Margin of Eros Page 9

  Eros felt sick. It was one thing to hook Violet up with another mortal, and in particular a mortal with his own action figure, but it was another matter entirely to subject her to Ares. His lovely golden skin turned an arterial shade of purple. His pupils contracted. His heart slammed against his ribs. ‘I won’t do it,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hera, suddenly getting it. ‘Oh.’ Then, taking pity on her grandson – or a least pretending to – she cleared her throat and continued with her specious anecdote. ‘But of course you shouldn’t,’ she said soothingly. ‘Because that’s not what the mortal wants. She doesn’t want Ares, she wants the movie star – even if she can’t admit it to herself. The arrows only work in bringing them together. If you tried to get her to fall in love with Ares, it simply wouldn’t hold. So you see,’ she continued, ‘completing your assignment is really for the best. For us, and for the mortal.’

  Eros felt the blood drain slowly from his neck as his grandmother’s words sunk in. He was relieved, but not exactly comforted. If anything, the sickening feeling had deepened. ‘Thank you for your offer,’ he said. ‘But my answer is still no.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hera evenly. Normally, such a refusal would have unleashed her wrath, but Eros’ unwitting revelation that he too had fallen under the spell of this glorified mortal had altered the landscape considerably. At the very least, it required a rethink of the punishment strategy. Hera wasn’t an unreasonable grandparent. All she wanted from her extended family was peace, harmony, and a decorously conducted love life. That these three things seemed impossible to achieve in Olympus was a constant source of disquiet for her, not to mention a strain on her retributive resources.

  ‘Silly boy,’ Hera repeated softly, shaking her head slowly as she hung up the sea-phone and placed it back in its mother-of-pearl cradle. Hades was clearly not the answer for Eros, but what other form of banishment was appropriately severe? Earth was far too soft an option, but what about some kind of hell on Earth? And what exactly would that entail for the god of love? Only one person would know the answer to that question, and she was at that moment soaking up the rays on the golden shores of Aegae.

  23.

  Violet had never had a problem with her weight. This didn’t mean that she had never been on a diet. Like most teenagers, she had been through a calorie counting stage as she came to terms with the fact that she was not going to look like a stick-limbed, tree-climbing tomboy forever, despite the heroin chic that had prevailed around the time she was going through puberty. But when her curves arrived – such as they were – they arrived gradually, and not with the alarming instant boob-job suddenness that so many of her classmates had been confronted with. Puberty is never easy, of course, but in falling into it rather late and then emerging with only minor bumps and scratches, Violet found that she had somehow been excluded from the secret girls’ club of solidarity, embarrassment, and precocious sexual attention. As a result, she had missed out on the giggling underwear expeditions and the fake ID adventures. She had never tried to make herself look ten years older than she actually was, and had never tried to make her breasts look like anything other than small-to-medium-sized hemispheres of secondary sexual characteristic.

  After she had been studying psychology for a while, Violet came to understand that her choice of plain, unflattering underwear was an unconscious reaction to the marginalization of her sexual identity at the hands of teenage style arbiters. Or something. At any rate, at some point in her twenties she had a rich boyfriend who bought her a lot of great underwear, and for a while she came to appreciate the seductive potential of Italian silk. But after a particularly nasty break up, she threw out all the La Perla in a misguided attack of ‘closure’, immediately came to regret it, tried to win him back, immediately regretted that, and so on. By the time she moved to Los Angeles, she had more or less completely regressed to her black and skin-toned ways.

  Now, for the first time in years, she felt some kind of limbic instinct thrusting her in the direction of Victoria’s Secret. Hunter, whispered the instinct. Even his name placed her squarely in the crosshairs. And yet, if she wanted to get anywhere, it was clearly up to her to do the seducing. Which was problematic, because Violet had about as much experience seducing men of Hunter’s ilk as she did choosing between push-up bras. She thought they made her breasts look smaller, not bigger, but compared to Hunter’s pectorals they were minuscule at any rate and oh, what was the point.

