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 pisses 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.’

‘Oh just piss off, Ate,’ I tell her. ‘Anyway, you’re not even meant to be up here.’

For once Mother doesn’t tell me off for using bad language.

Ate smirks.

‘And you are? So when did you become a member of the mighty twelve? Or have you forgotten: you got demoted.’ She gives Mother a sideways glance. ‘Looks like someone else might be in line for the same treatment, the way things are going.’

I tell you, if Mother hadn’t been there I would have shoved her off the summit, but as it is I keep my cool.

‘Mother’s invited me,’ I say. ‘Who invited you?’

‘Oh stop it, the two of you,’ Mother cries, ‘or I’ll have you both removed.’

‘What do you mean both of us? I am actually trying to help. I am your son.’ I state that last bit with more conviction than I actually feel.

But Mother isn’t listening. Clad in thunder rather than her usual golden aura she paces the floor, muttering to herself.

‘This is most annoying. What is Rebecca Finch thinking of? And she’s not getting on with her new book. No, this won’t do, it really won’t. She’s got responsibilities, to her readers, to me.’

Athene seemed totally engrossed in her embroidery but it turns out she’s been listening: she’s really creepy like that, Athene.

‘Maybe your mortal’s seen sense at last?’

Mother stops pacing.

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Don’t get exercised, Aphrodite dear,’ Athene says in that reasonable voice which totally freaks me. ‘I’m simply pointing out the possibility that your mortal might have come to realise the grave problems your cult causes.’

‘Problems? Problems? How can that possibly be? How can love ever be a problem, tell me that, eh?’ Mother’s eyes darken from sky-blue to teal but Athene isn’t phased.

‘The kind of love portrayed in those books,’ she says, ‘does nothing but foster impossible expectations and foolish notions, which in turn lead to many of the ills the rest of us have to contend with, such as broken families, social disorder, juvenile delinquency, poverty.’

‘And you blame all that on my mortal? Well, you might as well blame it on me while you’re at it.’

There is a pause while Athene executes some weird sewing stuff then she looks up at Mother.

‘Well, you said it, dear.’

And what does Zeus do through all of this? He just sits there stroking his beard and trying to look wise.

Then Mother appeals to him.

‘And Zeus, does he agree with this … this extraordinary analysis?’ And because you can usually get round the old man with flattery, however gross, she adds, ‘Does someone as wise, as experienced as Zeus actually agree that love is a problem?’

Zeus strokes his beard some more and then he delivers his bombshell.

‘I do believe that love is being brought into disrepute, yes, I’m afraid I do.’

Of course Mother goes ballistic. Back in her own rooms she shouts and curses and paces and guess what, she blames it all on me. Since she was demoted from Aphrodite Urania to Aphrodite Pandemos she has lived in fear of being demoted further, possibly ending up having to move down from the summit like I did. Personally I don’t think that would be so bad because then we could hang out more but Mother just hates the idea.

I have been about to go up to her and maybe put my arm around her, comfort her a bit but she turns and gives me this really mean sea-green look.

‘Why did you have to go and get her together with that Townsend person, eh? Surely you could see that relationship had no future?’

‘That’s so unfair.’ I back away. ‘You didn’t say anything against it at the time. In fact you told me just to get on with it.’

‘That’s called delegating, Eros. You’re supposed to be able to handle such things by yourself, but oh no, someone’s become sloppy, careless, shooting off his arrows blindly in every direction with no thought about even basic compatibility or suitability.’

‘That’s so unfair.’

‘Oh do stop saying that.’

‘You stop being unfair,’ I say, but so quietly that she can’t hear. ‘Anyway,’ I say louder now, ‘I’m not meant to think about those things: I’m just a boy.’

Mother sinks down on her bed. She seems too tired even to rant. Instead she sighs; I hate it when she sighs.

‘Oh Eros, you’re always just a boy.’

‘And that’s my fault? Anyway, you’re supposed to be in charge of strategy.’ But even as I protest I know she’s right to be pissed at me. My heart just hasn’t been in the job lately.

Truth is, I’m bored. So obviously it shows in the results. You should see my pending tray: man, it is stacked high. But think about it from my perspective. I work really hard getting people paired off; I mean I could just hang out with my friends and have a nice time but no, I work. And it feels thankless. I shoot – the person lights up as if they’ve just had a hundred-volt light bulb shoved up their arse. She loses weight. He walks around saying he’s finally realised what’s important in life. They love each other like no one’s ever loved before and next time I look they’ve cocked up.

‘You’re right,’ Mother says suddenly. ‘I shouldn’t blame you. You do what’s in your nature. But Eros’ – she puts her hand out so I go over and take it – ‘Eros, I’m terribly afraid that they’ll demote me. I’m telling you, I couldn’t go through that, not again.’

Everyone thinks Mother’s so strong but she isn’t really. Actually, she hasn’t been the same since that business with Adonis. She needs someone to lean on. I’d like that someone to be me but I know I’m not enough. I pat her hand.

‘There there,’ I say. ‘It might not be that bad.’

She snatches her hand away from mine.

‘What do you mean it might not be that bad?’ Her eyes have turned granite, yielding nothing. It scares me when she goes blank on me like we were strangers, as if I’m nothing to her. And she starts to list all the stuff that would follow from demotion: loss of status and power, laughing stock, unbearable humiliation, the satisfaction given to Athene, not to mention Hera. She finishes off with, ‘And there would be no more family dinners for you, do you hear?’

That really got to me. You might ask why. Guys my age don’t usually go out of their way to spend time with the olds. But it’s different for me. Being up here, having dinner with Mother and Grandpa and the others, sitting on those shit-hard gold thrones means you’re someone, that you belong. And that’s actually what I need right now, to belong. Truth is, I had a bit of a shock recently. I haven’t talked to Mother about it; as you might have worked out we don’t really have that kind of relationship. Still, it makes me laugh, it really does, when I watch the screen and hear people bleat on about their dysfunctional families and stuff. Well, try this for size: you’ve got used to the fact that no one, least of all your mother, seems to know who your father is. There are a few candidates for the post, chief amongst them Hermes and Ares. I’m not overly impressed by either of them but if I was forced to choose I’d go for Hermes; he might be an arsehole but at least he’s not aggressive. Then there’s the rumour, which is like beyond sick, that Zeus’s the guy. I mean he’s my grandpa! So, if all that’s not gross enough, I’m told by Ate, who else, that there’s a theory around that Mother isn’t even my mother, that I was hatched from an egg laid by Nyx and that actually I’m not a person at all but a kind of primeval force, a fucking phenomenon! For a moment there I was flattered; I mean being a phenomenon sounds pretty cool but then I thought about it some more and I felt really sad. I still do actually. Aphrodite might not be everyone’s idea of a mother but she’s my mother, or so I thought. OK, so you can’t always rely on her but I’ve got pretty good at relying on myself. Now I can’t even do that because if this latest theory is anything to go by I don’t exist.

I know everyone has those kinds of thoughts: Who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I here? It’s sort of an intellectual exercise. Not for me, though, not any more.

Mother says she wants to be alone so I go down to the woods. I thought Pan might be there, we could play some music and stuff, but I can’t find him so I just sit by the water. Just as well I’m on my own, because when I think about everything, about who I am, or who I’m not, more like, and about demotion and maybe no more family dinners and all that I get really upset. I sit there on the edge of the pool looking down, and then these tears fall and break the surface of the water, shattering my reflection.