Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers

by Marika Cobbold

I had not been able to, not even to myself, until that day when I stepped back from a painting and straight into the arms of Dominic Townsend. I had turned round to apologise and looked straight into a pair of small but unusually bright eyes fringed with long dark lashes.

  He spoke first.

  ‘And we haven’t even been introduced.’

  We had wandered round the exhibition together, then as there was so much to talk about we had gone for a walk in the park and ended up kissing in the dappled shade of a large beech tree.

  I was interrupted in my reverie by Coco, who was perching on the top shelf of the dresser, his stripy legs dangling as he dabbed at his eyes with a huge red-and-white spotty handkerchief.

  That article was right, he said. It’s just amazing the way your life mirrors your art; cliche upon cliche.

  Piss off, Coco. I looked at him again. Anyway, how come your make-up doesn’t run?

  Imaginary Max Factor, he said. You simply can’t beat it for staying power.

  I wanted to return to my reminiscences. It was cold and lonely where I was now. I wanted to dream myself back into happiness but Coco had spoilt the mood. In an attempt to get it back I brought out my box of mementos from the cupboard underneath the stairs. I looked through birthday and Valentine cards, photos and letters and the countless little notes Dominic used to leave for me to find in the mornings.

  I recalled how Dominic’s partner at the gallery had told me, ‘People think he’s a philanderer – well, you know the score, the ex-wives, the girlfriends – but what no one seems to realise is that the poor boy is just a hopeless romantic. He’s on a quest to find that perfect one and he can’t bear to be disappointed.’

  I reminded myself of all the reasons Dominic had for being difficult. He had been picked on at school for being small and artistic. His army father had bullied him and neither parent had understood his need ‘to soar and fly’, always preferring his older, sporty and uncomplicated sister. His first wife, and the mother of his grown-up daughter, had been a shopaholic and his second wife had turned hard and bitter when he had insisted they stick to their initial agreement not to have children.

  Had he actually used that expression ‘to soar and fly’? He had. And I had still taken him seriously? What was wrong with me?

  You were in love, Coco said.

  Dominic and his partner Archie ran a gallery that specialised in Victorian and Edwardian watercolours. Dominic always said he would have preferred to have lived back then. The world today, he said, was ugly.

  I did not agree.

  ‘The world is beautiful: it’s just some of the things in it that are ugly.’

  ‘Cloud cuckoo land.’ He had waved my words away.

  ‘As an Edwardian you would have the First World War coming – think about that. And you hate going to the dentist as it is, so just imagine having a root-canal filling without decent anaesthetic. There were no antibiotics either and your own daughter would have died from appendicitis. Of course, we wouldn’t be together because divorce would most probably have been out of the question.’

  ‘You have no soul,’ Dominic had replied.

  I put on some rice to boil and placed some chicken breasts in an ovenproof dish with a yoghurt and garlic sauce and prepared some salad. While I cooked I thought that there was much for which I had Dominic to thank. For example …

  Come on, come on, Coco prompted me some ten minutes later, we haven’t got all night.

  There was the way he used to look at me, as if I were his sweetest dream made flesh. The way his voice softened like churned butter when directed at me. He had made me believe that just being myself was enough to deserve being loved.

  The bully giveth, Coco said, and the bully taketh away.

  It was true. The adoration had waned and I had watched it happen, helpless to halt the decline. I had tried to, heaven knows I had tried to, remembering the particular things he had said he loved best about me and trying to be those things even more. But it seemed the rules had changed and what had once been good was now irritating, silly, stupid, or simply wrong. Of course had I been counselling a friend my advice would have been a robust, ‘Just be yourself and if that’s not good enough, well, that’s just tough.’ And, ‘What is he doing to try to please you?’ And, ‘Are you a woman or a mouse?’ But as this was about me, none of that worked.

  Coco nodded and tried to look wise.

  Oh yes, as Mary Poppins would say, ‘When Mrs Self comes through the door Miss Sense flies out of the window.’

  I was pretty sure Mary Poppins had said nothing of the sort but I wasn’t going to argue with my own hallucinations.

  I thought Charlotte Jessop told you I wasn’t a hallucination, Coco reminded me.

  Indeed she had. Coco was a reaction to long-term stress, an escape valve, she had said. With therapy and rest he’d disappear.

  But could therapy cure disappointment? Could rest give you back your trust? I thought it unlikely. I put my head in my hands and asked, how had Dominic and I come to this? I remember him looking deep into my eyes way back then and saying, ‘For us failure is not an option.’ I had believed it too. We had learnt from our broken relationships, had we not? We knew what we wanted: each other, and we knew how to nurture our love to make it grow and endure.

  There was a thump as Coco, who had been laughing so much, toppled from the dresser and on to the floor.

  Once upon a time I had brushed the lock of hair from Dominic’s forehead and traced his sensitive –

  Weak, Coco said. He had brushed himself down and was lying like a draught-excluder across the doorway of the French windows, his arms behind his head.

  Sensitive.

  Weak.

  Sensitive.

  Weak.

  – sensitive mouth with the tip of my index finger.