  Violet didn’t realize it, but she was falling into a sexual depression not dissimilar to Eros’ Oceanidic blues. This had less to do with the sheer futility of her celebrity crush than the knowledge that she was about to spend three agonizing months with him in Vegas, surrounded by starlets and strippers. In her wildest fantasies she couldn’t conceive of a scenario that could result in the kind of blush-inducing orgasms of her recent dreams. She couldn’t even imagine kissing him. And yet here she was, contemplating her underwear.

  After a confusing and seemingly endless week at the studio, Violet’s apartment beckoned her like a luminous orb. The relief she felt as she slid her front door key into the lock lasted right up until she threw her purse on the kitchen bench and it suddenly occurred to her that it was now more than a week since she had given herself the 24-hour ultimatum. This was it, then – the fourth compelling reason to stay in LA. A reason so stupid that it deserved its own reality show. If she’d had more entrepreneurial spirit, she might have pitched it to one of the TV producers at the studio, so that her inevitable failure could at least provide meal-time entertainment for an aspirational public.

  But deep down, she knew that public humiliation was not the answer. Even deeper down, she wanted to succeed. She had to succeed. And if she was going to succeed, then there was only one surefire mode of attack. And that involved a credit card, a shopping mall, and the fashion advice of a high rolling temptress.

  ‘Ashley!’ Violet called out, knocking lightly on her roommate’s door. ‘Are you awake?’ Although it was six-thirty on a Friday night, Ashley’s largely nocturnal schedule meant that she could be expected to emerge from her bedroom at any time between five and seven p.m. Violet thought she heard a muffled groan. Tentatively, she opened the door, and was immediately bowled over by a fog of ethanol. ‘Sleep,’ mumbled the pile of pillows. Violet opened the door a little wider, fanning it back and forth to encourage airflow. Ashley was buried beneath an avalanche of linen, from which she seemed unlikely to emerge any time soon. Clearly, Violet would have to open with the big guns.

  ‘Do you want to come shopping?’ she said.

  Ashley poked her head out from under the sheets. ‘I’ll need refreshments,’ she croaked.

  Violet nodded. She was one step ahead. ‘Coffee,’ she agreed.

  ‘And vodka,’ said Ashley. Violet shrugged, sure. Why not? She felt like the world’s worst enabler, but as she also had the world’s dumbest crush, it was a comparatively easy burden to live with.

  They took Ashley’s car, heading down Sunset Boulevard and stopping off at McDonalds on La Cienega for a ghetto espresso. Violet supposed it was entirely possible that Ashley was over the legal blood alcohol limit, but on the few occasions she had driven with Ashley when she could only have been perfectly sober, her driving had been considerably more erratic than it was now. Also, Ashley was less talkative than usual, which meant that there was less chance of an excruciating run down of any recent Hunter Cole sightings.

  By the time they reached the Beverly Center, Ashley’s hangover had receded into the part of her brain dedicated to Sudoku and E! News. Immediately writing off Victoria’s Secret as ‘too obvious’, Ashley led Violet straight to Bloomingdales where she sifted through row after row of cleavage enhancement, her arms whizzing, her fingers nimbly separating the white trash from the solid gold. As she handed Violet items to try on, she offered snippets of seduction advice based on the particular properties of each garment, and the date order in which they should be worn. She was like a sommelier matching win
e to a degustation menu, each suggestion more outrageous that the last. After half an hour of Ashley’s increasingly eye-opening advice, even Violet began to feel cautiously optimistic.

  Unfortunately, there is something uniquely dispiriting about staring at one’s own breasts under fluorescent lighting. Despite her best attempts to fill out Ashley’s idea of man-killing lingerie, Violet’s body confidence quickly plummeted to an all time low. Tears of frustration pricked the corners of her eyes as she tried to wedge yet another pumped-up half-cup under her reluctant right breast.

  ‘You know,’ said Ashley, gazing thoughtfully at Violet’s reflection, ‘your tits are really tiny. They’re like, barely a B-cup. And the right one’s even smaller than the left.’

