Read Online The Accidental Life of Greg Millar by Aimee Alexander - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Aimee Alexander
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fit, he lifts me up and twirls me round. I laugh. It’s only been a week, but I’ve missed him so much.
He grabs my case and takes off. I have to run to keep up.
Outside, his Range Rover is parked illegally. He throws my case in the back and makes for the front. I think he’s opening my door for me, like he always does, but when he jumps inside, I realise my mistake. Left-hand drive.
I go around.
The engine’s already running when I climb in. The car’s an oven. ‘Gordon Is a Moron’, a punk favourite of Greg’s, is blaring. Two months ago, I’d never heard of it. And, though it’s hilarious, I turn it dow n and the air conditioning up.
We follow a sign for Marseilles, Cannes, Antibes. The grey and green of Ireland have been replaced by hazy blue and faded olive. We hit a motorway. Sea on our left; mountains on our distant righ t. We r eally are on the Côte d’Azur.
Greg’s hitting a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. The limit’s a hundred and thirty. Even that seems high.
‘Could you slow down a bit, Greg?’
‘Christ, sorry,’ he says when he sees the speedometer.
Soon, we turn off the motorway for Antibes and make our way through the outskirts.
‘Nearly there,’ he says, resting a hand on my leg.
At a roundabout, we take a smaller road. Then a smaller one again. We begin to climb.
‘There it is,’ he says, pointing up the hill. I catch a glimpse of a large, two-storey villa, surrounded by pine and eucalyptus trees. It has a terracotta roof and walls of a lighter shade, hidden in places by bright purple bougainvillea. Its shutters are a friendly light blue.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I’ve found an apartment for you, about a kilometre up t he road.’
‘Great, can we dump my stuff there first?’
‘Ah, come say hi to the kids first.’
Tired after the early morning flight, I was hoping to rest for a bit. Still, I shrug. ‘OK.’
As we pull up outside the villa, he gives my hand a squeeze.
He swings open the heavy wooden door. Inside, it’s darker, but only a little cooler. Overhead, fans slowly rotate. Terracotta tiles flag the floor. The walls are a warm yellow. Floor-to-ceiling pillars remind me of ancient Rome. In the living room, a fireplace dominates. It’s in the shape of the sun’s face, its wide-open mouth housing the hearth. Around it, three couches are strewn with children’s clothes, sunscreen tubes, books, a bottle of Evian and an inflatable, bright green turtle. A large, mahogany chest acts as a coffee table. On it is a pottery vase filled with eucalyptus and bougainvillea. A woman’s touch. Hilary, no doubt. I stop at an entire wall of books, wanting to explore.
‘There’ll be time later,’ he says, taking my hand.
From outside comes an echoey distant scream, followed by a splash.
‘Come on, they’re in the pool,’ he says.
We walk out to blinding white light. Everything seems over exposed. I lower my sunglasses. To my left, beyond a low, stone wall, the view down to the bay is spectacular. Straight ahead, a wooden table is charming in its simplicity. Multi-coloured towels hide the chairs that surround it. On the ground are flip-flops and sandals, scattered as though abandoned in a hurry. Wet patches have small footprints leading to and from a large rectangle of blue in the nea r distance.
There they are: Toby being hurled into the air by Hilary, and Rachel swimming towards them. Toby reminds me of Mowgli from The Jungle Book : slight and sallow, with longish, dark hair and a little red triangle of swimming togs. His goggles are huge compared to the size of his face, making him look half alien, half fighter pilot. Rachel is a streak of dark hair and splashing arms and legs. Hilary, looking robust in a black one-piece, spins Toby around in the water.
‘Hi, guys,’ calls Greg as we approach the pool.
They turn.
‘Dad!’ shouts Toby. ‘Did you see that?’
‘You should be in the circus, Tobes.’
‘I know. Yeah.’
I smile.
‘Do you
He grabs my case and takes off. I have to run to keep up.
Outside, his Range Rover is parked illegally. He throws my case in the back and makes for the front. I think he’s opening my door for me, like he always does, but when he jumps inside, I realise my mistake. Left-hand drive.
I go around.
The engine’s already running when I climb in. The car’s an oven. ‘Gordon Is a Moron’, a punk favourite of Greg’s, is blaring. Two months ago, I’d never heard of it. And, though it’s hilarious, I turn it dow n and the air conditioning up.
We follow a sign for Marseilles, Cannes, Antibes. The grey and green of Ireland have been replaced by hazy blue and faded olive. We hit a motorway. Sea on our left; mountains on our distant righ t. We r eally are on the Côte d’Azur.
Greg’s hitting a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. The limit’s a hundred and thirty. Even that seems high.
‘Could you slow down a bit, Greg?’
‘Christ, sorry,’ he says when he sees the speedometer.
Soon, we turn off the motorway for Antibes and make our way through the outskirts.
‘Nearly there,’ he says, resting a hand on my leg.
At a roundabout, we take a smaller road. Then a smaller one again. We begin to climb.
‘There it is,’ he says, pointing up the hill. I catch a glimpse of a large, two-storey villa, surrounded by pine and eucalyptus trees. It has a terracotta roof and walls of a lighter shade, hidden in places by bright purple bougainvillea. Its shutters are a friendly light blue.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I’ve found an apartment for you, about a kilometre up t he road.’
‘Great, can we dump my stuff there first?’
‘Ah, come say hi to the kids first.’
Tired after the early morning flight, I was hoping to rest for a bit. Still, I shrug. ‘OK.’
As we pull up outside the villa, he gives my hand a squeeze.
He swings open the heavy wooden door. Inside, it’s darker, but only a little cooler. Overhead, fans slowly rotate. Terracotta tiles flag the floor. The walls are a warm yellow. Floor-to-ceiling pillars remind me of ancient Rome. In the living room, a fireplace dominates. It’s in the shape of the sun’s face, its wide-open mouth housing the hearth. Around it, three couches are strewn with children’s clothes, sunscreen tubes, books, a bottle of Evian and an inflatable, bright green turtle. A large, mahogany chest acts as a coffee table. On it is a pottery vase filled with eucalyptus and bougainvillea. A woman’s touch. Hilary, no doubt. I stop at an entire wall of books, wanting to explore.
‘There’ll be time later,’ he says, taking my hand.
From outside comes an echoey distant scream, followed by a splash.
‘Come on, they’re in the pool,’ he says.
We walk out to blinding white light. Everything seems over exposed. I lower my sunglasses. To my left, beyond a low, stone wall, the view down to the bay is spectacular. Straight ahead, a wooden table is charming in its simplicity. Multi-coloured towels hide the chairs that surround it. On the ground are flip-flops and sandals, scattered as though abandoned in a hurry. Wet patches have small footprints leading to and from a large rectangle of blue in the nea r distance.
There they are: Toby being hurled into the air by Hilary, and Rachel swimming towards them. Toby reminds me of Mowgli from The Jungle Book : slight and sallow, with longish, dark hair and a little red triangle of swimming togs. His goggles are huge compared to the size of his face, making him look half alien, half fighter pilot. Rachel is a streak of dark hair and splashing arms and legs. Hilary, looking robust in a black one-piece, spins Toby around in the water.
‘Hi, guys,’ calls Greg as we approach the pool.
They turn.
‘Dad!’ shouts Toby. ‘Did you see that?’
‘You should be in the circus, Tobes.’
‘I know. Yeah.’
I smile.
‘Do you
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