Dionysus hurried back to his seat, swigging from the wine bottle as he moved.
“I’m sure you’ve all got better things to do—” Apollo tried again.
“Switch it on!” The call came from all the gods that time, and Apollo, conceding defeat, flicked the switch for the tele-vision, lo-cated the psychic channel in the distant reaches of the satellite selection—flicking past shopping, dating, pornography, and Bollywood—and retreated to the shadows at the back of the room. He considered just leaving them to it, disappearing up to his bedroom or out to a bar, but not knowing what they were saying behind his back would be even worse than letting them taunt him to his face.
It wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. It was worse. On the day, they had filmed for well over an hour, but the length of the program was only thirty minutes, so the show had been cut down to fit the slot, apparently in haste, apparently with an ax, apparently by someone who was holding some kind of grudge against Apollo. Although the first half of the day had gone well, before he had noticed that girl and lost his concentration, hardly any of this footage had been used, aside from the introduction at the beginning. Instead, the program—the badly shot, badly lit, crassly scored program—seemed to consist almost exclusively of a montage of moments where he stumbled, fluffed his lines, or blinked in confusion into the lights, intercut with long, lascivious shots of the sibyls’ near-naked forms and the moribund faces of the borderline cadavers that made up his audience.
But that wasn’t the worst thing about it. The worst thing was his family’s response. They had started out jeering—all but Eros, who had pleaded with his brethren to pray for Apollo’s fortitude at this difficult time—though the jeers were modulated to a low volume so that they could all hear what was going on on-screen. But after only a few minutes, the jeers had tailed off and the room lapsed into silence. His was the only voice audible, slightly tinny through the cheap television speakers. On-screen he was telling an old lady that she was going to find her lost earrings at the bottom of her summer handbag, but he may as well have been Cassandra prophesying doom, as he had cursed her to, back when he had put curses on mortals as idly as sipping nectar off a spoon. On the television screen, his weakness was pulled out of the camouflage of the murky day-to-day and displayed, naked, undeniable. All of the gods were seeing their future now, and they didn’t like what they saw.
Aphrodite alone was not hypnotized by the carnage unfolding on-screen. Ignored by the others, she leaned toward Hermes, her neighbor on the sofa. She pressed her plump lips up against the shell of his ear, enjoying the shiver of lust that passed through his body at her touch.
“You’re the god of coincidences, aren’t you?” she whispered, running a finger up the inside of his thigh.
“I’m the god of everything nobody else wants to do,” Hermes whispered back.
“Good,” said Aphrodite. Her hand paused, high up Hermes’s leg.
She waited a few moments, until the camera cut to the girl in the audience that Eros, on her other side, signaled to her was the object of Apollo’s unrequited passion. (That it might be less unrequited than Aphrodite believed was a fact that Eros had wisely kept to himself.) Enjoying the wince of pain that passed over Apollo’s watching face, she whispered her instructions to Hermes.
“That girl. Bring her here. I don’t care how.” Her tongue performed a complex maneuver on the inside of Hermes’s ear canal. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Hermes, not trusting himself to make a sound, just nodded. Aphrodite smiled to herself. She was a very hard goddess to say no to.
9
IN THE UPSTAIRS room that he called his den, Neil was multitasking. They said men couldn’t multitask; they were wrong. Men just needed the right equipment. Right now Neil was instant messaging a colleague, burning a compilation CD for Alice, and watching the meltdown that was Apollo’s Oracle on TV.
The den was a small room that the previous owners of the flat had used as a nursery. The contents of it were no less precious to Neil than a baby. He had lined the room from floor to ceiling with shelves and had filled them with everything he held dear.
At the bottom were his comics, starting with the Beanos that he had collected as a child, then graduating upward through Asterix and Tintin books and onward to the comics he still read, 2000 AD and Judge Dredd: The Megazine, plus a smattering of manga, which he had experimented with for a while before deciding that it was a bit extreme for him. These were all arranged by title and then chronologically, key issues in plastic binders.
