Marie Phillips

by Gods Behaving Badly

  “Oh, good,” said Alice. “Me neither. It makes the game so unpredictable. And are you happiest with the SOWPODS list of permissible two- and three-letter words?”

  “The, ah . . . ?” Neil swallowed. “Um, of course. Here. I’ll let you go first.”

  “It’s a double-word score advantage,” said Alice.

  “That’s fine,” said Neil. “You start.”

  He handed over the Palm Pilot and took a long, deep swig of his orange juice.

  5

  IN A DILAPIDATED trailer in the car park of the television studio, Apollo sat at his dressing table, an entourage of nymphs, graces, and demigods fussing around him. He was trying to hide it, but Aphrodite could see that he wished he hadn’t invited any of them. Being the center of attention was, of course, something Apollo adored, but the dressing room itself was not quite as impressive as he had made out it would be. And now all his hangers-on had seen it, which meant that he wasn’t going to be able to lie about it to the rest of the gods later.

  Stacked at one end of the room was an obstacle course of props and possessions related to a program that wasn’t even Apollo’s, some wrapped up in splitting black bin liners as if awaiting incineration. Covering the floor was a rough carpet in a dull office beige that was coming away at the corners and had worn right through in front of the tuftless patch of faded brown that had once been the doormat. The windows, rounded at the corners like those of a campervan, were made of some kind of double-glazed reinforced plastic, with a light growth of mildew between the two layers that no amount of assiduous cleaning would ever get to. Some of the plastic chairs wobbled; others had no backs. The mirror that Apollo was looking in was carefully polished but cracked, fracturing his beautiful face into something approaching cubism. Even the sign, written in pen and taped to the door, had been misspelled: APPOLO’S ORACLE.

  Apollo affected not to notice any of it, but Aphrodite knew him better. “A little more foundation on the jaw line,” he commanded one of his attendants, but Aphrodite heard his voice tremble, oh so slightly. This was his big debut and he was being housed like second-class vaudeville. It was marvelous.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Aphrodite purred. “A little nectar, some ambrosia? A bit of hand relief?”

  “Maybe later,” said Apollo, not even turning his head. “I don’t want to sweat through the powder. A shiny face is the enemy of the television professional.”

  “Of course,” said Aphrodite. “Silly me. I wouldn’t want to ruin your special day.” It was an effort to keep her voice sweet and level. “I’m so excited,” she continued. “I can’t wait to see you in action.”

  She watched his face in the shards of the mirror, wondering if he could possibly be buying this act, but the god was so arrogant that he genuinely believed that she cared two hoots for his stupid, tedious program.

  “You can watch from backstage if you like,” said Apollo.

  “Oh, wow, really?” said Aphrodite.

  Then she worried that this had come across too blatantly as sarcasm, so she clapped her hands together in feigned excitement. Another surreptitious glance in the mirror, but there was no need for concern. The cool water of her attention was making him bloom like a flower in the desert. Little did he know that she had a sandstorm planned.

  The phone in her handbag began to ring: “Venus,” the Bananarama version. She pulled it out and glanced at the display.

  “Sorry, darling,” she said to Apollo, “it’s work. I need to take this.” She spoke into the handset. “I’m so horny,” she said. “What do you want to do to me?”

  “Mum, it’s me,” whispered a voice at the other end. “Eros.”

  “That feels good, big boy,” said Aphrodite. She signaled to Apollo that she’d take the call outside. “Touch me all over.”

  She went out into the drizzle, shutting the door behind her.

  “Mum, please,” said Eros. “Don’t be disgusting.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Aphrodite, “you’re no fun anymore.”

  “Why can’t you get a decent job?” said Eros. “You could be a model . . .”

  “Modeling’s boring,” said Aphrodite. “ ‘Stand here, stand there.’ Phone sex is much more fun. And you wouldn’t believe how much mortals are willing to pay for a spot of deep breathing and a fake—”

  “Believe me, I don’t want to know,” said Eros.

