Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers

by Marika Cobbold

  ‘She’s not pleased, is she?’

  ‘Not terribly, no.’

  ‘Maybe not that many people saw the interview.’

  ‘I think the average viewing-figures for the programme are five million and then of course there are the newspapers, in case anyone did manage to miss the actual interview.’ Gemma picked up a pile of clippings from her desk. ‘ “Love a cosmic yoke, says award-winning romantic novelist Rebecca Finch.” That’s a good one. And this one, oh yes, “Hell has no fury as a middle-aged woman scorned as real life turns sour for award-winning romantic writer.”’

  ‘That’s outrageous,’ I said. ‘I was not scorned. I was the scorner and anyway no one thinks of forty-two as middle-aged these days.’

  ‘I don’t think your reaction shows any real awareness of your situation right now,’ Gemma said.

  I covered my face with my hands.

  ‘Oh shit! I’ve screwed up, haven’t I?’

  The fall-out continued. There was a suggestion that I hand back the award, although in the end the organisers decided that would be inappropriate as the prize was for the novel, not the author. I was hit by an egg at the Woking Way with Words festival and faced hostile questions following a talk at Cheltenham. Questions like this one, from a middle-aged woman with a fixed smile and yesterday’s eyes: ‘What right have you got to achieve fame and fortune through your readers’ hopes and dreams, tears and disappointments only to turn round and ridicule it all?’

  Letters arrived, and messages on my website: ‘Your books meant something to me. They were my friends. Each new publication was an event for me and I would read and reread your books. I thought you understood what it was like being me. I thought you had a heart. How wrong I was. Instead it appears that to you it has been nothing more than a money-spinner. I expect you’ve had a good laugh at the expense of your poor, silly, deluded readers.’

  The postman arrived with a parcel and an accompanying note: ‘These are returned to you with the contempt that you have shown us, your faithful readers.’ I picked up the copies of my novels, staring at one dog-eared, well-thumbed, marmalade-stained, coffee-splashed, once-loved paperback after the other and I wept with shame. How could I have done it, offended and hurt all these kind, loyal people?

  You were just being yourself, Coco said.

  I’m a good person.

  Coco looked stricken.

  Whoever told you that?

  Gemma suggested I write an apology on my website.

  ‘Tell them you were ill,’ she said. ‘Blame your mother or your cat or me; I don’t care as long as you retract.’

  I tried to do as she had asked but I met with the same difficulties as when I had tried to respond to Angel-face’s questions – the only way I could was if I lied. I could of course write that I was deeply sorry to have caused offence to my readers, readers who had supported me, literally, through the years, who had given me an identity, allowed me to turn doing what I loved into a career …

  And given you the financial independence to ditch every man in your life without any thought to the financial implications, Coco joined in.

  Yes, I could write all those things, well almost all, but what I could not do was take back what I had said in that interview, so what kind of apology would that make? ‘Sorry I upset you but I meant every word I said.’

  Coco suggested that I try it.

  I turned on him.

  This is all your fault. Everything was fine until you reappeared.

  Didn’t your therapist tell you that you had to stop referring to me as a separate entity? Coco reminded me.

  Yes, and she also suggested that you had served your purpose and I’m sure she said something about not getting into conversations with my inner demons.

  Coco, in turn, pointed out that a ban on inner demons did not, to his way of thinking, cover inner clowns.

  I put my hands over my ears and clamped my eyes shut.

  Oh very grown-up.

  A little later I decided to call Bridget. I hadn’t heard from her or Angel-face since the TV interview. I hoped they hadn’t seen it or the newspapers.

  ‘Nice of you to call.’ Bridget’s voice was tight. ‘Zoe saw you on Good Evening, Britain.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Oh yes. She’s told Zac that she needs time out to think. She’s in New York, staying with her other godmother.’

  You see, Coco said when I had put the phone down and resumed what was an almost habitual pose these days, head in hands. You are responsible for everything and everything is your fault.

