The Accidental Life of Greg Millar by Aimee Alexander Read Free Book Online Page B

of the fire, waiting for a taxi to take me home.
    ‘Rachel and Toby are so well behaved, and seriously beautiful,’ I say.
    ‘It’s the genes.’ He smiles.
    ‘I’m glad they went off on the picnic. I don’t want them to feel like they have to like me, you know? I’m hoping it will happen by itself – in time.’
    He kisses my cheek. ‘They’ll love you.’
    How can he be so sure? What if they never do? And what if he can’t love me if they don’t? I need to stop thinking.
    ‘You and Rob seemed to hit it off,’ Greg says, playing with m y hair.
    I turn to him and smile. ‘He’s lovely. Almost as nice as you.’ I look at him. ‘I can’t believe you never told me you pretty much brought him up on your own. That’s a big deal, Greg.’
    ‘He’s exaggerating.’
    And he’s being modest. ‘I bet you were such a cute kid. I can just imagine you. Curly hair, shorts, long socks, a cut on your knee . . .’
    He smiles. ‘Sounds a bit Little Lord Fauntleroy to me. We were more like the scruffy kids in a Beano comic.’
    ‘I wish I’d lived next door.’
    ‘So do I. Think what we could have got up to.’ He smiles suggestively .
    ‘Not with my mother around.’
    ‘Dead right, too. Look how lovely and innocent she’s kept you.’
    ‘Though I do occasionally get “filthy” and need a good cleaning .’
    He laughs.
    ‘Must have been so hard, though, growing up without you r dad.’
    He shrugs. ‘It was no big deal. We were fine.’
    ‘Rob said it was a heart attack.’
    He looks at his watch. ‘This taxi’s taking ages. I think I’ll give them a shout.’ He pulls out his phone and makes the call. ‘It’s on its way,’ he says. Like I don’t know that.
    ‘Greg, if your dad died so young from a heart attack, you should have, like, a cardiac check-up or something.’
    ‘Yeah, probably,’ he says vaguely.
    ‘Definitely.’
    ‘You know what, Lucy? I’m tired. Let’s talk about this anoth er time.’
    ‘Sure.’ It’s not just modesty. It must have been so hard, he doesn’t want to go back there.
     

8.
    G reg and my dad have just returned from the customary game of golf that takes place any time there’s a hint of a boyfriend becoming serious. It’s a family joke by now – Dad’s the least judgemental person I know. He ends up loving everyone. Weird thing is, he hasn’t given me the usual, surreptitious thumbs-up. Has he just forgotten? Not that it would make a difference to me; I don’t need anyone’s approval. The whole golf thing is just Dad being funny, anyway. Still . . . weird.
    At least the tough nut of the family is melting under Greg’s charm. Why? Because it’s genuine. He simply spots Mum’s patchwork, neatly cast aside in the kitchen, and becomes obsessed. How did she choose the colours? Did she ever think of depicting a narrative on a quilt? Does she know any men who do patchwork? Maybe she could teach him? Or maybe he could come up with a story for one of her wall hangings? None of us appreciates Mum’s patchwork. She has her sewing buddies who recognise the painstaking hours of effort that go into her work, but we just don’t get it. Boyfriends have always complimented her cooking; never her patchwork. Big mistake, I realise now.

    I wonder if I should try the same approach with Greg’s mother, Phyllis, a few days later as we’re on our way to visit her for the firs t time.
    ‘What hobbies does your mum have?’ I ask Greg.
    ‘Hobbies?’ He frowns. Finally, he comes up with, ‘She’s pretty religious, I guess.’
    I’ll have nothing in common with her, nothing to talk about! Just as well I’ve dressed conservatively and urged Greg to be o n time.
    Five minutes early, we drive through two imposing pillars, into the grounds of a beautiful old building that looks more like a sanctuary for war veterans than a nursing home.
    I am not having a conversation about God. I’d just fail.
    But, in a bright, leafy reception area, we’re informed that Phyllis