  ‘If I wrote you,’ I had told him back then, ‘I would be accused of exaggerating.’

  And how right you are, Coco said, but for completely different reasons.

  Go away, Coco! Bugger off back to childhood, where you belong.

  Coco leapt to his feet and squared up to me, hands on hips.

  I call that really unfair, he said. You spend years putting up with the jerk upstairs but a pefectly decent imaginary clown you want gone after a few days.

  I had to agree that he had a point.

  When Dominic finally appeared I could see by the way he braced himself, straightening his shoulders, flexing his neck and moving the corners of his mouth upwards, that he was determined to make an effort.

  I watched him toy with his food.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He made a show of eating a small mouthful. ‘But you know I always say that simple is best.’ He pointed to the chicken breast on his plate. ‘Trust your main ingredients. Then you don’t have to smother everything in sauces. And before you start taking offence, I’m not being unkind, I’m simply thinking of you. You make so much work for yourself and for not very much return, it has to be said.’ He looked up at me and forced a smile. ‘So how was your day?’

  ‘Good, thank you.’

  ‘Good, thank you: is that all? Nothing else to tell? You seemed to be pretty excited about something when you came home. Come on, you’re not still sulking?’

  I tried to coax back some of my earlier excitement but I had become shy of displaying enthusiasm. I started small.

  ‘At the meeting today they told me about all these plans and ideas for the marketing of the next book. The publicity department had some really good ideas too.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. Oh, I meant to tell you, I was speaking to Jenna, you know Jenna at the gallery? We were talking about books; she’s amazingly knowledgeable about the whole literature scene.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘Absolutely. And she made a really good point saying that, although obviously she didn’t read romantic fiction herself, heaps of women did and that by reaching audiences that weren’t natural readers you were doing lit
eracy a great service.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, ‘crap that mysteriously manages to penetrate the thick heads of the masses. Bit like Enid Blyton really.’

  He slammed his glass down.

  ‘God, you take yourself seriously, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I take my work seriously. There is a difference, you know.’

  ‘You’re always complaining that we don’t talk but when we do, when I make an effort all you do is whinge. Is it any wonder that I get bored, eh?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘if you approached having a conversation with me as less of an effort …’

  He got to his feet.

  ‘Much as I’d love to stay and listen to you drone on I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me.’

  I remained at the table finishing my supper. It took some time; every part of my body seemed heavy, my head had difficulty staying upright and my arms found the weight of my hands hard to support. Then Dominic reappeared, sitting back down opposite me, toying with his cold food.

  Suddenly he smiled at me and reached out, putting his hand on mine.

  ‘I’m glad you had a good meeting.’

  I was so tired of fighting.

  ‘Guess what?’ I said.

  His smile stiffened.

  ‘You know how annoying I find that phrase.’

  ‘Sorry. Anyway, Suburbs of the Heart is going to be number one this weekend – here and in the States. Dorothy opened a bottle of champagne and well, all kinds of people joined us, toasting our success, toasting me, actually. It was exciting. You know the kind of thing I used to fantasise about when I was starting out.’ As I relived the afternoon I began to feel genuinely elated. I grinned at him. ‘The whole thing: it was a writer’s wet dream.’

  ‘They’ve spent enough money on promoting it. Of course they’re pleased it’s paid off.’

  ‘I suppose my book must be pretty good too,’ I said. ‘That’s the best thing of all: I think I might have written a really good book.’

  ‘You shouldn’t confuse popular appeal with quality,’ he said.

  ‘I know that, but it is good.’

  He looked at me and there was a light in his eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t read it.’

  I returned his gaze, taking in every feature of his face.

  ‘What?’ He shifted in his chair. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  I picked up our plates and got to my feet. I stacked the dishwasher and put the kettle on.

  ‘No pud?’ He deployed his best boyish smile.

  ‘No.’

  He got up from the table.

  ‘Becca, don’t be like that. Don’t be a grump.’ He pulled me close and I smelt the familiar mix of aftershave and cigarette smoke and something else, something that was uniquely him, and I closed my eyes and for a moment, as I relaxed in his arms, everything was all right.

  He pulled away and smiled down at me with that same rueful little-boy expression.

  ‘I know, I know, it’s probably all my fault. It’s just that… well, you just seem to know how to irritate me.’ He stroked my hair. ‘You just have to learn to handle me a bit better.’

  I shrugged free.

  ‘Handle you? What the hell are you? Radioactive waste?’

  His mouth pursed.

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘And by the way, I’m buying a flat.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re buying a flat? When? What for? We’re not moving.’

  I sat back down at the kitchen table and poured myself the last of the wine. I turned and looked up at him.