  Mount Olympus

  MOTHER’S BIG DAY. SHE’S dressed up for the occasion: fancy frock, killer heels, rocks – the works. Ares says maybe he should dress up in full armour every time they report on the war in Iraq and everybody thinks he’s like so hilarious. Mother ignores him. She’s sitting right in front of the screen, her lunch on her lap. The others are at the table; they’re watching too, but pretending not to. I grab a plate and pull up a stool next to Mother, avoiding that cow Hera’s gimlet eye.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I nod at the screen. It’s important to show interest, solidarity, especially with the rest of the guys being there.

  ‘Hush.’ Mother frowns.

  I can feel Hera sniggering and my cheeks go red. (People go on about eternal youth but they don’t think about all the stuff that goes with it, like going red when the look you’re aiming for is cool and dignified, or the never-ending zits … and don’t get me started on the involuntary erections.)

  On the screen all these mortals are having their meal too, seated around little tables in a large room. The lighting is bad. No wonder Mother looks smug. The lighting up here’s always just so, soft golden dawn.

  Anyway, this old guy walks up to the lectern and starts spouting. I look around for something to drink but Hera has the jug right by her elbow and she’s not going to share, not with me.

  Down amongst the mortals, the old guy drones on but Mother seems to like it. She even claps once or twice. Athene arrives late and sits down at the table pretending not to notice what’s on the screen.

  Mother claps again; the sound is kind of muffled on account of her wearing those gloves.

  Rebecca Finch gets her award … she’s not looking her best, though, I have to say; the clothes are all right, not black for once, but she has a funny glassy-eyed look, like she’s running a temperature, and her cheeks are a bright pink, which actually clashes with the pink of her suit. She goes to sit down but instead she’s dragged off to do some TV interview.

  Mother zaps until she finds the studio.

  ‘Oh it’s Good Evening, Britain,’ she says. ‘That’s wonderful PR.’

  I’m not really concentrating on the screen when I sense Mother stiffening beside me. I start to listen.

  It’s Rebecca.

  ‘Shakespeare again is spot on when in A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ she’s saying, ‘he has Duke Theseus speak of “the lunatic, the lover and the poet …” all in the same breath.’

  Up here everyone’s looking at Mother, who has not moved; she’s sitting stiff-backed, her wondrous eyes fixed on the screen. Then Ate titters and Hera puts her finger to her lips as if to shut Ate up when actually she’s loving it. I want to do something, turn the screen off, whack Ate across her smirking face.

  ‘Being in love has been added to our ever-growing list of “rights”,’ Rebecca Finch continues.

  ‘If you want the truth about love …’

  Mother grabs the remote and zaps into another channel: it’s Martha Stewart, Hera’s favourite.

  But she can’t help herself, saying to Mother, ‘Why, dear, don’t switch over on my account. We were all enjoying your little show, really we were.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ate says. ‘Some homage.’

  Athene says, ‘Rebecca Finch speaks well. What she says is true.’

  ‘Rebecca Finch speaks well. What she says is true.’ Who does she think she is, the bloody oracle?

  ‘We h
ave tried to tell you,’ Hera says. ‘Haven’t we, Zeus dear? Aphrodite’s cult is not what it was.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ I tell them.

  Hera glares at me.

  ‘I’m sorry, we’ve all been pussy-footing around for far too long but the truth is that nothing good can come from a cult presided over by someone like her.’ She points at Mother and I think how much I’d like a raven or an eagle or something to swoop down and snap her finger off. ‘A feckless single mother of … well, I’ve lost count of how many. One of them a complete delinquent.’ She shoots me another look. ‘No, I’m afraid we’ve all seen this coming, haven’t we, Zeus dear?’

  Mother rises from her seat. Her dress is crumpled and her tiara has slipped down over one eye.

  ‘I don’t know what everyone’s talking about: my cult is flourishing. They’re falling in love all over the place,’ she says, but in a voice that hardly carries.

  People turn from Mother to Zeus and back again but it’s Hera who pipes up again.

