. \n\n## Mixing the Casting Slip\nMost of my pots are cast using two different slips—a colored casting slip for the exterior of the piece, and a white casting slip for the interior. Both are made from the same base recipe. The colored casting slips are tinted using Mason stains. Using only colored slip would be more expensive, and, lining the colored slip with a white slip allows me to get different color effects on the interior and exterior of a form using only one glaze. \nThe colored slip is essentially a decorative coating, much like an engobe applied to a thrown or handbuilt form, but in this case, the coating is laid down first. \nTo make the colored slip, ball mill 100 grams of stain per gallon of white casting slip and let them mix for two hours (14 lbs. of casting slip is roughly equivalent to one gallon). Ball milling gives a more consistent color saturation than blunging and the stain mixes in with the wet slip more easily. If you do not have a ball mill, use a kitchen blender and mix in small batches before combining.\nTest shrinkage rates when using more than one slip in the same cast, even if they are made from the same base recipes. If the different slips have different rates of shrinkage, they will crack. \n## Casting the Pieces\nWet the mold with a sponge. Pour the colored casting slip into the mold and let it set up for approximately ten minutes (figure 5). Then pour the colored slip out of the mold and let it drain (figure 6). Once the slip has stopped dripping from the mold, immediately pour in the white casting slip. Leave the white slip in the mold for about 30 minutes before draining. The longer you leave the slip in the mold the thicker the piece will be. I prefer to make my pots just a little on the thicker side.\n\n## Finishing the Cast\nRemove the top piece of the mold (here the pouring gate section is removed first) when the slip is no longer glossy or tacky. Using an X-Acto knife, cut away the excess clay. Hold the blade flush with the top of the mold as a guide, After piercing the form in one spot, angle the blade in the same direction of your cut so that you’re always cutting the interior wall first, then moving through to the exterior. By doing so, you press the form back into the mold walls as you cut, and avoid warping the form by pulling the walls away from the mold (figure 7). \nSmooth the rim with a damp sponge and a soft, flexible rib (figure 8). Let the piece dry sufficiently before removing it from the mold (figure 9). Once the piece is bone-dry, remove any seam lines with an X-Acto blade, fettling knife, or metal rib. Smooth away any inconsistencies using drywall sanding mesh and a sponge. Caution: Always wear a respirator when sanding pots.\n\n## Glazing and Firing\nI leave patterned areas on the outside of my vessels unglazed to expose the colored clay underneath. Stickers and masking tape work great as a glaze resist and give a far crisper and better line quality than anything I can achieve using wax and a brush.\nClean the bisqued ware with a damp sponge. Using a pencil, outline the areas you want to leave bare. Follow the lines with masking tape (I use quarter-inch masking tape because it is more flexible than the wider tapes). For curved lines, focus on laying down just the outer edge of the tape rather than trying to lay down the whole width of the tape all at once (figure 10). With the resist pattern complete, dip or spray to apply the glaze. Peel away the tape and stickers as soon as the glaze is dry enough to handle (figure 11). Make sure to peel away the stickers entirely. Any remaining residue will leave a noticeable blemish even after firing. \nOne upside to using different colored casting slips is that the glazes you use will have a different color quality on glazed and unglazed areas, depending on the color of the clay underneath, and the translucency of the glaze. \n\n## Laser Printer Decals\nI make my own decals using a laser printer. I generate the images on a computer and then simply print onto water slide decal paper. HP laser printers work well and some types of copiers also make these decals. I use decal paper from www.papilio.com. You can also make handmade drawings to scale or use found images and then scan them into a computer or have them photocopied, just as long as they are printed on water slide decal paper. (For more information, you can also refer to the article on laser transfer decals by Frank Gayados on p. 7 in the Sept/Oct 2006 issue of PMI, or the July 23, 2008 Ceramic Arts Daily feature “The Details on Decal Paper for Ceramics” by Paul Andrew Wandless.) \nThe iron oxide contained in the toner of laser printers is what makes this method work as a ceramic process. (This method will not work with ink jet printers!)\nLaser printer decals work just like traditional water slide decals but with a few exceptions. For starters, the only color they fire to is a sepia or red ochre. Depending on what color clay or glaze you fire them on and depending on the opacity/transparency you select to print them, a broad range in tonality can be achieved. Secondly, these decals have no flux in them so they must be fired hotter than cone 018 (which is generally suitable for lusters, china paints, enamels, and overglazes) so that they melt to the glaze. I have found that cone 04–2 works best for high-fired ware.\nFor most glazed surfaces, you must fire the decals to at least cone 04. However, if your glazes are cone 04 the decals will dissolve away, so testing at a lower temperature is in order. For all of my cone 10 clay and glazes, I do a second decal firing to cone 2. At cone 2, the decals will fuse to both the glazed and unglazed areas. Any lower, the decals will melt only to the glazed surfaces. \n\n## Applying the Decals\nAfter the glaze firing, sand any exposed areas of bare clay with 400-grit sandpaper for a smooth finish. Cut out the decal you wish to use. Don’t worry about cutting away negative spaces, any excess material will burn away and this will make for easier application. Place the decal in room temperature water and wait for it to become fully saturated. Hold the decal onto the piece, ink side down, and slide away the paper (figure 12). The decals will still work if you don’t place them ink side down, but the image may not be as clear.\nWith the decal placed on the ware, use a sponge or rubber rib to remove any excess water and to remove any air bubbles that might be trapped under the decal. Trapped air pockets may cause the image to bubble or become distorted. Be careful not to work the decals too hard; they are thin plastic and can tear easily. Make sure there is adequate lubrication when smoothing away air pockets. For large decals, or for decals that need to curve, use a hair dryer to lightly heat the decal to make it more pliable. Always let decals dry overnight before firing. \n\n\n![Gilliatt01.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmaeAE3p8wthpTJDBD2m9NtbBt4sz1KASnMfPvC6mGNtqk/Gilliatt01.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt03.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmZ2z8h8QRPfYiMo2yHWPwo9QN2esPMnUPwNDNXCka9ZWG/Gilliatt03.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt04.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmeydYH8FN9FLLK7gRnB9ZdGtLSNANcTN89jUtPYZByQjk/Gilliatt04.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt05.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmZ92p2xM6yVZSWLe8LnV3UdZ9XEHM9tPwXgWi1TZhdgbu/Gilliatt05.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt06.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmXfucXFr7ytm5jL721qQcNavbfDp9GUTXi3yrGsG27oRV/Gilliatt06.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt07.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmcwW5Z8gimXn8BPinbsX9tYjS3tfdAuNfKzZVniTWtvGC/Gilliatt07.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt08.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmXqGcHuKsxzsR16XCwJyL1L4FXg7WgFyBYNizZKpEANYF/Gilliatt08.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt09.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmRoVvHszt4kWrYz6QmNeT8Pyu3gUN69JwgpmoQma8cmhW/Gilliatt09.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt10.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmecwAnt7zQb6ffNyds3Km1LonkvEoaYNT5a21TZyLbfyh/Gilliatt10.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt11.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmW5GhtM4HYhHNMMrbCQRGBKU4KomdrnLDyv5gw3GF6KAa/Gilliatt11.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt12.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmP2nJRmqBf9ddaxWsGBNiV8BTCpNQMDrh9CG6VN6P2STk/Gilliatt12.jpg)\n\n![Gilliatt13.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmS8a19U2HHHaStowu93W8gPAuf975S9cryaUPUDqZmbvm/Gilliatt13.jpg)\n\n![GilliattBOWLS.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmZJcgF3U8KAACt9aFg7QnTLoXWk45LtfG9fUDoxt2XC5d/GilliattBOWLS.jpg)\n\n![GilliattOpDotJar.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmSU2BDNPMECFgYXCMvUyZPdjcX51P21dqEWHtiMfaHm5x/GilliattOpDotJar.jpg)",
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      "body": "Hi! I am a robot. I just upvoted you! I found similar content that readers might be interested in:\nhttps://foodandnutrition.org/march-april-2017/embrace-exotic-funky-fruits/",
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      "body": "# food food photography fitness family flowers #\n\n![food food photography fitness family flowers.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmPJGMmekk7aKRy3A3BZiBgtFUWxsdoLfCpcN4ZrqAGDBL/food%20food%20photography%20fitness%20family%20flowers.png)\n\n## Finger Lime ##\nNot a true lime, yet a member of the citrus family, finger limes are native to Australia and also are known as “caviar limes.” Filled with juicy greenish-white or pink sacs that burst when bitten, they have a perfume-y flavor reminiscent of lemon, lime and a hint of fresh herbs. Usually eaten fresh, finger limes also can be made into marmalade. \n\n## Longan\nA smaller relative of the lychee, longans have a translucent white, soft pulp that surrounds a large black seed. When cut in half, it resembles an eyeball, earning this fruit its nickname: dragon’s eye. In China, longans are sometimes dried and added to tea for special occasions.\n\n## Loquat\nNative to China and widely grown in Japan, loquats are picked ripe, so they spoil quickly and bruise easily; therefore, they’re usually found fresh only in areas where they’re grown. U.S. loquats are harvested from March to June in coastal areas, including Santa Barbara and San Diego. Dried or canned loquats are available at many Asian markets. \n\n## Rambutan\nSimilar to lychees but not as juicy, the rambutan got its name from the Malay word for hair because its rind is covered in dark, soft bristles. It has a single seed surrounded by flesh that is grape-like in texture, with a sweet, delicate flavor.\n\n## Dragon Fruit\nThis grenade-shaped member of the cactus family (also called “pitaya”) has a leathery exterior ranging from yellow to bright pink with lime-green spiny tips. Flecked with tiny black seeds, its juicy flesh can be white or red and has a refreshing and light flavor.\n\n## Horned Melon\nKnown also as a “kiwano” or African horned cucumber, this bright yellow-orange fruit has horns that make it look like a small spacecraft. Its jelly-like interior has a mild flavor that tastes like a combination of banana and cucumber.\n\n## Cherimoya\nNative to Peru and more recently grown in Spain and California, among other places, cherimoya’s green, leathery, scaly skin is reminiscent of a globe artichoke, while its white, custardy flesh is peppered with black seeds. Cherimoya has a delicate flavor suggestive of banana and pineapple. Serve it chilled and halved for scooping.",
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      "body": "![steembudy.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/steembudy.png)\n\n\nYou OK?’ Grace asks when she opens the door.\n\nI shake my head and the tears come.\n\n‘Greg?’\n\nI nod. She puts an arm around me and walks me into the sitting room, where she sits me down on the couch.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Shhh, it’s OK,’ she says, rubbing my back.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Did he tell you he was on drugs?’\n\n‘No. But what else could it be? He has all the signs . . .’\n\n‘Have you ever seen any evidence of drugs?’\n\n‘No. But it has to be . . . He was talking gibberish. His writing was bizarre.’\n\n‘Can I ask you a question? When he was high, was he overspending, making any impulse buys?’\n\nHow could she possibly know? ‘Why? It’s not a medical complaint. Is it?’\n\nShe takes a breath. ‘It can be. Sometimes.’\n\n‘Of what?’\n\n‘What kind of things did he buy?’\n\n‘A Porsche.’\n\nShe raises her eyebrows.\n\n‘A diamond earring – for himself.’\n\nShe nods.\n\n‘He dyed his hair white.’\n\nI 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 . . .’\n\n‘What? What is it?’\n\n‘I’ve seen patients with symptoms similar to Greg’s.’\n\n‘And?’\n\n‘Well, something I might have considered with them was bipolar disorder. Have you thought of that?’\n\nMy world stops. ‘No. No way. He doesn’t have a mental illness. He couldn’t. Not Greg.’\n\nShe clears her throat. ‘I’m not saying that’s it. Only that it’s a possibility.’\n\nMy 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.\n\n‘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 . . .’\n\n‘But if he has it, if he is bipolar, why didn’t he tell me?’\n\n‘He may not know. It can come on at any stage . . .’\n\n‘What if he does know? What if he’s just not telling me?’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Oh, God.’\n\n‘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.’\n\nOne of the boys starts to cry. Sounds like Jason.\n\nShe rolls her eyes. ‘Timed beautifully, as usual.’ She sighs. ‘Back in a minute.’\n\nI 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.\n\nThe following day, Grace takes Rachel and Toby off so I can talk to Greg. Who is still in bed.