The Accidental Life of Greg Millar Read online

  ALSO BY AIMEE ALEXANDER

  Pause to Rewind

  All We Have Lost

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This book was first published by Penguin Ireland as Love Comes Tumbling.

  Text copyright © 2016 Aimee Alexander

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503934184

  ISBN-10: 1503934187

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  To the girl who can carry off the name Aimée Serendipity. You make me proud.

  CONTENTS

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1.

  A bird has just flown into my car – a moving car, a moving bird, heading in different directions yet somehow magically intersecting. I thought, at first, that it had simply flown close to my open window, passing by on its way somewhere else, but a manic flapping behind my head proves otherwise.

  ‘It’s a blackbird,’ says Fint, beside me.

  ‘I don’t care what it is, just get it out before I crash the bloody car!’ If he hadn’t been smoking, we wouldn’t be in this mess.

  I put on my hazard lights and swerve onto the hard shoulder. We hop out, Fint leaving his door wide open. He runs to the back and bangs at the window. The bird flies up front and out. In a blur, it’s free.

  ‘Now that’s what I call spooky,’ he says.

  ‘I know. Weird.’

  We stand looking at each other.

  ‘An omen,’ says Fint, eyes wide in an effort to look menacing.

  I smile. Fint is about as menacing as a sandwich.

  We get back in.

  Fint looks over his seat. ‘By the way, he shat on your upholstery.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He smiles, pulls out his laptop and opens it up.

  The diversion has made us late for a meeting with our biggest client, a publishing company that we design book covers for. When you run your own business, punctuality is something you respect. I’m keeping just below the speed limit in the fast lane when I realise we’ve company. At my bumper is a black Mercedes Sports Convertible. I’m wondering what kind of idiot drives with the top down on a cold March morning when said idiot swerves to overtake me on the inside.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ asks Fint, looking up from the laptop.

  ‘People like that cause accidents.’

  ‘People like what?’

  ‘That guy just passed on the inside.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says and goes back to work.

  ‘“Oh?” He could kill someone the way he’s driving.’

  Fint looks at me, eyes suddenly knowing.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you think I’m overreacting because of . . . Oh, forget it.’

  ‘Because of what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  There’s a silence.

  ‘It would have been his birthday today,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  He turns to look out of his window.

  I loosen my grip on the wheel and inhale deeply. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He looks back at me. ‘I miss him too, Luce. But it’s been eighteen months. Maybe it’s time to move on.’

  ‘You are the only person I’d let away with a comment like that,’ I say. Ever since we met at art college, we’ve shared everything – friendship, career, secrets . . . And now, it seems, painful truths. Only it’s not the truth. ‘Move on. What does that even mean?’

  Up ahead, the lights turn red. I slow to a stop, glance to my left. ‘Didn’t get far, did he, for all his rushing?’

  Fint looks across.

  ‘Here, roll down the window,’ I say.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Someone should tell people like him . . .’

  ‘Lucy, you’re not a vigilante. You don’t know him. This is how road rage incidents start.’

  I lower the window. Stretch over. ‘Excuse me?’

  He glances across. Good-looking guy, around forty, tight haircut. He turns down his radio.

  ‘Are you planning on killing someone today?’

  He smiles. ‘It’s not on my agenda, no.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Wine gum?’

  ‘What?’

  He holds out a packet of sweets.

  ‘So it never occurred to you that driving like that could cause an accident?’

  His smile only widens. ‘I’m touched by your concern.’

  ‘Continue to drive like you are and you’ll be touched by something with a lot more impact.’

  ‘Lucy,’ Fint whispers.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you you look lovely when you’re angry?’ he calls across, as though nothing has ever rocked his world.

  I return to the wheel, roll up the window and glance straight ahead. ‘Gobshite.’

  ‘Cute gobshite.’

  ‘Fintan, do you have to look on every man as a potential conquest?’

  ‘Potential? My dear, you underestimate me.’

  I smile. The lights go green and I pull away. Fast.

  The Merc stays level with us.

  ‘Ignore him,’ I say. ‘Fintan, stop looking over. You’ll just encourage him.’

  ‘If anyone’s encouraging him, it’s you. Slow down. Jesus.’

  The Merc catches us, but has to slow behind a tangerine Nissan Micra doing, I don’t know, thirty?

  I slap the steering wheel. ‘Ha! Got him!’

  I check the rear-view mirror. He’s passed the Micra and is whipping into the inside lane. I accelerate. As does he. Neck and neck, I peer across. He’s like an ad for tooth whitener. I raise an eyebrow, turn back to the road.

  ‘You’re taking on a Mercedes, Lucy. Do you think that’s wise?’

  Almost by way of an answer, it eases ahead of us.

  We round a bend and I smile. He’s stuck behind a slow car in the fast lane. I join the line of traffic on the inside, which is moving faster. I keep my eyes on the road as we overtake him.

