Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers

by Marika Cobbold

  ‘And this Melanie isn’t her, now is she?’

  With a slight sigh he said, ‘I thought she might have been.’

  ‘But now you know better?’

  He raised his chin.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Fine. You’re in denial. We can work with that.’ She paused and giggled behind a slender hand. ‘De-nial is a river in Egypt.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes.’ He laughed politely.

  ‘Does she need to be beautiful, this woman, your ideal?’ the therapist asked in the alert yet efficient voice of a shop assistant offering to pick out your perfect suit.

  ‘Beautiful? No, not really. It would be nice if she was good-looking, obviously. And I think enthusiasm is vital, passion – for something; it almost doesn’t matter what. I don’t like blasé or passivity. I like women who are self-sufficient, who don’t wait for me to make all the decisions. Someone who likes challenges and won’t stagnate.’ He paused to find Angie Bliss smiling and nodding her approval. Next she’ll stick a gold star next to my notes, he thought, not displeased. Melanie called him a try-hard. She was right, as it happened.

  ‘So, if we find you such a woman then you might do better?’

  ‘I was not aware that I had signed up to a dating agency. Anyway, I am still in a relationship.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ The therapist raised both hands in the air. ‘But basically you don’t want to face up to the gaping void in your life so you’re here fussing about this O … OCD.’

  ‘I’m fussing over it, as you call it, because I was encouraged to do so by your predecessor and because it’s a pain, a real pain. I don’t need the distraction. What I do need is to find a way of being able to give one hundred per cent to whatever I’m doing without these ridiculous, I mean really ridiculous, thoughts.’

  ‘But there’s no problem sexually?’

  ‘No, I’ve told you that already.’ He forgot about feeling awkward as he gazed into her eyes that were the turquoise of a Caribbean sea. He said, hesitating at first, ‘At least, there never used to be a problem but I suppose that lately … well, it could be better. I just put it down to the other problems we’re having at the moment. I’m pretty confident that it’s not a, well a … medical problem.’

  ‘Now that is a relief, isn’t it? Again I’m sure’ – she paused and looked him up and down – ‘I’m sure,’ she said again, ‘that you will have no problems once you’re with the right woman. Now, let’s see … yes, your mother: would you say she was possessive when you grew up and that this might have something to do with your problems in forming intimate, long-lasting relationships?’

  ‘I suppose she was a bit possessive, yes, but that’s understandable as it was just the two of us. My father left before I was born. He died not long afterwards. Anyway, I got the impression from Rupert that the key to OCD lies in the simple fact of brain chemistry rather than in childhood experiences and such things. He did mention Prozac or some other SSRI.’

  Angie Bliss’s eyes turned the colour of thunder clouds.

  ‘Well, if you know so much about it why are you here seeing me? And I certainly would not recommend Prozac. Have you not heard about the side-effects? Reduction of sex drive, inability to climax. Would you like to add those to your list of problems?’ Then she smiled again and her amazing eyes softened to dove-grey. ‘I’m not saying that Rupert is wrong, only that opinion is divided. I would say that the very latest findings suggest that…’ She frowned and seemed to search for a word. ‘Yes, that regression therapy can be helpful... in some cases. That means we delve into your past –’

  ‘– Subconscious,’ John filled in. He had to remind himself again that the woman sitting opposite him was a renowned expert in her field.

  ‘But first we’ll just regress via your conscious,’ Angie Bliss said and there was renewed authority in her voice. ‘Now, your childhood.’

  ‘My childhood,’ John Sterling said. ‘There’s nothing much to tell. Nothing I haven’t been through with Rupert already.’

  Angie Bliss frowned.

  ‘Well, I want to hear it for myself. And don’t roll your eyes. How old are you, twelve?’

  John pulled a face.

  ‘There’s honestly not much to tell. I was born, on time more or less, so I believe, healthy and wanted.’

  ‘Your father didn’t want you.’