\n\n‘Let’s go out,’ I suggest, hoping that we might be able to talk, away from the villa.\n\n‘I don’t want to go out.’ This is the man I couldn’t keep in.\n\n‘Come on. Your edits are done. No more deadlines. Let’s forget our responsibilities and just go to the beach like normal people.’\n\n‘What do you mean, “normal people”? Are you saying I’m not normal?’\n\n‘No. I just said we should go to the beach, not work so hard.’\n\n‘You said, “like normal people”, implying I’m not.’\n\n‘That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t implying anything. We work too much and I just think we need a break.’\n\n‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘I don’t want to.’\n\n‘It’d do you good.’\n\n‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Go. Out.’\n\n‘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.\n\n‘You don’t love me,’ he says.\n\nThat stops me. I turn.\n\n‘And I don’t blame you. I’ve been a bastard.’\n\nI come back to him, sit down. ‘Greg, of course I love you.’\n\n‘I’m old, incompetent. I can’t even get it up, for fuck’s sake.’\n\nWhat 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.’\n\n‘Perform. That’s it. I can’t perform. On any front.’\n\nI’m not letting the conversation down that route. ‘I love you, Greg.’ I lie down, facing him.\n\n‘You’re lying.’\n\nI sit up. ‘I’m not lying. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here.’\n\n‘You’re going.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘You’re going to leave, like Catherine left . . .’\n\n‘Catherine died.’\n\n‘Because of me.’\n\n‘That’s your father-in-law’s logic. Not yours.’\n\n‘I made her pregnant.’\n\n‘Stop this.’\n\n‘I killed her.’ He squeezes his eyes shut. I’ve never seen him cry.\n\n‘Greg, please. Don’t do this. It wasn’t your fault. You know it wasn’t.’\n\n‘If I’d only kept my stupid dick to myself.’\n\n‘OK. That’s enough. You’re being ridiculous, and you know it. Let’s go home. Let’s just go back to Dublin.’\n\nHe’s silent.\n\n‘You’re depressed.’ There, I’ve finally said it. It’s an actual relief.\n\n‘I’m fine.’\n\n‘No, you’re not fine. You’re definitely not fine. I’m worried about you, Greg.’\n\n‘I’m not going anywhere.’\n\n‘You need to see a doctor.’\n\n‘What kind of doctor? A shrink, is that what you mean?’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘I can handle it.’\n\n‘Please, let’s go home.’\n\n‘I said I can handle it.’\n\n‘Well, I can’t. I’m about to crack up, here. We have to go home. We have to sort this out.’\n\nHe closes his eyes, blocking me out.\n\n‘Is it drugs? Were you taking drugs? Are you having withdrawal symptoms? Is that it?’\n\nHe looks at me slowly. ‘Lucy, I have never in my life taken drugs.’ His voice sounds tired – exhausted, but honest. And I believe him.\n\n‘Have you ever been depressed like this before?’\n\n‘When Catherine died . . .’\n\n‘No, I mean when there was no reason to be?’\n\nHe 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.\n\nI leave the room, feeling like a failure.\n\nWhen Grace arrives back with the children, she looks at me expectantly. I shake my head.\n\n‘I shouldn’t go tomorrow,’ I say in a low voice.\n\n‘You have to. I’ll be here; don’t worry. And, Lucy?’\n\n‘Yeah?’\n\n‘I didn’t expect him to say yes immediately. It’s not easy to admit you’re in this kind of trouble.’\n\nColour 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.\n\n‘Are you OK?’ I whisper.\n\nNo answer. He’s breathing through his mouth, head turned into the pillow. Silently crying.\n\nI sit on the bed beside him, take his hand in mine. ‘I’ll be back later. Grace’ll be here.’\n\nHe nods.\n\n‘I love you, Greg. You know that, don’t you?’\n\nHe turns to me. ‘Why, Lucy? Please, tell me why.’\n\nThe 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.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘How can you be lonely?’\n\n‘I don’t know.’ He sounds totally exasperated with himself.\n\n‘You’ve Rachel and Toby and me. And we love you so much.’\n\nHe sighs the deepest, most hopeless sigh.\n\n‘I won’t go,’ I say, deciding.\n\n‘No, you have to.’\n\n‘No, I don’t.’\n\n‘Lucy, go. Please, I want you to. I’ll see a doctor while you’re gone.’\n\n‘You will?’\n\n‘Yes.’\n\n‘Oh, Greg, that’s great. It’s the right thing. I know it is.’ I hug him, believe him.\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "body": "![steembudy.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/steembudy.png)\n\nOn 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.\n\nWe 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.\n\nWe 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.\n\nBreaking 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.\n\nWe have our linen napkins opened for us by waiters and menus slipped into our hands.\n\nBen 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.\n\nAs we’re finishing coffee, Ben says, ‘We’ve had a visit from Hilary.’\n\nMy heart thuds.\n\n‘She seems worried. Is everything all right, Greg?’\n\n‘Everything’s fine. Couldn’t be better, Ben,’ he says, flashing a wide smile. ‘I’m not sure what Hilary’s worried about.’\n\n‘She’s concerned about the welfare of our grandchildren.’\n\nJesus.\n\n‘The children are fine,’ Greg says, without faltering. ‘You can see for yourself tomorrow.’\n\n‘Yes, yes. And how are you feeling?’\n\n‘Never better.’\n\n‘And the driving? No problems there?’\n\n‘None.’\n\n‘Good. Good. Getting plenty of rest?’\n\n‘What is this, Ben?’\n\n‘Nothing. Nothing. Just making sure you’re all right. Not getting too much sun, that sort of thing.’ He’s fiddling with his tie.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘No, no. I wouldn’t dream—’\n\n‘I insist.’ He calls the waiter, pulling out his wallet. He pays without looking at the bill.\n\nNothing more is said, apart from curt goodbyes.\n\nGreg doesn’t speak until we’re pulling away. ‘Well, that was humiliating.’\n\nI look at him. ‘You were right about something being up.’\n\nHe yanks at his seatbelt; it jams. ‘Who does Hilary think she is, upsetting them like that?’\n\n‘She must have really freaked them out, to have them hopping on a plane to France.’\n\n‘Of all the people to freak out.’ He pulls away, fast.\n\n‘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?’\n\nHe 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.’\n\n‘What? Why?’\n\n‘They both do.’\n\n‘They said it was your fault?’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘But how can they blame you? Catherine died in childbirth.’\n\nHe pulls out again. ‘Who got her pregnant?’\n\n‘Oh, come on.’\n\nHe shrugs.\n\nThe traffic slows as we reach throbbing Juan-les-Pins. We stop at lights. He looks across at me.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘So, that’s how she knows them well enough to do this.’\n\n‘Oh, they love Hilary. She looked after their grandchildren while the oaf tried to pick up the pieces.’\n\nThe car in front moves forward and we’re driving again.\n\n‘Weird the way he said “our grandchildren”, – so possessively. As if they’re actually his kids,’ I say.\n\n‘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.’\n\nNext 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.\n\nWe 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.\n\nAfter two hours, I go in to drag him out. He’s sitting at his desk, head in his hands.\n\n‘You OK?’\n\n‘No.’\n\n‘What is it?’\n\nHe 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.’\n\nI pretend to read it for the first time.\n\n‘See? See?’\n\n‘Well, it’s . . . It’s just very, very creative.’\n\n‘Did I write that? Did I really write that shit? I must be losing my mind.’\n\nHow can he not know what he’s written? ‘Come on, take a break.’\n\n‘Did you know I was writing this?’\n\n‘No,’ I lie. ‘Come on. Come away from it. Start again later.’\n\n‘What if I produce the same crap?’\n\n‘You won’t. Just do the edits for A River Too Wide. That will get you into the swing of things.’\n\n‘I don’t know.’\n\n‘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—’\n\n‘Dump it. Dump the whole bloody lot of it.’\n\n‘OK. I’ll dump it. Now go.’\n\nI 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.\n\nater, we collect the children.\n\n‘How did that go?’ asks Greg, twisting round in the front passenger seat.\n\n‘All right,’ says Rachel.\n\n‘Just all right?’\n\n‘Boring,’ says Toby.\n\n‘Yeah. They wouldn’t let us do anything. They wouldn’t let me go on the rope ladder even though I’m ten.’\n\n‘They wouldn’t let us dive.’\n\n‘They kept putting sunscreen all over us,’ says Rachel. ‘Even though we had some on and I can do it myself.’\n\n‘Oh,’ says Greg.\n\n‘They wouldn’t let us have Coke,’ says Toby. ‘Even though I said you let us.’\n\n‘Or chips. And they kept asking us if we’re happy.’\n\n‘I hope you pretended to be,’ says Greg.\n\n‘No. Not with them. With you.’\n\nI stall the car. Behind, a horn blows.\n\n‘With me?’ Greg asks.\n\n‘Yeah. They kept asking questions about you.’\n\n‘What kind of questions?’\n\n‘Were you cross with us? Were you talking funny? Were you driving funny?’\n\n‘And what did you say?’ he asks quickly.\n\n‘I lied,’ says Rachel. ‘I said you were fine.’\n\nGreg and I exchange a glance. He looks so guilty. He turns back.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘’S’OK, Dad,’ says Toby. ‘At least you let us have Coke and chips.’\n\nJust the reassurance he needs.\n\nNext 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.\n\nHalf an hour later, we’re in the boardroom. Fint’s looking great – tanned and relaxed. Sebastian, too, is the picture of health.\n\n‘So, what did you think of my proposal?’ I ask Fint.\n\n‘Good.’\n\n‘Only good?’ In the Dictionary of Fint, good means . . . well, bad.\n\n‘No, no. It was good . . . Sebastian had some ideas too. Do you want to present them, Sebastian?’\n\nA presentation? I thought this was a brainstorm.\n\nSebastian 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.\n\n‘Sebastian, that was amazing.’\n\nHe beams. ‘Thanks, Lucy.’\n\n‘And to think that if you hadn’t gone to France, we’d never have discovered this Natural Born Designer,’ Fint says.\n\nI 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.\n\nI 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.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘No worries.’ We hug. ‘Hey there, handsome.’ I kiss Jason. ‘I was just going to get a taxi.’\n\n‘You should have known one of us would be here.’\n\nWe walk out into the sun.\n\n‘Is Greg OK?’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘He’s probably run-down. If we stop at a pharmacy on the way back, would you be able to pick out something?’\n\n‘Assuming my French holds up.’\n\nWe get to the car and strap Jason in the back. Grace hops into the driving seat. I sit in beside her.\n\n‘How’d your meeting go?’ she asks.\n\n‘All right.’ I sigh. ‘Some bright young spark showed me up.’\n\n‘Lucy, you’re not exactly old and dull,’ she says, before reversing out of the space.\n\n‘Oh, yeah?’ It’s exactly how I do feel.\n\n‘Is everything OK?’ She squints.\n\n‘Yeah. I just should be back there more often.’\n\n‘Maybe you should go over more regularly. Once or twice a week, say.’\n\n‘Hmm. Maybe . . . Where’s Shane?’\n\n‘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?’\n\n‘Yeah,’ I say, still surprised at this fun side to her.\n\n‘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.\n\n‘All I remember is how you wouldn’t let me play with your friends.’ I smile.\n\n‘You know, I still feel guilty about that. Let me take this moment to officially apologise.’\n\n‘It’s OK, Grace.’ I laugh. ‘I think I recovered without major psychological scars.’\n\n‘You were great, though. Remember when you were five? That was it: no more being my personal slave. You’d had enough.’\n\nI 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.\n\n‘You never really liked me, though, did you?’ she says.\n\n‘What? Are you mad? Of course I liked you.’\n\n‘You called me Little Miss Perfect.’\n\n‘Not to your face.’\n\n‘Which was even worse.’ She pulls away from the lights.\n\n‘We were kids, Grace. Just because I called you a dumb name doesn’t mean I didn’t like you.’\n\nShe looks at me. ‘So, why did you do it?’\n\n‘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.\n\n‘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.\n\nI reach across and put my hand on hers.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Do you want me to drive?’\n\nShe shakes her head.\n\n‘You sure?’\n\nShe nods.\n\nI rummage in my bag for a hankie and hand it to her. ‘I’ll hold the wheel.’\n\nShe 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.’\n\nI 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.’\n\nAnd then she smiles. ‘Thank you.’\n\n‘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.\n\nGrace 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.\n\n‘Hi there,’ I call.\n\nThey all look up. The boys say, ‘Hi.’ Shane asks where his mum is.\n\n‘Just gone up to the apartment to let Jase have his nap.’ Rehearsed excuse, and partly true.\n\n‘’K.’\n\n‘Would anyone like a drink?’ I ask.\n\nI’ve two takers – the boys. I quickly sort them out.\n\n‘Where’s your dad?’ I ask Toby when I hand him his blackcurrant juice.\n\n‘Outside.’\n\n‘Thanks.’\n\nGreg’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.\n\n‘Hi!’ I kiss his cheek.\n\n‘Oh, hi.’ His smile is low voltage.\n\n‘You OK?’ I ask.\n\n‘Mm-hmm.’\n\n‘I got you a tonic on the way back from the airport. Grace was saying you’re feeling a bit drained.’\n\n‘I’d have come to collect you, but I just didn’t have the energy.’\n\n‘Not to worry.’ I pull up a chair beside him. ‘Miss me?’\n\n‘Mm-hmm.’\n\n‘That much?’ I joke.\n\nWhen he smiles, it seems forced.\n\n‘How did you all get on?’\n\n‘Fine,’ says the man who never uses one word if fifty will do.\n\n‘So, what did you get up to?’\n\nHe thinks for a moment, then abandons it. ‘Not much.’\n\n‘Are you pissed off with me or something?’\n\nHe looks surprised. ‘No.’\n\n‘Well, what’s wrong? You’re very quiet.’\n\nHe shakes his head. ‘I’m fine.’\n\nI 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.\n\nLater, 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\nIn 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.