Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers (3 page)

‘I don't know why your mother looks at you that way,' I said finally. ‘But it could be simple nostalgia as she remembers
that wonderful feeling of being young and in love. It doesn't have to mean that she's dissatisfied with what she's got now.'

‘Bollocks! It's got nothing to do with being young and everything to do with the place you're in. Look at Aunt Geraldine.'

‘How
is
Geraldine?'

‘She's fine. Blissed-out, in fact.'

‘That's good. And
she's
married.'

Angel-face nodded.

‘Oh yes. Aunt Geraldine is always married. It's just the husbands that vary. She's on her third.'

‘Ah.'

‘Ah indeed,' Angel-face said. ‘The only woman of my parents' generation whose relationship is one to which I feel like aspiring is married for the third time. But, Rebecca, I want to be with Zac. And don't say, “And you are.” Because if he's the love of my life it seems to me that the only way I can make sure he remains that way and that we end up happily ever after – with each other – is if I put
us
on hold and marry at least two other people first. And patently that would be absurd.'

I was thinking about that when Angel-face repeated, rather crossly, ‘And patently that would be absurd?'

‘Yes.' I nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, of course it would be absurd. Anyway, Geraldine aside, divorce is usually a very painful and debilitating time with long-term consequences, especially if there are children involved.'

‘Humph,' Angel-face said. ‘Tell that to Bella's mother.'

‘Your pretty red-haired friend Bella?'

‘That's the one. Her parents are getting divorced …'

‘Oh I'm sorry. Is she all right?'

‘Sort of. She hasn't actually been living at home since uni, but of course it still gets to her. Now they're going to court fighting over the house and Katy …'

‘Bella's got a sister?'

‘Dog. Well, her parents' dog. And the house thing really upsets her because it will probably have to be sold in the end and even if she doesn't live there any more it's still her home, you know. It's still important that it's
there
.'

I nodded. I knew what she meant. When I left home I had expected my mother to remain for all eternity in the same flat where I had grown up, surrounded by the same furniture and pictures right down to the china ornament on her desk. I might be moving on; my mother, if I had my way, would live out her days preserved in aspic.

‘Bella's father is miserable and stressed,' Angel-face continued, ‘but her mother seems exhilarated more than anything. It's just all so disheartening.' She sighed and poked at her fish with the fork.

‘It's not that bad, Angel-face, it really isn't. The world is full of people who are happy in long-term relationships.'

‘Give me a list,' Angel-face said. ‘How long were you married to Tim?'

‘Eleven years.'

‘Ha! Well, as it happens, that's actually the national average. That would bring me up to thirty-four for my first divorce. How long have you and Dominic been together?'

‘About four years.'

‘So you have a few years left.'

And for the first time, right then, at the lunch to celebrate my god-daughter's engagement, I wondered consciously if Dominic and I had much time left at all.

The waiter asked if we wanted another glass of champagne. Angel-face said no thank you but I nodded a yes. Sometimes I found that champagne actually alleviated a headache.

I lowered my glass to find Angel-face staring intently at me.

‘Don't tell me
you're
not happy!'

‘Oh darling, it's not as if I
want
to be unhappy.'

‘So I'm right. You and Dominic aren't good, either.' Angel-face sat back, her arms folded across her chest, her pointed chin raised and a frightened look in her eyes.

Words were dangerous things. Once let out they took on a life of their own, pulling consequences along with them, reproducing, prompting reactions, making solid that which had been shadowy and only partially formed. Words, once spoken or written, chased your illusions away.

‘No,' I said eventually. ‘No, we're not very good.'

‘That's it, I give up.'

‘There's no point getting cross with me.'

Angel-face looked as stern as anyone with a face like hers could.

‘I'm not sure there isn't. What was it they called you in the papers last week? The High Priestess of Romance, if I remember rightly.'

‘You know what those headlines are like.'

Angel-face ignored the comment.