  John’s amiable smile remained in place but his voice was icy.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He left before you were born. I would say that was a fair indication that he was not very keen on the idea of you.’

  John coloured slightly but his voice was as controlled as ever when he replied, ‘All right, so maybe I was wanted by one instead of the more customary two parents. And yes, there was a time that this bothered me. But I was fortunate in other things so in the end it seemed like rather a petty concern. Then again, we humans distinguish ourselves by our petty concerns, don’t you agree, whereas the other animals confine their fretting to the real stuff: how to get fed, how to get laid, how to stay alive.’ He paused and looked at his watch. ‘Oh dear, my hour is up.’

  ‘That’s all right. No hurry.’

  But John was already on his way to the door.

  ‘I’m sure you have other people to see?’

  ‘So I do.’ Angie Bliss swivelled the chair round so that her back was turned. ‘I’ve got you down for the same time next week.’

  John was about to make some excuse but as he met the therapist’s azure gaze he found himself nodding and saying, ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  On his way out, a good-looking young boy standing by the water cooler stopped him and asked in a faint American accent, ‘She free?’

  John nodded.

  ‘Is she any good?’

  ‘I can’t really tell.’

  ‘That figures,’ the boy said. ‘I’d give her another go, though.’

  ‘Would you now?’ John said. He smiled. ‘Maybe I shall too then.’

  Rebecca

  I SLEPT WELL IN my new flat and awoke refreshed. I had put on some weight. ‘You look really well,’ my friends told me. ‘Relaxed, more your old self.’

  Coco agreed.

  That cowed look is just so last year.

  And yet.

  And yet what? Coco snapped. What’s there to and yet about? You’re free of the bastard.

  Don’t call him a bastard.

  What would you like me to call him?

  I thought about it.

  Oh I don’t know, just go away.

  ‘What do you mean and yet?’ Matilda asked.

  We were sitting at the kitchen table; through the window I watched a pale autumn sun setting behind Albert Bridge.

  ‘Last week you were telling everyone that you’d never been more content. You said you woke every morning while the builders were in thanking God that you weren’t having to cope with Dominic going ballistic at every little thing, especially when they broke the teapot. The freedom, you said, not answering to anyone: you loved it. The relief, you said, of not being watched and harangued at every turn. What’s changed?’

  I pushed one of the mugs of tea across the table top towards her and picked up the plate.

  ‘Iced bun?’

  ‘Don’t change the topic,’ Matilda said.

  ‘OK. I’m sorry. And I don’t suppose it’s him I miss, not exactly. But I miss something. Maybe it’s my dreams. The future is like a doily with all these cut-outs: the ski holiday planned for the new year, the weekends with his friends in the Cotswolds, his nephew’s wedding in France. I mean it’s not as if I can’t travel without him, it’s just, oh I’m not sure what the issue is exactly other than that I feel so very sad.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Matilda said, her hand hovering above the plate of sticky buns, retreating then swooping down like a bird of prey. She bit into the bun, eating fast as if that way there would be fewer calories. ‘But you will find someone else eventua
lly, someone nice even.’

  ‘That’s part of the sadness, I reckon. I might well find someone, but then what do I do with him? Sleep with him, yes. And then what? Because eventually it would end the way it always does, in disillusionment and ugly strife.’

  ‘Come on, it doesn’t have to be like that.’

  I sighed.

  ‘I wish I could believe that. I can’t work, Matilda. I can’t go on writing my nice books about nice people meeting other nice people and falling in love and living happily ever after. From where I am now I simply can’t imagine how I ever could. It all seems so long ago. But without my work I feel naked and chilly to the bone. No, worse, I feel pointless. I have no purpose. I can’t live without purpose. I wonder if that’s what you’d feel if you had lived all your life in Soviet Russia or Communist Poland when the whole idea of Communism collapsed? I’ve often wondered what it must have been like. There you are, having worked and sacrificed and suffered all in the belief that you were serving a higher purpose, creating Utopia for your children and their children –’

  ‘Did anyone actually think that?’