\n\nOne 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.\n\nAt 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.\n\n‘Just one clear thought, is that too much to ask?’ He leaves before I can react.\n\nAfter 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.\n\nOver 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.\n\n‘Dad, are you coming for a swim?’ Rachel tries.\n\nHe doesn’t hear.\n\n‘Dad?’\n\n‘Hmm?’\n\n‘Are you coming for a swim?’\n\n‘No. No, thanks. You go ahead.’\n\n‘OK.’ She walks off, looking back at him.\n\nI sit beside him. ‘You OK?’\n\n‘Yeah, fine.’\n\nI know he’s not. ‘I’m sure all writers go through this. I wouldn’t worry about it, Greg.’\n\n‘I haven’t been a good father, have I?’\n\nWhat? ‘You’re a great father.’\n\n‘I’ve neglected the kids. Neglected you.’\n\n‘Come on, Greg. Forget about that. You’ve been fine since we talked. Everything’s OK now.’\n\n‘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.\n\n‘I think I’ll lie down for a while,’ he says.\n\nI could do with one myself.\n\nHe 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\nDown, 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.\n\nHe’s still in bed, one afternoon, when his father-in-law rings. ‘How is everything?’ Ben asks me.\n\n‘Fine, Ben, thank you.’\n\n‘And the children?’\n\n‘Very well, thanks. Would you like to speak with them?’\n\n‘Yes, yes, in a moment. Could I have a quick word with Greg first, please?’\n\nI’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.’\n\nI 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.\n\n‘Greg?’\n\nHe doesn’t answer.\n\n‘Ben’s on the phone.’\n\n‘Tell him to fuck off.’\n\nI laugh, assuming he’s joking, then turn on the air conditioning.\n\n‘Go away,’ he says.\n\n‘I’m sorry?’\n\n‘Please. Leave me alone.’\n\n‘What is wrong with you?’\n\n‘I just need peace. Is that too much to ask?’\n\n‘OK, OK, I’ll tell him you’ll call back.’ Jesus.\n\n‘And turn the air conditioning off. The noise drives me mad.’\n\nBiting my tongue, I do as he asks, then head for the door.\n\n‘Lucy?’\n\n‘What?’\n\n‘Can you keep them a bit quieter?’\n\nThe 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.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Is everything all right?’\n\n‘Everything’s fine. I’ll get Greg to call you.’\n\n‘All right,’ he says, not sounding happy.\n\n‘Thanks for calling.’\n\nWhen 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.\n\nAt dinner, he won’t eat. Instead, he drinks. Wine. Then whiskey.\n\nLater, 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.\n\n‘I was reading that!’\n\n‘That? The guy’s a writer, you’d think he’d know what plain English is.’\n\n‘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.\n\nHis 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.\n\nI give it to him and he goes to fish the book out of the pool.\n\n‘You might as well bin it,’ I say, when he gets it.\n\n‘Sorry,’ he says again.\n\n‘What’s wrong with you, Greg? Why are you like this?’\n\nHe walks back to the table, reaching for the whiskey bottle.\n\n‘Drinking isn’t going to help.’\n\n‘I’ll drink if I bloody well want.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Where?’ He sounds panicked. ‘Where are you going?’\n\n‘I don’t know . . .’ Then, suddenly, I do. ‘The apartment.’\n\n‘Don’t.’\n\n‘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.\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "body": "![steembudy.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/steembudy.png)\n\nAt twelve, Greg’s still asleep. I’m sitting in the kitchen, nursing a coffee, when, on the table next to the keys to his Porsche, his iPhone begins to vibrate. Hilary’s name comes up on the screen. Finally, I think, and pick up.\n\n‘Hello, Hilary.’\n\nShe kills the line. I should have known she would. I sigh and am about to put back the phone when I notice that Greg has missed calls. Hilary’s been ringing him non-stop for days, at all hours. For goodness’ sake, if she’s so desperate for her job back, all she had to do was call me. Why is Greg being so pig-headed? He must have heard some of the calls. And why didn’t she try the villa? That’s when I finally figure out the source of that silent calls – Hilary, ringing for Greg, and hanging up when I answered. This is more than wanting her job back. This is crazy.\n\nIt’s lunchtime when Greg surfaces. Dark circles ring sunken eyes. A long, red line runs down his cheek where he’s slept on a crease. He’s changed out of his wet clothes, but still looks shabby and unshaven. His T-shirt and trousers hang off him, making me realise how much weight he’s lost. He looks burned out, as if the last two weeks of sleepless nights have finally caught up with him.\n\n‘Hi,’ I say.\n\n‘Hi.’ He half smiles, half looks at me, dragging out a chair and slumping onto it.\n\nI plug in the kettle, then turn, folding my arms and leaning against the worktop. Neither of us speaks; we just watch the rain through the open doors.\n\n‘Hilary’s been ringing your mobile – constantly.’\n\n‘Oh?’ He doesn’t look at me.\n\n‘What does she want?’\n\n‘Dunno.’ He gets up, goes to the fridge, pulls out a carton of juice and drinks directly from it.\n\n‘She called here, too, and hung up when I answered. What’s going on?’\n\nHe shakes his head. Shrugs.\n\n‘Surely, she got through to you at some point?’\n\n‘She said something about wanting her job back. I told her it was out of the question.’\n\n‘Why?’\n\n‘I don’t want her back, that’s all. Where are the kids?’ He looks to the door.\n\n‘Upstairs.’\n\n‘What are they doing?’ He puts the carton back. Yawns. Scratches the side of his face.\n\n‘Avoiding me.’\n\n‘Both of them?’\n\n‘They think I told you to fire Hilary.’\n\n‘Why?’\n\n‘Because she told them I did.’\n\n‘Jesus. Why?’\n\n‘Who knows? Revenge. A parting shot.’ I look at him. ‘Greg, can you sit down for a sec?’\n\nHis eyes register that something’s up. But he doesn’t argue.\n\n‘We’re in trouble,’ I say.\n\nI see him swallow.\n\n‘I can’t go on. Not like this. You snap at me and the children. Sack Hilary. Then disappear whenever you want for hours, nights at a time, without any explanation. I don’t know where you are, who you’re with, what you’re doing. You won’t talk to me. You don’t care. Just leave me here, minding your children as if I’m some kind of idiot. They’re your responsibility, not mine. At this stage, the only reason I’m still here is so that nothing happens to them. I can’t trust you to mind your own children, Greg. You’ve lost all sense of responsibility. You have a family, a successful career, a fiancée, commitments, but you just don’t seem to care. It’s as if all you want is to be out having a good time, getting high, to hell with the people who love you. Did you know I’ve had Matt hounding me for the edits to A River Too Wide?’ He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t let him. ‘I’ve had enough, Greg.’\n\n‘I’m sorry, Lucy. I . . . I haven’t been myself. So restless. Always something else to do . . .’\n\n‘You used to be a great father. I admired you for it.’\n\n‘I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll change. I won’t go out . . .’\n\n‘What is it, Greg? Are you bored with us?’\n\n‘No.’\n\n‘Isn’t life exciting enough for you?’\n\n‘Of course it is.’\n\n‘Is there someone else?’\n\n‘No. No.’\n\n‘Please, Greg. Just tell me what it is – I want to know what ended our relationship.’\n\nHe gets up, comes to me and takes my hands in his. ‘There’s no one else, Lucy. Just you. I love you. I won’t go out. I’ll stay in. I’m sorry. I just don’t know how I’ve let things get this out of hand. I don’t understand it myself.’ He sniffs. ‘I promise I’ll stick around, be here for you, for the kids.’ He rubs his bristly chin.\n\n‘How do I know I can trust you, Greg? You say you’ll do all these things and then you don’t. I’m tired. So tired. I need to go home, now. Get Rob over here to help you with the children. They’re not my responsibility. I’ve tried to make this work. I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t do this any more. I just can’t.’ I look down at the beautiful triangular solitaire that reminds me of another time, another man. I close my eyes and begin to remove it.\n\n‘No, Lucy. Please. I promise you, there’s nowhere else I want to be, just with you and the kids.’\n\n‘Then, why aren’t you?’ I manage to prise the ring off a finger swollen from the heat. I hold it out to him. ‘Take it. Please take it.’\n\nHe looks desperate. ‘I love you, Lucy, I swear. Give me a chance to prove it, Luce, please. Give me a week. You’ll see.’\n\nCan I believe him? Can I trust him?\n\n‘One week,’ he says.\n\nI enclose the ring in my fist. For once, we are talking. He is actually listening. Promising to try. All he wants is a week. And, much as I want to, I can’t deny him that. ‘One week, Greg. That’s it. One week.’\n\nHe hugs then kisses me. ‘Thank you, Lucy. Thank you. You won’t be sorry, I swear.’\n\nNeither of us moves. He hasn’t held me in a simple hug like this for what feels like a very long time. Eventually, I ask him to call the children for lunch – they might come for him.\n\nThey look wary, not sure what to expect.\n\n‘Hi, guys,’ Greg says.\n\nToby looks at me.\n\nI smile reassurance.\n\n‘Hi,’ he says quietly, taking his place at the table.\n\n‘Hi, Dad,’ says Rachel, eyeing her father carefully.\n\nWe sit down to eat. For a long while, no one speaks. The children look like they’re on full alert, as though expecting an outburst or a sudden ingenious idea that spells disaster.\n\n‘Maybe, when the rain’s stopped, we could go for a swim?’ he suggests in a voice that sounds very calm – for him.\n\nToby looks at Rachel, unsure.\n\nShe seems to mull it over. ‘Can Lucy come too?’ she asks without looking at me.\n\nThough I know why she’s asking, I’m still surprised.\n\n‘Of course,’ Greg says.\n\nAfter lunch, the children go upstairs to change into their swimming togs. Greg helps me clear the table.\n\n‘They hardly said anything over lunch,’ he says.\n\n‘They didn’t want to upset you.’\n\nHe stops halfway between the table and the sink, glasses in hand. ‘Why would they upset me?’\n\n‘Greg, everything upsets you lately. Especially the people who love you.’\n\nHe looks bemused.\n\nHe needs his next hit. Any minute now, he’ll go.\n\nBut he doesn’t. There’s no next hit, no more high. Instead, over the next few days, he glides slowly back to earth, to us, his boundless energy fading like a dying wind, his restlessness with it. He seems content with our company again, no longer desperate to befriend the world. Gradually, he resumes the simple acts of living that I once took for granted – eating, sleeping, listening. At times, I wonder if I imagined it all. But then, there’s a silver sports car outside, an unfinished mural on the wall, an office that looks like a hurricane struck, a diamond earring, white hair and a red dress.\n\nAnd there are worried children.\n\n‘Dad, what was wrong with you before?’ asks Toby one night, sitting on his father’s lap having his toenails cut.\n\nGreg doesn’t take his eyes off Toby’s feet. ‘When?’\n\n‘Before. When I didn’t know what you were saying.’\n\nNow he looks at Toby, confused and worried. ‘You didn’t know what I was saying?’\n\n‘No.’ Toby’s eyes search mine for confirmation.\n\n‘None of us did,’ I say.\n\nGreg seems stuck. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, finally. ‘Must have been the heat. Yes, that was it. The heat.’\n\nNo way. Not just heat.\n\n‘But it’s still hot, Dad,’ insists Toby.\n\n‘Not so hot, though. It’s cooled down a good bit, hasn’t it? And you can understand me now, can’t you?’ He smiles and ruffles his son’s hair.\n\n‘Yeah.’\n\n‘Well, then. That’s what matters, isn’t it? Everything back to normal.’\n\nIs it, though? I’m still waiting for the next disappearing act. Despite how wonderful he’s been over the last few days – staying at the villa, cooking the meals, swimming with the kids, listening – I can’t allow myself to believe that this is over. After all that’s happened, for Greg to stop, just like that, seems too good to be true. Still, I ring Grace to let her know. No point in her embarking on a wasted journey. She’s relieved that Greg’s feeling better, but, as she has the flights booked and could do with a change of scene, she’s going to stick to her plan.\n\nI was hoping she might.\n\nThe following day, when they come through Arrivals, I feel almost teary to see them. My own, personal cavalry. In one hand, Grace is pushing the trolley. In the other, she’s carrying a heavy-looking Jason. Shane’s sitting on the cases like he’s king of the castle. I wave like mad. Grace has to stop the trolley as Shane decides to suddenly disembark. I squat down and he runs to me. I squeeze him tight and stand with him in my arms. I plant a raspberry on his cheek. When Grace reaches us, I pop Shane down and take Jason from her. It’s good to feel his podgy little arms around my neck, though it reminds me of the gulf between Greg’s children and me.\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "title": "the accidental life of greg millar Part 21"