  “Don’t take that self-righteous tone with me,” said Aphrodite. “My choice of job doesn’t seem to bother you so much at the checkout of Marks and Spencer’s. Maybe you should get your own job if you’re so disgusted by mine.”

  “I have a job,” said Eros.

  “What kind of job doesn’t earn you any money?”

  “You know how important the volunteering is to me,” said Eros. “I thought you understood that. Money isn’t everything.”

  “That’s easy to say when you’re spending mine.”

  “The children rely on me,” Eros persevered. “In fact, if I don’t leave soon I’m going to miss archery practice. They’ll be really disappointed. They don’t get a lot of fun in life.”

  “You mean aside from breaking and entering, and mugging old ladies.”

  “You’re not funny,” said Eros.

  “I’m not joking,” said Aphrodite.

  There was a pause at the end of the line, and Aphrodite knew something unwelcome was coming.

  “Listen, Mum,” said Eros, delivering as expected. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I’ve decided I’m not going to do it.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Aphrodite, her voice a red light.

  “No. I’m not doing it,” said Eros, driving straight through. “It’s wrong. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

  “Wrong? Who cares about wrong? You promised me you’d do it!”

  “Well, I’m unpromising,” said Eros.

  “Breaking a promise is wrong too,” said Aphrodite.

  “It’s all relative,” said Eros.

  “It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve done it,” said Aphrodite.

  “That time was before,” said Eros.

  “Before what?” said Aphrodite. “No, don’t tell me. Before Jesus.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” said Eros.

  “I understand perfectly,” said Aphrodite. “You prefer that upstart carpenter—that thief of faith—to your own flesh and blood.”

  “He’s a better role model,” said Eros.

  “That depends on your point of view,” said Aphrodite. “From what I remember, he didn’t have much to say about falling in love or having sex or dressing well or any of the other important things in life. It’s all about being nice. Who wants to be nice?”

  “I want to be nice.”

  “Well, then be nice to me,” snapped Aphrodite. “I’m your mother.”

  Silence at the other end of the line. Aphrodite shifted position a bit so that the falling rain would splash more flatteringly on her top, making it cling to her breasts.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “I’m here,” said Eros. “I’m in the building.”

  “Are you wearing the disguise?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Eros mumbled something.

  “I’m sorry?” said Aphrodite.

  “Whatwouldjesusdo.”

  “What would Jesus do?” said Aphrodite. “Let me tell you something. Jesus was a very good boy. He would do exactly what his mother told him to do.”

  “But—”

  “Jesus was supposed to be a god, right?” said Aphrodite. “Ergo, he did revenge. All gods do revenge.”

  “Not exactly. He said you should turn the other—”

  “What else does your Jesus say?” Aphrodite interrupted.

  “I thought you didn’t care.”

  “Let me see,” said Aphrodite. “I remember. ‘Honor thy father and mother.’ ”

  “One, that wasn’t J
esus. And two, it’s hard to honor your father when there are so many candidates for who he might be.”

  “That’s not very nice,” said Aphrodite. “You know who your father is. It’s your cousin Ares.”

  “You can’t force me to do this,” said Eros.

  “Remember what else the Bible says: ‘Charity begins at home.’ ”

  “That’s not in the Bible.”

  “Look, I just want you to do this one thing for me,” said Aphrodite in a new, wheedling tone. “After all the thousands of years that I’ve supported you. You owe me.”

  There was no reply to this, so Aphrodite pressed home her advantage.

  “Allow me to phrase it another way,” she said. “If you don’t do what we agreed, I am going to come and find you, and when I do I am going to pull down your overstarched, permanent-pleated, man-made fabric, smart-casual slacks and turn you over my knee, and I am going to give you the spanking of your life in front of your vicar, his uptight wife, and the entire congregation of Christian brothers. Does that clarify things for you?”

  It wasn’t an empty threat. She had done it before. There was a very long silence.

  “I wish the Virgin Mary were my mother,” grumbled Eros eventually.

