Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers (8 page)

Everyone thinks Mother's so strong but she isn't really. Actually, she hasn't been the same since that business with Adonis. She needs someone to lean on. I'd like that someone to be me but I know I'm not enough. I pat her hand.

‘There there,' I say. ‘It might not be that bad.'

She snatches her hand away from mine.

‘What do you mean it might not be that bad?' Her eyes have turned granite, yielding nothing. It scares me when she goes blank on me like we were strangers, as if I'm nothing to her. And she starts to list all the stuff that would follow from demotion: loss of status and power, laughing stock, unbearable humiliation, the satisfaction given to Athene, not to mention Hera. She finishes off with, ‘And there would be no more family dinners for you, do you hear?'

That really got to me. You might ask why. Guys my age don't usually go out of their way to spend time with the olds. But it's different for me. Being up here, having dinner with Mother and Grandpa and the others, sitting on those shit-hard gold thrones means you're someone, that you belong. And that's actually what I need right now, to belong. Truth is, I had a bit of a shock recently. I haven't talked to Mother about it; as you might have worked out we don't really have that kind of relationship. Still, it makes me laugh, it really does, when I watch the screen and hear people bleat on about their dysfunctional families and stuff. Well, try this for size: you've got used to the fact that no one, least of all your mother, seems to know who your father is. There are a few candidates for the post, chief amongst them Hermes and Ares. I'm not overly impressed by either of them but if I was forced to choose I'd go for Hermes; he might be an arsehole but at least he's not
aggressive
. Then there's the rumour, which is like beyond sick, that Zeus's the guy. I mean he's my grandpa! So, if all that's not gross enough, I'm told by Ate, who else, that there's a theory around that Mother isn't even my mother, that I was hatched from an egg laid by Nyx and that actually I'm not a person at all but a kind of primeval force, a fucking phenomenon! For a moment there I was
flattered; I mean being a phenomenon sounds pretty cool but then I thought about it some more and I felt really sad. I still do actually. Aphrodite might not be everyone's idea of a mother but she's
my
mother, or so I thought. OK, so you can't always rely on her but I've got pretty good at relying on myself. Now I can't even do that because if this latest theory is anything to go by I don't exist.

I know everyone has those kinds of thoughts: Who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I here? It's sort of an intellectual exercise. Not for me, though, not any more.

Mother says she wants to be alone so I go down to the woods. I thought Pan might be there, we could play some music and stuff, but I can't find him so I just sit by the water. Just as well I'm on my own, because when I think about everything, about who I am, or who I'm
not
, more like, and about demotion and maybe no more family dinners and all that I get really upset. I sit there on the edge of the pool looking down, and then these tears fall and break the surface of the water, shattering my reflection.

WHEN I TOLD THE removal men that this was the last time I would ever move, the foreman laughed.

‘That's what everyone says, madam, but it's hardly ever the case, is it now?' He sipped his tea as he leant against the kitchen workbench. ‘Family break-ups are what earn us most of our money these days. Like in your case, if you don't mind me saying, madam. I saw from our records that we moved you into your current property five years ago more or less to the day. And here we are, moving you out. I expect we will be moving Mr Townsend somewhere else in the near future too. It's a big place just for one.'

I stood looking out of my brand-new window; of course the window itself was not new but it, like the flat and the view, was new to me. A barge moved downstream, seemingly deserted with just a few crates on deck and no human being in sight. The day had been overcast and it was beginning to rain. A white plastic sheet had been blown into the branches of a tree, where it flapped like a trashed bridal veil. Dusk was falling. I didn't like dusk, that no-man's-land between day's slick brightness and the dark shield of night. I imagined myself standing by this same window as the seasons changed and I changed with them, lined and greying, increasingly stooped, until one day I was carried out in my coffin.

‘All right, madam?' The foreman appeared in the doorway.

I said to him, ‘This really is the last time I move.' And, before he had a chance to give me his knowing smile, I added, ‘Remember I'm moving in here on my own. You can't break up what isn't there.'

‘Oh you won't be on your own for long, madam.'

He meant it as compliment, a comfort and an encouragement, but he needn't have worried. Alone in my flat, my own flat bought by me, for me, with my own money, gazing out of the window at the view, a view that would soon be as familiar to me as my own face in the mirror, and listening to the sounds of the passing traffic, a sound that would soon be so familiar I would hear it no more unless an exception occurred, a crash or a faulty exhaust. I felt at peace for the first time in a long while.

‘Books in here, madam?' The foreman pointed to the sitting room. I went to join him. ‘I couldn't help noticing when we packed up your old place that your name was on a lot of them books.'

I nodded. As usual in these circumstances I could feel the slight modest smile on my face. This was rather annoying, I know; after all, you didn't find lawyers or bankers or even firemen and doctors looking bashful and pleased when asked about their chosen careers, so why did I feel the need to acknowledge the fact that I wrote books in the manner of someone accepting an award?

‘So what are they about then, your books?'

‘Oh about life and people and love.'

‘Romances then.'

‘Romantic fiction,' I said.

‘Oh yeah. Is there a difference then?'

‘Sometimes,' I muttered.

‘I moved another lady who wrote romances last year. You two might know each other: Sally Kendall, her name was. Then again maybe she wrote under another name.'

I shook my head.

‘I don't know her, I'm afraid.'

‘She's written hundreds of books. All love stories. She was a lady on her own just like you; funny that, when you think about it.'