  ‘I think so. And then one day you’re told that actually it was all a huge mistake and, as if that’s not bad enough, you’re supposed to go out there and dance around the square or hacked-down wall or whatever, celebrating the fact that your entire life’s been a sham.’

  ‘I’m not sure I would equate romance with Communism.’

  At midnight the phone went.

  ‘I know I promised not to call but, darling, I miss you.’

  I sat up against the pillows.

  ‘Dominic.’

  ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’

  ‘Yes, sort of. But it’s all right.’

  ‘I’m not all right,’ he said. ‘I know it serves me right. I’ve been a pig. I don’t deserve you but, darling, I’m just lost without you.’ His voice was low and intimate. It was the voice of a lover.

  I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing.

  He continued, ‘Darling, don’t you miss me even a little bit?’

  ‘Yes.’ And with that yes I stepped back into my life and the time away seemed just like a dream.

  I opened the door and watched him stride up the stairs. At the sight of me he paused then he smiled, penitent, jubilant, his arms wide open to clasp me to him.

  Coco appeared in front of me frenetically rowing a lifeboat, calling my name. I turned my back on him and led Dominic inside. I opened a bottle of red wine. I wasn’t sure why I did that when I knew perfectly well that he preferred white.

  He looked at the red liquid as he took the glass from me.

  ‘Red. Very nice. Thanks, darling.’

  He stayed the night in my bed. Coco spent the night locked in the walk-in-wardrobe.

  ‘It’s like coming home,’ Dominic said after we had made love again the next morning. ‘Oh my darling. Oh my love, my life.’

  Back in the early days he used to whisper those words and I had felt like a special being, anointed by love. I wanted to feel that way again. I tried hard. But instead I felt as if I were watching a love scene in the company of my mother.

  As it was Saturday, I suggested we visit the local farmers’ market. I was in two minds about those markets. I enjoyed the experience of walking between the stalls with a hand-woven basket in the crook of my arm. I liked the open air and the way the other shoppers bustled around smiling instead of shuffling and shoving their way along crowded supermarket aisles. Yet in some way I felt I was just a victim of another trend. ‘Darling, how lovely, shit-covered eggs straight from the hen’s bottom.’ And, ‘Unpasteurised cheese with real flies, how marvellously geniune.’

  As a rule I valued solitude, but weekends on my own had made me feel lonely. Walking around the market with Dominic I enjoyed being part of a couple again, shopping for lunch for two, handing him a taster of cheese and discussing how much was needed of the Beaufort and how much of the Stilton. Other than the cheese we bought a couple of dressed crabs, which led me to wonder, as always, why a shellfish broken into its constituent parts was known as ‘dressed’. As usual, I decided not to ask. I had a feeling there was an obvious answer that everyone knew but me.

  Dominic disappeared only to return a few minutes later with a bunch of red roses.

  ‘Roses for a rose,’ he said, laughing at his cheesy joke, and all around us people were smiling. Babies in prams, puppies and lovers were all part of a delightful breed adored by, well, by most people, other than those who found the sight of any of these quite sick-making.

  On our way home we passed the Bathroom Shop.

  I stopped.

  ‘I need one of those shelf things you put across the bath tub for soaps and sponges and stuff,’ I said. ‘Do you mind?’

  He said he would wait outside in the fresh air.

  ‘Leave the basket with me,’ he added.

  Inside there were several of those shelves to choose from. There was also an entire section with soaps and one with soap dishes and toothbrush-holders and such like. I went to the door and signalled to Dominic to join me but he shook his head and held up a lit cigarette. Following a very interesting discussion with the shop assistant about soap versus gels I was given two samples of each kind. I then bought a soap dish, a rose-scented soap and a honeysuckle shower-gel.

  Outside Dominic was finishing a cigarette. He glared at me as he flicked the butt to the ground.

  ‘Have you no idea of time?’

