Eros

EROS

By Helen Harper

Copyright © 2014 Helen Harper

All rights reserved.

Part One

‘When he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his shoulders, whiter than snow, and with shining feathers like the tender blossoms of spring.’

Source: Thomas Bulfinch,
The Age of Fable; or, Stories of Gods and Heroes
(1855).

http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/cupid.html

The man sat slumped at the far end of the bar.
Outside the dark night was giving way to a shimmering dawn replete with streaks of brilliant red, which only seemed to tauntingly mirror his bloodshot eyes.
The other patrons had yielded to their beds hours before; even Colette, whose winning ways with many an alcohol-sodden tourist rarely failed her, had given up attempting to draw him into conversation and left to find more welcoming comfort elsewhere.

He stared down into his glass.
It contained little more than a few half-melted ice cubes so, frowning, he raised it in the air and waved it unsteadily at the bartender.

‘I’ll have another one.’

No answer was immediately forthcoming.
He tried again. ‘Hey!
I need another drink.’

The bartender looked up from the small sink.
‘I think you’ve had enough.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he grunted.
‘Isn’t the customer always right?’
As if to illustrate his point further, he shook the glass.
The remaining ice cubes clinked together feebly.

Sighing, the bartender walked over.
He reached behind and pulled a bottle from a dusty shelf, then turned and began to pour in a finger of expensive amber liquid.

The man waved the glass in the air.
‘More.’

Another half inch slopped in.

Grunting, he raised it upwards in an unsteady toast, then gulped down half the contents.
Unfortunately, a large quantity missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin instead and onto what had once been a pristine white shirt.
The bartender watched with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, taking in the well-cut suit and gleaming gold watch.
He may have more money at his disposal than the vast majority of other customers but, when it came down to it, all drunks were the same.

‘Lost your heart, have you?’

The man looked up but the words didn’t immediately register.

‘Huh?’

‘I said, have you lost your heart?
You’ve got that look.
She’s not worth it, mate.’

Scorn lit the man’s face.
‘You think I’m here because of a woman?’

The bartender eyed him.
Even without taking his clothes into consideration, the man’s well-groomed golden curls suggested someone who took pains over his appearance.
He shrugged. ‘Man, then.’

‘Spare me the pop psychology.
There’s no man and there’s no woman.
Love’s a myth.
A sham.
If you think otherwise, then you’ve been conned.’

Despite the obvious bitterness in the man’s voice, the bartender’s reaction was mild.
Waiting for him at home was his fiancée.
They’d met at a party barely three months earlier, bonding over a disturbingly phallic-looking ice sculpture which had apparently been originally designed as a swan.
She’d uttered less than five words before he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
He’d proposed a week later.

‘What would you call it then?
Lust?
A chemical imbalance?’

‘A steaming pile of shit.’

The man took another sip, more carefully this time, and managed to avoid spilling any more whisky.
The bartender moved away.

‘What?’ the man called after him.
‘You don’t believe me?
You think true love exists?’
He clasped one hand to his chest.
‘That you meet the one and you’re stabbed in the heart with a thunderbolt of love?’
His hand dropped back down to his glass.
‘How is that true love?’ he muttered.

‘How is it not?’ asked the bartender, picking up a glass and beginning to polish.

‘Love doesn’t work like that,’ the man said.
‘It can’t work like that.
Love at first sight is a fallacy.’

The bartender smiled to himself.
Catching it, the man opened his mouth to say something before a shadow crossed his face and he clearly thought better of it.
Instead, he took another drink.
A moment of silence crossed the stale air of the room then he spoke again.

‘You feel lust at first sight. And when that fades, you lapse into the comfort of companionship because you think it’s better than being alone.
Anyone who thinks they’re really in love, like in the stories, has been tricked.
Smoke and mirrors, my friend.’
He eyed the bartender.
‘Not that you’d be able to accept that as the truth.’

‘And yet there are those who do fall in love.
Who marry and grow old, and remain as much in love as the day they met.’

The man’s mouth thinned into a grim line.
‘They’re being manipulated.’

‘How can you be manipulated by love?’

The man drained his drink, staring into the bottom of the glass for a brief moment with a morose expression.
‘How can you not?’

The bartender opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the intrusive beep of an alarm.
The man frowned, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out an expensive-looking phone.
He stared down at the screen for a moment, a muscle clenching in his jaw, then turned the phone off and put it away, planted his feet onto the floor and pushed back his stool.
He dug out a wallet and tossed some crumpled notes onto the bar, squinting back at the bartender.