  ‘You absolute hypocrite!’ says Fint.

  That’s when reality hits. I slow down and let the traffic go ahead as guilt crushes down on me, worse than ever, guilt that I can go on without Brendan,
live, breathe, function . . . even forget how he died.

  I indicate and turn off for the industrial estate where our client, Copperplate Press, one of Dublin’s leading publishers and wholesalers, is based. A black Mercedes Sports Convertible is parked in front of the building, its top coming up.

  Fint closes his laptop and looks up. ‘Hey, isn’t that . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t. Look. Over. Wait till he goes in.’

  Fint hops out.

  They meet in front of the Merc, say a few words, then look my way.

  I pretend I’ve dropped something.

  When I finally surface, I see that they’re coming over. Right, well, I’m not staying here. I step out of the car, chin high.

  ‘Ready, Fintan? Or are you just going to stand around chatting all day?’

  ‘Hello,’ Racer Boy says with that smile of his.

  I nod and walk past them.

  He rushes ahead of me and holds the door.

  ‘Exhilarating,’ he says, following me into the lobby.

  I stop and turn. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The race. Exhilarating!’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘I’d have described it as dangerous.’

  ‘Why do it, then? If it was so dangerous?’

  Grinning, Fint passes us, heading for reception.

  I walk over to the black leather couch.

  Racer Boy follows. He sits at the other end. Unfortunately, it’s a two-seater.

  I pick up a newspaper. ‘Better tell them you’re here,’ I say, nodding to the desk.

  ‘Time enough,’ he replies, not budging. ‘Look, I’m sorry if my driving offended or annoyed you, or whatever the problem is.’

  ‘There’s no problem,’ I say, without looking up from the paper.

  ‘It’s just, the way you took off back there; I thought you were challenging me. No. To tell you the truth, I thought you were flirting.’

  I stare at him. ‘Well, you were wrong. I was definitely not flirting.’

  ‘My mistake. It’s the car; people are always trying to race—’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘You know,’ he says, leaning towards me. ‘You have a remarkable face.’

  ‘Look. That might work for—’

  I’m interrupted by Matt O’Hagan, MD of Copperplate Press, who’s practically sprinting across reception, shouting, ‘Greg! Greg!’ at the top of his already loud voice. Matt: small man with the presence of a low-flying aircraft.

  Racer Boy stands. Matt, reaching him, extends a hand. They shake. It strikes me then, as Matt gushes over him, that he didn’t have to announce his presence for Matt to know he’d arrived. If you knew Matt, you’d appreciate how unusual that is.

  ‘You found us easy enough? We’d have sent a car . . .’ I’ve never known Matt to send a car anywhere for anyone.

  ‘Actually, I enjoyed the drive.’ This is directed at me. ‘I was just introducing myself to . . .’

  Matt finally realises I’m not a mannequin. ‘Oh, Lucy, Lucy, hello, hello.’

  ‘Hello, Matt.’ I stand, smile, shake his meaty hand. ‘We’re here for a meeting with Orla. There’s Fintan behind you.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ he says without turning. ‘So, you’ve met Greg Millar, then?’

  Whoa. Back up. Greg Millar? The writer? I call to mind the publicity shot on the jacket of his latest bestseller and give it a haircut. It is him. Knowing my luck, Copperplate has just signed him.

  ‘Lucy, here,’ Matt blares, ‘designs our book jackets. Does a bloody good job, too, don’t you, Luce?’

  He has never, until now, called me Luce.

  I produce a smile from somewhere. ‘Nice to meet you . . .’ I’ve a problem saying his name.

  ‘Greg.’ He holds out a hand.

  ‘Greg,’ I confirm, shaking it and trying to ignore the look of amusement that’s spreading across his face.

  Fintan, like the cavalry, arrives to let me know that Orla’s ready for us. Best news I’ve had today.

  2.

  Next day, I’m at my desk, working on a corporate logo for a financial institution and trying not to nod off, when Matt rings. I move the receiver an inch from my ear and wonder what he wants. Matt never gets involved in day-to-day business.

  ‘I want to set up a brainstorming session. We’ve signed Greg Millar! I want all heads together for the marketing campaign of his new title. Greg himself will be sitting in, so I want a good show. You and Fintan from Get Smart.’

  Just demand the managing partners. I try to sound enthusiastic. ‘When were you thinking?’

  ‘Monday. Give Glenda a call to firm up a time. I’ve asked her to get a copy of the manuscript over to you. Remind her when you’re talking to her, would you? Oh, and it might be wise to get cracking on some ideas before the meeting.’ He hangs up.

  This is the first time I’ve heard of an author sitting in on a Copperplate Press brainstorm. But then, Greg Millar is not just any author. His books hit Number One all over the world before they even go on sale, such are the pre-orders. Matt’s been in the business long enough to know that authors like Millar don’t walk in off the street every day, and when they do, you bring out the dancing girls.