  ‘Why didn’t you come inside? There were some lovely things.’

  ‘You know I don’t share your love of shopping. Anyway, I had this.’ He picked up the basket and the bags from around his feet. ‘So can we go now? I’m cold and I’m hungry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as I tried to relieve him of the basket. ‘They were just so nice in there and had such nice –’

  ‘You said.’ He glanced at the small bag in my hand. ‘So did you get the bath-tub shelf, or whatever you call it?’

  I looked down at the bag myself.

  ‘No, no, I didn’t.’ I laughed. ‘Silly me.’

  He sighed, a sigh so deep it could be heard above the roaring traffic on Chelsea Bridge Road.

  Once we had eaten the crab and cheeses Dominic was in a better mood.

  Looking around him he said, ‘You really have done well with this place, darling.’ He sat down next to me on the sofa with his mug of coffee. ‘I feel really at home.’

  My smile froze. My back stiffened and I put my mug down on the table.

  Dominic leant back against the cushions with an air of belonging.

  Was that banging I heard from my bedroom? One final smash and Coco came bounding past, out of breath and with his hair in disarray, carrying a half-closed suitcase with a pair of striped trouser-legs trailing the ground.

  Save yourself while you can, he called over his shoulders.

  Dominic opened his eyes and smiled fuzzily at me.

  ‘Yes, I really feel at home here.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘I have to go out now,’ I told Dominic. ‘I’ll lock up behind you, shall I?’

  * * *

  When I saw Charlotte Jessop next I was anxious to find out whether she believed that my decision to break up with Dominic and not to rekindle our relationship might be a result, not of logic or even the dictates of the heart, but because of the clown.

  ‘What do you think?’ Charlotte Jessop asked.

  ‘My gut instinct tells me that it’s common sense and self-preservation kicking in at long last. But then again, is it just coincidence that Coco reappeared during this time?’

  ‘I would like you to consider the possibility that Coco’s reappearance was a necessary component in the process of you freeing yourself from what was, in fact, a textbook toxic relationship.’

  ‘You mean he’s some sort of enabler?’ Like most clowns there was nothing Coco liked better than to be taken seriously.

  Right now he was sitting on a stool in the
corner of the room, his stripy legs crossed, a pair of spectacles perched on his red nose, and as Charlotte and I spoke he rested his chin in his hand and nodded.

  ‘As long as we are both clear that he is simply another facet of your personality, another side of your internal dialogue,’ Charlotte said.

  I smiled and nodded.

  ‘Of course.’

  It was the end of the session and as I walked out of the room Coco followed me, crowing three times and hissing, Judas.

  The cockerel crowed three times to Peter, not Judas, I told him. And, Coco, you are an imaginary clown, not the Messiah.

  There, I thought, Charlotte Jessop had nothing to worry about on my account.

  At lunch later on that day, Bridget said in a voice elongated with thought, ‘You really have been very clever, Geraldine.’

  ‘How do you mean, I’ve been clever?’

  ‘Because you have it all before you to enjoy… for the third time: new love, sexual excitement, setting up a home together. It’s as if you are living a romantic groundhog day.’

  I didn’t know Bridget’s husband’s cousin very well but I remembered Angel-face telling me that she had recently got married again. It was hard not to notice that, at fifty-one, the same age as Bridget, Geraldine looked much younger. Not because she was especially unlined, although she did have a good complexion, but because of the light in her eyes, the easy laughter, the languid movements, which all spoke of a woman who had woken up next to her lover that morning. Bridget, on the other hand, had woken up next to her very nice decent husband of almost thirty years. As for myself, I exuded the nervous energy of someone in turmoil. I had noticed that morning that this was not so good for the complexion.

  ‘Do you think Robert Mugabe is at peace with himself?’ I asked. ‘There he is, tyrant of the year, destroying his country, impoverishing and imprisoning his people, torturing his opponents and yet, and yet he has the most incredible skin for a man in his mid-eighties.’