Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers

by Marika Cobbold

  Back in the sitting room he was half expecting the phone to ring and to hear Lydia’s voice, faux-commiserating, informing him that Susannah would not be coming after all. These conversations would always begin with, ‘It’s not about us, it’s about a little girl.’ He, so accustomed to dealing with other people’s imploded lives, other people’s messes, was powerless. ‘Susannah has been invited to a sleepover and I really don’t think we should be selfish about these things.’ Or, ‘Susannah didn’t want to tell you herself, you know how kind she is, but she was getting quite agitated and it turns out that she really wanted her Aunt Jenny to come over and look after her.’

  A large framed school photograph of their daughter stood in the window alcove. Rosy-cheeked, a little plump, with her auburn hair brushed glossy and tied back with a regulation red ribbon into what she had informed him was ‘a half-ponytail’, she smiled out at him with her best gappy smile. He smiled back. He did this every time his gaze fell on her picture.

  He could not remember when this latest tic had begun (he called them tics, the compulsions, as if using such a harmless little word would make them less disruptive). He would feel the dead-weight of fear in his stomach as he thought how just such photographs like that one of Susannah were plastered across the front pages of the newspapers with heartbreaking regularity because the child in question, the shiny-haired, trusting little girl, or the grinning, self-conscious boy, had been lost to some terrible calamity or brutal crime. His thoughts would circle the pain of the parents, tiptoe up to the moment when someone is told that the worst that life could do to them had been done, the moment when the light goes out of their lives never to return other than as a pale reflection. Then he would make it doubly worse by asking himself if all these thoughts, heavy with negativity and doom, could somehow invite the very disasters he so feared. In order to disable such dark thoughts he had to smile and smile again at his daughter’s photograph.

  What was he doing, a man of forty-three, a successful, well-respected professional, pacing up and down grinning like a monkey at a photograph? It had to stop. It could not be allowed to go on. He looked down at his left wrist. When Angie Bliss had suggested it, he had thought the idea of wearing some rubber band round his wrist, twanging it at every marauding thought, faintly ridiculous, but not, he decided, as ridiculous as his behaviour right now. What he aimed to give his daughter, what mostly he managed to give her, was a calm and collected father, a robust and fatherly father, and if twanging a red elastic band round his wrist would help him to continue to achieve that aim, then twang it he would.

  Finally, and almost half an hour late, the silver Mercedes estate drove up outside. He hurried to the door, pausing for a moment in front of the hall mirror to smooth his hair. He flung open the door, bent down and picked his child up in his arms, lifting her high before hugging her.

  ‘Daddeee.’ Susannah squirmed in his arms, pulling at her skirt that had ridden up at the back.

  He put her down and met his ex-wife’s eyes. She gave a little shake of her head, managing to look pitying and reproachful both at once.

  ‘Daddy, guess what?’

  ‘What?’ He smiled at the excited child.

  ‘I’ve got a puppy and you’re going to help me look after him while Mummy and Adrian are away.’

  ‘A puppy?’ John looked at Lydia.

  ‘It was a surprise. I told Adrian it wasn’t the best timing.’ She smiled indulgently. ‘But he was so excited.’

  ‘Was he? How sweet.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘Don’t be childish.’

  ‘Well, I just think it would be nice to be consulted once in a while, especially if I’m supposed to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘What pieces? You’re looking after a puppy, for Christ’s sake. You want to be consulted? You should have thought about that before playing away from home.’

  They looked at each other: High Noon.

  ‘Can we do this later,’ he said, directing a meaningful look at Susannah and praying that Lydia’s maternal side would win over her ball-breaking side so that, for once, their daughter could be handed from one parent to another without feeling she was passing through a war zone. Lydia said nothing, confining her animosity to another glare, so he turned to Susannah, saying in what he hoped was a light and jolly manner, ‘A puppy, eh? I hope it’s house-trained.’

  Lydia rolled her eyes.

  ‘Do you have to be such a stick-in-the-mud?’

  John took a deep breath and counted slowly to ten before saying, ‘OK, let’s meet it.’

  ‘Him,’ Susannah said. ‘He’s a him and he’s called Albie.’ From the tone of her voice to her stance, head to one side, hands on hips, she seemed suddenly very much like her mother.

  ‘OK, let’s go and meet Albie.’

  A small sticky hand was placed in his, pulling him over to his ex-wife’s car.

  Susannah was asleep. The lamp on the white-painted chest of drawers was left on, rotating gently, throwing its patterns of moons and stars on to the ceiling. His daughter lay tucked up in a nest lined with soft toys with the puppy curled up by her feet.

  There had been a tricky half-hour after John had placed the tiny Border terrier in his basket on the floor by the bed.

  ‘But he won’t like it.’

  ‘What won’t he like?’

  ‘He won’t like sleeping on the floor when all the toys are on the bed.’

  ‘He’s not on the floor, darling, he’s in his own comfortable bed. Anyway, dogs don’t think like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘OK, I don’t know, not for sure, I’m extrapolating, but even if I were wrong and he had similar thought processes to us, he would probably be thinking how lucky he was to have his own cosy bed and not have to share.’

