“Did you forget your key?” she said as she approached the steps.
“No,” admitted Eros. “I just didn’t fancy going in. I don’t suppose you want to go for a walk? Delay going back in for a bit. It’s a nice day.”
“It is a nice day,” agreed Artemis. “Okay. Why not? It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
Eros skipped down the steps, and they both turned away from the house with some relief and began walking in the direction of Hampstead High Street. There was a gentle, pleasant breeze, and the light of the sun reflected brightly off the windows of the buildings they passed. Artemis was glad to see that Apollo could still get something right.
“So,” said Artemis as they walked. “What do you think of the new cleaner?”
Eros put his hands in his pockets, looked away from her, and began to whistle.
“Nice little girl, isn’t she?” Artemis continued. “I hired her myself, you know. Frankly, I couldn’t carry on living in that filth for another moment. And though I say so myself, the improvement has been—”
But she caught a look in Eros’s eye that suggested that he might be more receptive to her true feelings than the lie she was about to concoct.
“The improvement has been cosmetic,” she said. “The house is cleaner, but what difference does that make when we’re all still living in it?”
“You’re right,” said Eros. “She does her best, but it’ll take more than Flash Wipes to clean the rot out of that place. Still, she’s more resilient than I thought she would be.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Artemis.
“Oh,” said Eros. “Nothing much. Just . . . nothing.”
He crossed the road and she followed on behind, matching his pace again when they reached the other side. They walked along in silence for a while. There were dogs around, on leashes, and Artemis tried to catch their eyes, hoping to detect some wolfish spark, some indication that they knew their heritage, but they were all the same—fat, lazy, dull. There was no point. No true dog would allow itself to be tethered to a human anyway.
“I really wish I’d met him when I had the chance,” said Eros.
“Who?”
“Jesus.”
“Is that what you were thinking about?”
“What were you thinking about?”
“Dogs.”
Eros laughed. “Well, to each his own.”
“Or her own.”
Eros nodded. “Or her own,” he said. “I just wonder . . . what was he like? Was he anything like they say he is in the Bible? Or was it all just made up later? I mean, obviously he didn’t come back from the dead, hardly anyone ever does and we would have known about it . . .”
“Unless one of us sneaked him out.”
“Or he found his own way back.”
“No. Then he would have just been a ghost like the others.”
“So if he didn’t do that, was the rest of it all made up as well? I wish I’d known him. It’s such a waste. When I think, we were just down the road in Rome, living it up, having orgies—”
“Not all of us were having orgies.”
“And all that time he was right there, living this incredible life—”
“Or not.”
“—that would have so much impact on the rest of the world—even on us. And we had no idea.”
“He’s just down there,” said Artemis, “in the underworld, with the rest of them. Probably keeping a low profile, all things considered. Just think of all his dissatisfied customers.”
“It’s not his fault,” said Eros. “He never wanted to be a god anyway. That’s why he does a much better job of it than the rest of us.”
They had reached the High Street now, and it was the busiest it had been since Christmas. Mortals, it seemed, still worshipped the sun and came spewing out of their boxes to greet it the moment it so much as winked at them. They strolled aimlessly, talking and laughing—to each other or alone, on phones—abandoning the heads-down march they adopted over the winter, when they’d stride with great purpose, fighting the wind and rain. And the shops were busy, doors open, inviting, while the mortals inside them paid homage to their other great object of worship—money. No wonder Hermes was always working. There was a time when being god of money had seemed to be a rather minor posting, quite the short straw. Lately he never stopped being in demand.
“And it’s not just Jesus,” Eros was saying. “When you think about all the dross that mortality has produced . . .”
He swept his arm, taking in the scene before them, and sighed.
“And then there’s the few, few greats—and I’ve missed so many of them. In my field alone—would you believe I never met Casanova?”
“You mean he managed all that by himself?” Artemis shuddered.