Instead, she said, ‘I'm afraid it's people like you: poets, film-makers, ad-writers, wedding-magazine editors – romance-mongers the lot of you – who are to blame, who are absolutely responsible for little girls growing up still dreaming of finding the perfect love and marrying while wearing the perfect frock in the perfect venue and going on to
live the perfect romance. Oh we pretend we're not. We tell ourselves and those around us that what matters is our careers and our independence and our darling girlfriends, but back in the privacy of our own minds we go on dreaming and planning and hoping and that's as much due to people like you as anything. Then when I come to you for some reassurance what do I get? Nothing. I mean how can you do it? How can you go on writing your books that you obviously don't believe in?
J'accuse
, Rebecca Finch, that's what I do.'

I tried to think of something to say, tried to untangle my thoughts and retrieve one at least that was straight and true and useful.

Angel-face went on, ‘So what are you saying to people like me and Zac, young people about to embark on marriage?'

I opened my eyes wide. I shut them tight. I opened them wide again.

‘Better luck next time?'

I walked fast down the Fulham Road towards home. The afternoon had turned chilly: April playing at winter, the wind chasing from the north making a nonsense of my short thin jacket and the flimsy skirt that blew and billowed around my legs exposing my thighs with every other step that I took. I walked as if I could outrun my own thoughts. When I had been a child I had been able to. If my mind was especially troubled I would shut the front door behind me and start running anywhere, as fast as I could, until I had reached the speed at which my mind was left behind. However, due to incipient middle age and a sedentary lifestyle, I wasn't so fast any more and my thoughts had no problem at all catching up
with my feet: I had upset Angel-face on a day that was meant to be a celebration and I had heard myself say that I was in an
unhappy relationship
. Yet how could I be? I had promised myself that it would be different with Dominic and I had believed me. Right through the arguments and screaming matches, the insults and petty betrayals I had believed that ours was still a grand love affair. Until today when I heard myself state the opposite.

Back home I stripped off the outfit that had seemed so appropriate that morning but now seemed to mock me with its simpering prettiness and changed into a far more suitable pair of black trousers and an oversized jumper. Sitting down at my desk I proceeded not to work but to stare out of the window and on to my street. Usually the view soothed me. Soon the hydrangeas in the tiny communal front gardens would be in bloom, some pure pink, some veering towards blue as if they had decided to change but had been interrupted halfway through. Now, in spring, the multitude of blossom on the cherry trees made me feel as if I were living across the street from Mary Poppins and, as everyone knows, when she was around nothing bad could happen. Only it seemed that it had. I needed someone to talk to, someone to ask if sometimes they too looked out on a much-loved view only to find that the trees and houses looked liked cousins of the usual trees and houses, alike but not the same, and the cars did not appear like the everyday items they were but alien things, newcomers. I needed someone, not Angel-face, who took my words and pierced her own heart with them, not Dominic, who reacted to any attempt at conversation beyond small talk or quips like a virgin to an indecent proposal, and certainly not Vanessa, my mother. Vanessa, or daughter of Pangloss, as
I liked to call her, took bad news, any bad news, whomsoever it might relate to, as an unwarranted act of vandalism, graffiti scrawled across the pretty wall she had erected against the ugliness of life. Try telling her that all was not actually for the best in this the best of all possible worlds and she would tell you not to be naughty.

I thought of calling my friend Matilda.

‘Hello, it's me. I know we spoke as usual at ten this morning but I just wanted to add that I'm not in the enviably romantic and passionate, although somewhat stormy, relationship I've led you to believe I was in, but that actually I'm unhappy. What's that? You're not surprised? You're telling me all the signs have been there: the constant bickering in public that made everyone around us uncomfortable. Goodness, you noticed? And you say that I seemed quieter, not my usual confident self when he was around. His constant flirting with other women, you say, and me just having had the best holiday in ages – in Paris. On my own. Well, yes, Matilda, those were all clues but it seems that I needed something more to make me see clearly. A cosh with the words “You are in a toxic relationship”? Well, thank you for offering that, Matilda, but I think I'm getting the message. Would I like to come round for supper and talk about it? No!'

Or I could call my agent.