  ‘Any fool can get them to fall in love,’ she says, turning towards me. ‘Even him.’ Someone should tell her it’s rude to point. I narrow my eyes at her but she doesn’t care. ‘Don’t ask me why, but more was expected of you, Aphrodite. You have a seat up here. With such privilege comes responsibilities.’

  I try to catch Hephaestus’s eye; maybe he’ll stick up for Mother, he’s her husband after all, but no, he’s no help whatsoever, avoiding my gaze and Mother’s, making a big thing of checking on a crack in one of the table legs instead.

  Mother just stands there taking it all, the preaching, the ticking-off, the tittering, until I can’t deal with it any longer.

  ‘Just cool it, you guys,’ I say. ‘She’s doing the best she can.’

  All right, for a comeback that was kind of pathetic, especially as my voice did this hike up half an octave. But I had to say something.

  ‘Anyway, if someone’s fucked up on the love front it’s me.’

  Well, they all seem to agree on that, at least.

  Now Zeus speaks.

  ‘So, my child.’ He looks at Mother and I can see her shrink beneath his awesome gaze. ‘You are being mocked.’ That is all he says. It is all he needs to say.

  Without a word she exits the left portal in the direction of her chamber. Usually she kind of just glides by, head held high, eyes glowing, a small smile on her lips, followed by the gaze of every guy present as if she had their eyeballs on a leash. But not now, now she more like scurries. That really freaks me.

  I have been loitering by her half-open door when she spots me and says, ‘Oh, it’s you.’ It would have been nice if she’d said it more perkily, like it was a really good thing it was me, rather than a disappointment, but there we are.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I step inside.

  ‘How am I doing?’ She stops before me, eyes flashing teal. ‘How do you think I’m doing? I’ve been made a laughing stock. I’ve been humiliated in front of the entire family. Have you any idea what that feels like?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Rebecca was favoured, that’s what hurts so much. You know the way I’ve been praising her in front of the others, how I’ve held her up as an example for how one should be worshipped and one’s cult promoted. And now she goes and does this: turns on me, betrays me in the most public way possible.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she knew you were saying those things about her.’

  ‘Well, of course she didn’t.’

  ‘So how could she know she was meant to be grateful, I mean?’

  ‘Just go away if you’re going to be difficult.’ She sinks down on to a couch. ‘She was favoured, Eros, favoured.’

  Mother hangs her lovely head and I take a step towards her. I put out my hand but then I don’t know what to do with it so I pull back, trying instead to think of something helpful to say.

  ‘So we have to really get that thing going with John Sterling.’

  ‘Thank you for pointing that out, Eros.’

  I hate it when she’s sarcastic.

  ‘Having said that, I don’t know that the little minx deserves happiness after the way she’s behaved. Yes, why should she have her appalling behaviour rewarded with a relationship with …’ She pauses and her eyes go a soft heavenly blue. ‘A quite beautiful young man.’

  Her eyes never go that colour when she looks at me.

  ‘Not that young,’ I mutter.

  ‘No, I’m beginning to think John Sterling deserves better, the best even.’

  And we all know what she means by the best. I turn round and face her straight on.

  ‘No!’

  Mother loses the dreamy smile in favour of a frown.

  ‘What do you mean no?’

  I see all my hopes for the future going down the toilet. No seat upstairs for me, possible demotion and eternal shame for Mother, and Athene and that cow Hera triumphant, all for the sake of a pretty face: John Sterling’s.

  ‘I mean you can’t drop that amazing plan you had to win the bet with Athene and emerge triumphant as the foremost goddess on Mount Olympus.’

  ‘You might be right, Eros.’ She reaches out a slender arm and strokes my cheek with the soft back of her hand.

  ‘Might I?’

  ‘Yes, you clever boy.’ Although her gaze isn’t heavenly blue it’s a pretty neat shade of turquoise.

  ‘Me, oh right.’ Inside I’m calling out hurrah.

  ‘Then again it is a very pretty face,’ Mother says, each word lingering on her lips.

  Damn!

  ‘Only kidding.’ She throws an apple at me from the bowl at her side. ‘Catch.’

  I grin at her and throw it back.