‘That should cover it so far.
You’re not closing any time soon, are you?’

The bartender raised his eyebrows.
‘We’re open twenty-four hours.’

‘Good,’ he grunted.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes then.’

The man spun round, swayed slightly and began to lurch towards the door.
He veered off to the left, narrowly avoiding crashing into a table, before correcting himself and staggering forward.
He stood at the door for a moment, as if suddenly lost in thought, then pulled it open, the sudden flood of sunlight causing him to wince.
He muttered something inaudible under his breath and stepped out.
The bartender shook his head slightly and scooped up the money, turning to the till to ring it in.

Outside, the man looked up and down the promenade.
The early sun glinted off the azure blue of the sea and a few hungry seagulls soared keening overhead.
Not too far away, an ice-cream vendor was setting up for the day, opening up a small red- and blue-striped parasol and humming away to himself.
The man ignored him and focused instead on the beach.
He could just make out a lone jogger approaching along the sand from the east.
Other than a figure throwing a stick to a dog down by the water’s edge, the area was deserted.

‘Fewer witnesses for once,’ he muttered to himself, walking across the dull grey cement to where a set of uneven steps led down to the sand.

He supposed that she’d sent him here at this moment because she enjoyed the symmetry of the scene.
The poetic justice of the beach’s beauty and the soft dawn sunlight.
He shrugged, clasping hold of the iron railing at the edge of the steps to avoid falling over, and stumbled clumsily down.
It made little difference to him.
He’d been doing this for too long to care any more.

When he reached the bottom, he sat down, leaning against the railing.
The jogger was getting closer.
He could now make out her lurid pink shorts and brightly coloured headband.
There wasn’t much time left.
Closing one eye, he cocked his head towards the man with the dog, both of whom were still completely oblivious to his presence.
He was tempted for a moment to let them be.
She
wouldn’t like that though.
He rubbed his forehead tiredly and reached back inside his jacket, this time pulling out not a phone but a small golden box.
He pressed on the lid and the device opened abruptly.
Without looking, the man assembled the different parts together, screwing the barrel into place to complete the manoeuvre.

There was a clatter from above as the ice-cream seller dropped something onto the hard pavement of the promenade.
The man ignored it and pulled what was now a gleaming gold weapon against his shoulder and aimed the crosshairs in the direction of the animal.
He smiled as the dog bounded into the water, completely unaware that he had its heart dead within his sights.
Then he swung upwards, switching to the dog’s owner.
He might be drunk but his aim was true.
Truth be told, he never missed.

He watched the other man for several more heartbeats, feeling the pressure of the trigger tight against his fingers.

‘For what it’s worth,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’
Then he squeezed.

He didn’t need to check to see whether his shot had succeeded in hitting its target.
He knew it had; in fact, he was already turning to the jogger.

Now she was closer he could tell she was young and pretty.
He allowed himself a moment of reflection about what her life would be like if he chose to let her be.
If she’d go on to find someone to marry, to have children with, to grow old with.
Not that it really mattered; he was taking all that choice and all that suggestion of freedom out of her hands.
The dog splashed through the froth of waves and barked once sharply, as if in warning.
Too late.
The man pulled the trigger and struck her directly in the heart.

He unscrewed the barrel, clicked off the trigger, and pulled the gun apart, carefully placing each component back into the golden box.
Then he stood up, swayed and turned.
The ice-cream vendor was crouched down, writing down the day’s gelato specials on a small chalkboard.
The man slipped the box back inside his jacket, and walked unsteadily back to the bar.
He needed another drink.
Or two.

Back on the beach, the dog was barking with increased fervour.
The jogger had reached both the animal and its owner and stopped.
The ice-cream vendor stood up from his writing and spared them a glance.
They were inches away from each other and smiling with shy excitement, the deep and sudden knowledge they’d met the one person who could make them truly happy shining out from both of their faces.
Meanwhile, pulling himself back onto his bar stool, Cupid, known as Coop to his friends and the God of Love to others, ordered another double Scotch.

Skye was sitting at the bar of a small homely coffee shop, chin resting on her hands while she stared out at the grey drizzle of the morning.
So far this morning she’d been to the job centre, where the best offering appeared to be working part time in a sandwich shop, scoured the internet for openings and put in an application for temping at a local law firm, as well as registering with yet another recruitment agency.
She wasn’t being picky; right now any job anywhere would do.
The trouble was that all the prospective employers took one look at her CV and immediately dismissed her as over qualified.