  Five days later, I follow Fintan into the boardroom of Copperplate Press, which has undergone quite a transformation. On the walls are posters of Millar’s published titles. Running up the centre of the table are hardback and paperback editions, with media folders forming a mini skyline at the end. On the sideboard, refreshments have been laid out: pains au chocolat, coffee, croissants. I’m sure Millar has seen all this before. And yet he looks enthusiastic, standing up and beaming at us as he shakes our hands.

  There are only two seats left: one beside Millar, which Fintan takes, and one opposite. I feel his eyes on me as I sit. I busy myself unloading my briefcase, wishing Matt would hurry up and get started.

  At last, the MD clears his throat. I look up to find Millar studying me. There’s something innocent about his smile. It seems to say, ‘Great to see you again.’ No more. My return smile is professional. Then I turn my attention to Matt, who’s standing now and looking around the table.

  ‘Thank you all for coming. Before we start, I’d like to share what a great personal thrill it is for me to have an author of Greg Millar’s calibre join our list here at Copperplate Press.’ He turns to the novelist. ‘Congratulations, Greg, on your decision to move to an indigenous publisher in your home market. Inspired! Inspired! Let me take this opportunity to personally guarantee that you’ll receive every support available here at Copperplate Press.’

  ‘Thank you, Matt,’ Millar says with an appreciative nod.

  Matt’s eyes sweep the table. ‘You’ll all, by now, have read the manuscript. So, Lucy, any thoughts on covers?’

  He always does this, lulls you into thinking he’ll waffle on forever, then boom! He springs. I look at my spiky-haired, dark-suited partner, who has agreed to do the talking.

  ‘You can stay sitting, if you like, Lucy,’ says Matt.

  Fintan nods for me to go ahead as it’s clear that’s what Matt wants.

  ‘Thanks, Matt,’ I say, glued to my chair. I switch to pitch mode. ‘Well, firstly, I’d like to say that I really enjoyed A River Too Wide.’ I feel Millar’s eyes on me. ‘Fintan and I’ – I look at my partner, hoping that everyone else will, too – ‘had our own brainstorm back at the office. We feel that, while the jacket should complement the traditional look of . . .’ – What should I call him? – ‘Greg’s’ – Cringe – ‘previous titles, we think that, this time around, the cover could focus more on the main character than the plot. Cooper is such a great protagonist—’

  ‘Great idea!’ Millar interrupts. ‘Why hasn’t anyone thought of that before?’

  ‘I imagine that it made sense, in the beginning, to have the jackets primarily indicate the genre because you were establishing your reader base,’ I say. ‘We feel that the covers should continue to do that, just shift the focus to Cooper. He has such a loyal follow
ing. He’s another Morse, really, isn’t he?’ I stop. I’m coming off as a fan. Which I actually am. I just don’t want Millar to know it.

  ‘Do you have anything for us to look at, Lucy?’ asks Matt, pushing it as usual.

  ‘Only roughs. I need to source some images before showing you anything.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looks at Millar.

  ‘I’d love to see your roughs, Lucy,’ the author says, with what seems like genuine enthusiasm rather than the double entendre I initially suspected.

  Matt’s nodding furiously. I decide, there and then, to bill him extra for the job. I pull my work from a folder and hand it across to Millar.

  ‘They’re just concepts, at this stage,’ I explain.

  He takes a moment. Then: ‘Wow! These are incredible.’ He passes them to Matt.

  ‘Yes!’ he enthuses – most likely because Millar’s just done the same.

  It’s decided that Get Smart should go ahead and develop the discussed concepts. The brainstorm moves to other areas of marketing – in-store display, author tours, signings, talks, PR, advertising, social media. Orla, in marketing, is a natural performer. Jim, the sales manager, is equally enthusiastic. The PR woman, Debbie, suggests a list of possible angles. The only person who doesn’t say much is Emma, the managing editor. And I get that. How much editing is an author of Greg Millar’s calibre likely to need?

  As we’re leaving the boardroom, Copperplate’s hottest new property suggests that we celebrate. Matt names a local pub. I open my mouth to make my excuses, but get a look from my client. It’s settled. I’m going.

  We get to the pub just before the post-work rush. Matt spots that the snug is free and makes a dash for it. Fint remembers an urgent call and excuses himself, leaving Millar next to me. I look at my disappearing partner and realise that there is no urgent call. My self-appointed Cupid is popping out to refill his quiver.

  We’re packed tight. Matt dominates the conversation, but knows how to keep it lively and sharp. Everyone chips in, except me. At first, I’m happy listening, but I soon become aware that Millar has gone equally quiet, speaking only when asked a direct question. I feel he wants to turn to me and say something. I avoid looking at him, yet notice his every movement, word, breath. Our legs are touching. I move mine away by crossing them. It does nothing to stop the tension that is building between us. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t even like this guy. My face is burning. I have to get out. Cool down. Get a grip.