On the flight home, all I can think about is Greg. He’s on something, no question. But what? And when did he start? He’s always been energetic. But then I remember Rob saying how he’d changed. Could he have started taking something back then? Even Grace commented on his energy. What if she saw something I didn’t? I need to talk to her . . .
As soon as I get to Dublin, I change my return flight to allow an overnight. In a taxi to the office, I ring Grace and ask to stay. She’s delighted; Kevin’s off at a medical conference in Barcelona for the week and she thinks she might be reverting to the mental age of two.
I arrive at the office two hours before the meeting. I hug Fint tighter than usual and try not to cry. Then it’s into the boardroom and down to business.
‘I emailed you the newsletter template yesterday,’ I say. ‘Did you get it?’
‘Yeah, I’d a quick look.’
‘It’s not the final final, but it’s nearly there.’
‘It’s good. Do you want to take the jacket for Copperplate’s latest chick lit author, Clodagh Hughes?’
‘Sure.’ In fairness to Copperplate, they let us be creative with their women’s fiction. They don’t insist on a picture of a smiling woman every time.
Fint hands me the brief.
Moving on, he tells me he wants to give Sebastian more responsibility, maybe send him on a course. I think it’s a good idea. We discuss various projects for current clients and what we’re doing to attract new business. Then Fint briefs me about the retail giant we’re about to meet and we go through our new business presentation, which has been modified to highlight the work we’ve done on corporate identities, particularly for fast-moving consumer goods companies. We run out of time for lunch.
The meeting goes well. The MD seems a pleasant enough man. He speaks about the project, then his marketing director gives us the brief. It will be a major job if we get it – just the kind of account we need to stretch us as a firm.
Afterwards, Fint and I go for a late lunch. It takes a while to comfortably bring up the question that I’ve been wanting to ask since I got to the office.
‘Remember that guy in college, what was his name, again, River?’
‘That nutter?’
‘Was he on something?’
‘Ye-ah.’
‘What?’
‘Dunno, some sort of speed. Why d’you ask?’
‘No reason. I was just thinking about him today, that’s all.’
‘Not getting enough excitement in your life?’
I smile. ‘Whatever happened to him?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. Probably fried what little brain he had.’
‘Ah, come on, Fint. Some of his work was really creative . . .’
‘Yeah, but what a cop-out, having to get high to get creative.’
My heart stops as it all starts to make sickening sense.
It’s four by the time we finish up. I pop into the St Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre and buy pyjamas and fresh underwear. I’m thrilled to find Bart Simpson T-shirts. I get two, as promised. Rachel is trickier. In the end, I opt for a black top with a square of fabric sewn on the front, featuring a black and white shot of two cuddly kittens, framed with a red velvet trim. It’s either that or a similar one in grey with puppies, or a completely different stripy one. Even if I’ve made the right choice, it’ll be the wrong one for Rachel. I buy wine for Grace and toys for the boys. Then catch a cab there.
She’s unloading shopping from the car when I arrive and, though casually dressed in a grey T-shirt and skinny jeans, looks stunning, as usual. She could be Norwegian. I can see why Dad used to call us Snow White and Rose Red. Always so different.
I start to help. The boys are both asleep in their car seats. They look so cute – flushed and soft-skinned. Two angels. I can’t help remarking on it.
‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw them in the supermarket. Jesus, they had me driven demented.’
We take the shopping inside and, while I start to unload it, Grace goes out to the car to get Jason. She sets him down in the portable car seat on the kitchen floor. I offer to get Shane, but she doubts that I’ll manoeuvre him out of his seat and upstairs to bed without him waking. I doubt it, too.
‘I think he’s coming down with something,’ she says when she returns to the kitchen. ‘He normally wakes when the car stops. And he was so cranky. He only gets that bad when he’s sick, poor little guy.’
‘Poor you,’ I say, about to put lettuce into the crisper.
‘Forget the lettuce. Get the wine open.’
I laugh and do as instructed.
‘Right then. We’ll have a stir-fry – when we’ve had a glass or two. Come on, let’s go into the sitting room.’ She carries Jason. I carry the wine.
The place is in chaos. Toys everywhere. Children’s feeders. Baby bottles. A heap of clothes that Grace must have taken out of the dryer and abandoned before sorting. This is not Grace. She catches me looking at her.
‘Excuse the mess,’ she says, not looking at all bothered. ‘When the cat’s away . . .’
‘I thought you were the cat.’
‘Lucy. One cat in any home is enough. Anyway . . .’ She shakes her head as though clearing the thought. ‘How are tricks?’
I look down at the glass I’m twisting around by the stem. ‘Pretty crap, actually.’
‘Hilary?’
‘No. Greg.’ I look up at her. ‘There’s something wrong, Grace.’
She sits forward.
‘Remember when you asked me if he was all right and I told you he was fine?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, I thought he was. But now he’s not. Definitely not. You said he was energetic, then. You should see him now – he’s high, Grace.’
She nods quickly, as if to say, ‘Go on.’
I talk through the events of the night before.
‘Wow,’ she says, putting her glass down. ‘That’s pretty extreme.’
‘It has to be drugs, right?’
She pulls her legs up beside her. ‘I wouldn’t be sure without seeing him, Lucy.’
‘I know, but you must have some idea.’
‘He’s never mentioned a tendency to get high?’
‘No. Sure, he doesn’t even think he is high.’
‘Or low?’
‘No. He’s always in great form. Just not this great.’
‘OK.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘What about his family? Have any of them commented on his behaviour?’
‘Rob, his brother, mentioned how “zesty” he was, and how much he’d changed since he met me.’
‘But he didn’t seem worried?’
‘No. He thought it was great. He thinks it’s love.’ What a ridiculous concept that seems now.
‘OK,’ she says again.
‘He’s taking something, isn’t he?’ I whisper.
She takes a long breath. ‘It’s a possibility, Lucy, though, without seeing him, I’d be slow to pin it down to any one thing.’
‘What kind of drugs?’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions . . .’
‘OK, if it were drugs, which ones?’
‘If, then most likely amphetamines. Speed. But he’d want to be taking a hell of a lot . . .’
‘Are they addictive?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But not dangerous?’
‘Well, not at low doses. But someone taking high doses over a long period . . .’
‘What could happen?’
‘Lucy, it may not be drugs.’
‘What could happen?’
‘Well, there would be a risk of paranoia and stuff, but I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. You have to talk to him, first, Lucy. Get him to admit there’s a problem. Because something’s definitely up.’
‘But that’s exactly it. He doesn’t think there is.’
‘Well, then you have to show him how his behaviour’s affecting other people.’
‘I tried, last night. He thinks the problem’s with me. He called me prissy.’
‘Well, show him what this is doing to the children.’
‘I don’t think it’s actually affecting them.’
‘Trust me, Lucy, if it’s affecting you, it’s affecting them.’
‘No. They enjoy his energy. He can be great fun. Very adventurous. OK, they get tired sometimes . . .’
‘He’s not irritable, at all?’
‘Only last night, when I cornered him. Otherwise, no.’
‘Something, at least. Still, Lucy, you’ve got to act. He’s unlikely to do so himself. Highs are addictive. Once you’re up, you want to stay there.’
‘Maybe I should join him. Must be a hell of a lot better than reality.’
She smiles. ‘I know what you mean. Just keep at him, though, until he admits there’s a problem. Then get him to a doctor, preferably at home. You know I’ll help in any way I can.’
It sounds so easy. I know it’ll be anything but. Still, at least I have a goal, a sense of direction. And I have something else: the feeling that I’m not alone. I hope I can hold on to that when I’m back in France.
Next Part Will come Soon