Authors: Lucinda Riley
‘Well. That makes me feel like a
complete
bastard. I suppose you’d agree?’
Helena refused to rise to his bait. ‘What I think is that I’m a different person now to who I was in Vienna. The problem is, you’re still exactly the same.’
Sacha put a hand through his greasy auburn curls. ‘Are you telling me that even if you are single, you wouldn’t think about us trying again?’
Helena did her best not to giggle hysterically. ‘No, is the short answer to that. I’ve told you: I love William. I always have, and that’s all there is to it. And even if I
didn’t, I’d still feel the same. I’m sorry.’
‘Come on, angel, you’re just still angry about me not coming back for you.’
‘You can think what you want, Sacha, but there is no future for you and I. Ever. Okay?’
‘I hear you,’ he said with a nod. ‘It’s too soon, that’s all. I should have waited a few days before coming to see you. You’re in shock from what’s
happened.’ He stood up. ‘I won’t give up on you, lovely, I really won’t.’
‘Do what you want, Sacha. But I promise you, you’re wasting your time. You have a son and daughter, not to mention a wife, whose lives you’ve recently ruined. Perhaps
it’s time to grow up and start taking responsibility for them.
And
yourself.’
‘Okay, Helena, but I bet you’ll change your mind when you feel the cool breeze of loneliness. Can’t see
you
lasting long without a man. Not your style, is it?’
Helena ignored his vitriol. ‘I think it’s time you left.’
‘Fine. I’m going.’ He stood up and lurched towards the door. Then he turned back, the expression on his face suddenly contrite. ‘Forgive me, angel, please.’
‘I did. A long time ago.’
‘I love you, you know. I really do.’
‘Bye, Sacha. Have a nice life.’
She watched him wobble to his rental car and climb in. ‘I don’t think you should be driving!’ she called to him from the back door, but she knew it had fallen on deaf ears as
the car door slammed and Sacha drove at full pelt up the hill.
Helena felt a sudden wave of relief.
Whatever the future might bring, at last the past had been put to rest.
14th August (continued)
I’ve left Dad to it.
After we’d had our little chat, he went very quiet. Then he said he needed to mow the lawn. I watched him from my bedroom window. He was aboard his precious ride-on for hours,
going round and round the garden in circles, shearing it into submission. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt sorry for blades of grass. Then he came inside. He’s downstairs
somewhere, but I feel I mustn’t disturb him. It’s getting dark now, and our house is silent. I’m not used to it and I don’t like it.
I wish he’d hurry up and decide what he’s going to do: ‘
To Divorce or not to Divorce
. That is the question.’
Then I can go downstairs and get a Pot Noodle, as that’s all there is in the kitchen cupboard. I checked earlier – and I am now starving!!
So, I ponder to pass the time, what is it about men and emotion? The dreadful truth is, I fear most of my sex would prefer to end up dead than admit they’re scared shitless.
Then I think of the trenches in the First World War, and all that live cannon fodder. Those men seemed to go over the top like they were embarking on a nice morning stroll in the country:
‘I’m off, Sah!’
‘Yes, Jones, have a good one. Put a word in to Big G for me when you see him, won’t you?’
‘I will, Sah. Goodbye, Sah!’
And off Jones would go, to be peppered with bullet holes or to survive minus a limb or two, with a mind as shot as his body.
God, it makes me want to cry just thinking about those poor sods. Walking to their inevitable deaths. Almost one hundred years on, I shudder at the thought, because I know if it was
me, I’d be wetting myself and blubbering like a blubbery thing. They’d probably have to drug me to get me over and then lay me out, comatose, to be used as target practice.
Which brings me back to my current main thought topic:
What do women want of us?
There’s Chloë, the Love of My Life (so far), initially mooning over brain-dead Rupes; loving his swagger, his full-bodied Neanderthal-ness, never doubting he could kill a
woolly mammoth with one blow, swing it over his shoulder and bring it home to their exquisitely furnished cave.
Then (having had a quick fumble with Airport Guy) she turns in an instant to ‘Michelle’. Even though he’s a nice guy, the way he did show-off wheelies on the
gravel when he arrived on his moped tells me that, despite his girly name, he would be regarded as ‘buff’, ‘butch’ . . . where all I have in the ‘B’ category is,
er, Bee – for Bunny.
I am a touchy-feely man. And my goodness, I want to touch and feel Chloë. But not just physically . . . emotionally, too.
Does the fact I empathise make me unattractive?
Yet . . . All my information sources on the subject – notably, an article I read yesterday on the plane home entitled ‘The Five Main Reasons for Divorce’, courtesy
of the
Daily Mail
, lead me to believe that women want a man who ‘gets’ them emotionally.
