Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers PDF
Preview Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers
Aphrodite’s Workshop for Reluctant Lovers MARIKA COBBOLD CONTENTS Prologue Part One Rebecca Mount Olympus Rebecca Mount Olympus Rebecca Mount Olympus John Mount Olympus Part Two John Rebecca Rebecca Rebecca John Rebecca Mount Olympus Rebecca Rebecca Rebecca Mount Olympus Rebecca John Rebecca Mount Olympus Rebecca Mount Olympus Rebecca Mount Olympus John Rebecca and John Mount Olympus Acknowledgements Note on the Author To my daughter, Harriet, who asked the questions Prologue LIFE WAS GETTING TOUGH for Mother, otherwise known as Aphrodite, goddess of love. It was commonly thought that she was failing in her work and that love was being brought into disrepute. The inhabitants of Great Britain were of particular concern. The statistics were appalling, with one in three marriages ending in divorce and a growing number of children being brought up in single-parent families. So Mother was freaking, blaming me, Eros, who quite frankly had enough to deal with, being just a kid and going through a difficult phase, not just because of the confusion over who my father was, but also because of the rumours going around that I didn’t actually exist, being instead a phenomenon, an idea, not a person at all. So what I’m saying is that if Rebecca Finch was planning to make things worse she could not have picked a better time. PART ONE Rebecca I WAS TRAVELLING ON the 17.43 Eurostar from Paris when it occurred to me that my mother’s unshakeable belief in enduring love might be due to my father having had the good sense to die young. This revelation, like most revelations, only seemed sudden; in fact it had been long in coming, growing steadily, nurtured by a trickle of circumstances just below the level of consciousness. I had been watching the woman across the aisle, surreptitiously, I hoped. Everyone had their own special interests, the things that captured their imagination and held it; Tim, my ex-husband, for example, was fascinated by boats, boats and barometers. For my mother it was memories and dreams of what might have been. Amongst my friends, Bridget could gaze for hours at the stalls of a food market whereas Matilda had never got over a childhood fascination with clouds. As for my partner, Dominic, he enjoyed Victorian and Edwardian watercolours and leggy blondes. For me it was people. If you tried to explain to me how telephones worked or how emails travelled wire-less from computer to computer I would listen politely but my heart would not be in it. But tell me about the beautiful woman next door and why she always stands waiting for the postman on a Wednesday and you have my full attention. The woman across the aisle looked to be in her late thirties. She was blonde, a little plump. She was wearing a black gaberdine skirt-suit and flesh-coloured tights and her shoes were mid-heeled courts. She wore a fine gold chain with a small plain cross around her neck and an ornate silver band on her right ring-finger. Her hair was surprising, falling in silky waves down to her shoulders. She was engrossed by the novel she was reading; I could tell from her changing expressions and the way she turned the pages with fingers that could barely wait for the eyes to catch up. The trip to Paris had been Dominic’s idea, his surprise for me. I had found the folder in the fridge, on top of the carton of eggs. Dominic had been waiting for me to come down for breakfast and as I filled the kettle and got out my breakfast cup I could sense his impatience. When finally I had opened the fridge he had made a show of reading the paper but I knew he was watching me over the top of the pages. I picked up the folder, cold and damp from the fridge, and opened it. One ticket for Ms Rebecca Finch and one for Mr Dominic Townsend. I hadn’t turned around straight away, needing a few seconds to change my expression from panic to pleasure. I didn’t have time to go away. I didn’t need a holiday: we had had one, three, no maybe it was four, no actually, six months earlier; anyway, not a very long ago. What I needed were days of uninterrupted solitude with no other demands on my time and energies than that of work. Facing the open fridge, inhaling the chill air that smelt of ambitious French cheeses, I attempted an expression of joyful surprise. I noticed the little heart pierced by an arrow, his sign to me, on the ticket folder and I felt a mean-spirited and ungrateful woman. I spun round and widened my smile. ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Wow wow wow, a trip to Paris. And we leave tomorrow. Goodness!’ He frowned up at me from his chair. ‘I thought you’d be thrilled.’ ‘Oh I am, I am.’ I rushed over to him and hugged his shoulders, resting my chin on his dark head. Dominic was at his best in Paris. I suddenly longed for the way we used to be: long Sunday lunches when we hardly ate a thing as we were too busy talking and listening, never letting go of the other’s hand as we strolled, going to sleep in each other’s arms and waking up smiling. He took my hand, pulling it to his lips. ‘I should hope you are. You are a very lucky woman. Anyway, do you know how long it’s been since we were last in Paris? I’ve booked us into this little pension Amanda was telling me about. I know you like that other place but it’ll be good for you to get out of your comfort zone.’ And I really had enjoyed the trip, barely thinking about work but just walking, reading in cafés, and watching, of course. It had been three such very peaceful days. There had been no time to keep, no itinerary. If I wanted to sit and read for an hour over breakfast I could. If I wanted to slip into a cinema instead of going to a museum, I could do that too. As I rested my head against the seat-back, fast-forwarded through the landscape, I thought Dominic was right, a few days away was exactly what I had needed. The trip had not begun so promisingly, however. ‘Have you got the keys?’ Dominic had asked as we were about to
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