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      "body": "![Screen Shot 2018-09-07 at 12.30.39 PM.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/Screen%20Shot%202018-09-07%20at%2012.30.39%20PM.png)\n\nAt twelve, Greg’s still asleep. I’m sitting in the kitchen, nursing a coffee, when, on the table next to the keys to his Porsche, his iPhone begins to vibrate. Hilary’s name comes up on the screen. Finally, I think, and pick up.\n\n‘Hello, Hilary.’\n\nShe kills the line. I should have known she would. I sigh and am about to put back the phone when I notice that Greg has missed calls. Hilary’s been ringing him non-stop for days, at all hours. For goodness’ sake, if she’s so desperate for her job back, all she had to do was call me. Why is Greg being so pig-headed? He must have heard some of the calls. And why didn’t she try the villa? That’s when I finally figure out the source of that silent calls – Hilary, ringing for Greg, and hanging up when I answered. This is more than wanting her job back. This is crazy.\n\nIt’s lunchtime when Greg surfaces. Dark circles ring sunken eyes. A long, red line runs down his cheek where he’s slept on a crease. He’s changed out of his wet clothes, but still looks shabby and unshaven. His T-shirt and trousers hang off him, making me realise how much weight he’s lost. He looks burned out, as if the last two weeks of sleepless nights have finally caught up with him.\n\n‘Hi,’ I say.\n\n‘Hi.’ He half smiles, half looks at me, dragging out a chair and slumping onto it.\n\nI plug in the kettle, then turn, folding my arms and leaning against the worktop. Neither of us speaks; we just watch the rain through the open doors.\n\n‘Hilary’s been ringing your mobile – constantly.’\n\n‘Oh?’ He doesn’t look at me.\n\n‘What does she want?’\n\n‘Dunno.’ He gets up, goes to the fridge, pulls out a carton of juice and drinks directly from it.\n\n‘She called here, too, and hung up when I answered. What’s going on?’\n\nHe shakes his head. Shrugs.\n\n‘Surely, she got through to you at some point?’\n\n‘She said something about wanting her job back. I told her it was out of the question.’\n\n‘Why?’\n\n‘I don’t want her back, that’s all. Where are the kids?’ He looks to the door.\n\n‘Upstairs.’\n\n‘What are they doing?’ He puts the carton back. Yawns. Scratches the side of his face.\n\n‘Avoiding me.’\n\n‘Both of them?’\n\n‘They think I told you to fire Hilary.’\n\n‘Why?’\n\n‘Because she told them I did.’\n\n‘Jesus. Why?’\n\n‘Who knows? Revenge. A parting shot.’ I look at him. ‘Greg, can you sit down for a sec?’\n\nHis eyes register that something’s up. But he doesn’t argue.\n\n‘We’re in trouble,’ I say.\n\nI see him swallow.\n\n‘I can’t go on. Not like this. You snap at me and the children. Sack Hilary. Then disappear whenever you want for hours, nights at a time, without any explanation. I don’t know where you are, who you’re with, what you’re doing. You won’t talk to me. You don’t care. Just leave me here, minding your children as if I’m some kind of idiot. They’re your responsibility, not mine. At this stage, the only reason I’m still here is so that nothing happens to them. I can’t trust you to mind your own children, Greg. You’ve lost all sense of responsibility. You have a family, a successful career, a fiancée, commitments, but you just don’t seem to care. It’s as if all you want is to be out having a good time, getting high, to hell with the people who love you. Did you know I’ve had Matt hounding me for the edits to A River Too Wide?’ He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t let him. ‘I’ve had enough, Greg.’\n\n‘I’m sorry, Lucy. I . . . I haven’t been myself. So restless. Always something else to do . . .’\n\n‘You used to be a great father. I admired you for it.’\n\n‘I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll change. I won’t go out . . .’\n\n‘What is it, Greg? Are you bored with us?’\n\n‘No.’\n\n‘Isn’t life exciting enough for you?’\n\n‘Of course it is.’\n\n‘Is there someone else?’\n\n‘No. No.’\n\n‘Please, Greg. Just tell me what it is – I want to know what ended our relationship.’\n\nHe gets up, comes to me and takes my hands in his. ‘There’s no one else, Lucy. Just you. I love you. I won’t go out. I’ll stay in. I’m sorry. I just don’t know how I’ve let things get this out of hand. I don’t understand it myself.’ He sniffs. ‘I promise I’ll stick around, be here for you, for the kids.’ He rubs his bristly chin.\n\n‘How do I know I can trust you, Greg? You say you’ll do all these things and then you don’t. I’m tired. So tired. I need to go home, now. Get Rob over here to help you with the children. They’re not my responsibility. I’ve tried to make this work. I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t do this any more. I just can’t.’ I look down at the beautiful triangular solitaire that reminds me of another time, another man. I close my eyes and begin to remove it.\n\n‘No, Lucy. Please. I promise you, there’s nowhere else I want to be, just with you and the kids.’\n\n‘Then, why aren’t you?’ I manage to prise the ring off a finger swollen from the heat. I hold it out to him. ‘Take it. Please take it.’\n\nHe looks desperate. ‘I love you, Lucy, I swear. Give me a chance to prove it, Luce, please. Give me a week. You’ll see.’\n\nCan I believe him? Can I trust him?\n\n‘One week,’ he says.\n\nI enclose the ring in my fist. For once, we are talking. He is actually listening. Promising to try. All he wants is a week. And, much as I want to, I can’t deny him that. ‘One week, Greg. That’s it. One week.’\n\nHe hugs then kisses me. ‘Thank you, Lucy. Thank you. You won’t be sorry, I swear.’\n\nNeither of us moves. He hasn’t held me in a simple hug like this for what feels like a very long time. Eventually, I ask him to call the children for lunch – they might come for him.\n\nThey look wary, not sure what to expect.\n\n‘Hi, guys,’ Greg says.\n\nToby looks at me.\n\nI smile reassurance.\n\n‘Hi,’ he says quietly, taking his place at the table.\n\n‘Hi, Dad,’ says Rachel, eyeing her father carefully.\n\nWe sit down to eat. For a long while, no one speaks. The children look like they’re on full alert, as though expecting an outburst or a sudden ingenious idea that spells disaster.\n\n‘Maybe, when the rain’s stopped, we could go for a swim?’ he suggests in a voice that sounds very calm – for him.\n\nToby looks at Rachel, unsure.\n\nShe seems to mull it over. ‘Can Lucy come too?’ she asks without looking at me.\n\nThough I know why she’s asking, I’m still surprised.\n\n‘Of course,’ Greg says.\n\nAfter lunch, the children go upstairs to change into their swimming togs. Greg helps me clear the table.\n\n‘They hardly said anything over lunch,’ he says.\n\n‘They didn’t want to upset you.’\n\nHe stops halfway between the table and the sink, glasses in hand. ‘Why would they upset me?’\n\n‘Greg, everything upsets you lately. Especially the people who love you.’\n\nHe looks bemused.\n\nHe needs his next hit. Any minute now, he’ll go.\n\nBut he doesn’t. There’s no next hit, no more high. Instead, over the next few days, he glides slowly back to earth, to us, his boundless energy fading like a dying wind, his restlessness with it. He seems content with our company again, no longer desperate to befriend the world. Gradually, he resumes the simple acts of living that I once took for granted – eating, sleeping, listening. At times, I wonder if I imagined it all. But then, there’s a silver sports car outside, an unfinished mural on the wall, an office that looks like a hurricane struck, a diamond earring, white hair and a red dress.\n\nAnd there are worried children.\n\n‘Dad, what was wrong with you before?’ asks Toby one night, sitting on his father’s lap having his toenails cut.\n\nGreg doesn’t take his eyes off Toby’s feet. ‘When?’\n\n‘Before. When I didn’t know what you were saying.’\n\nNow he looks at Toby, confused and worried. ‘You didn’t know what I was saying?’\n\n‘No.’ Toby’s eyes search mine for confirmation.\n\n‘None of us did,’ I say.\n\nGreg seems stuck. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, finally. ‘Must have been the heat. Yes, that was it. The heat.’\n\nNo way. Not just heat.\n\n‘But it’s still hot, Dad,’ insists Toby.\n\n‘Not so hot, though. It’s cooled down a good bit, hasn’t it? And you can understand me now, can’t you?’ He smiles and ruffles his son’s hair.\n\n‘Yeah.’\n\n‘Well, then. That’s what matters, isn’t it? Everything back to normal.’\n\nIs it, though? I’m still waiting for the next disappearing act. Despite how wonderful he’s been over the last few days – staying at the villa, cooking the meals, swimming with the kids, listening – I can’t allow myself to believe that this is over. After all that’s happened, for Greg to stop, just like that, seems too good to be true. Still, I ring Grace to let her know. No point in her embarking on a wasted journey. She’s relieved that Greg’s feeling better, but, as she has the flights booked and could do with a change of scene, she’s going to stick to her plan.\n\nI was hoping she might.\n\nThe following day, when they come through Arrivals, I feel almost teary to see them. My own, personal cavalry. In one hand, Grace is pushing the trolley. In the other, she’s carrying a heavy-looking Jason. Shane’s sitting on the cases like he’s king of the castle. I wave like mad. Grace has to stop the trolley as Shane decides to suddenly disembark. I squat down and he runs to me. I squeeze him tight and stand with him in my arms. I plant a raspberry on his cheek. When Grace reaches us, I pop Shane down and take Jason from her. It’s good to feel his podgy little arms around my neck, though it reminds me of the gulf between Greg’s children and me.\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "author": "steembudy",
      "body": "![Screen Shot 2018-09-07 at 12.30.39 PM.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/Screen%20Shot%202018-09-07%20at%2012.30.39%20PM.png)\n\nLate morning, Fint calls. He wants me back in Dublin to brainstorm for the big pitch. There’s no way I can commit to that. Not with Greg gone and no idea of when he’ll return, not when I can’t trust him with the children if he does return, and not when there’s the possibility of him leaving them alone again if I do go.\n\n‘What do you mean you can’t come? We have to brainstorm on this. It’s a major opportunity.’\n\n‘I know, Fint. I’m sorry, I just can’t come over immediately. The children’s nanny has walked out.’\n\n‘So? Whose children are they, Lucy?’\n\n‘Greg isn’t well.’\n\n‘What’s wrong with him?’\n\n‘I . . . I don’t know.’\n\n‘I see,’ he says, sounding like he doesn’t.\n\n‘Look, let me see if I can find someone, a new nanny. There must be agencies over here. Give me a week, OK? Just give me a week to find someone, then I’ll be over.’\n\n‘A week? Are you kidding? Have you seen our deadline?’\n\n‘I’m really sorry, Fint, but I can’t come yet. Not till I sort this out.’\n\n‘Can’t? Or won’t?’\n\n‘Can’t.’\n\n‘Lucy, I really think you need to look at your priorities. Your personal life is taking over. I can’t keep making concessions. You made a commitment to come home for meetings. Well, this isn’t just any meeting. This is huge. This is an opportunity to bag the biggest, most prestigious account we’ve ever had, and you’re prepared to blow it. We’re supposed to be a team.’\n\n‘I know, and I’m sorry.’\n\n‘So come.’\n\nMy stomach is knotted so tightly I could throw up. ‘I’ll try. I’ll find a nanny agency . . .’\n\n‘I’m carrying this partnership,’ Fint continues, his voice telling me he’s barely holding his anger together. ‘You know, Lucy, if you can’t keep up your business commitments, well, I don’t know, maybe it’s time to start talking about—’\n\n‘Fintan, you know that if I could come right this minute, I would. I’m sorry. But I can’t help it. I can’t leave these kids.’\n\n‘You’re putting babysitting before Get Smart. This is a partnership, Lucy. The effort is supposed to be fifty-fifty.’\n\n‘If you want me to quit, I’ll quit. OK? I can’t take this. I’ve had enough. I’ll ring you tomorrow, and we can sort this out.’\n\n‘Right, that’s really mature. First you back out of your commitments, then you quit . . .’\n\nI hang up. What’s the point? What’s the fucking point?\n\nI ring Grace. My relationship, my career . . . my life is falling apart.\n\n‘I’m coming over,’ she says.\n\n‘What d’you mean you’re coming over? You’ve the kids . . .’\n\n‘I’m bringing them.’\n\n‘There’s a heatwave . . .’\n\n‘Have you air conditioning?’\n\n‘In the apartment.’\n\n‘Fine.’\n\n‘You don’t need to do this. There must be nanny agencies over here.’\n\n‘So. You find an agency, what then? Is your French good enough to wade through CV after CV, conduct interview after interview in a foreign language? Even if you manage to get someone, will they last? I mean, who’d want to work for a person in Greg’s condition?’\n\nI feel like wailing.\n\n‘Look. I may as well be over there as here for all I see of Kevin. I’m bored out of my tree, stuck in the house for the last week because of the rain. It’s not as if my diary’s full of prior engagements. It’s not as if I have a bloody diary. Lucy, I need a challenge. And let’s face it: you could do with a hand.’\n\nI say nothing; I need her to come, but it’s too much to ask.\n\n‘I am not going to let you give up your career,’ she says. ‘One in the family is enough. Let me talk to Kevin. But, in the mood I’m in, fuck Kevin and the horse he rode into town on.’\n\n‘Grace, I warn you; it’s a circus over here.’\n\n‘Lucy, I think I’ve a fair idea.’\n\nMid-afternoon, Grace calls to confirm that she’s coming. I feel my body deflate in relief. In under a week, they’ll be here. I call Fint before he leaves the office.\n\n‘It’s me,’ I say.\n\n‘I thought you’d quit?’\n\n‘Don’t you watch the movies? You weren’t supposed to accept my resignation. You were supposed to shower me with compliments and beg me to stay.’\n\n‘Are you kidding? I was furious with you, Lucy.’ He stops. ‘But it’s OK. I’ve calmed down now.’ He pauses. ‘What’s happening?’\n\n‘Grace is coming over to give me a hand.’\n\n‘Grace?’ He sounds surprised, as if there really might be a problem after all. ‘Is everything all right?’\n\n‘Yeah.’\n\n‘Greg OK?’\n\n‘Yeah. No. Look, I’m sorry about earlier. The last thing I want to do is let you down. You’ve been great, really great.’ I’m starting to get upset.\n\n‘Forget it, Lucy, I’d a brainstorm with the guys. Sebastian sat in. He was amazing.’\n\n‘Really?’\n\n‘Yeah. Incredibly creative. We’d a very productive meeting.’\n\n‘That’s good,’ I say, beginning to feel left out.\n\n‘Look, if things are so difficult over there right now, we may be able to manage without you. We’ve some really good ideas to go on now.’\n\n‘No, no. It’s fine. I’ll be over. How’s a week today?’\n\nHe checks his diary. ‘Fine.’\n\n‘OK. I’ll let you know when I’ve booked a flight.’\n\nWithin minutes of hanging up, I get a call from Matt. He wants to know where Greg’s overdue edits are. He can’t get Greg, so he’s using his clout as one of my biggest clients to see what I can do, to ‘hurry things along’.