Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers (24 page)

RF (catches eye of publicist, who is smiling in the manner of a hostess who has forgotten to turn on the oven): No, I wouldn't go as far as that. But these kinds of
books, my books, are simplistic fairy tales. There's no real truth or depth to them.

TF (turns to the camera): So there you have it, from the horse's mouth. Unfortunately we are running out of time, but thank you to award-winning novelist Rebecca Finch for this … this candid exchange. Next week on the programme …

Gemma switched off the DVD player and turned to me.

‘I think we can safely say that with that little effort you will have managed to alienate just about every one of your readers.'

Coco clapped his white-gloved hands.

I told you it had gone well
.

‘That was never my intention.'

‘So what was your intention?'

‘To be truthful.'

‘Does the name Gerald Ratner mean anything to you?'

‘The guy who said his shops sold crap?'

‘That's the one.'

‘Ah.'

‘Have you spoken to Dorothy?'

‘She's not pleased, is she?'

‘Not terribly, no.'

‘Maybe not that many people saw the interview.'

‘I think the average viewing-figures for the programme are five million and then of course there are the newspapers, in case anyone did manage to miss the actual interview.' Gemma picked up a pile of clippings from her desk. ‘ “Love a cosmic yoke, says award-winning romantic novelist Rebecca Finch.” That's a good one. And this one, oh yes, “Hell has no fury as a
middle-aged woman scorned as real life turns sour for award-winning romantic writer.”'

‘That's outrageous,' I said. ‘I was
not
scorned. I was the
scorner
and anyway no one thinks of forty-two as middle-aged these days.'

‘I don't think your reaction shows any real awareness of your situation right now,' Gemma said.

I covered my face with my hands.

‘Oh shit! I've screwed up, haven't I?'

The fall-out continued. There was a suggestion that I hand back the award, although in the end the organisers decided that would be inappropriate as the prize was for the novel, not the author. I was hit by an egg at the Woking Way with Words festival and faced hostile questions following a talk at Cheltenham. Questions like this one, from a middle-aged woman with a fixed smile and yesterday's eyes: ‘What right have you got to achieve fame and fortune through your readers' hopes and dreams, tears and disappointments only to turn round and ridicule it all?'

Letters arrived, and messages on my website: ‘Your books meant something to me. They were my friends. Each new publication was an event for me and I would read and reread your books. I thought you understood what it was like being me. I thought you had a heart. How wrong I was. Instead it appears that to you it has been nothing more than a money-spinner. I expect you've had a good laugh at the expense of your poor, silly, deluded readers.'

The postman arrived with a parcel and an accompanying note: ‘These are returned to you with the contempt that you have shown us, your faithful readers.' I picked up the copies of
my novels, staring at one dog-eared, well-thumbed, marmalade-stained, coffee-splashed, once-loved paperback after the other and I wept with shame. How could I have done it, offended and hurt all these kind, loyal people?

You were just being yourself
, Coco said.

I'm a good person
.

Coco looked stricken.

Whoever told you that?

Gemma suggested I write an apology on my website.

‘Tell them you were ill,' she said. ‘Blame your mother or your cat or me; I don't care as long as you retract.'

I tried to do as she had asked but I met with the same difficulties as when I had tried to respond to Angel-face's questions – the only way I could was if I lied. I could of course write that I was deeply sorry to have caused offence to my readers, readers who had supported me, literally, through the years, who had given me an identity, allowed me to turn doing what I loved into a career …

And given you the financial independence to ditch every man in your life without any thought to the financial implications
, Coco joined in.

Yes, I could write all those things, well almost all, but what I could not do was take back what I had said in that interview, so what kind of apology would that make? ‘Sorry I upset you but I meant every word I said.'

Coco suggested that I try it.

I turned on him.

This is all your fault. Everything was fine until you reappeared
.

Didn't your therapist tell you that you had to stop referring to me as a separate entity?
Coco reminded me.

Yes, and she also suggested that you had served your purpose and I'm sure she said something about not getting into conversations with my inner demons
.

Coco, in turn, pointed out that a ban on inner demons did not, to his way of thinking, cover inner clowns.

I put my hands over my ears and clamped my eyes shut.

Oh very grown-up
.

A little later I decided to call Bridget. I hadn't heard from her or Angel-face since the TV interview. I hoped they hadn't seen it or the newspapers.

‘Nice of you to call.' Bridget's voice was tight. ‘Zoe saw you on
Good Evening, Britain
.'

‘Oh no.'

‘Oh yes. She's told Zac that she needs time out to think. She's in New York, staying with her other godmother.'

You see
, Coco said when I had put the phone down and resumed what was an almost habitual pose these days, head in hands.
You
are
responsible for everything and everything
is
your fault
.

MOTHER'S BIG DAY. SHE'S dressed up for the occasion: fancy frock, killer heels, rocks – the works. Ares says maybe he should dress up in full armour every time they report on the war in Iraq and everybody thinks he's like so hilarious. Mother ignores him. She's sitting right in front of the screen, her lunch on her lap. The others are at the table; they're watching too, but pretending not to. I grab a plate and pull up a stool next to Mother, avoiding that cow Hera's gimlet eye.

‘How's it going?' I nod at the screen. It's important to show interest, solidarity, especially with the rest of the guys being there.

‘Hush.' Mother frowns.

I can feel Hera sniggering and my cheeks go red. (People go on about eternal youth but they don't think about all the stuff that goes with it, like going red when the look you're aiming for is cool and dignified, or the never-ending zits … and don't get me started on the involuntary erections.)

On the screen all these mortals are having their meal too, seated around little tables in a large room. The lighting is bad. No wonder Mother looks smug. The lighting up here's always just so, soft golden dawn.