“He was naturally talented. And Byron. Apollo was always trying to introduce me, and I was always too busy. Next thing I knew he was dead. They all die so soon. I never get used to it. They’re gone in the blink of an eye. You always think there’ll be more time, but there never is.”
“You could visit,” said Artemis. “If you asked Persephone, she might take you down there.”
“Have you ever been?” said Eros.
“No,” said Artemis. She felt cold suddenly. “Have you?”
Eros shook his head. “I wonder . . . ,” he said. “I wonder what it would be like to be dead.”
Artemis stopped walking. She felt an unfamiliar sensation in her chest—a tightness and a kind of fluttering, and beneath that, a churning in her stomach. Her hands and feet tingled almost painfully, and she felt dizzy. After a few moments, she recognized the feeling as the very start of panic.
“Don’t you ever think about it?” said Eros.
“Never,” said Artemis. “What would be the point?”
“It could happen,” said Eros.
“No,” said Artemis.
“It could.”
Eros led her to the window of a shop, where a skinny plastic dummy, limbs as hard and smooth as bones dried in the sun, posed, hip jutting forward like a missile, in a two-inch ripped skirt, electric blue fishnet stockings, and a sheer blouse, unbuttoned to reveal the shiny, tactile fabric of the lacy bra beneath. He didn’t bother to comment.
“I keep hoping,” said Artemis.
“What about if you gave up hoping? What then?”
“It’s all right for you,” said Artemis, walking away from him, down the hill. “People still fall in love. You’ve still got a reason to live.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Eros, catching up with her. “I don’t think people are that keen on love anymore—real love, the complicated stuff. They like romance and sex—sorry—and when that runs out it all looks a bit too much like responsibility and then they quit.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that they don’t need us anymore. They don’t want us. They’re forgetting about us.”
“I know all that.”
“And our power won’t last forever . . .”
“I need to sit down,” said Artemis.
“Sorry,” said Eros. “How about this bench? We can smell the pancake van from here.”
Eros took her arm and sat her down. Artemis breathed deeply, and after a few moments she began to enjoy the scent of bubbling butter and melting sugar. She wondered what it would taste like, how it would feel in her mouth, going down her throat. Would it really do her so much harm to try?
“Maybe,” said Eros, “it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Eating?” said Artemis.
“Dying.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Listen, though. Just imagine it. The peace of it. Being somewhere else. Away from all this. Not having to be responsible for anything.”
“But you’re the one who’s always being extra responsible, for fun.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t get tired.”
“I can’t imagine not being r
esponsible,” said Artemis, “not being in charge. It’s all I’ve ever done. It’s all you’ve ever done. Don’t tell me you think you’d rather be dead.”
Eros squinted up the road into the sunlight for a few moments without replying.
“If you knew you only had a hundred years to live,” he said eventually, “what would you do with the time you had left?”
In the street in front of them, a car rear-ended another, and the two drivers got out and started shouting at each other while all the cars behind them hooted their horns, in no way speeding up matters, but making the waiting much less pleasant for everyone involved.
“I would move out,” said Artemis.
13
TWO WEEKS AFTER Alice had started her new job, Neil took her out for a celebratory cup of tea. He chose a cozy little café he hoped she would like, small and low-ceilinged with kettle steam on the windows, quiet enough so that she wouldn’t feel overwhelmed, but just noisy enough so that she wouldn’t feel self-conscious that her voice could be overheard by the next table. He arrived early, chose a seat near the back so that Alice wouldn’t have passersby looking in at her, ordered a coffee, and settled down with the Telegraph crossword to wait for her.
He didn’t realize how much time had passed and was engrossed in a particularly tricky anagram when her soft voice saying hello made his heart leap. He jumped to his feet to greet her, nearly knocking his coffee over when he leaned across the table to kiss her five millimeters from her cheek.
“How are you?” he said. “Did you find it okay? I hope you didn’t have to travel too far.”
“Oh no, it was easy,” said Alice, taking the seat opposite and pulling off her bobble hat. “Crustacean.”