Above these were his books. Neil had books all over the flat—he thought rooms felt nude without them, and in any case had so many that they couldn’t all be contained in one place—but the ones in the den were his favorites: classic science fiction, fantasy (but only the top-end stuff), and a lot of nonfiction—weighty historical tomes, mostly about war, not all of which he had finished. These were separated into genres and then alphabetized.
Then at the top was his Betamax, VHS, and DVD collection. He was most proud of his collection of complete TV series, recorded over almost three decades, each one labeled and dated. Arranging these had proved a particular headache, as he had been torn as to whether to subdivide into format, genre, homemade, and store-bought, but eventually he had gone for a straight chronology, which provided a pleasing overview of his developing tastes, TV history, and the rise and fall in neatness of his handwriting.
The presence of Apollo, even in virtual form, in the haven that was the den was therefore egregiously intrusive. Neil had seen the way Apollo had been looking at Alice on the day of the filming. It wasn’t just admiring (which at least would have been understandable); it was predatory. Suddenly the situation had seemed less like good harmless fun and more like lunchtime on the Serengeti. But he knew that Alice was watching the program at home and would be asking him about it next time they spoke, and he couldn’t disappoint her by not tuning in.
He’s so full of himself, he IM’d Derek.
Derek was a work colleague whose similar tastes Neil had discovered only after a year of sharing an office, after a casual mention of Buffy at a Christmas party, and who was currently watching Apollo’s Oracle at Neil’s instruction.
All those TV psychics are, wrote Derek. It’s part of the fun.
This isn’t fun, wrote Neil. Look at him poncing about like God’s gift. He thinks the sun shines out of his backside.
What did Alice think of him? wrote Derek.
I don’t know, wrote Neil.
It was a sore point. Had Alice noticed how handsome he was? After the show, he hadn’t been able to get an opinion out of her, she just kept asking him if he had enjoyed himself.
Have you asked her out yet? wrote Derek.
Don’t be an idiot, we’re just friends, wrote Neil.
Yeah. Sure.
Shut up and watch the program.
As he waited for Derek’s reply, Neil was interrupted by the phone ringing.
Better go, he told Derek and picked up the phone with his other hand, even as he was still pressing return on his keyboard.
“Hello?” he said.
At the other end of the line all he could hear was crying.
“Hello?” he said again. “Is everything okay? Mum, is that you?”
“No,” said a pitiful voice at the end of the line. “No . . . it’s me. It’s Alice.”
“Alice,” said Neil. “What is it? What happened? Aren’t you watching us on TV?”
“Yes,” said Alice. “Yes, I am. I was.”
“So what happened?” said Neil. “What is it? What’s the matter? Didn’t you see yourself? You looked very pretty,” he dared.
“I did see myself,” said Alice. “And then . . .”
“Alice, don’t worry,” said Neil. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s all right.”
“It’s not all right, it’s not all right.” Alice was actually raising her voice now; Neil had never heard her speak so loud. “After my face was on the screen,
the phone rang. It was the head of the agency.”
Neil felt sick. He knew what was coming.
“He told me . . .” Alice was back at her normal volume now. “He told me he’d got a call from the studio boss. He’d been watching the program and he saw me. He told the agency I’d broken the rules and said that either I went or they’d get in another company. Neil, they’ve given me the sack.”
“It’s all my fault,” said Neil. “I’m sorry, Alice, I’m so sorry. I should never have made you do it.”
“You didn’t make me,” said Alice. “I did it because I wanted to. It’s not your fault, that’s not why I called. I just didn’t know who else to talk to. Neil . . . What am I going to do? I haven’t got a job. What am I going to do now?”
10
ONE MORNING, A week after the broadcast, Artemis got up early to take the dogs out and was astonished to hear voices coming from the living room. None of the gods were early risers—even Athena tended to do her morning reading in bed. The door to the living room was ajar, and Artemis peered around it.