  ‘Catch.’

  Rebecca

  BURIED BENEATH THE ANGRY missives on my website, I found the message from Lance Cooper: ‘Guess who? Long time no see! I had to get in touch and congratulate you on winning such a prestigious award. (It was my mother – you remember Margaret? – who alerted me to the announcement in the paper; she’s a great fan of yours.) I’m not surprised that you’ve had a glittering career: there was always something special about you.’

  Really, I thought, just not as special as Julie Fitzgerald’s DD breasts.

  He went on to say that he had returned to London after having lived in Edinburgh all these years and could we meet up.

  I wrote back and said I’d love to.

  ‘What would you think of a man who had an affair while his wife lay dying?’ Lance Cooper’s large brown eyes searched mine for an answer.

  We were sitting eating dinner at an Italian restaurant just off the Kings Road. We had spent drinks and the first course catching up and filling in: No I haven’t seen Amy for years, not since she moved. Leonora, yes, poor girl. Yes, the usual …

  Your sister died? God, I am sorry. Here, take mine, it’s clean. Yes, Lily and I married.

  That’s great. We all thought you would …

  So you’re divorced … ten years ago … Anything since then? Oh an arsehole. Bad luck …

  Lily died! That’s awful. Poor Lily. God, how terrible for you. Five years? Is that all you had …

  No, no children …

  Me neither …

  Yes, I did find someone else; we got married actually, but it didn’t work out, we divorced a while back …

  Rebound?

  Afraid so. I just couldn’t bear being on my own.

  In Sickness and in Health – or Not

  Lily and I had a textbook university romance, but it didn’t end there, we married the summer after she graduated. Pretty much everyone told us we were too young but they were wrong. We were utterly, ridiculously happy. God, she was lovely: dark hair and creamy complexion, rosebud lips, great body, the lot. Very cool. Very laid-back. Smoking these tiny cigars. She graduated with a first, although her friends claimed that no one had actually seen her do any work. I think most people were a little in awe of her. And I continued being in awe of her even after we were married. She worked i
n an art gallery. Just the kind of job you would have expected her to fall into. And she was good at it. The artists loved her, of course. We wanted children but we weren’t trying very hard. Things were pretty damn perfect as they were, really.

  When she got ill we refused to take it seriously. Illness did not happen in our world and, if it did, you got well again. Only she didn’t. She died, bit by bit over the course of two years. In the beginning I handed over a lot of work to my partner so that I could go with her to every appointment, every chemo session. I remember so clearly sitting with her in the hospital canteen as a hot summer’s day slowly turned into a balmy evening. Lily had had the operation and finished her first round of chemotherapy and we were going to get the results of her latest tests.

  She had been gazing out of the window at the street but then she reached across the table and placed her hand in mine. It weighed nothing, as if the substance was already being leached from her body.

  ‘I just wanted to see if I could do it,’ she said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I wanted to make sure I could touch you.’

  I asked her what she meant. Of course she could touch me.

  ‘Because you are well and I am dying. Don’t you feel how far apart that puts us?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘You’re not dying.’

  But when we did get called in to see the specialist the news was bad. The treatment wasn’t working. She could embark on another course but quite frankly, he said, if it were him he would go home and try to enjoy what was left of life.

  In the car she was calm, no tears, no why me.

  But she did object to one small thing.

  ‘Dr Phillips said if I were you … as if we were talking about which train to catch or what book to read.’

  ‘He does have experience of … of this whole thing.’

  ‘Of dying young?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. But sadly he will have seen it happen.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but there’s the rub – when it comes to dying it’s all about personal experience.’

  She went to a local cancer-support group twice a week. More and more it was as if she were leaving our house to go home. When I picked her up in the car I would usually find her at the centre of a group and I would watch her for a moment before letting her know that I was there, because in that room with these other people, sick people, she was more alive then I had seen her since the cancer struck. They were all ages, both sexes, some bald, some wigged, some looking quite healthy. I learnt that the healthy-looking ones were usually the ones who’d given up on treatment. Like Lily.