‘Look, sweetheart,’ one helpful woman at an insurance firm had pointed out, ‘we are looking for a data inputter.
With your qualifications, you’ll do this for six weeks then leave as soon as something better comes along.
We need someone more long term than that.’

Skye had tried to protest, insisting she would be more loyal.
Yes, if a better opportunity came up then she’d go for it, but it had been four months since she’d graduated with a Master’s Degree in English Literature and there was absolutely nothing on the horizon.
Not even a glimmer of a job for which she was genuinely well-suited.
The trouble was that knowing vast amounts about Romantic poets didn’t seem to qualify you to do anything at all.
And it didn’t help that she invariably became tongue-tied and hot cheeked whenever she tried to plead her case.

The sinking feeling in her stomach had been deepening as the weeks had gone past and the last remnants of her student loan had dwindled in her bank account.
Frankly, she’d have been more successful if she’d skipped university altogether and taken a college secretarial course.
Or learned a trade like plumbing.
People always needed plumbers.
They didn’t need graduates who could quote Keats and point out the symbolic hyperbole of a sonnet.
She wondered, and not for the first time, whether she’d made a mistake in coming home.
At least in Edinburgh there had been more prospects of employment.
In deepest darkest Perthshire there were very few.

She swirled the murky dregs of her coffee around the cup with her spoon.
Skye had been nursing the drink for the better part of an hour; sooner or later, she was going to have to buy something else or leave.
But there was simply nowhere to go.

‘“Human misery must have a stop,’’’ she quoted softly to herself, ‘“there is no wind that always blows a storm.’’’

‘Lady Gaga say that in one of her songs?’ interrupted the waitress, bustling over to clear away her cup.

Skye coughed awkwardly.
She wasn’t entirely sure she knew who Lady Gaga was.

‘Er, no,’ she answered, cursing the warmth she felt lighting up her cheeks, ‘Euripides.’

The woman squinted at her.
‘Didn’t he win Eurovision?’

Skye couldn’t think of an answer that seemed appropriate so just smiled half-heartedly.

‘You’re not looking for help at the moment, are you?’ she asked hopefully.

All she got was a sympathetic look in return.
‘Sorry, love.’

‘Worth a try, I guess,’ Skye murmured, pulling out a few small coins and handing them over.

The woman pocketed the money.
‘Aye.
Don’t stop trying, neither.
There’s jobs to be had for those that look for them.’

Except I am looking, Skye wanted to scream.
All I’m doing is sodding looking.
Instead, she just nodded politely and scooped up her bag.
Maybe it was time to head home after all.
It was just possible the postman had already been and there’d be some replies to the many job applications she’d sent out.
She’d already checked her email and there had been nothing there other than a plea from an old friend saying she was stuck in the south of France having had all her belongings stolen.
She’d begged for a ‘small’ money transfer to help her get home.
Unfortunately for the author of the email, Skye knew her friend was actually currently in Manchester and about to get married.
She was most definitely not stranded in the Dordogne.
Skye had sent her a quick text informing her that her email account had been hacked – and wondered for half a moment whether scamming unwitting internet users was truly a profitable business.

The rain, which had been little more than a steady drizzle while Skye had been inside the coffee shop, suddenly seemed to pick up force as soon as she stepped outside.
She lifted her face upwards, letting the raindrops pelt her bare skin.
Despite the shiver of cold in the air and the oppressive clouds overhead, there was something refreshing about walking in the wet.
Of course, it would be more fun if there wasn’t a hole in the sole of one of her trainers, meaning that the first puddle she inadvertently landed in caused her entire foot to become squelching and wet, but at least it was making her feel a little more alive.
In fact, her clothes ended up so sodden that it almost didn’t matter when a car drove too quickly round the bend where she was waiting to cross the road and splashed her head to toe in a tsunami of dirty water.
By the time she finally made it home, she was completely drenched.

Putting her key in the lock and wiggling it just enough to manage to get the untrustworthy mechanism to turn, she pushed open her front door and stared hopefully down at the doormat.
There was indeed a collection of letters.
Bending down, she picked them up and quickly scanned each one.
Something from the phone company for her dad, an official-looking notice from
Reader’s Digest
for her mum, a damp catalogue which seemed to suggest her life wouldn’t be complete if she didn’t immediately purchase a garden bird-feeder in the shape of the Statue of Liberty, and two letters with her name on.

