The Accidental Life of Greg Millar by Aimee Alexander

feel so guilty.
    I close the front door quietly. I race back up the hill. We’ve done everything wrong. We should have been more measured in the way Greg introduced me. I should have been his ‘friend’ first. We could have got to know each other as individuals before bringing the whole stepmother thing into the equation. But that would have been deceitful. If only things had happened more slowly. If only Greg hadn’t parachuted me into their lives. Hilary was so sweet, standing up for me like that. I’ve been wrong about her, too. She mustn’t resent me being here, after all.
    I’m not long back at the apartment when Greg arrives – with croissants and pains au chocolat. ‘You want to be a bit separate. So. Here I am.’ He smiles.
    I hug him.
    We make coffee and go out onto the balcony.
    Then I tell him what happened.
    He grimaces. ‘You OK?’
    ‘Yeah. It’s Rachel I’m worried about.’
    ‘I need to sit down with her and have a chat. She needs to let off a bit of steam with me.’ He pulls out a pack of cigars and holds it up as if to say, ‘Do you mind?’
    ‘Have you started smoking?’
    He smiles. ‘Let’s just say, I’ve stopped stopping.’ He cups his hand over a cigar and lights it slowly, ritualistically.
    I look out over the trees, remembering the conversation. ‘It was nice of Hilary to say what she did.’
    He places the lighter on the table. ‘Told you she was like that.’
    I realise I know nothing about her. ‘What did she do before coming to work for you?’
    ‘Worked in a crèche for a while.’
    ‘Why did she leave?’
    ‘She wanted to work more one to one with kids. Her own marriage had just broken up because they couldn’t have children.’
    ‘That’s terrible.’ I try to imagine the sense of loss she must have felt as someone who so clearly loves kids.
    ‘They were married five years, trying for children most of that time. In the end, the whole IVF thing wore them down. It had become their sole focus. When they finally gave up, there didn’t seem anything left to salvage from their relationship.’
    ‘That’s so tough. When did she tell you all this?’ It doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing a nanny would unburden herself of easily to a male boss.
    He stubs out the cigar, stands and goes to the balcony rail, placing his hands wide apart on it and leaning forward. After a few moments, he turns and looks me in the eye. ‘Actually, Lucy, there’s something I need to tell you.’ My stomach lurches. ‘I wasn’t sure how to bring it up before because I didn’t want to make it any bigger than it is . . .’
    I want to tell him to stop. At the same time, I need to know – every detail.
    He shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a deep breath. ‘OK.’ He comes over and sits down. ‘Way back, at the beginning, not long after she started, when I was pretty low’ – he pauses – ‘something happened between Hilary and me . . .’
    There it is, absolute confirmation. Jesus.
    ‘Once. Only once. I was so down after Catherine died. For the first few months, I drank a bit. One night, Hilary was there, saying the right things, doing the right things. And . . . ’ his voice trails off. ‘Afterwards, I was so ashamed; I was her boss, for Christ’s sake. I apologised profusely, told her that if she wanted to leave I’d understand, that maybe it would be better if she did. I was straight with her, explained that it had happened as a result of grief, nothing more. She understood. Said she was grieving too, for the family she couldn’t have. It was all about loss – on both our parts. We agreed to forget that it ever happened. Never spoke of it again. Hilary does her job. And does it well. Life has carried on. It’s ancient history. I just though t you should know. I want to be straight with you, Luce.’
    I nod. Can’t trust myself to speak. That they’ve shared this makes the foundations between us a little less steady. But then he has told me. And it