\n\nI check Greg’s desk. It’s chaotic, cluttered with mounds of paper, books, half-eaten food, three overflowing ashtrays, CDs, newspapers, Asterix comics. The mess spills onto the floor and along it like a creeping virus. Handwritten notes and computer printouts are covered in doodles, diagrams and cartoon sketches, all outlining ideas. He’s written on everything from paper to receipts, napkins, bags, even toilet paper. Instead of his usual loose scrawl are tiny letters and words, jammed together, as if he’s trying to condense an epic onto a postcard.\n\nI go to turn on his computer and realise it’s already on, screen blank from not being used. When I move the mouse, what he’s been working on comes up. It seems to be a novel. But the sentences don’t follow on from each other normally. They’re unlinked in thought, connected only by words, either words that rhyme or the actual same word at the beginning and end of two adjacent sentences. Is it some sort of experiment? One thing’s for sure: no publisher is going to accept it. No publisher is going to understand it. Better to show Matt nothing, than this.\n\nI save and close the file, then search for the completed edits. Without success. What will I tell Matt? A wave of hopelessness crashes down on me. I realise that, whatever’s wrong with Greg, it’s much too big for me. Maybe even for Grace. I rest my forehead against the cool mahogany of the desk and close my eyes.\n\nThere’s a rumble of distant thunder. I open my eyes and see how dark it’s become. I go to the window. Angry storm clouds, the colour of charcoal, are gathering on the horizon like soldiers preparing for battle. The air’s heavy. I swing open all the shutters. Out on the terrace, I gather in bone-dry clothes, towels and togs. A weak flash of lightning. Then the sound of a bowling ball running along a wooden floor. Faites attention! Nous venons! I stand on the terrace, arms folded, and wait.\n\nThe rain, when it comes, is torrential, blotting out all other sound. The children come to the doorway and watch. And there we stand, transfixed by the storm, my only thoughts how much trouble we are in.\n\nThe storm rages all evening until it loses its novelty value for the children. At nine, Rachel decides it’s time for bed. When Toby starts to protest, as he always does, she promises to read him Captain Underpants. As they climb the stairs, I hear her telling him that they should brush their teeth first, to get it over with.\n\nI call, ‘Goodnight.’\n\nOnly Toby turns. He gives me a little smile, then carries on up the stairs, his sister holding his hand.\n\nApart from intermittent lightning flashes, it is fully dark when the sound of a loud and unfamiliar engine outside alerts me. I go to the window. Headlights dazzle, then die, leaving darkness. Someone’s coming to the door. I switch on the outside light and peer out. Sitting in the drive is a beautiful silver sports car, top down in the middle of a thunderstorm. I open the window and stick my head out to see who’s at the door.\n\nGreg.\n\nHe’s soaked through, white hair glistening under the light, as he fumbles with his keys.\n\nI open the door.\n\n‘Oh. Hello!’ he says, surprised.\n\n‘Whose is that?’ I ask.\n\n‘The car?’ He turns to admire it. ‘What do you think? Porsche Boxster. Cool, eh?’\n\n‘Yeah. But whose is it?’\n\n‘Mine.’ His chest expands.\n\n‘You bought it?’\n\n‘Yup. Nought to a hundred in six seconds. Put that in your drum and bang it.’\n\n‘Where’s the jeep?’\n\nHe runs a hand through spiky, albino hair. ‘I traded it in.’\n\n‘Where’s all the stuff that was in the boot?’\n\nHe bites his lip.\n\n‘Where will the children sit? How will we fit anything into that little boot?’\n\nHe drags two distressed fingers across his forehead. He looks down at his open-toe sandals and tanned, sandy feet. Then he lifts his head, throws his arms in the air in a ‘Who cares?’ gesture, as if the process of thinking is just too much.\n\n‘And you remembered to change your insurance, right?’\n\nHe looks like he’s about to blow, an android suffering a circuit overload.\n\n‘Greg. We need to talk. This has gone on too long. You need to stop, OK? You need help.’\n\n‘I buy the coolest car and I need help.’ He rolls his eyes, then turns a hundred and eighty degrees.\n\n‘Where you going?’\n\n‘For a run.’\n\n‘We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm,’ I call after him.\n\nHe legs it down the drive, his shirt clinging to his back.\n\nI slam the door. Kick it. An angry crack of thunder causes the windows to vibrate. The car alarm goes off. Lightning illuminates the entire room. Immediate thunder sounds like a plank of wood cracking. Blue light invades the room. Flash, waver, flash. Smack. The rain is heavier than ever.\n\nI check on the children and find them in a deep sleep on Rachel’s bed, back to skinny back. I cover them with a sheet, turn off the fan. I gaze at them and sigh. They don’t deserve this. Nobody does. How can such a great father just lose interest in his family? Can drugs really do that to a person?\n\nI go to my room, sit on the bed and wrap my arms around my knees. I never thought I’d say it, but if only I’d never met him. My world was safe. I controlled it. Why did I have to go and expose myself to this? Wasn’t it enough to lose one man? Because I’m losing Greg. He’s living his own life now, separate from me. To him, I’m a bore. So, why not offer me the drugs? Maybe he did, the night of the red dress and the restaurant. If so, he got his answer when I told him I didn’t want to be treated like that. And I don’t. I want to live in the real world. And I want the man I love to want the same. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. Which leaves me with only one option – to end this, to leave the man I love because he has chosen a meaningless, hurtful and destructive path. That I’ve made that decision breaks my heart.\n\nI wake early and immediately sense change. I feel Greg’s presence. I can’t see him, but I know he’s near. I hear his breathing. I sit up. And there he is, asleep, finally asleep on the floor beside the bed, still in the clothes he was wearing during the storm. He looks like someone who needs rescuing. I slip my pillow under his head and cover him with the sheet. That he came and found me and lay beside me softens something in me.\n\nIt’s daylight, but dark. The rain has eased, but thunder continues to rumble and lightning flickers, pale pink against a dark grey sky. I check on Rachel and Toby. They’re at their bedroom window, looking out. I stand in silence beside them. Toby starts a stream of questions about forked lightning, sheet lightning and people getting electrocuted. Rachel just wants to know if her dad’s home.\n\n‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And he’s asleep.’\n\nThere’s hope in her eyes when she looks at me. For the first time, we’ve something in common.\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "body": "![Screen Shot 2018-09-07 at 12.30.39 PM.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/Screen%20Shot%202018-09-07%20at%2012.30.39%20PM.png)\n\nSitting 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?\n\n‘Hilary?’ I call, starting towards her.\n\nShe looks in my direction. There’s a moment of connection. Then she looks straight ahead, about to walk past.\n\n‘Hilary. Stop. Wait. What are you doing?’ Up close, I see that her eyes are rimmed red, her face puffy. ‘What happened?’\n\n‘Ask your boyfriend,’ she spits and starts to take off.\n\n‘Hilary. Stop. Please. Tell me what happened. How could you have left the children alone with him after last night?’\n\n‘How could you?’\n\nInstant guilt. ‘I have to go home for a while. I knew you’d be there. I was relying on you.’\n\n‘It’s hard to mind children you no longer work for.’\n\n‘You resigned?’\n\nShe squints at me. ‘You always were a bit slow, weren’t you?’ This time, she does walk off.\n\nThey pick that moment to call my flight.\n\nI have to get on that plane. But I see Toby’s tired little face in my mind. Shit.\n\nI 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.\n\n‘Hello?’ She sounds so young, so scared.\n\n‘Rachel? It’s Lucy. Is everything OK?’\n\nThe line dies.\n\nOh, God. He has left them alone.\n\nI 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.\n\nI 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.\n\nRed tape first, emergencies second, mademoiselle.\n\nI 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.\n\n‘Where are the children?’ I demand.\n\n‘Upstairs.’\n\n‘Are they all right?’\n\n‘Of course they’re all right, why wouldn’t they be?’\n\n‘I met Hilary.’\n\n‘Where?’\n\n‘At the airport. What happened, Greg?’\n\nHe stops painting and looks at me. ‘What were you doing at the airport?’\n\n‘It’s not important. What happened with Hilary?’\n\nLeonardo abandons his fresco in favour of a whiskey. ‘Want one?’\n\n‘No, Greg. I don’t drink whiskey, as you know. What happened?’\n\nHe sighs dramatically. ‘Hilary, Hilary, what’s the fascination with Hilary?’\n\n‘Greg!’\n\n‘All right, if you’re so concerned – I let her go.’\n\n‘Why?’\n\n‘I was sick of looking at her. Moody cow.’\n\n‘And that’s a good enough reason to fire her?’\n\nHe doesn’t answer, drains his whiskey and returns to the wall.\n\n‘Rachel and Toby love Hilary. They need her. Especially now.’\n\nHe twists around. ‘What do you mean, especially now?’\n\n‘Nothing.’\n\n‘They’ll get over it.’\n\n‘Will they?’ I squint. ‘Are you sure?’\n\nHe looks straight at me. ‘There was nothing great about Hilary.’\n\n‘She’s been with you since Catherine died. She helped you through that—’\n\n‘I helped myself through. If you think I can’t survive without Hilary, you’re mistaken. I’m perfectly capable of looking after—’\n\n‘Did something happen?’\n\n‘No,’ he says, too quickly, too loudly.\n\n‘Then why?’\n\n‘I had enough of her, OK?’\n\n‘When did this happen, when did you fire her? It must have been last night if she managed to get a flight today.’\n\nHe ignores me, daubing buttercup yellow on the wall.\n\n‘Did you even take her to the airport?’\n\nNo answer.\n\n‘She was your responsibility, Greg. Did you even check to see if she’d enough money to get home?’\n\n‘If you met her at the airport, she obviously did.’\n\n‘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.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘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?\n\n‘I’ll hire someone else.’\n\n‘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.’\n\nHe ignores that.\n\nI 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.’\n\n‘She won’t come back. Trust me.’\n\nWhat has he done? What has he said? He isn’t telling me everything, that much I know. Something must have happened. Something definitely happened.\n\nI 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.\n\nNo answer.\n\n‘Can I come in?’\n\nStill nothing.\n\nI 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.\n\n‘Hi,’ I say.\n\nRachel 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.\n\n‘Get off my bed,’ Rachel says, with hate in her eyes.\n\nI stand. ‘Sorry.’\n\nI squat down and talk to Toby. ‘Are you OK?’\n\nNothing.\n\n‘Are you sad about Hilary?’\n\n‘Yeah,’ he says.\n\n‘Toby,’ says Rachel.\n\n‘Sorry, Lucy,’ he says, ‘but I can’t talk to you.’\n\n‘I’m so sorry about Hilary. It’s hard when someone goes away . . .’\n\n‘Goes away?’ Rachel’s chin is jutting out. ‘You mean is sent away, fired. You got Dad to fire Hilary.’\n\n‘Sorry?’\n\n‘You heard me.’\n\n‘I heard you, but you’re wrong. I had nothing to do with this.’\n\n‘Yes, you did. You were jealous because we love her, not you . . .’\n\n‘Rachel, I wasn’t even here.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘I’m sorry you think that, Rachel.’\n\n‘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.\n\n‘Well, I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’\n\n‘Don’t worry, we won’t.’\n\nI 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.\n\nMy 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.’\n\nAll of a sudden, I need to hear Dad’s voice. I go outside and call home.\n\nMum answers. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about us.’\n\n‘Sorry. It’s been a bit hectic – workwise.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Is Dad there?’\n\n‘Always look after yourself, Lucy – in any relationship.’\n\n‘Yeah, OK. Is Dad around?’\n\n‘He’s here beside me. I’ll hand him over in a sec.’\n\n‘Mum, I’m ringing from France.’\n\n‘Of course, sorry. Here he is now.’ I hear her warn him not to be long. I feel guilty then.\n\nAs soon as Dad gets on the phone, I sit down.\n\n‘Hi, pet. How’re you doing?’\n\nI smile at the sound of his voice. ‘Good. You?’\n\n‘Never better. How’s Greg?’\n\n‘Fine.’\n\n‘And the kiddies?’\n\n‘They’re all right.’\n\n‘These things take time.’\n\n‘Yeah.’ Suddenly, I’m close to tears. I shouldn’t have called.\n\n‘How’re you coping with the heatwave? It’s all over the news. People have died in Paris. Others are leaving the country.’\n\n‘We’re managing.’\n\n‘No doubt Greg has the place air conditioned.’\n\nI could wail – honestly, wail.\n\n‘Better let you go,’ he says. ‘This must be costing you a fortune.’\n\n‘No. No. It’s fine.’ My voice starts to crack, my eyes to smart.\n\n‘You all right, love?’\n\n‘Yeah, yeah, fine,’ I say, a little too high. ‘Actually, I think I’ll go. I haven’t talked to Grace in ages.’\n\n‘Good idea, love. Ring your sister.’\n\n‘Bye, Dad. Love you.’\n\n‘You too.’\n\nI can’t ring Grace. I can’t do anything. Except cry.\n\nIt’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.\n\nI 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.\n\nWhen the phone in the villa rings at three, I know without looking what time it is. I run to it.\n\n‘Hello?’\n\nSilence.\n\n‘Bonjour? Bonsoir? Hello?’\n\nThere’s someone there; I sense it.\n\n‘Greg?’\n\nThe 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.\n\nSomehow, at some stage, I fall asleep.\n\nAt 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.\n\nI’m right.\n\nI 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.