  ‘What I mean is, I’m buying a flat. It’s a wonderful flat and I’ve fallen in love with it. I decided to buy it…’ – I looked at my watch – ‘… about two minutes ago. Or maybe a little earlier when you could not bring yourself to be happy for me. Or perhaps it was when you were rude about my cooking. Or maybe it was when you told me to fuck off although I had done nothing to deserve it. Yes, I believe that was it, the fuck off, if you like, that broke the camel’s back. Then again maybe it was when I got home and you heard me in the hall but you decided not to acknowledge me. Who knows? Who knows when something actually begins, seeing as everything is connected and one thing always leads to another? But quite simply I’ve had enough of being the butt of your foul temper. I’m exhausted and on edge from your criticising, your lack of respect or even basic civility. I’m tired of being humiliated in front of our friends, tired of trying to constantly appease you. Appeasement never works. With you, all one can be sure of is that you never want what you have and that if you’re given what you think you want you end up wanting something else. You’re a toddler, a terrorist …’

  A will-o’-the-wisp, a clown, Coco sang to the tune of ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria’.

  I started laughing and Dominic, who had been looking scared, relaxed and walked over to the table, putting his hand out and touching my cheek.

  ‘Come on, Becca. Don’t be a drama queen.’

  I had stopped laughing and I said instead, ‘Do you know that when I hear your key in the lock my heart starts thumping …’

  Dominic started smiling and his hand slipped down to my left breast.

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘In spite of everything, that’s how I feel too.’

  I pushed away his hand.

  ‘With fear,’ I said.

  His smile shrank, bringing his cheeks with it.

  ‘Fear? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re right, it is ridiculous that in the twenty-first century a grown woman of independent means should allow herself to be bullied and controlled and demeaned in her own home by the man who is supposed to be her best friend and lover, so, Dominic, I’m through with playing red rag to your bull. I’m buying a flat for me, just me.’

  And me, Coco chirped.

  I laughed again.

  ‘Have you lost your mind completely?’ Dominic said.

  I considered the question: it was important to be fair, to look at things from every angle and viewpoint, especially when making decisions that affected other people.

  ‘No,’ I said finally. ‘I admit there are some signs …’ – Coco waved encouragingly – ‘… but no, I don’t think I have.’

  Dominic stood in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest.

  ‘And how are you going to pay for this flat, may I ask?’

  ‘Oh didn’t I tell you … Gemma’s negotiated this big – enormous actually – advance. It will be enough for a down-payment. With my share of this place and a bigger mortgage obviously it should be fine, tight but manageable.’

  ‘You think they’re going to increase your mortgage? You don’t have a steady income. One swallow doesn’t make a summer, you know.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you that either? I’ve got a three-book contract. That should do it, I reckon. Now, where did I put those tea bags?’

  Mount Olympus

  ‘EROS, EROS, WHAT’S GOING on?’ Mother has been watching the screen but now she’s turning round, calling me.

  I have been minding my own business at the other end of the room, listening to some music, chilling.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eros, take off those silly earmuff things and come over here now.’

  I sigh but do as I am told, removing my headphones and sitting down next to her.

  ‘Can we watch the States?’

  ‘No, we cannot. You watch far too much North America. You’re even beginning to talk like one of them.’ She points at the screen. ‘Now what is going on?’

  ‘Someone’s moving home,’ I tell her.

  ‘I can see that. I do have eyes in my head. But can’t you see who that someone is? It’s Rebecca Finch. Why is she moving? Didn’t you get her together with what’s-his-name just the other day? Wasn’t that supposed to be the big romance, the great all-conquering love?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Dunno. But mortals don’t need long to muck things up. What really pi
sses me off –’

  ‘Don’t use that vulgar language up here, Eros. Don’t you understand the gravity of the situation?’

  What’s-his-name comes out of the front door waving his arms around and I think he’s shouting. (It’s hard to tell as Mother’s turned the sound right down. I expect she doesn’t want the others to hear.) The removal guys try to carry on as if they’re not noticing. Two of them are pushing a huge piano up the ramp to the van, while Rebecca Finch fusses around as if she’s worried they’ll damage it. She’s crying. She’s obviously trying to pretend she isn’t but she’s definitely crying. The shouting guy – I still can’t remember his name – has stopped yelling and is just standing there on the doorstep, his arms slack at his sides, watching.

  Rebecca Finch walks off towards her car.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I say to Mother. ‘The woman’s driving a bloody Skoda.’

  ‘Don’t swear. And concentrate.’

  What on? I mean nothing’s happening. What’s-his-name’s still looking gormless and Rebecca Finch just stands there by the lame car staring at the house as if she were counting each brick. Finally she gets into the driver’s seat and heads off, leading the way for the van.

  Mother has calmed down and is saying that, as Rebecca Finch and What’s-his-name weren’t actually married, there will be no increase in the divorce statistics, and Harmonia points out that, as there were no kids either, the whole thing isn’t a big deal. And I agree with them totally. But there’s always someone, isn’t there? With us that someone is usually Ate.

  Before long she slides up to Mother and says, ‘If only things were so simple.’

  We’ve all got Ate sussed by now and Mother says, in this really clipped voice, ‘What is it you are trying to say, Ate?’

  And Ate says, ‘Maybe you missed it, Aphrodite, but only the other day your mortal, your favoured acolyte, counselled a young woman against love, against marriage.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mother snaps.

  ‘Your favourite, Rebecca Finch. A vulnerable young girl comes to her for reassurance and instead she gets a giant bucket of cold water poured over her hopes and dreams. Now that, I think you will agree, is a worry.’