Apollo was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the split seat of an armchair, playing quietly on one of his guitars. His hair hung lank, sticking to his cheeks as he bowed his head, face pale, eyes bloodshot, crooning to his guitar as if to a lover, over and over again: “Girl, I miss you, I missed you, girl. Girl, I miss you . . .” Meanwhile Aphrodite, fresh and pert, was lying back on the faded velvet sofa—did it used to be blue?—with her delicate feet, crossed at the ankles, propped up on its careening arm. Her head was turned toward Apollo as she watched him with an unreadable look on her face. She had a Bluetooth receiver in her ear and she spoke softly into it: “Fuck me harder, baby, that feels good, oh yes.” It was a peculiarly intimate scene, and Artemis almost felt uncomfortable interrupting. Although not quite.
“What are you two doing up?” she said, stepping into the room.
Apollo looked up briefly from his guitar. “I haven’t been to bed,” he said in a flat voice. “I just have to get this song right. ‘Miss you, oh, I miss you, girl, I missed you . . .’ ”
“What’s going on?” said Artemis. “Have you been drinking Dionysus’s wine?”
“Just a little bit,” said Apollo. Artemis saw the empty bottle on its side, mostly hidden by the bulk of the collapsing armchair.
“No wonder you look so rough,” said Artemis.
“I’m sure I look better than I feel,” said Apollo.
“That’s unlikely,” said Artemis. “And you?” she said to her aunt. “You never get up before lunch.”
“That feels good,” said Aphrodite. “Right there. You’ve got it, baby.”
“I have no idea what she’s doing up,” said Apollo. “She’s been in here talking on that thing all night. I think maybe she gets paid more to do antisocial hours. That’s when there’s the most demand.”
“Well, if that’s the case she could start putting a bit more in the kitty,” said Artemis. “The house needs dampproofing and she’s spending all her money on bras.”
Aphrodite started moaning and gasping, building up to a crescendo, but halfway through, without even a pause, she switched off her phone and said, in her ordinary voice, “I just thought I’d keep you company. You haven’t seemed quite yourself since we watched your program.”
Though if there was even a drop of sympathy in her, it was hiding somewhere quite impenetrable, thought Artemis, watching Aphrodite sit up and unhook her earpiece.
“Mortals today, they’ve got no staying power,” Aphrodite commented. “You barely have enough time to get their credit card details and they’ve already finished. I said all along that we should have put the pigs in charge.”
Artemis began doing her warm-up muscle stretches. Stiffness: it was a relatively new sensation and had not really been worth acquiring.
“You know, they cut your tree down,” she said to Apollo as she lifted and rotated her right knee.
“My tree?”
“That girl. Kate.” Apollo’s face was blank. “The Australian? The one you turned into a eucalyptus? She was felled. Standard maintenance coppicing. They do it every year.”
Apollo shrugged.
“I’d forgotten about her,” he said.
He picked at his guitar strings, obviously anxious to get back to his composition.
“Got someone new on your mind, have you?” said Aphrodite.
“It’s none of your business,” said Apollo.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Aphrodite.
“You know your problem,” said Artemis. “You’re emotionally incontinent. It never stops. It’s all . . .” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Sex, sex, sex.”
Artemis wrinkled her nose at even having to say the word once, let alone three times, and even worse, while doing suggestive lunges.
“At least I don’t have to spend all my time running just to get rid of my sexual frustration,” said Aphrodite.
Artemis refused to dignify this with a response, occupying herself instead with some arm stretches.
“So come on,” said Aphrodite, turning to Apollo. “What’s she like?”
“How do you know it’s a she?” said Apollo.
“Lucky guess,” said Aphrodite. “So what’s the matter, then? Did she turn you down?”
“She’d better not turn up as a potted plant if she did,” said Artemis.
“I can’t do that anymore, thanks to you, remember?” said Apollo. “And no, she didn’t turn me down. She didn’t get a chance to. She got away before I even had the opportunity to talk to her. And now I’m never going to see her again.”
Apollo plucked the same mournful melody out of his guitar and sighed.
