Free Aphrodite's Workshop for Reluctant Lovers by Marika Cobbold

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 wasflattered; 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.

Rebecca
    WHEN I TOLD THE removal men that this was the last time I would ever move, the foreman laughed.
    â€˜That’s what everyone says, madam, but it’s hardly ever the case, is it now?’ He sipped his tea as he leant against the kitchen workbench. ‘Family break-ups are what earn us most of our money these days. Like in your case, if you don’t mind me saying, madam. I saw from our records that we moved you into your current property five years ago more or less to the day. And here we are, moving you out. I expect we will be moving Mr Townsend somewhere else in the near future too. It’s a big place just for one.’
    I stood looking out of my brand-new window; of course the window itself was not new but it, like the flat and the view, was new to me. A barge moved downstream, seemingly deserted with just a few crates on deck and no human being in sight. The day had been overcast and it was beginning to rain. A white plastic sheet had been blown into the branches of a tree, where it flapped like a trashed bridal veil. Dusk was falling. I didn’t like dusk, that no-man’s-land between day’s slick brightness and the dark shield of night. I imagined myself standing by this same window as the seasons changed and I changed with them, lined and greying, increasingly stooped, until one day I was carried out in my coffin.
    â€˜All right, madam?’ The foreman appeared in the doorway.
    I said to him, ‘This really is the last time I move.’ And, before he had a chance to give me his knowing smile, I added, ‘Remember I’m moving in here on my own. You can’t break up what isn’t there.’
    â€˜Oh you