“Sorry?”
“Scarce Tuna? Crustacean.” She pointed at his anagram.
“Right,” said Neil.
“It’s probably easier upside down.”
“What do you want to drink?” said Neil. “Do you want a cake?”
“I don’t know,” said Alice. “Are you going to have any?”
“We could share some,” suggested Neil.
“Ooh,” said Alice. Her hair was tied back and Neil noticed that when she went pink it traveled all the way up her neck to her ears. “That would be lovely,” she said.
The waitress came over and Neil ordered a cup of tea for Alice and a slice of cheesecake with two spoons.
“So how’s the job going?” said Neil.
“Oh, it’s fine,” said Alice.
“What are the people like?” said Neil. “Are they nice to you?”
Alice hesitated.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“It’s hard to tell. I’m sure they are being nice, in their own way.”
“What do you mean?” said Neil.
“Well, with some people, it’s easy to tell when they’re being nice,” said Alice. “Like you, Neil. You’re nice all the time. You think about people and what they might like and then you do it and that’s nice. I mean, I don’t want you to think that—I’m just saying that—that’s how it seems to me . . .”
Alice suddenly appeared to be much more interested in looking at a small burn hole in the chintz tablecloth than in looking at him.
“And they?” prompted Neil.
“I’m sure they don’t mean anything by it,” said Alice, “but they don’t really, um, notice other people like most people do. So when they’re nice, it’s sort of by accident.”
“That doesn’t sound great,” said Neil.
“Oh no,” said Alice. “They’re fine, really. I don’t want to be mean.”
Alice stopped talking as the waitress arrived with the tea and cake. When the waitress had gone, she resumed.
“I think they do their best,” she concluded.
“So you haven’t told me very much about them,” said Neil. “Who lives there? Is it a family? Flatmates?”
Alice hesitated again.
“I’m not really supposed to talk about it,” she said.
“What do you mean?” said Neil.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” said Neil.
“I don’t know. I’m not supposed to talk about not being able to talk about it.”
“Can’t you tell me anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
“But no one will know,” said Neil.
“I don’t want to get into trouble,” said Alice, looking away.
“I’m sorry,” said Neil. “You don’t have to tell me anything. It has nothing to do with me. I’m sure I wouldn’t find it very interesting anyway.”
Alice didn’t reply.
“Not that I don’t find you interesting,” said Neil. “That’s not what I meant. I just meant . . . it’s none of my business.”
Still no answer. Neil wished he’d never raised the subject. He hoped she wouldn’t leave.
“Just forget about it,” he said. “Please. I’m sorry I mentioned it. Why don’t we have a game of Scrabble? I’ve got my Palm Pilot. We could finish that game we played on the day we went to the TV show. I’ve got it saved.”
To his dismay, this suggestion seemed to upset Alice even more, and she fidgeted in her seat, red-faced. Of course: he shouldn’t have mentioned that day, the day he had got her fired.
“I’m sorry—” Neil began.
“Apollo lives there,” Alice blurted out.
“What?” said Neil. “Apollo? Apollo from the TV show? Where?”
He squinted out across the café toward the street, half expecting to see him sauntering along the pavement, with his perfect body and his perfect face and his perfect sodding hair.
“In the house,” said Alice. “The house where I work. I’m not supposed to say anything but it felt like I was lying when I didn’t.”
“You clean Apollo’s house? You work for Apollo?”
“Lots of people live there,” said Alice. “He’s one of them.”
“You work for Apollo,” said Neil again.
“Why?” said Alice. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s just he didn’t strike me as very, you know, honest.”
“That’s his job,” said Alice.
“Even so,” said Neil. “It does reflect on him as a person.”
“But I thought you liked that kind of thing. The program, I mean.”
“Of course I do. It’s just, well, I thought he was more dishonest than most of the presenters I’ve seen. He’s shifty. And arrogant. And I’d rather you weren’t working for someone like that.”