I had bought a new bed but I still kept to my side. The first night my ex-husband and I shared a bed he asked to sleep on the right-hand side; he said that way his sword arm was free. I remember thinking that would have to depend on whether Tim slept on his back or his side and then on which side but I hadn't argued because it had been a nice idea. Since then, throughout my marriage, after its break-up and during my five years with Dominic, I had remained sleeping on the left-hand side. Maybe only when I woke up one morning sprawled across the middle of a king-sized bed would I be truly a free woman.

EVERY TIME I SEE Mother she seems more stressed. Nothing seems to be going right. Another Hollywood marriage gone bust, another high-profile adultery involving a politician, another mindless crime committed by some kid from a broken home. And all of it blamed on us, on Mother and me.

Athene said that if Mother could not keep one mortal, a favoured mortal to boot, in line then could she really be trusted running her own cult? Of course no one told Athene to wind it in, instead Zeus sat there looking wise, Hera smirked – she's always been jealous of Mother – and even Harmonia looked away without saying anything. Mother went as white as alabaster, her eyes turning the colour of a frozen sea. I ran up to her; she was standing up at the time and I thought she might collapse. She turned to me with this tiny smile and put her hand on my shoulder for support. I was gutted for her obviously, but at the same time I couldn't help feeling kind of happy because at least now she needed me.

Today she hasn't even left her room so I go in to check on her. She's slumped on her couch, barely looking up as I enter, but she says, ‘That wretched girl Ate was right about Rebecca Finch. I've gone over some of the tapes and there she is, clearly seen counselling a young girl against marriage, pouring scorn on the idea of love everlasting.'

‘I suppose she has a point. I mean it doesn't last usually, not even for you and you're the goddess for fuck's sake.'

‘Don't
swear
, Eros! Anyway that's different, completely different. All those things, fidelity, family stability, coupling for life, those were not invented for
us
. They,
mortals
, need boundaries, rules and strictures, or there's anarchy. They don't have the wherewithal to cope with the freedoms we up here take for granted. As for Athene, she is intolerably smug and quite intentionally hurtful, but as I said to her, she would do well to put her own cult in order before she criticises someone else's.'

‘Atta girl. You show the bitch.' Mother gives me a green look so I quickly say, ‘I mean you show Aunt Athene how it's done – properly – kind of thing … anyway …'

Mother says, ‘There is no doubt that Rebecca Finch has been letting me down and letting me down badly. She still hasn't delivered her new book. Her heart is not in her work at all. The other day she mumbled and fumbled her way though a talk at a very high-profile literary event when she was meant to shine as a representative of her craft. No, Eros, that kind of behaviour cannot be tolerated, it really cannot.'

‘So what do we do about it?' I ask.

‘We get her back on track, that's what we do.'

‘How?' I am about to sit down next to her but she gives me a look so I remain standing.

‘It's obvious, isn't it? We make her love again, that's how, and this time it has to be permanent.'

‘It sounds so easy,' I say, ‘but I thought I did a pretty good job with what's-his-name – Mother stops me with another of those mean dark looks. ‘OK, maybe not that good but what
I'm saying is that it's not my fault. All right then, it might be partly but –'

‘Oh, do stop drivelling. The fact is that Rebecca Finch has failed in love. If she isn't capable of learning from her mistakes and finding love again then we must do it for her. And as we all know the child is the father of the man so if you'd kindly fetch me the box set of her life and meet me next door.'

‘She's a woman so shouldn't it be the girl is the mother of the woman –'

‘Can you not do what you're asked to without arguing, just for once?'

‘I wish we could change to DVDs,' I mutter as I dump this huge pile of tapes on the table.

‘You know I can't work those things,' Mother says. ‘Now stop complaining and watch.' She pats the seat next to her on the sofa. ‘Right,
cherchez I'enfant
!'

As the first video starts playing I sit down next to her. I rest my head on her shoulder just lightly, sort of expecting her to shrug me off but she doesn't, so with a sigh I fold my wings and snuggle closer.

‘Is your mother always sad?' Matilda asked Rebecca.

Rebecca nodded.

‘Pretty well.'

‘Why?'

‘Because her heart's broken.'

‘Does it hurt?'

‘Duh.'

‘How did it happen?'

‘It happened when they put my daddy's coffin in the ground. He was in it.'

‘Was she underneath?'

‘No. No, of course not. They only put dead people in graves. Didn't you know that?'

Matilda felt stupid, and trying to recover she countered, ‘Not if they're zombies.'

‘My mother isn't a zombie and she wasn't in the grave.' Rebecca too was getting upset.

Matilda put two strong little arms around her friend and gave her a hug.

Then she said, ‘Can our hearts break too?'

Rebecca nodded again.

‘When our husbands die.'

‘They don't always die, you know. Mrs Nicholson's, for example, just left for Canada.'

Mother presses the pause button and says, ‘An early preoccupation with mortality. There could be something there. Wasn't her sister sick too?'

I shrug. I mean how should I know?

‘Well, forward it on that fast-slow thing until we find out.'

‘Why don't we just do it?' I say.

‘Do what, Eros?'

‘Get her in a room with a good-looking guy and … ping' – I act out shooting off one of my arrows – ‘we're in business.'

‘Don't be an idiot.'

‘I'm not. Why do you say that? I was only …'

Mother rests her head in her hands for a moment before looking up.

‘Don't you see, Eros? It's that kind of short-sighted behaviour that's landed us into trouble in the first place; just getting mortals together willy-nilly with no thought to whether there's any true compatibility, any real chance of lasting love and respect. And before you say anything' – Mother raises her hand – ‘I know that sometimes there's a place for the short term-affair. I know that there have even been times when I have positively encouraged you to cause mischief with your arrows, but we can't afford that kind of behaviour now. This time we have to get it right. Now, if you would be so kind as to fast-forward just a couple of years or so.'