\n\nRachel turns. I’m graced with a scowl. Then it’s back to the business at hand. I’m not here.\n\n‘Good morning,’ I say, brightly.\n\nNo answer.\n\n‘Would anyone like some toast?’\n\nNo eye contact.\n\nI busy myself making coffee, then sit at the table. Expecting continued silence, I’m surprised when Rachel speaks.\n\n‘Did you stay here last night?’\n\n‘Yes.’\n\n‘Why?’\n\n‘Because your dad was out and I didn’t want to leave you on your own.’\n\n‘Oh.’\n\nHer eyes narrow again. ‘Where did you sleep?’\n\n‘In one of the guest rooms. Why?’\n\n‘No reason.’\n\nSilence returns.\n\n‘Where’s Dad?’ asks Toby, chocolate staining the edges of his mouth.\n\n‘Gone again, as usual,’ Rachel says, with the exasperation and bitterness of a long-suffering wife. I know how she feels.\n\nI sip my coffee, hoping they don’t work out that he’s been gone all night. ‘So, what would you like to do today?’\n\nToby glances at his sister. She frowns a silent warning. He looks down into his bowl.\n\n‘How about Aqua-Splash?’ I ask.\n\nHis 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.\n\n‘We’re not going,’ she confirms for both of them.\n\nHe closes his eyes.\n\n‘Look,’ I say, ‘are we going to get on with life, or are we going to mope around?’\n\n‘Mope around,’ says Rachel, victoriously.\n\n‘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.’\n\nToby looks pleadingly at his sister. But she won’t budge.\n\nDespite 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.\n\n‘Come on, Toby, let’s go,’ she says, without taking her eyes off me.\n\n‘But we just got in,’ he whines.\n\n‘Come. On.’\n\n‘No.’\n\n‘Fine,’ she says, furious at having to leave her accomplice behind.\n\nI wink at him.\n\nHe smiles. It’s the one thing we share. We’re the youngest and we don’t always like it.\n\nHe 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. \n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "body": "![Screen Shot 2018-09-07 at 12.30.39 PM.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/Screen%20Shot%202018-09-07%20at%2012.30.39%20PM.png)\n\nA good night’s sleep helps my perspective. I love Greg. Or, at least, the Greg I met. He brought me back to life, gave me another future. I don’t want to throw that away. I didn’t get another chance with Brendan, but I have one with Greg. Whatever the problem is, he reacted the way he did because I was backing him into a corner. I should have tried to stay calm, support him more. If I’d been smart about it, I wouldn’t have mentioned drugs at all. I’d have told him I was behind him. Whatever the problem, we’d get help together.\n\nOut on the balcony, watching the sun on the sea, I try to work out how to bring the whole thing up again, this time with tact. It won’t happen down at the villa. If he comes here and is in good form . . .\n\nI spend the day working. It helps to steady me.\n\nLate afternoon, I hear his key in the door. I turn. He breezes in, bright and cheery.\n\n‘The kids are in the car. Are you coming up the mountains with us?’\n\nI hesitate. We won’t be able to talk with the kids there. And we can’t talk now because they’re sitting out in the car.\n\n‘Come on, it’ll be great,’ he says, taking my hand.\n\nAnd I think that, maybe, if we could just get on today, then later I could risk broaching the subject again.\n\nHilary’s in the back of the Range Rover with the children. Toby seems to be developing some kind of heat rash. I turn up the air conditioning.\n\nGreg drives to Grasse and, from there, up into the Alps. As we climb, the temperature outside begins to drop from thirty-six degrees to thirty-two. The scenery is breathtaking. Sheer-drop cliffs, mountain streams, gorges, waterfalls. Tiny hillside villages perch precariously, prettily.\n\nHigher and higher we go. We’re almost at the top, when over the precipice float paragliders slowly descending in smooth arcs, like skiers down a slope, leaning to the left then right and finally landing in a field beside the road. Without a word, Greg pulls over and hops out. We watch him approach the small group folding their wings like sails. When he returns, he has signed up for lessons.\n\nWe make it to Gourdon, a tiny fairy-tale village with postcard views. In the car park we’re ambushed by a very cute and amateur sales force – little, blonde, Alpine children selling home-made bundles of lavender. We buy one for a euro and make their day. We wander through tiny streets, while Greg tears on ahead, stopping every so often to examine an item for sale or to strike up conversation with strangers.\n\nThrough open windows float the sounds of voices and crockery as families prepare for their evening meal. Rachel and Toby are hungry. We find a restaurant.\n\nGreg is talking, on and on, at high speed, about French politics. Another day, another monologue. The rest of us eat in silence, Hilary moving her Coke to avoid grains of rice that fly, every so often, from Greg’s mouth. Then something happens to drag us from our now practised inertia. Greg stops making sense. One minute he’s talking about politics, then about going somewhere in the car. Then the car turns into a boat, as happens in dreams.\n\nI’m afraid he’ll worry the children, so I try to jolt him back to reality before he gets any worse. ‘Greg, we’ve never been on a boat together.’\n\nHe doesn’t seem to hear. Just carries on. ‘The boat went twenty knots an hour, shower, power, flour.’ Gibberish.\n\nMy God!\n\n‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ asks Toby. ‘He’s talking funny.’\n\nGreg snaps at him. ‘Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?’\n\nAfter that, no one talks. No one eats – apart from Greg who finishes his meal in minutes and reaches over to help himself to mine. I give him my plate. Toby’s head is bowed, his shoulders raised. He doesn’t make a sound, but I know he’s crying. I want to tell him everything will be all right, put my arm around him. But Hilary gets there first, with hers. He looks exhausted, his little face flushed, his hair damp with sweat. I ask for the bill and am told, by my fiancé, that I’m no fun. Once out of the restaurant, he bounds ahead back to the jeep. We follow behind, a quiet group. Somehow, I end up carrying Toby.\n\n‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ whispers Rachel.\n\nAnd while Hilary struggles for an answer, I say, ‘It’s hot, Rachel. He’s been working very hard. Doing too much. He just needs sleep.’\n\nHilary raises an eyebrow at me.\n\n‘I need sleep, too,’ says Toby.\n\n‘I know,’ I say. ‘Just close your eyes and rest on my shoulder. Everything’ll be fine.’\n\nBy the time we get to the jeep, Toby’s asleep, his face damp against my T-shirt. I feel a wave of responsibility for him. Even for Rachel.\n\nGreg has the engine revving.\n\nI ease Toby onto his booster seat and strap him in.\n\nI open Greg’s door. ‘I’ll drive,’ I say.\n\n‘What do you mean, you’ll drive? I’m already driving.’\n\n‘Greg, please don’t make a scene. Just let me drive.’ I say it quietly.\n\n‘Is there something wrong with my driving? Is that what you’re saying?’\n\n‘No. I just think I should drive. You’ve had a beer.’\n\n‘One beer. Below the limit. I’m driving.’ That’s that. Adamant.\n\nI climb in the front passenger seat, in silence.\n\nDarkness is falling on the way back down the mountain. Greg insists on returning by a different route from the one we came, despite my telling him that it looks like a very minor road on the map. It is, we discover, wide enough for one car only. He is tearing down it, making childish ‘vroom vroom’ noises and ‘weees’ on hairpin bends. He takes the corners so fast I imagine us going over the edge. I hold the door handle, close my eyes and pray. My heart’s pounding. My foot keeps hitting an imaginary brake. Just inches away from the wheels, the ground falls away into a gorge. A beautiful gorge that tourists snap on a daily basis. A gorge that will become world famous if Greg Millar’s Range Rover ends up smashed at the bottom.\n\n‘Greg, slow down.’\n\nHe ignores me.\n\n‘Dad, please slow down,’ says Rachel, sounding terrified.\n\nIt’s as if he hasn’t heard her.\n\n‘Greg,’ I say, quietly so they can’t hear at the back. ‘If another car comes around that corner, we’re over the edge.’\n\n‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’\n\n‘Greg, please. You’re going too fast.’\n\n‘I’m not going too fast,’ he snaps.\n\nSilence now. But he does slow. I turn around to check the children. Toby’s still asleep, which shows just how exhausted he is. Rachel’s face is burrowed into the side of Hilary’s formidable chest. She’s sucking her thumb, something I’ve never seen her do. My eyes meet Hilary’s. Slowly, she shakes her head. I sit back and close my eyes.\n\nNo more.\n\nSomehow, we make it back to the villa. I carry Toby up to bed while Hilary puts her arm around a shaken and visibly upset Rachel. Together they go into her room, Hilary whispering reassurances. The door closes behind them.\n\nI find Greg in the kitchen, knocking back a glass of water.\n\nI’m much too angry to be supportive. ‘What’s wrong with you, Greg?’\n\n‘Why do you keep asking what’s wrong with me? Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you?’\n\n‘Why were you like that?’\n\n‘Like what?’\n\n‘Oh, come on, don’t tell me you don’t know. You were driving like a madman. You could have killed us all.’\n\n‘Rubbish.’ He slams down the empty glass. ‘I was totally in control.’\n\n‘Is that right? So, what would you have done if another car had come round the bend? Where would you have pulled in? How would you have stopped in time?’\n\n‘You’re such a panic-merchant. I’d have handled it.’\n\n‘In that case, you’re deluded. There would have been no way out. If you can’t see that, you have a serious problem.’\n\nHe laughs. ‘Lucy, it’s not me who has the problem, it’s you.’\n\n‘Don’t twist this, Greg. What’s going on?’\n\n‘If you bring up drugs again, God help me, I’ll lose it.’\n\n‘You’re high, Greg. Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not high. And, whatever the cause, it has to stop. It’s got to a point where it’s dangerous. You could have killed us up there. You could have killed your own children. Do you hear me, Greg?’\n\n‘Lucy, love, you really should see a doctor.’\n\nI explode. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re the one with the problem. Tearing around, awake all night, snapping at the children, living in your own fast-paced world, becoming so detached from me and yet expecting sex like it’s your God-given right. It’s you who needs a doctor. You!’\n\nI’ve given him too much rope. And he’s hanging me with it. Holding in a scream, I storm from the villa.\n\nTears distort the lights of the oncoming cars.\n\nI’m having no impact. It makes no difference to him whether I’m here or not. I have to get away. Put distance between us. Maybe then I can think, work out what to do, find a way forward, if there is a way forward. For now, I have to go.\n\nBack at the apartment, I write Greg a letter, explaining. I won’t drop it off at the villa. Better for him to find me gone, to experience the shock of that, to read from start to finish what he never allows me to explain to his face. Better to have him react. I book the first available flight home. It leaves tomorrow afternoon, return open.\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "author": "steembudy",
      "body": "Thanks for vote me, I will follow you, please check your status...thanks",
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      "author": "rudrakshpareek",
      "body": "I gave you a vote!\nIf you follow me, I will also follow you in return!\nEnjoy some !popcorn courtesy of @rudrakshpareek !",
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      "body": "![Screen Shot 2018-09-07 at 12.30.39 PM.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/Screen%20Shot%202018-09-07%20at%2012.30.39%20PM.png)\n\nThe plane touches down at three. Cardigan off. Sunglasses on. Riviera Radio keeps me company in the car as do Grace’s words. I get to the villa, fired up and ready for positive action. But there’s no sign of Greg, and I sense that something’s wrong. Rachel has a face on her like a brewing storm. So does Toby.\n\n‘What is it?’\n\n‘Dad didn’t come back,’ he says.\n\n‘From where?’\n\nHe shrugs.\n\n‘Where’s Hilary?’\n\n‘Kitchen.’\n\nThey follow me in.\n\nIncredibly, Hilary is tearing at a French stick with her mouth.\n\n‘Where’s Greg?’ I ask.\n\nShe drops the bread, including the bit she had between her teeth. She brushes crumbs from her chest and turns. ‘Ever think of knocking?’\n\n‘The door was open, Hilary. Now, what’s going on?’\n\nShe straightens up, chin high. ‘He promised to take us to Antibes for ice cream. I got the children out of the pool, helped Toby get dressed. When we were ready, he’d gone.’\n\n‘Where?’\n\n‘I don’t know, do I? I’m just the hired help.’\n\n‘Did you try his mobile?’\n\n‘No,’ she says with pride.\n\n‘OK. Well, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.’ Somehow, I suspect that may not be the case. I ring his mobile, looking confident, until I hear it, somewhere in the villa. ‘How long’s he been gone?’\n\n‘An hour.’\n\n‘Well, why don’t I take you?’ I say to the children.\n\n‘Forget it,’ says Rachel gloomily.\n\nToby is quiet. His face is flushed and he looks languid. Hilary has all the windows and doors open to create a breeze, but the villa is stifling. This boy needs to cool down.\n\n‘Toby, would you like to see my apartment? It’s nice and cool, and I’ve Magnums in the fridge.’\n\nHe looks up. ‘OK.’\n\n‘Rachel, would you like to come?’\n\nShe eyes me as if I’ve just offered to pull a tooth. ‘As if,’ she says, summing up our relationship in two words.\n\nToby holds my hand as we leave the villa. Hilary looks murderous.\n\nToby scans the apartment. ‘You’re right, it’s nice and cool.’\n\n‘Would you like a drink?’\n\n‘Yes, please.’\n\n‘Sit down there, and I’ll get it.’\n\n‘Ooh. The seat’s cold, too.’\n\n‘It’s leather,’ I call from the kitchen.\n\n‘I like leather.’\n\nI find myself smiling.