“Oh, come on,” said Aphrodite. “That’s hardly the spirit. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“I’ve looked for her everywhere,” said Apollo. “I don’t know where she can be.”
“You’ve never even spoken to her and she’s got you into that state?” said Artemis. “For crying out loud. You’re a grown god, start acting like one. Cooing and weeping over some mortal that you’ve never even met! Drinking yourself into a stupor! Singing little songs! Consider your dignity, the responsibilities of your station. You’re an embarrassment to Olympus. No wonder I prefer the company of beasts. And no, I don’t mean it that way,” she added, seeing Aphrodite’s mouth begin to open, the lascivious comment poised on her lithe, pink tongue.
“I don’t care about Olympus,” said Apollo. “I don’t care about anything. I don’t care if the sun never comes up again.”
“Oh, pull yourself together,” said Artemis. “She’s just a mortal. She’ll be dead before you know it.”
“Leave the poor boy alone,” said Aphrodite with a smirk. “Can’t you see he’s in love?”
Artemis rolled her eyes and left the room. She gathered up her keys and opened the front door. There, to her astonishment, stood a small mortal, about five feet high, blondish, a little dumpy, wearing spectacles. The only thing remarkable about her was that she was standing on their doorstep. Word obviously hadn’t spread about what happened to mortals who did that.
“Are you lost?” said Artemis.
The mortal looked at Artemis, then down at her hands, in which, Artemis now saw, a number of small printed cards were clutched. She looked at Artemis again, and then decided that her hands were the preferable view.
“No,” whispered the mortal. It was barely more than an exhalation. “I’m a cleaner. I was . . . I was . . . distributing some flyers.”
Artemis grabbed one of the little cards out of the mortal’s trembling hand.
“There you go,” she said without looking at it. “You’ve distributed it. Now leave.”
“What does she want?” came a voice from behind Artemis.
Artemis turned. Aphrodite had come out of the living room, shutting the door behind her, and was now leaning languidly against the wall of the hallway, eyeing the mortal with one eyebrow raised in an elegant arc
.
“It’s a cleaner,” said Artemis.
“We don’t need a cleaner,” said Aphrodite. “She’d better go.”
“You heard her,” said Artemis to the mortal.
“Artemis does all the cleaning,” continued Aphrodite.
“What?” said Artemis.
“She doesn’t really have anything else to do,” said Aphrodite. “Her other so-called skills are no longer in demand.”
“I do not do all the cleaning!” said Artemis.
“If you hire a cleaner,” interjected the mortal, “these domestic disputes will be a thing of the past.”
Artemis had almost forgotten that the mortal was there. From the look on her face, the mortal was even more surprised that she had spoken than Artemis was.
“I assure you, we really have no need for a cleaner,” said Aphrodite.
The mortal was not so easily deterred.
“A good cleaner,” she said, “is an indispensable investment for the busy modern professional.” She cleared her throat and increased the volume by a gossamer thread. “In this day and age, time is the most valuable asset that you have, so why waste it on chores that you find boring or unpleasant?”
“Actually, we’re not really short of time,” said Artemis.
Without appearing to even look down, Aphrodite reached out behind her and picked up a rather surprised rat that just a moment before had been making its way down the stairs.
“Here, Artemis!” said Aphrodite, holding the squirming rat up by the tail. “Fetch!”
She tossed the rat out of the front door and past the flinching little mortal. It bounced down the front steps and landed on its back in the street, where it righted itself and scurried away.
“Artemis,” confided Aphrodite, “is an expert in pest control.”
“I kill for pleasure,” said Artemis, “not business.”
The mortal started backing down the steps.
“Tell me,” Artemis said to the cleaner, lassoing her with her voice, “how do you feel about rats?”
The mortal stopped where she was, gulped louder than her speaking voice, but she replied. “A poorly maintained home,” she said, “can become a haven for vermin. A good cleaner is the first step toward a pest-free environment.”
Marie Phillips Page 5