  ‘I think you mean stage left,’ said Violet, stuffing the poor cousin into its cradle. Mirror images aside, Ashley’s assessment was entirely correct. She had half a cleavage. Half a small cleavage. With which she hoped to attract a man who had handled more boobs than a cosmetic surgeon. ‘What do you need this stuff for anyway?’ asked Ashley, holding up a bright pink thong. ‘Have you got a date?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Violet. Crossing her arms and squishing her breasts together manually improved the picture, but that was hardly a solution unless the temperature in Vegas suddenly plummeted by forty degrees. Sighing, she peeled off the bra. Having small breasts had never really bothered her before. They didn’t get in the way, they didn’t attract attention, and they didn’t sag. Was cleavage really that important?

  ‘Only if you want to get laid,’ said Ashley. Bored with Violet’s vacillating, she picked up three bras that Violet had rejected on the basis that they made her breasts look like sink plungers. ‘This one, this one, and this one,’ she said.

  ‘But –’ said Violet.

  ‘You can thank me later,’ said Ashley. ‘Specifically, by buying me a mojito.’ Picking up her handbag, she swung open the dressing room door, leaving Violet’s surprised breasts on display before a largely disinterested line of Friday night shoppers. Perhaps it was the harsh lighting, or perhaps it was prospect of free drinks that caused Ashley to take pity on her skinny roommate. ‘Here,’ she said, tossing Violet the pink thong. ‘You’ve actually got an amazing body, so I wouldn’t worry too much about your tits. All the good men are ass men anyway,’ she grinned, slapping herself playfully on her bootylicous behind. ‘At least in my experience.’

  24.

  Eros stood dripping before his uncle, the warm seawater carpet of the throne room swirling around his ankles. The temperature had to be close to a hundred degrees, creating the atmosphere of a vast salty sauna. Eros tried to hide his irritation as Poseidon roared with laughter. Surrounded by buff young sailors waving ineffectual palm fronds, the sea god wore a sleeveless coat of platinum seal skins, open at the front to reveal a once-impressive physique, slightly rounded out by the years and glistening with sweat. With his flowing yellow hair and oversized tortoiseshell glasses, he looked like a cross between Hulk Hogan and Elton John.

  ‘So,’ said Poseidon, when his mirth had finally subsided, ‘you met Eudore.’ Eros frowned. Although his penis had returned to normal, his natural impulse was to fold his hands in front of it. However, suspecting that this would precipitate another outburst of hilarity, he merely clenched his fists by his sides. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘for the warning.’

  Poseidon allowed himself the briefest giggle. Once he started laughing, he found it difficult to stop until one of his attendants spanked him rather severely with a sea sponge. Unfortunately, he enjoyed this a little too much, so it wasn’t so much a solution as a cross addiction. His wife was of the opinion that it was caused by too many green-lipped mussels, but as he hardly saw her these days it was easy to ignore her dietary advice. It did mean, however, that he had to watch himself. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to his nephew, taking a couple of deep breaths, ‘but I honestly thought you could use the distraction. With that mother of yours, you’d have about as much chance of getting your sausage sizzled as a Harpy at a barbeque.’

  ‘Speaking of my mother…’ said Eros. As dreadful and enticing as the prospect of another blue penis might be, it was time, he rather felt, to get to the point.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Poseidon, shifting uncomfortably on his throne. ‘I’ve been holding her off for as long as possible, but there’s only so many times you can bribe a seahorse.’

  Eros nodded. ‘I appreciate your efforts,’ he said.

  ‘You seem to be taking this very well,’ said Poseidon. ‘You may be his royal thunderbolt’s favorite grandson, but when it comes to punishments, he doesn’t muck about. Hermes and I will try to protect you, but we’re only two votes out of thirteen. It’s not too late to run. There are places in the Atlas mountains and beyond, creatures, sorcerers who could help you…’

  ‘No,’ said Eros, shaking his head. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  Poseidon sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, nodding to one of the Village People, ‘I’ll open the gates. But be prepared,’ he said, peering sagely over his tortoiseshells, ‘for a flood.’