  Susannah thought about this for a moment then she sat bolt upright and said, ‘No, he gets really jealous.’ And with that she made a sweeping movement with her arms, pushing most of the toys on to the floor, picking the remaining ones up by a leg or an ear and chucking them over the side to join the others. ‘There,’ she said, arms crossed against her round belly.

  John looked at his small daughter, at the defiance mixed with a little bit of worry at maybe having gone too far, and tried not to smile.

  ‘Goodnight then, darling.’ He bent down and kissed the downy cheek.

  He got no further than the kitchen when a small voice called out, ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes?’ he said from her doorway.

  ‘Daddy, I can’t sleep without my toys.’

  He picked his way across a floor that looked like an illustration of massacre in Toy Town.

  ‘Well, let’s put them back on your bed then.’

  ‘But Albie will be upset.’

  What he felt like saying was, ‘Albie can piss off, as can the little prick whose bright idea it was to get him in the first place.’ But what he actually said was, ‘Dogs really shouldn’t be in the bed with you. He’s happy in his basket – just look at him.’

  Susannah leant over the side of the bed, peering down at the puppy.

  ‘I think he looks sad.’ At this she herself began to cry.

  He picked her up in his arms, where she lay limp against his shoulder, weeping.

  ‘Darling, Albie is fine, I promise you. Happy as a sandboy.’

  Hiccuping and sniffing, Susannah wailed, ‘It’s not him that’s sad, it’s me. I miss my mummee.’

  John stroked her slippery hair thinking, why does she not use her little fist to punch me in the heart while she’s at it?

  ‘And I’m sure Mummy misses you, but it’s nice for Daddy to see you. I miss you lots too, when you’re not here.’

  Susannah wiped her nose on his shoulder and struggled out of his embrace, sliding back down under her duvet.

  ‘Mummy said you should have thought about that before you went off with the trollop.’

  He winced.

  ‘Sarah. Her name was Sarah. And I didn
’t go off with her. I … I spent time with her, which was very wrong of me because married people should not spend that kind of time …’

  ‘What kind of time?’

  ‘The kind of time you should only spend with the person you’re married to.’

  ‘What kind of time?’

  ‘Bed time. I spent bed time with Sarah and that was very wrong and Mummy was quite within her rights to be very angry. But I didn’t go off with her.’

  ‘So why are you and Mummy not together?’

  ‘Because sometimes, although you think you’ve repaired the damage you caused, you haven’t actually done such a good job. There’s still a tiny crack and, if you’re unlucky, that crack just gets wider and wider until all the nice feelings fall into it and disappear.’ He glanced at Susannah, who was looking worried again, and he added, ‘Although they are still there; just … well, further down.’

  ‘Mummy spends bed time with Adrian, so are you angry?’

  ‘No. No, I’m not angry because Mummy and I aren’t married any more so Mummy can spend as much bed time as she likes with Adrian.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  John laughed.

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘So I can spend bed time with Albie.’

  Rebecca

  ‘I KNOW YOU DON’T want to write the divorce-lawyer book but you have been thinking about crime so it can’t hurt to meet up with John Sterling again. You never know, it might inspire you in other ways too.’

  I watched the young women passing by the cafe where Matilda and I were sitting.

  ‘Look at them.’

  ‘I know. Why they can’t make the top of their trousers and the bottom of their tops meet I do not know.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. They think they look great. They crimp and primp and shop and diet. They polish and wax and flirt. They dance before us on the high streets of Britain for a brief while and then, then they end up like us.’

  ‘Looking at this lot’ – Matilda gesticulated towards the pavement – ‘I think they’d be so lucky. Anyway, you need to cheer up. Get back out there.’

  ‘I don’t want a relationship, if that’s what you mean. Just the thought of it makes me shiver.’

  ‘I’m not talking about a relationship. Have a fling. Have a fling with John Sterling. He sounds nice and you said he was good-looking.’

  ‘And he’s in a relationship, I think. Anyway, I’m not the fling type, you know that.’

  ‘You’ve changed. Maybe you’ve changed in that way too?’

  ‘I’d rather work. I suppose it was talking to him about legal stuff, but I have had an idea. It’s for a play, a courtroom drama called Eros on Trial.’

  ‘Ah you’ve got a title already; always good to have the title sorted.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s half the work done, isn’t it? Anyway, Eros is literally on trial, for crimes against humanity. The play would be made up of witness statements, mostly for the prosecution. I thought I’d use the uplifting stories of happy marriages I was collecting for Angel-face. As you might recall they weren’t so uplifting after all, apart from yours, of course. My agent actually quite likes the idea. She said, and I’m quoting, “It would at least be a different audience, one that doesn’t feel utterly let down and betrayed.”’

  Matilda considered.

  ‘Could work, I suppose. What does your legal adviser think?’

  ‘You mean John Sterling? I haven’t asked him.’

  I read every book I could find on play-writing. I started to write down my witness statements. Were people allowed to stand up in court and give such lengthy statements? I decided to email John Sterling and ask.