Her heart in her mouth, Skye took all the letters into the kitchen and carefully dried her hands on a tea-towel before opening the first one.
She sighed deeply when she read the contents.
It was from the bank, informing her she had gone beyond her overdraft limit.
The charges made her stomach drop.
Telling herself it would be okay, she turned to the second letter, slitting it open at the top and pulling out the single sheet of expensive-looking paper.
‘Dear Ms Sawyer,’ it read. ‘Thank you for your interest in our company.
Unfortunately this time you have not been successful…’

Skye didn’t bother reading any further.
She balled it up in her hands instead and threw it at the bin, landing it squarely inside.

‘Well, at least I might still get a job with the New York Knicks,’ she told the empty kitchen, then plodded upstairs to peel off her wet clothes and have a hot shower.

***

When she came back downstairs, towelling off her hair, her father had come in from work and was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.

‘Hello love,’ he said, barely looking up from the sports’ pages to acknowledge her.

‘Hey.
Did they lose again then?’

He didn’t answer.
Skye smiled to herself.
He’d wallow in misery for an hour or two at the not entirely unexpected loss of his beloved football team, before shaking off the defeat as nothing more than a temporary setback.
One which would no doubt be repeated again in a week’s time.
She leaned down and kissed him fondly on the cheek then sat down next to him and began toying with the pages of the catalogue.

The front door rattled, signalling her mother’s return.
She called out a greeting from the hallway then bustled in with a few heavily laden shopping bags.
When she spotted Skye’s father sitting dejectedly over the paper, she raised her eyebrows at Skye, who nodded in silent amusement.

‘Oh well, better luck next time.’

He grunted in return, and she immediately whacked him on the arm. ‘I expect a better welcome than that when I come in the door.’

He gazed up at her with a doleful expression and she laughed.
He finally smiled in return and stretched up to hug her.
Skye watched the proceedings with a mixture of fondness and envy.

‘How about you?’ her mother asked, peering round to look at her. ‘Any luck on the job front?’

Skye bit her lip and shook her head.
Her mother shot her a commiserative glance.

‘Something will turn up eventually.’

If only she had her mum’s optimism.
The guilt she felt at still living at home and sponging off her parents was becoming overwhelming.
Skye tried not to think about the letter from the bank and instead looked down at the catalogue, flipping it over to scan the back.
Then she frowned.
Something was stuck to the underside.
Peeling it off, Skye realised it was a postcard with the familiar, statuesque Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on the front.
Turning it over, she read the words.

Hey you!

How’s life in Bonnie Scotland?
Still looking for a job?
I’m working at a nightclub that’s always looking for new staff.
Money’s pretty good even if the hours are a bit crap.
I can put in a good word for you if you want something to tide you over for a few months.
Let me know!!!!

Emma xoxo

There was a phone number scrawled at the bottom.
Skye stared down at it for a moment.

‘You’re right,’ she said slowly, ‘maybe something has turned up.’
She passed the postcard over to her mother, who looked down at it, her brow furrowing.

‘A nightclub?
Skye, you’ve got a Master’s degree.’

‘In English freaking Literature, Mum.
Much good it’s doing me out in the real world.’

‘Yes, but…’

Skye shot her mother a look.
‘I can’t stay here forever.’

‘You know this is your home.
You can live here for as long as you want.’

Her father eyed her thoughtfully.
‘I think what your mum is trying to say is that perhaps a nightclub isn’t really the most suitable place for you to get a job.’

Skye bristled.
‘Why not?’

‘Well, nightclubs are generally loud, boisterous places with loud and boisterous people.
And you’re…’

‘Quiet?
Studious?
Boring?’

Her mum frowned.
‘Skye, that’s not what he’s saying.’

‘Yes, he is,’ Skye said quietly.
‘And he’s right.
But beggars can’t be choosers and maybe it’s time I stopped being so quiet and mousy, and started standing up on my own two feet for a change.’

‘Skye…’

‘Surely even just being in London will make finding a real job easier.
This will simply tide me over, as Emma says.’

‘Love, it’s not that we disapprove of you working in a nightclub.
Of course we don’t.
You should do whatever you want to.
It’s just that Emma’s not you.
She’s more outgoing.’

‘Which means she’ll be able to introduce me to lots of people.
You never know what might happen or who I might meet.’

‘If you want to do this…’

Skye stared down at the postcard.
A hot, zippy kick of excitement shot through her stomach.
‘Actually, yes, I do.’