  “If you’re lucky maybe I’ll get Artemis to adopt you,” said Aphrodite. “I’ll be in the auditorium in ten minutes. You know what to do.”

  She snapped the phone shut before he could remonstrate any further. Taking a couple of breaths of cold air to let the pink return to her cheeks, she pasted a smile onto her face and slipped back into the dressing room.

  “How are you coming along?” she said to her nephew.

  Apollo turned from the mirror. He had so much makeup on that you could have peeled him from forehead to chin and ended up with an exact facsimile of his original face.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  6

  THEY DIDN’T MANAGE to finish the game, but Alice was already almost two hundred points ahead when it was time to stop playing and go. When Neil had suggested playing, he had planned to let her win, but as it turned out, that hadn’t been necessary. It seemed she was a very proficient player, although she insisted that it was luck.

  “That’s a very clever little machine,” said Alice. “It’s just a shame you didn’t have better letters. Hopefully next time it will be more fair.”

  Neil caught that “next time” like a precious butterfly and pinned it on the Alice display in his mind.

  They put their empty orange juice cartons into the bin, and Alice led Neil out of the tiny room and locked the door behind them. Then they set off down the corridor toward the auditorium. The walls were painted a rancid shade of green, and fluorescent strip lighting flickered over the concrete floor. The air smelled sharp and metallic, equal measures of damp and disinfectant. At not quite equal intervals, somebody had put up star-shaped pictures of the presenters who had made programs there, to add a touch of glamour. Not one of them was famous anymore, and a few of them were dead.

  “Very clean,” said Neil, and got an Alice smile in return.

  As they turned the corner to go to the entrance of the studio, they saw a tall young man heading toward them, carrying a large canvas bag and wearing what appeared to be a fake mustache. At the sight of them, the young man froze, and in response, they froze too.

  “Is that someone you know?” whispered Neil.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Alice.

  “We can go back, if you like,” said Neil.

  “No, it’s fine,” said Alice. Her face had the same look of determination that Neil had seen only a few minutes ago, just before she had put down her second seven-letter word. “I want to go in. You’ll like it so much.”

  “Okay,” said Neil, “if you’re sure.”

  They walked on. As soon as they moved, the man in the false mustache started walking too, as if reassured by their decision. They met at the door.

  “I’m just another audience member,” said the man. His mustache wobbled as he spoke.

  “So are we,” said Neil.

  The man—not much more than a boy, really—looked relieved, opened the door to the studio, and they all slipped inside.

  Alice had timed it perfectly: almost all of the seats were already filled. Neil, who had never been inside a TV studio before, was surprised by how small it was. It seated a few dozen at most. As they had hoped, all of the other audience members, mostly older women in varying ice cream shades of polyester with matching ice cream hair, were chatting happily among themselves and paid them no attention as they entered. Beside him, Alice was scanning the room in rapid movements, like a rabbit newly emerged from her warren.

  “See anyone you know?” said Neil.

  “No,” said Alice. “The crew must all be busy getting ready by now.”

  Neil let go of a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. The whole outing had been planned by Alice as a special treat for him, and he’d never forgive himself if she got into trouble because of it.

  The man in the fake mustache had already scuttled away to a seat at the back of the room, and Alice and Neil found two empty spaces together at the front. Almost immediately, the woman next to Neil offered him a boiled sweet. He chose one for himself and one for Alice: cherry, her favorite.

  Neil looked around. They were seated on long padded benches, steeply banked in front of a small stage area that was adorned with a set that had been designed to look like a Greek temple, but on the lowest possible budget. The crumbling columns and supposedly artful pieces of ruin were made out of Styrofoam, the vines out of plastic, and the permanent sunset behind them was a construct of red vinyl and bare lightbulbs. It was clearly visible that the whole arrangement was being held together with safety pins and masking tape.

  “What do you think?” said Alice. “Do you like it?”

  “What is it?” said Neil.

  “It’s supposed to be the oracle at Delphi.”