\n\nI return with two glasses of orange juice and hand him one. ‘Cheers,’ I say and hold my glass out.\n\n‘Cheers, big ears,’ he says, cheerfully clinking his glass against mine. ‘It’s really quiet here,’ he says, looking around. It strikes me as an odd thing for a child to appreciate. ‘Is that a balcony?’\n\n‘Yep.’\n\n‘Can we go on it?’\n\n‘Sure.’\n\nOnce out, he doesn’t stay long. ‘Nifty,’ he says, and goes back inside. He sits in the exact spot he was in earlier. ‘I like it here.’\n\n‘Me too.’\n\n‘Can I stay with you?’ He looks at me with big brown St Bernard eyes, the puppy I always wanted as a child.\n\n‘Why would you want to stay with me?’\n\nHe shrugs.\n\n‘Is it a bit hot at the villa?’\n\nHe nods. ‘And really noisy. Even at night-time. I can’t sleep. Dad never goes to bed. He shouts on the phone and his music’s really loud. I hate that song.’\n\n‘What song?’\n\n‘A little more satisfaction, baby. I hate it.’ He puts his hands over his ears.\n\nI wait until he takes them down again. ‘Why don’t you ask him to turn it down?’\n\n‘I do. But when I get back into bed he turns it up again. So I don’t ask him any more. Can I stay with you? Please?’\n\n‘I don’t know, Toby. I think your dad would prefer you to stay with him.’\n\n‘Just for one night? Please? I’d be very good.’\n\nI get up, go over and sit beside him. ‘Would you like to go for a little sleep now? You look a bit tired.’ He looks exhausted.\n\n‘’K.’\n\n‘I’ll be out here, working, OK? Sleep as long as you like. And when you get up, we’ll have a Magnum.’\n\n‘’K.’\n\nI hold his hand and lead him to the bedroom. When he’s settled, I cover him with a sheet and sit on the edge of the bed until he sleeps. It takes less than a minute. His little face looks so vulnerable.\n\nI go back outside and try to work, but can’t. What’s Greg up to? If Toby’s being kept awake, Rachel is too. She’s older; she must know something’s up. Because something is up. And we really, really need to talk. If only I could just get him to focus, stop for one second. Sit still. Stop talking. Stop moving. Just listen for five minutes without interrupting me or himself.\n\nWhen Toby wakes, I invite him to stay for the rest of the day.\n\n‘Yes!’\n\nI call the villa.\n\nHilary answers.\n\n‘Is Greg back?’\n\n‘No.’\n\n‘Right, well, just to let you know, Toby’s staying with me for a while.’\n\nA brief pause before she says, ‘Yeah, well, just make sure he’s back for dinner.’\n\nIt’s like Upstairs, Downstairs. The staff’s running the place.\n\nI teach Toby to play draughts and am amused by how competitive he is. We eat the Magnums. I show him how to play Spider Solitaire on my laptop.\n\n‘Are you a child prodigy?’ I ask because he’s so bloody quick.\n\n‘What’s that?’\n\nPhew.\n\nHe’s such good company, I could keep him forever.\n\nI ring Hilary again. ‘Greg back yet?’\n\n‘No.’\n\n‘Right, well, when he does get back, you might tell him I’ve taken Toby out for pizza.’\n\n‘You can’t!’\n\n‘Why not?’\n\n‘He’s not your child.’\n\nI almost laugh. ‘He’s not yours either. His father’s not home. He’s hungry. I’m taking him out for a meal. If you’ve a problem with that, I suggest you talk to Greg.’\n\nShe slams the phone down.\n\nWe drive to Antibes and find an outdoor table at a restaurant overlooking Place Général de Gaulle. We share the same side of the table, looking out. A woman walks by, carrying a Yorkshire terrier. A central parting divides its back into two glossy curtains of hair. Behind the woman skips a pair of twins, encircled by a hula hoop. But it’s the fountains that interest Toby. Dotted around the square, they have water shooting straight out from the ground, alternating between wide, light sprays and single slender jets. They disappear in a pattern, leaving only wet ground and the uncertainty that they were ever there. Then they reappear again just when you thought they were gone for good. Toby creates a game of second-guessing the display, at which I lose miserably.\n\nAt last, our food arrives – spaghetti for him, as they don’t do pizza. Listening to this dark little boy chat about bumper cars, piranhas and self-flush loos makes me realise how special he must be to Greg. Where is he, then? What’s he doing, disappearing off without telling anyone?\n\n‘Are you cross with Dad?’ he asks, catching me off guard.\n\n‘No. Why?’\n\n‘Hilary’s cross. Dad always tells us where he’s going and when he’ll be back.’\n\n‘There’s probably a good reason why he had to hurry away. Maybe he remembered something he had to do. He’ll be back later and we can ask him then, OK? But we’re having a nice time now, aren’t we?’\n\n‘Yeah. When are you and Dad splitting up?’\n\nThat stalls me. ‘What do you mean?’\n\n‘Hilary said you’d be splitting up soon.’\n\n‘I see. Well . . . We’ve no plans at the moment. I think Hilary might be a bit confused.’ And an interfering cow.\n\nWe don’t rush back. I take Toby for a ride on a tourist ‘train’ that drives through the narrow, winding streets of the town. We buy ice creams, then fake tattoos that we place on our arms, reminding me of when I was a kid.\n\nEventually, it’s time to go. On the way home, Toby needs a pee. Like, now. No, he can’t hold on. He has to go. With no other option, I pull in to the side of the road, worried about the possible existence of some obscure French public exposure law.\n\nBut it’s fine. He’s climbing back into the Clio and we haven’t been arrested.\n\n‘Mission accomplished,’ he says, and I know where he learned that one.\n\nI smile sadly and tussle his hair.\n\nAs soon as we arrive back at the villa, Hilary snatches him from me.\n\n‘Look at the state of you,’ she says to him. ‘You need a bath, young man.’\n\nThe spaghetti and ice cream have given his T-shirt a whole new look. But so what? He’s five. It’ll wash out.\n\nShe’s holding out his hands, examining the tattoos.\n\nI wink at him. And he winks back.\n\nShe starts to herd him towards the stairs.\n\n‘Goodnight, Toby,’ I say. ‘You were great company.’\n\nHe smiles. ‘Thanks for the basketti.’\n\nRed is the colour of Hilary’s – entire – face.\n\nBack at the apartment, to distract myself, I check my emails and have a more detailed look at the brief we’ve been given by the retail company. Before I know it, though, I’m Googling amphetamines. I visit site after site and read list after list of the effects of speed. Alertness, increased energy and confidence, rapid movement, talkativeness, excitability – one by one, I tick them off. To suffer insomnia, though, Greg would need to have been taking speed for a long time and in high doses. The sites don’t give any advice on how to come off the drug, but warn that doing so can lead to tiredness, depression and emotional exhaustion. Seems like a small price to pay. I’d welcome a bit of exhaustion.\n\nAt eight, I ring Greg’s mobile. He’s back. I go down to the villa. Straight to the office. He’s frantically rummaging through a drawer. What’s he looking for, his next fix?\n\n‘What happened earlier?’ I ask.\n\nHe looks up. ‘When?’\n\n‘When you disappeared.’\n\n‘What?’\n\n‘You were supposed to take the children for ice cream, but you went off and never came back.’\n\n‘Oh, right, that. I must have forgotten.’\n\n‘Where did you go?’\n\n‘To see a man about a dog.’\n\n‘What man? And what dog?’\n\n‘It’s an expression, Lucy.’\n\n‘People hide behind expressions.’\n\n‘I’m hiding behind nothing.’\n\n‘So, where were you? And who were you with?’\n\nHe gives me a look that says ‘What have you turned into?’ But he does answer. ‘I was in Monte Carlo.’\n\n‘Monte Carlo?’\n\n‘A little principality beyond Nice.’\n\n‘I know where it is, Greg. Not why you had to suddenly drop everything to go there.’\n\n‘No reason.’\n\n‘There must have been a reason.’\n\n‘Well, if there was, I forget it.’\n\n‘Just like you forgot the kids. You know, Greg, they dropped everything for you. And then you dropped them.’\n\nHe starts back at the drawer, mumbling, ‘I’ll make it up to them, OK?’\n\n‘How?’\n\nHe pops his head up. ‘I don’t know. I’ll spend time with them.’\n\n‘When?’\n\n‘Now. If it’ll make you happy.’\n\n‘It’s almost Toby’s bedtime.’\n\n‘So? He can sleep in.’\n\n‘He can’t sleep at all with the racket you make.’\n\n‘What racket?’\n\n‘Loud telephone conversations, music blaring . . .’\n\n‘He’s imagining things.’\n\n‘He asked to come and stay with me, today. He’s not imagining things.’\n\n‘OK, OK.’ He gets up suddenly. ‘Stop nagging. I’ll keep the music down, OK?’ I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off with, ‘And I’ll go play with the children right now, if that’s what you want.’\n\n‘Don’t you need to find whatever you’re looking for, first?’\n\nHe scratches his head. ‘I can’t remember what I was looking for.’\n\nLet me help. ‘Speed, amphetamines . . .’\n\n‘What?’\n\n‘Drugs, Greg. I know you’re taking them.’\n\nHe laughs. ‘Well, you know more than I do.’\n\n‘Admit it, Greg.’\n\nHis face changes. ‘What is your obsession with drugs? What is wrong with you?’\n\nI feel like snapping the same back at him. But I don’t want to fight. I want to sort this out. I try to keep calm, focus on my mission.\n\n‘Look, Greg, you’ve a problem. We both know it. If you could just admit it, we could do something about it . . .’\n\n‘The only problem I have is you, Lucy,’ he says, turning and walking from the room.\n\nHe leaves me standing, winded. Hurt stops me from reacting immediately. Anger propels me forward. I go after him, ready to ask, ‘What do you mean I’m a problem? If I’m such a problem maybe I should leave?’ But I walk straight into a happy family scene. Toby, dressed for bed, is running to get paints, while Rachel is heading to the office for paper. I slow down, try to lift the expression on my face. That’s when I see Hilary, looking like she’s ready to start fitting.\n\n‘Right,’ she snaps. ‘Forget routine. Fine. I’m going to my room. And I won’t be back down.’ She pounds up the stairs.\n\n‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asks.\n\nI keep walking; amazed he has the nerve to talk to me.\n\n‘Where are you going?’ he asks cheerily, as if the argument between us never happened.\n\n‘Bed,’ I answer only because the children are watching.\n\n‘Don’t go. You’re great fun.’\n\nI feel like clocking him.\n\nThey’re sitting down to paint as I walk out of the door. And I wonder how long it will be before Greg has to go somewhere, do something, or be with someone other than us.\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "body": "![Screen Shot 2018-09-07 at 12.30.39 PM.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/Screen%20Shot%202018-09-07%20at%2012.30.39%20PM.png)\n\n\nOn the flight home, all I can think about is Greg. He’s on something, no question. But what? And when did he start? He’s always been energetic. But then I remember Rob saying how he’d changed. Could he have started taking something back then? Even Grace commented on his energy. What if she saw something I didn’t? I need to talk to her . . .\n\nAs soon as I get to Dublin, I change my return flight to allow an overnight. In a taxi to the office, I ring Grace and ask to stay. She’s delighted; Kevin’s off at a medical conference in Barcelona for the week and she thinks she might be reverting to the mental age of two.\n\nI arrive at the office two hours before the meeting. I hug Fint tighter than usual and try not to cry. Then it’s into the boardroom and down to business.\n\n‘I emailed you the newsletter template yesterday,’ I say. ‘Did you get it?’\n\n‘Yeah, I’d a quick look.’\n\n‘It’s not the final final, but it’s nearly there.’\n\n‘It’s good. Do you want to take the jacket for Copperplate’s latest chick lit author, Clodagh Hughes?’\n\n‘Sure.’ In fairness to Copperplate, they let us be creative with their women’s fiction. They don’t insist on a picture of a smiling woman every time.\n\nFint hands me the brief.\n\nMoving on, he tells me he wants to give Sebastian more responsibility, maybe send him on a course. I think it’s a good idea. We discuss various projects for current clients and what we’re doing to attract new business. Then Fint briefs me about the retail giant we’re about to meet and we go through our new business presentation, which has been modified to highlight the work we’ve done on corporate identities, particularly for fast-moving consumer goods companies. We run out of time for lunch.\n\nThe meeting goes well. The MD seems a pleasant enough man. He speaks about the project, then his marketing director gives us the brief. It will be a major job if we get it – just the kind of account we need to stretch us as a firm.\n\nAfterwards, Fint and I go for a late lunch. It takes a while to comfortably bring up the question that I’ve been wanting to ask since I got to the office.\n\n‘Remember that guy in college, what was his name, again, River?’\n\n‘That nutter?’\n\n‘Was he on something?’\n\n‘Ye-ah.’\n\n‘What?’\n\n‘Dunno, some sort of speed. Why d’you ask?’\n\n‘No reason. I was just thinking about him today, that’s all.’\n\n‘Not getting enough excitement in your life?’\n\nI smile. ‘Whatever happened to him?’\n\n‘Couldn’t tell you. Probably fried what little brain he had.’\n\n‘Ah, come on, Fint. Some of his work was really creative . . .’\n\n‘Yeah, but what a cop-out, having to get high to get creative.’\n\nMy heart stops as it all starts to make sickening sense.\n\nIt’s four by the time we finish up. I pop into the St Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre and buy pyjamas and fresh underwear. I’m thrilled to find Bart Simpson T-shirts. I get two, as promised. Rachel is trickier. In the end, I opt for a black top with a square of fabric sewn on the front, featuring a black and white shot of two cuddly kittens, framed with a red velvet trim. It’s either that or a similar one in grey with puppies, or a completely different stripy one. Even if I’ve made the right choice, it’ll be the wrong one for Rachel. I buy wine for Grace and toys for the boys. Then catch a cab there.\n\nShe’s unloading shopping from the car when I arrive and, though casually dressed in a grey T-shirt and skinny jeans, looks stunning, as usual. She could be Norwegian. I can see why Dad used to call us Snow White and Rose Red. Always so different.