‘Hi, Gemma, it's me. Yes, I'm fine, work is going well. How is that gorgeous boyfriend of mine? He's well too, thank you. Abusive? Yes. Unhelpful and self-absorbed? Yes, bless. What is happening to my proposed article, “The Art of Everyday Love: How to Retain the Romance in Your Relationship”, that was going to be so useful in publicising the paperback of
Suburbs of the Heart
? Well, seeing as you brought
it up, it's fine; well, as fine as a piece of self-delusional garbage can ever be.'

Clowns are good listeners
.

I looked behind me but of course there was no one there. I sat down resting my throbbing head against the kitchen table. A lorry rattled by, birds sang; apart from that there was silence. I shook myself and got up to make a cup of coffee. I needed to work. I was at least two pages away from my daily target of five.

Then came the discreet clearing of a throat.

I said clowns are good listeners
.

Coco
? There he was, preening.
What the hell are you doing here?

Ah, you've missed me, that's nice
.

I shook my head slowly from side to side like an old donkey trying to shake off a troublesome fly. I was not well. Obviously I was not well if Coco the manic-depressive clown …

Bipolar; these days we prefer the term bipolar
, Coco interrupted, looking self-important.

… my childhood imaginary friend, whose last appearance at my grandfather's funeral I had put down to grief and stress and then all but forgotten about, had reappeared.

Actually, imaginary friend was stretching it. Coco had always been more of an imaginary bully. Of course I had tried to tell that to my grandfather and my mother. I had wanted them to help me get rid of him but it had been useless. They had been so determined in their desire for me to be special, imaginative, amusing that convincing them that all I actually wanted was a nice, cosy, ordered childhood with regular mealtimes and firm but fair discipline had been completely impossible.

Now he was back. People had warned me that I was working too hard. What they had not known, because I had not told them, was that although I was indeed working harder than ever I was actually achieving less. Sentences that would normally spring from my fingertips like children rushing out to play were hanging back, sulking in the doorway of my mind, and having to be coaxed out with bribes of coffee and wine and late-night television.

I wrote two thousand words a day. I always wrote two thousand words a day. It used to take me about five hours. Now that time had nearly doubled but I kept at it until my task was done. One day it might be the inscription on my gravestone, ‘Say what you like about Rebecca Pearl Finch but she kept at it.'

Maybe I was ill. Perhaps I was having a small breakdown. In which case I could not be held responsible for those unhelpful comments I made to Angel-face. Not being well would also explain my overreaction to what was simply a bad patch in my and Dominic's relationship.

Patch?
Coco slapped his thighs in mirth.
Patch?! And I suppose Australia is a smallholding?

I would
not
let him distract me. All I needed was some rest, maybe a quick course of antidepressants and before I knew it everything would be back to normal.

And as I was sick and in need of a rest there would be nothing wrong with me having a bath, although it was the middle of the afternoon and I hadn't finished my two thousand words. If you're sick you're off the hook.

I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and it was like being shown my face ten years on.

I'd sue the dermatologist
, Coco said.

I undressed, bending down to pull off my tights, when a sharp pain stabbed me at the base of the spine.

Coco suggested suing the yoga teacher. I made a mental note to seek specialist advice.

I found Charlotte Jessop's number on the hall table in the silver box where I kept all those cards you pick up at parties and conferences when wine-induced bonhomie makes two strangers decide they are destined to be best friends, or landscape gardener and client, or cat breeder and cat owner, only to have forgotten all about it by the next morning. Charlotte and I had been introduced at the launch party for my friend Maggie Jacobs book,
If Fifty Is the New Forty and Forty Is the New Thirty Does that Mean I'm Twenty?
Charlotte, who was a therapist, had a special mention in the book and was also, Maggie told me, the relationship expert on
Good Evening, Britain
. While I was embarrassed at not remembering having seen her on television or even having heard of her, Charlotte Jessop was perfectly happy to admit that she had only read part of one of my novels and that was in order to get a handle on the mindset of ‘a certain type of woman'.