“It’s kind of you to be concerned, Neil,” said Alice, “but there’s nothing for you to worry about, I promise. He’s really very sweet, and he’s always been very nice to me.”
“I thought you said none of them were nice.”
“He’s the nicest.”
“You’re too trusting,” said Neil. “You have to look beyond the façade.”
“I think he’s just misunderstood,” said Alice. “I’m sure you’d like him if you met him.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t,” said Neil. “Who lives there with him? His wife? His children?”
“I can’t really say,” said Alice.
“You’ve told me he lives there now, you may as well say with whom.”
Alice shook her head.
“Tell me if he’s married at least.”
“I don’t think he’s married,” said Alice. “I’m sorry. I can’t say anything else. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. Can we play that game of Scrabble now?”
Neil got out his Palm Pilot and set up a new game but all he could see was Apollo’s smug face, and all he could hear was Alice’s voice: He’s really very sweet. He’s the nicest. I think he’s just misunderstood. He hadn’t forgotten the way Apollo had looked at Alice that day at the studio, and he didn’t like this turn of events at all.
Alice, for her part, couldn’t concentrate on the game. There was plenty she wante
d to tell Neil about, but she couldn’t. Apollo, for example. She could understand why Neil didn’t like him—Neil was much more clever than she in certain ways, and he knew why pretending to be psychic was wrong, even though she couldn’t quite see what was wrong with cheering up old ladies who have very little left to live for. But she had seen quite a different side to Apollo after that first, odd meeting. He would follow her around the house as she cleaned, telling her all about himself, or sometimes singing her songs (which were very good, really) that he’d composed on his guitar. At first, it was true, she had found this deeply disconcerting and worried about how to respond. But her being tongue-tied didn’t seem to bother Apollo, he just carried on, regardless. It was quite sweet of him, really, to keep her company like that. It was almost like having the radio on. And after a while, she began to suspect that Apollo—who was such a handsome man, and so talented and successful—was actually quite lonely, and it made her feel good to keep him company too, even if she could never think of a thing to say to him.
She would have liked to ask Neil’s opinion on Aphrodite, if only she could have. She couldn’t quite figure Aphrodite out. When she was cleaning, Alice liked to keep herself to herself and to respect the privacy of her clients, but the people in this house didn’t seem to have much of a concept of privacy, and so Alice sometimes saw too much. She particularly saw too much of Aphrodite, who was often to be found walking around in the nude, or having some quite unpleasant conversations on her phone. And even after only two weeks it was obvious to Alice that Aphrodite was having affairs with all of the men who lived in the house, and while this was understandable, given how beautiful she was, Alice, who tried hard not to judge others, also found it distasteful.
The most unnerving thing about Aphrodite, though, was how she had reacted the first time she had come across Apollo and Alice talking (or, rather, Apollo talking and Alice listening). She had stood very silent and still, studying them intensely as if she had just discovered two rare but shy animals in the forest, and then suddenly she had started screaming and shouting incoherently, kicking, punching, and smashing things. Alice had burst into tears, and Apollo, who hadn’t reacted at all to Aphrodite’s outburst, had started as if waking up and hurriedly put an arm around her, which just made her feel even worse, and she had run away and locked herself in the bathroom and wouldn’t come out until Artemis came to tell her that locking herself in the bathroom was forbidden. But the next time she had seen her by herself Aphrodite had been calm and kind and had acted like nothing had happened, and Alice had almost thought she’d dreamed it, except once in a while she’d catch Aphrodite staring at her with vitriol in her eyes, particularly when she was talking to Apollo. It couldn’t possibly be the case that Aphrodite was jealous of the attention Apollo was paying her; Alice was hardly a candidate for an affair with a man like that. So it must have been that Aphrodite had some kind of personality disorder and that she should think charitably toward her, but that didn’t make working in the house with her any easier, and Alice was feeling a bit guilty about that. More than anything, she would have loved Neil’s advice as to what to do, but she couldn’t ask for it.
Marie Phillips Page 7