  Later on that evening I was about to sit down to supper when the phone rang.

  ‘Hi, it’s Melanie. We met the other day, with John.’

  ‘Absolutely. And what a coincidence. I’ve just emailed him. I need to pick his brain.’

  ‘Oh he’ll love that. He likes nothing better than talking about his work. Anyway, I’ve read your book. I loved it, I really did. I tried to get John to read it as well, but you know men.’

  Not all of them, to be fair, Coco pointed out.

  Leave me alone, I’m on the phone.

  ‘Hello, are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. I know he’s very busy.’

  ‘He’s a complete workaholic. He defines himself entirely through his career.’

  ‘Easy mistake to make.’

  ‘Big mistake too. I mean he’s successful, but how long will that last? There’ll soon be someone else coming on to the scene, someone younger and hungrier.’

  I laughed.

  ‘You make him sound like a supermodel.’

  ‘Honestly, though, it goes on in all professions; yours too, I’m sure. I mean there’s always someone younger, a fresh new voice waiting to take your place.’

  ‘I try not to think about that,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I was really calling about my reading group. I told you about it when we met. As I said then, I would love it if you could come and talk to us. On the other hand, before you say yes I should check with them. They can be a bit snooty about their book choices – you know how it is.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyway …’ Her voice was hesitant before regaining its confidence. ‘So many people would really benefit from reading your stuff. John, for one. I was really surprised when he agreed to me moving out. He’s always done the running in our relationship. Towards me, not away, if you see what I mean?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so from the way he looks; I mean he’s gorgeous, even if he could do with a few more hours in the gym, but he’s really naive when it comes to women.’

  ‘I would have thought his work would have cured him of any naivety,’ I said.

  ‘Oh that’s different, isn’t it? You should see his exes,’ she snorted. ‘No wonder he thinks I’m completely gorgeous.’

  ‘Two gorgeous people,’ I said. ‘How perfect is that.’

  ‘You would have thought so, but actually, it’s not. He’s quite mixed up.’

  I knew I should end the conversation there. A person of style and integrity would not listen to this kind of puerile gossip about someone who had been both kind and helpful to them.

  ‘Is he really? In what way?’

  ‘I just don’t think he knows who he is. He plays parts. Behind all that professional bravado there’s this frightened little boy.’

  Another one, I thought to myself.

  ‘Most women wouldn’t have seen that side. If I did one good thing, and I think I did quite a few, actually, it was getting him to see a therapist. I think it’s really helping him. Then again he’s good at dissembling. He’s quite obsessive. Life is a series of goals to him. When he and I met, he was totally focused on finding the perfect woman to settle down with, someone attractive and independent, so I knew he wouldn’t let me go that easily once he’d found me. As I said, I was quite surprised he didn’t try to stop me from moving out; male pride, I suppose. It was really quite touching how pleased he was to hear from me when I phoned him up. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how much I loved your book. We must get together. Just the girls, I mean. It would be fun.’

  I almost never drink whisky but somehow, having finished the call with Melanie Ingram, I felt the need for a glass of the stuff.

  Mine’s a double, Coco said, throwing himself down in the armchair and putting his large feet up on the coffee table.

  I put on some music, Dolly Parton. I adore Dolly Parton. I don’t care what anyone says: the woman is a marvel.

  I topped up my glass. Dolly sang, I’ll always love you.

  This time I had to take issue with her.

  ‘You know, you just think you will, but really you won’t. You might, however, end up singing things like this: I’d be devastated if I lost him, but it would mean I could redecorate the house and get rid of that ghastly old winged chair. Or, I wouldn’t say we�
��re happy exactly, but then life’s not about that, is it? Alternatively, you could just cut to the chase and tell him to bugger off.’

  Dolly obviously wasn’t listening, begging instead for Jolene not to take her man away.

  My grandfather on my mother’s side used to bring my grandmother breakfast in bed each morning: a tiny pot of tea, some butter and jam, a rack of toast and always a single orchid, whatever the time of year. He adored her. When they married he was twenty-five and she was thirty-eight. He loved her so much that he wouldn’t let her grow old.

  He killed her? Coco asked.

  No, of course not. You know he didn’t.

  He just didn’t allow her to grow old. Wherever he went, she went. He travelled to Paris or Rome, so did she, even when she could no longer walk or see. He hired the services of a nurse, who was also trained in dressing hair, so that every morning my grandmother would be looking her best, not for him, because to him her beauty was undisputable, but for my grandmother herself, who had indeed been a renowned beauty and vain with it.

  ‘But she can’t see,’ my mother had protested.

  ‘She knows,’ he had replied, ‘she knows just by putting her hand to touch her hair if it’s right or not.’

  Towards the end, my grandmother confided to my mother that she would very much like just to lie back and rest; no travel, no trips to the opera, no visitors, just quietly rest, with her hair going grey and the bald spot left for all the world to see.

  ‘So tell him,’ my mother said.

  ‘Oh no,’ my grandmother replied, ‘it would break his heart.’

  She died aged ninety-eight, while watching La Boheme from their box at the opera.