The Accidental Life of Greg Millar Read Online Free PDF Page A

for a few seconds, then back at me. ‘No, doesn’t ring a bell. What kind of books does he write?’
    ‘Crime novels. He’s pretty popular.’
    ‘I’m sure he is, dear. So. How long have you been’ – she roots around for the appropriate phrase – ‘seeing him?’
    ‘A few weeks.’ Thinking of him makes me smile.
    ‘Early days, then,’ she says, bursting my bubble.
    ‘It’s not serious. It’s just, I thought you should know, in cas e . .  . I don’t know . . . you hear it from someone else, or something.’
    ‘Sure, who would we hear it from?’ She looks over at Dad as if to say, ‘We never go out.’
    He doesn’t see her, sitting, as he is, in his armchair, behind the paper. His favourite spot.
    ‘Do you want me to get the tart?’ I ask.
    ‘Oh. Yes, Lucy, please. And cut a slice for yourself and your father.’
    ‘Did someone say apple tart?’ His head pops up.
    I smile at him.
    He gets up, drops the newspaper onto the chair, stretches and makes his way to the table. He’s quiet until I hand him his slice. Then he looks at me.
    ‘So, it’s not serious, is it?’
    I knew he’d be listening. ‘Nah,’ I say, smiling again.
    ‘This looks good, Mum,’ he says, scooping up two quick dessertspoons of whipped cream and landing them onto the tart, then flattening the heap with the back of the spoon.
    Watching him, she frowns.
    ‘D’you know, Lucy,’ he says, ‘that people have a habit of saying that things aren’t serious when that’s exactly what they are?’
    I lift my eyebrows innocently. ‘Well, it’s not, Dad.’
    ‘Don’t ever commit a crime, love; you’d never get away with it.’
    I make a face at him.
    ‘How did you meet him?’ asks my mother.
    ‘Work.’
    ‘I’m not surprised. You do little else.’
    I’ve had a lifetime of learning when not to reply to her. This is what I do now.
    ‘Is he good to you?’ she asks.
    ‘Yes. He is.’
    ‘Does he make you laugh?’ asks Dad.
    I start to smile, thinking of the way Greg mimics Matt. He squats down, comes right up to me, then looks up and asks me to dance. He gets the voice, the mannerisms just right.
    ‘Oh dear,’ says Dad. ‘I think we’ve lost her.’
    ‘I hardly know him.’
    ‘I believe you,’ he says, looking like he doesn’t. ‘So, how often do you see each other?’
    ‘A good bit.’
    ‘Every day?’
    ‘Pretty much.’ He has a way of getting information out of me; the good cop approach.
    ‘Ah,’ he says, in a case-dismissed tone.
    We’re silent. The ticking of the kitchen clock reminds me of afternoons spent at this table trying to interest myself in the life cycle of the earthworm.
    Suddenly, he points his fork at me. ‘Didn’t he write A Time t o Die ?’
    I sit up. Beam at him. ‘Yes, yes, he did.’ Good man, Dad .
    ‘Is that him?’ asks my mother. ‘His books are filthy. He’s divorced. Or separated or something. Oh, Lucy.’
    ‘His wife died, Mum. Hardly his fault.’
    ‘Yes, well, just be careful. Men like that are complicated . . .’
    ‘OK, look, I’m going.’ I stand, trying to stay calm, keeping my voice upbeat. ‘Thanks for the tea, Mum.’ I kiss her cheek, grab m y bag.
    ‘There’s no need to go . . .’ she starts to say.
    ‘I’m late, Mum.’ My standard excuse.
    Dad follows me into the hall. ‘She didn’t mean it, love. She’s just worried about you.’
    I say nothing.
    ‘She means well, Lucy.’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘It’s like the apple tart.’
    ‘ What? ’
    ‘Did you see how I got that cross look of hers when I loaded on the cream?’
    ‘You noticed?’
    ‘Of course I noticed. Anyway, why do you think she made the tart, if she didn’t want me to have any?’
    ‘Beats me.’
    ‘She thinks that by fussing she shows that she cares.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Dad.’ This is what happens when your father retires early to take up psychology.
    ‘And d’you know why she’s like that?’
    ‘Enlighten me.’
    ‘Her mother was the opposite – airy-fairy, never