  “The oracle? As in fortune-tellers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does that mean there’s going to be fortune-tellers on this show? Fake fortune-tellers?”

  “I don’t know if they’re going to be fake.”

  “There aren’t any other kind,” said Neil. “Alice, you’re brilliant. How did you know I love this kind of thing?”

  “You told me.”

  “When did I tell you?”

  “About a year and a half ago. In the office one day when you’d been watching Most Haunted the night before. You said you loved all that fake psychic bollocks. Sorry. But that was what you said.”

  “I can’t believe you remembered.”

  “Of course I did,” said Alice. “So I was right, then? That you like it?”

  “I love it,” said Neil. “It’s perfect. It’s . . . it’s absolutely perfect. I can’t believe you thought of inviting me.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” said Alice. “Anyone would have.”

  “But I wouldn’t,” said Neil, “have wanted to come with just anyone.”

  And he let his knee lean against hers for a second.

  Behind a faded black curtain that separated the backstage area from the auditorium, Apollo was getting ready to go on. The backstage area was no more inspiring than his dressing room had been. The whole space was cluttered with items of technical junk—cameras, lights, bits of wire with loose flaps of gaffer tape hanging off them. From beyond the curtain he could hear the thrum of conversation from wobbling, ancient voices, sounding disturbingly like teatime in a nursing home. He peeked around the curtain. Just as he’d thought: it was like a basket of overripe fruit, every one of them past their best, and the rot starting to creep in. There was actually somebody knitting. Apollo stepped back and looked over to where Aphrodite had perched herself on a huge reel of wound-up cable. He smiled as convincingly as he could muster.

  “Nearly time now,” he said.

  “Can’t wait,” said Aphrodite with a matching smile.

&nb
sp; The stage door opened and two sibyls, gorgeous rangy blond demigods who used to be diviners at his temple, came in. He suppressed the sigh of relief that clawed its way into his throat at the sight of them. As far as the production team was concerned, the sibyls were just eye candy, a function they would seem to be born to. In reality, they were there for their brain power.

  Neither of the sibyls looked at all happy.

  “What’s the matter?” said Apollo.

  “Did you design these outfits?” said one of the sibyls.

  “What’s the problem?” said Apollo. “I’m wearing a toga too.”

  “Yours covers your arse,” said the other sibyl. She tugged at the pocket handkerchief that was wrapped around her but succeeded only in further exposing her breasts. “See?” she said.

  From across the room there was a crackle. Apollo turned and looked. From who knew where, Aphrodite had managed to acquire popcorn, and she was taking it out of the bag kernel by kernel, sniffing it appreciatively, and putting it back into the bag. None of the gods ate mortal food, but Aphrodite, a sensualist by nature, just adored the smell of it. Catching Apollo’s eyes upon her, she winked, and her hot pink tongue darted out and licked one of the pieces of popcorn. A light buzz of alarm fluttered at the edge of Apollo’s awareness. Was Aphrodite enjoying herself just a little bit too much? She still owed him some revenge . . . Was something up? But before Apollo could pursue this line of inquiry, he heard the director’s voice in his earpiece, telling him that they were ready to roll.

  The opening bars of Zorba the Greek boomed over the loudspeakers and, as rehearsed, Apollo swept the curtain aside, stepping forward onto the stage with the sibyls close behind. The audience clapped politely but without any noticeable enthusiasm. Apollo took a deep breath and held out his right hand in a gesture of greeting. His script was inscribed on his palm.

  “Welcome,” he said, “to Apollo’s Oracle, and prepare yourselves for an unforgettable experience of astonishment and wonder . . .”

  Eros sat at the back of the room, miserable. It was desperately hot under the studio lights, and his mustache was starting to itch. In his pocket he had his phone, set to vibrate; at his feet, the bag with his bow and arrows inside. On the stage in front of him, Apollo—always his least beloved relative—was delivering some self-aggrandizing speech before the action of the show began. Maybe it wasn’t too late to leave.