\n\nI start to help. The boys are both asleep in their car seats. They look so cute – flushed and soft-skinned. Two angels. I can’t help remarking on it.\n\n‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw them in the supermarket. Jesus, they had me driven demented.’\n\nWe take the shopping inside and, while I start to unload it, Grace goes out to the car to get Jason. She sets him down in the portable car seat on the kitchen floor. I offer to get Shane, but she doubts that I’ll manoeuvre him out of his seat and upstairs to bed without him waking. I doubt it, too.\n\n‘I think he’s coming down with something,’ she says when she returns to the kitchen. ‘He normally wakes when the car stops. And he was so cranky. He only gets that bad when he’s sick, poor little guy.’\n\n‘Poor you,’ I say, about to put lettuce into the crisper.\n\n‘Forget the lettuce. Get the wine open.’\n\nI laugh and do as instructed.\n\n‘Right then. We’ll have a stir-fry – when we’ve had a glass or two. Come on, let’s go into the sitting room.’ She carries Jason. I carry the wine.\n\nThe place is in chaos. Toys everywhere. Children’s feeders. Baby bottles. A heap of clothes that Grace must have taken out of the dryer and abandoned before sorting. This is not Grace. She catches me looking at her.\n\n‘Excuse the mess,’ she says, not looking at all bothered. ‘When the cat’s away . . .’\n\n‘I thought you were the cat.’\n\n‘Lucy. One cat in any home is enough. Anyway . . .’ She shakes her head as though clearing the thought. ‘How are tricks?’\n\nI look down at the glass I’m twisting around by the stem. ‘Pretty crap, actually.’\n\n‘Hilary?’\n\n‘No. Greg.’ I look up at her. ‘There’s something wrong, Grace.’\n\nShe sits forward.\n\n‘Remember when you asked me if he was all right and I told you he was fine?’\n\n‘Yeah?’\n\n‘Well, I thought he was. But now he’s not. Definitely not. You said he was energetic, then. You should see him now – he’s high, Grace.’\n\nShe nods quickly, as if to say, ‘Go on.’\n\nI talk through the events of the night before.\n\n‘Wow,’ she says, putting her glass down. ‘That’s pretty extreme.’\n\n‘It has to be drugs, right?’\n\nShe pulls her legs up beside her. ‘I wouldn’t be sure without seeing him, Lucy.’\n\n‘I know, but you must have some idea.’\n\n‘He’s never mentioned a tendency to get high?’\n\n‘No. Sure, he doesn’t even think he is high.’\n\n‘Or low?’\n\n‘No. He’s always in great form. Just not this great.’\n\n‘OK.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘What about his family? Have any of them commented on his behaviour?’\n\n‘Rob, his brother, mentioned how “zesty” he was, and how much he’d changed since he met me.’\n\n‘But he didn’t seem worried?’\n\n‘No. He thought it was great. He thinks it’s love.’ What a ridicu­lous concept that seems now.\n\n‘OK,’ she says again.\n\n‘He’s taking something, isn’t he?’ I whisper.\n\nShe takes a long breath. ‘It’s a possibility, Lucy, though, without seeing him, I’d be slow to pin it down to any one thing.’\n\n‘What kind of drugs?’\n\n‘Let’s not jump to conclusions . . .’\n\n‘OK, if it were drugs, which ones?’\n\n‘If, then most likely amphetamines. Speed. But he’d want to be taking a hell of a lot . . .’\n\n‘Are they addictive?’\n\n‘Yeah.’\n\n‘But not dangerous?’\n\n‘Well, not at low doses. But someone taking high doses over a long period . . .’\n\n‘What could happen?’\n\n‘Lucy, it may not be drugs.’\n\n‘What could happen?’\n\n‘Well, there would be a risk of paranoia and stuff, but I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. You have to talk to him, first, Lucy. Get him to admit there’s a problem. Because something’s definitely up.’\n\n‘But that’s exactly it. He doesn’t think there is.’\n\n‘Well, then you have to show him how his behaviour’s affecting other people.’\n\n‘I tried, last night. He thinks the problem’s with me. He called me prissy.’\n\n‘Well, show him what this is doing to the children.’\n\n‘I don’t think it’s actually affecting them.’\n\n‘Trust me, Lucy, if it’s affecting you, it’s affecting them.’\n\n‘No. They enjoy his energy. He can be great fun. Very adventurous. OK, they get tired sometimes . . .’\n\n‘He’s not irritable, at all?’\n\n‘Only last night, when I cornered him. Otherwise, no.’\n\n‘Something, at least. Still, Lucy, you’ve got to act. He’s unlikely to do so himself. Highs are addictive. Once you’re up, you want to stay there.’\n\n‘Maybe I should join him. Must be a hell of a lot better than reality.’\n\nShe smiles. ‘I know what you mean. Just keep at him, though, until he admits there’s a problem. Then get him to a doctor, preferably at home. You know I’ll help in any way I can.’\n\nIt sounds so easy. I know it’ll be anything but. Still, at least I have a goal, a sense of direction. And I have something else: the feeling that I’m not alone. I hope I can hold on to that when I’m back in France.\n\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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      "body": "![Screen Shot 2018-09-07 at 12.30.39 PM.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmVDFERgLivWARRpLzWsHZFVrXzVBQPkLHrmhBzjiA4D2g/Screen%20Shot%202018-09-07%20at%2012.30.39%20PM.png)\n\nThe 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.\n\n‘Where are you?’\n\n‘In Nice.’\n\n‘Did you get the screwdrivers?’\n\n‘Screwdrivers?’\n\n‘You left three hours ago to get screwdrivers.’\n\n‘Oh. Yeah. Screwdrivers. God, I’d forgotten. Why did I need them again?’\n\n‘No idea, Greg.’\n\n‘OK. It probably wasn’t urgent.’\n\n‘What are you doing now?’ I ask.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Aren’t you going to be back before then?’\n\n‘I’ve one or two things to do. Just be ready at seven, OK?’\n\n‘OK.’ I hang up.\n\nI’m walking out of his office when Hilary appears.\n\n‘Not coming back, is he?’\n\n‘He’ll be back around seven,’ I say, so she can let the children know.\n\n‘You know, I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you.’\n\nSmug? What’s she talking about?\n\n‘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.’\n\nI laugh. ‘Thanks for the tip, Hilary.’\n\n‘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.’\n\nI 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?\n\nBack at the apartment, I put an emergency call through to Grace.\n\n‘You know what I think?’ she says when I finally pause for breath.\n\n‘What?’\n\n‘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!’\n\n‘No. I suppose not.’\n\n‘And so what if he’s staying out for a few hours? He’s been writing non-stop. Hasn’t he?’\n\n‘Yeah.’\n\n‘She’s obviously manipulative.’\n\n‘D’you think she made up that stuff about other women?’ I ask.\n\n‘Do you?’\n\n‘Greg’s said there’s been no one since Catherine.’\n\n‘Except Hilary.’\n\n‘He doesn’t count Hilary,’ I say, as much to myself as to Grace.\n\n‘Do you believe him?’\n\n‘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?’\n\n‘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?’\n\n‘God.’ I never thought of that.\n\n‘Always beware the jealous woman.’\n\nA wave of self-pity hits. ‘What has she to be jealous about? She’s the one the children love.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘No, I haven’t. She’s still like their mother.’\n\n‘But you’ll be their stepmother.’\n\n‘That’s just a title.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get close to them.’\n\n‘She probably still fancies Greg. I mean, she fucked him, didn’t she?’\n\nI wish she wouldn’t keep bringing that up.\n\n‘He’s an attractive man. She loves his kids. Maybe you’re the cuckoo in her nest.’\n\n‘Jesus, Grace. Stop.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘Grace, you’re scaring me.’ I watch a swallow zip by, its life free and easy.\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘He’s not going to get rid of her.’\n\n‘Let him decide.’\n\n‘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.’\n\n‘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.’\n\nThere suddenly seems an awful lot at stake.\n\nI 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.\n\nBut he arrives a different man.\n\n‘Your hair!’\n\n‘What d’you think?’ he asks, turning full circle.\n\n‘It’s . . . It’s certainly different.’ It’s white. Not blond. White. And short.\n\n‘I was just so bored with it,’ he says, sounding like Fint.\n\nThen I notice his ear. There’s a diamond in it. ‘Did you get your ear pierced?’\n\n‘Cool, eh?’ Now he sounds like Toby.\n\nI stare at him. His shirt is red silk. His tie, black leather. He looks like a pimp.\n\n‘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.\n\n‘It’s lovely,’ I say.\n\n‘Try it on.’\n\n‘Now?’\n\n‘Now.’\n\nI 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.\n\n‘Wow,’ he says.\n\nI nod. ‘Very nice. Thanks. Great. Lovely.’ I start to take it off.\n\n‘What are you doing? Aren’t you wearing it?’\n\n‘I thought I’d keep it for a special occasion.’\n\n‘This is a special occasion.’\n\nI 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?\n\n‘You know, Greg. I don’t think it’s me.’\n\n‘Of course it’s you. You look fantastic. So fantastic you’d better not move.’\n\nHis 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.\n\nWhen 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?\n\nIn 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.\n\nBy 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.\n\nFinally, 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.\n\nBy 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.\n\nI’m relieved when we get to the restaurant, a chic spot with cream parasols, crisp white tablecloths and a clientele of glitterati.\n\nGreg 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.’\n\nWe’re led to a quiet table in a corner.\n\n‘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.’\n\nMy heart sinks. ‘Greg, this a much better table.’\n\n‘Aw, Lucy, let’s be sociable tonight.’\n\nI’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.\n\nOnce seated, Greg whips his serviette in the air to open it, almost hitting the woman at the next table.\n\n‘Pardon, madame,’ he bows, flamboyantly.\n\nShe shakes her head. ‘Ce n’est pas grave.’\n\nThe sommelier hands a wine list to Greg who, after a quick glance, snaps it shut and orders three bottles of champagne.\n\n‘Three?’ I ask.\n\n‘We have neighbours,’ he says, glancing from one table to the other.\n\n‘We don’t know these people,’ I say in an urgent whisper.\n\nHe shrugs. ‘It’s a gesture of goodwill.’\n\nGreg’s not a showy person, what’s he doing?\n\nThe 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.\n\n‘Life,’ Greg says, then, ‘Salut!’ raising his glass high.\n\n‘Salut,’ everyone joins in, glasses clinking.\n\n‘Ladies,’ he says to the women, ‘you’re both looking ravishing tonight.’\n\nRavishing? Is he kidding?\n\nBut 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.\n\n‘You know what you look like?’ Greg asks Tony.\n\nTony looks bemused, awaiting the punchline.\n\n‘An Anglican parson.’\n\nI 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?\n\nGreg’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.\n\nThe restaurant begins to empty, our French neighbours leaving with a polite but unamused goodbye.\n\nFelicity and Janet disappear to the Ladies, leaving me with the three men.\n\n‘Guys,’ says Greg, ‘what do you think of Lucy’s dress?’\n\n‘Smashing,’ says Tony.\n\n‘Stunning.’ James is not far off leering.\n\n‘Would you believe Lucy didn’t want to wear it tonight?’\n\n‘But you look so good in it, love,’ says James.\n\n‘D’you know what I had to do to convince Lucy to wear this dress?’\n\n‘Greg!’\n\n‘Ah, come on, Luce, let’s tell them.’\n\n‘Greg, if you say one more word, I’m leaving.’ And, by God, I mean it.\n\nThe men are quiet, the atmosphere changing.\n\n‘Let’s get another,’ says Greg, jovially holding up an empty champagne bottle.\n\nJanet and Felicity return.\n\n‘Is he always so entertaining?’ Janet asks me.\n\n‘And cheeky,’ adds Felicity, eyelashes on full-bat.\n\nI 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.\n\nIn 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?\n\nWhen 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.\n\nI 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.\n\nOnce 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.\n\n‘Give me the keys. I’m driving.’\n\nAs 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?’\n\n‘What?’ he asks innocently.\n\n‘That display, back there.’\n\n‘The dancing?’\n\n‘No, Greg, the general behaviour. What is up with you?’\n\n‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’\n\n‘Are you on something?’\n\n‘On something?’\n\n‘Greg, you’re high as a kite.’\n\n‘I’m in good form and you think I’m high? Get a life, Lucy.’\n\n‘You insulted those people.’\n\n‘I did not.’\n\n‘You don’t think that telling a man he looks like a parson is insulting?’\n\n‘No.’\n\n‘You were lucky they hadn’t seen Eddie Izzard. And you were lucky they were in such good form.’\n\n‘And who put them in good form? Me, that’s who.’\n\n‘You humiliated me.’\n\n‘I humiliated you? Just how, exactly, did I do that?’\n\n‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. You were going to talk about our sex life – in public.’\n\n‘So?’\n\n‘So?’ Is he serious? ‘That was completely out of line.’\n\n‘I don’t see why. Everyone has sex. I was just being open about it, that’s all.’\n\n‘It didn’t cross your mind, at all, that I mightn’t feel like being as “open”?’\n\n‘Not until you got all prissy about it, no.’\n\n‘Prissy! Jesus! You were flirting with those women.’\n\n‘I was being friendly.’\n\n‘Friendly? What is wrong with you? What is it – speed? Ecstasy?’\n\nHe laughs. ‘You think I’m on drugs?’\n\n‘You’re high, Greg. Don’t sit there and tell me you’re not high.’\n\n‘OK. Maybe I am high – on life.’\n\n‘Oh, come off it.’\n\nBut no matter what I say, he won’t admit to anything.\n\nI speed back, drop him at the villa and drive on. He can have the car back in the morning.\n\nInside 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.\n\n\n<b>Next Part Will come Soon</b>",
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