Anyway, this old guy walks up to the lectern and starts spouting. I look around for something to drink but Hera has
the jug right by her elbow and she's not going to share, not with me.

Down amongst the mortals, the old guy drones on but Mother seems to like it. She even claps once or twice. Athene arrives late and sits down at the table pretending not to notice what's on the screen.

Mother claps again; the sound is kind of muffled on account of her wearing those gloves.

Rebecca Finch gets her award … she's not looking her best, though, I have to say; the clothes are all right, not black for once, but she has a funny glassy-eyed look, like she's running a temperature, and her cheeks are a bright pink, which actually clashes with the pink of her suit. She goes to sit down but instead she's dragged off to do some TV interview.

Mother zaps until she finds the studio.

‘Oh it's
Good Evening, Britain
,' she says. ‘That's wonderful PR.'

I'm not really concentrating on the screen when I sense Mother stiffening beside me. I start to listen.

It's Rebecca.

‘Shakespeare again is spot on when in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
,' she's saying, ‘he has Duke Theseus speak of “the lunatic, the lover and the poet …” all in the same breath.'

Up here everyone's looking at Mother, who has not moved; she's sitting stiff-backed, her wondrous eyes fixed on the screen. Then Ate titters and Hera puts her finger to her lips as if to shut Ate up when actually she's loving it. I want to do something, turn the screen off, whack Ate across her smirking face.

‘Being in love has been added to our ever-growing list of “rights”,' Rebecca Finch continues.

‘If you want the truth about love …'

Mother grabs the remote and zaps into another channel: it's Martha Stewart, Hera's favourite.

But she can't help herself, saying to Mother, ‘Why, dear, don't switch over on my account. We were all enjoying your little show, really we were.'

‘Yeah,' Ate says. ‘Some homage.'

Athene says, ‘Rebecca Finch speaks well. What she says is true.'

‘Rebecca Finch speaks well. What she says is true.' Who does she think she is, the bloody oracle?

‘We have tried to tell you,' Hera says. ‘Haven't we, Zeus dear? Aphrodite's cult is not what it was.'

‘That's rubbish,' I tell them.

Hera glares at me.

‘I'm sorry, we've all been pussy-footing around for far too long but the truth is that nothing good can come from a cult presided over by someone like her.' She points at Mother and I think how much I'd like a raven or an eagle or something to swoop down and snap her finger off. ‘A feckless single mother of … well, I've lost count of how many. One of them a complete delinquent.' She shoots me another look. ‘No, I'm afraid we've all seen this coming, haven't we, Zeus dear?'

Mother rises from her seat. Her dress is crumpled and her tiara has slipped down over one eye.

‘I don't know what everyone's talking about: my cult is flourishing. They're falling in love all over the place,' she says, but in a voice that hardly carries.

People turn from Mother to Zeus and back again but it's Hera who pipes up again.

‘Any fool can get them to
fall in love
,' she says, turning towards me. ‘Even him.' Someone should tell her it's rude to point. I narrow my eyes at her but she doesn't care. ‘Don't ask me why, but more was expected of you, Aphrodite. You have a seat up here. With such privilege comes responsibilities.'

I try to catch Hephaestus's eye; maybe
he'll
stick up for Mother, he's her husband after all, but no, he's no help whatsoever, avoiding my gaze and Mother's, making a big thing of checking on a crack in one of the table legs instead.

Mother just stands there taking it all, the preaching, the ticking-off, the tittering, until I can't deal with it any longer.

‘Just cool it, you guys,' I say. ‘She's doing the best she can.'

All right, for a comeback that was kind of pathetic, especially as my voice did this hike up half an octave. But I had to say
something
.

‘Anyway, if someone's fucked up on the love front it's me.'

Well, they all seem to agree on that, at least.

Now Zeus speaks.

‘So, my child.' He looks at Mother and I can see her shrink beneath his awesome gaze. ‘You are being mocked.' That is all he says. It is all he needs to say.

Without a word she exits the left portal in the direction of her chamber. Usually she kind of just glides by, head held high, eyes glowing, a small smile on her lips, followed by the gaze of every guy present as if she had their eyeballs on a leash. But not now, now she more like
scurries
. That really freaks me.

I have been loitering by her half-open door when she spots me and says, ‘Oh, it's you.' It would have been nice if she'd said it more perkily, like it was a really good thing it was me, rather than a disappointment, but there we are.

‘How are you doing?' I step inside.

‘How am I doing?' She stops before me, eyes flashing teal. ‘How do you think I'm doing? I've been made a laughing stock. I've been humiliated in front of the entire family. Have you any idea what that feels like?'

‘Er, yes.'

‘Rebecca was favoured, that's what hurts so much. You know the way I've been praising her in front of the others, how I've held her up as an example for how one should be worshipped and one's cult promoted. And now she goes and does this: turns on me, betrays me in the most public way possible.'

‘I don't suppose she knew you were saying those things about her.'

‘Well, of course she didn't.'

‘So how could she know she was meant to be grateful, I mean?'

‘Just go away if you're going to be difficult.' She sinks down on to a couch. ‘She was favoured, Eros, favoured.'

Mother hangs her lovely head and I take a step towards her. I put out my hand but then I don't know what to do with it so I pull back, trying instead to think of something helpful to say.

‘So we have to really get that thing going with John Sterling.'

‘Thank you for pointing that out, Eros.'

I hate it when she's sarcastic.

‘Having said that, I don't know that the little minx deserves happiness after the way she's behaved. Yes, why should she have her appalling behaviour rewarded with a relationship with …' She pauses and her eyes go a soft heavenly blue. ‘A quite beautiful young man.'

Her eyes never go that colour when she looks at
me
.

‘Not that young,' I mutter.

‘No, I'm beginning to think John Sterling deserves better, the best even.'

And we all know what she means by the best. I turn round and face her straight on.