  Immediately, four shirtless sailor boys marched in formation toward the chamber door, like a troop of overdeveloped sea scouts. Splitting into two teams, they took hold of heavy gold chains that hung from the ceiling in long glittering loops. ‘Heave!’ shouted one team. ‘Ho!’ shouted the other. Even for Poseidon, it was completely over the top, especially as the rest of the palace ran on tidal energy and it was generally impossible to lift a finger before some automated convenience propped it up for you on a cushion. But what normally would have invoked an eye roll from Eros at the very least, failed to even register as absurd on this occasion. Although outwardly calm, he was experiencing the kind of fear he had last felt as a teenager when Hermes had hurled him off a cliff in the outer Atlas mountains during an argument about Roman sandals. Of course, on that occasion Hermes had swiftly flown after him and plucked him from the abyss, depositing him gently onto the back of an Athenian Sea Eagle who had taken him for an exhilarating ride around the swirling thermals at the edge of Olympus.

  Once again, Eros found himself in freefall, but he didn’t think that his landing would be quite so absorbent this time. The distant creaking of the palace gates took on the sonic imprint of a drowning man. There was something unbearably lonely about living underwater, and it wasn’t just the isolation. It was the water, and the way it turned every sound into an aching groan. With a flash of insight, Eros finally understood why his uncle surrounded himself with all these camp parlor games. They were merely a distraction from his great aural unease.

  Eros looked down at his feet. They were so wrinkled from constant shallow wading that they had taken on the appearance of crushed velvet. Could Violet ever love a god with wrinkled feet? Could she even love a god at all? Two days ago he had been wondering whether she could love a god with a blue penis, but time and the stoic avoidance of all things Oceanid had restored it to a peachy glow. Perhaps if Eros had known of the plan that his mother and grandmother had recently schemed up over a couple of blood orange cocktails at the Aegean tavern, he might have spent the last two days paying his penis a little more attention. Perhaps he might even have indulged in another round or two of Oceanid hand hockey, just to preserve his sense of manhood. Or rather, godhood. At any rate, he didn’t know, and so he was completely unprepared for the punishment that lay in wait – a punishment that even Jesus would admit was surprisingly cruel and unusual. As the chamber doors opened with the requisite show of muscle, Eros raised his head and turned to face the music.

  Wearing the kind of flowing aqua robe that only a goddess of love or Eurovision song contestant can get away with, Aphrodite screamed into the room. Her skin was tanned and glowing, fresh from the farewell kisses of sycophantic heroes. Her hair trailed wildly behind her, blown by the fawning fans of the sea scouts that she had bribed ahead of time. Her eyes blazed with defiant anger and brimmed with wounded maternal pride – the result of several weeks of practice a
s she waited on the beach. Sure, it was harder to drum up a tear or two when you couldn’t stare directly into the sun, but incredibly, the prospect of confronting her son had raised within her an emotion that felt surprisingly like – well, an emotion.

  ‘Eros,’ she howled. ‘My baby, my darling. You selfish, selfish bastard!’

  Looking at his mother in all her theatrical perfection, Eros noticed that he no longer felt fear. Rather, he was experiencing the deep sense of weariness felt by children realizing for the first time that the random clash of egg and sperm that resulted in their birth was nothing more than a horrific head-on collision. ‘Well,’ he said calmly, ‘at least you got the last part right.’

  25.

  Hermes flicked idly through the screenplay in front of him, barely taking in the wooden dialog and explosive exclamation points. Across the room he could see Violet frowning in concentration as she shifted oddly from side to side in her chair. She had been doing it all morning. Over the course of a couple of hours the slight grimace and twist had become increasingly animated, and thus, in Hermes’ view, increasingly erotic. He longed to relieve her of whatever was ailing her, but he had made a promise to Eros and at any rate, Violet was clearly fixated on the action hero. Hermes had been watching her sneak glances at Hunter’s frosted silhouette in Ares’ office window, whenever she thought no one was looking. Unaccountably, this made him angry, but the source of his anger was buried somewhere deep beneath his cool, like air bubbles trapped in an ice cube in a vodka tonic on a cruising yacht in the Caribbean.

  At a quarter to twelve, Hermes cracked. Tossing the script aside he embarked on a circuitous journey toward Violet’s desk, making a point of flirting outrageously with every female in his meandering path. By the time he reached his destination, he had lined up one ‘definite’ and two ‘maybe’ rendezvous in the restroom; more than enough action to keep the inappropriate thoughts at bay, or at least dilute his sperm count to a homeopathic level.