Like Sadie does with Mum. I.e., they want their man to be their best friend.
But how can us men be
both
? Embody the quintessential qualities of male and female at the same time??
It seems to me, women actually don’t know what they want. Which means we men can never bloody well get it right.
And Dad is most certainly all male . . .
Well, I sigh, I just hope Mum knows what
she
wants.
I hope I got my point across to Dad, too. After all that time on the mower, he must be thinking about it: thinking about Mum and me, and Immy and Fred and now, I hope, Chloë
too.
Our family.
It may be a little unorthodox, but that doesn’t make it bad, or wrong.
We are the best family I know. I was reminiscing on the plane home how much fun we all have. How much we laugh. And how much I love him – my dad. It took a ‘real’
one to make me realise how I will miss the so-called pretend version, if he suddenly isn’t around anymore.
Which he might not be.
If he decides on the Big D.
He’s treated me like his own son all along. He doesn’t pick me out for special treatment either way. The fact he finds it frustrating when I have one of my moods is not
because I’m not his blood, but simply because I am his son and can be irritating. And he gets irritated, just as any blood parent
naturally
would.
He – William – isn’t perfect. He has his faults. Like all of us imperfect humans. Including my mum.
However, she – and he – are more good than bad. And perhaps that is all one can hope for, because I’ve realised we’re all somewhere on a spectrum, with black
at one end and white at the other. Most of us seem to hang about somewhere in the middle, veering one way and the other within a narrow margin.
And as long as none of us get too close to either extreme – then I think we are basically okay. And me, and Mum and Dad, and even Sacha and the dreaded Rupes (for now) are in
the central milieu somewhere.
I mentally piece back together the broken bits of my mother’s statue, but leave her pedestal behind. She will stand from now on her own two feet. On the ground: neither saint
nor sinner.
Just a human being, like my dad.
And
if
, and it’s a big
if
, he decides he can swallow his pride and take my mother back, I’m going to ask whether he will adopt me. We will do the legal
thing and as a mark of my respect and love, I will change my name to his and finally be a fully surnamed-up member of our family.
‘Alexander R. Cooke’. And God, I wish he would hurry up and do my new surname – cook, I mean. I haven’t eaten since yesterday on the plane.
So, there was me searching my whole life for something I thought I wanted . . . and now I’ve got it, I don’t want it at all. Not one little bit.
I just want back what we had.
Hang on! Dad is knocking on my door. My heart is in my mouth. Actually, it’s not. I would eat it if it really was.
‘Come in.’
Dad puts his head round the door. ‘You hungry?’ he asks.
‘You bet,’ I reply.
‘Fancy an Indian?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I was thinking we should have something English whilst we can,’ he quips back.
‘Why is that?’
He looks away for a moment, then smiles at me. ‘We’re going back to the Land of Feta Cheese and Fish-Poo Sauce tomorrow morning. I’ve just booked our
flights.’
λα
Helena awoke to another beautiful day, astonished at how well she’d slept – and, ironically, how peaceful she felt.
She got out of bed, put on her leotard and ballet shoes, and went downstairs to the terrace. She began the
pliés
and her body automatically took over, which disengaged her brain
and allowed her to think.
The house . . . Pandora . . . the instinct she’d had about coming back here had been right. The box
had
been opened; its dusty contents had been disgorged from the dark corners and
flown free, causing chaos and pain. Yet, just as in the myth, there was still one thing that remained: hope.
There were no more secrets, nothing to hide and no shadows to haunt her. Whatever would come – and she acknowledged how dreadful a world without William was likely to be – at least
it was honest. From now on, she would stand or fall by the truth.
Alexis arrived at ten o’clock, just as Helena, Immy and Fred were having a late breakfast on the terrace.
‘’Lo ’Lexis,’ said Fred. ‘Did you bring me a prezzie?’
‘Fred!’ chided Immy. ‘He asks everyone that when they arrive, and it’s very rude.’
Alexis kissed Helena warmly on both cheeks. ‘How are you?’
‘Much better. Thank you for all your help, and I apologise for losing the plot the other night.’
‘Whatever a “plot” is, I understand why you lose it. When your child is in pain or danger, it is the worst thing. I know,’ he agreed.
‘Coffee, Alexis?’ asked Immy importantly, holding up the pot.
‘I would like one, Immy, yes.’
‘I’ll get you a clean cup from the kitchen,’ she said, climbing down from her chair.
‘Me come too.’ Fred followed her inside.
‘Your children, they are delightful, Helena, really.’
‘For a change, I agree. They’ve been particularly angelic in the past twenty-four hours.’
‘Maybe they know their mother needed them to be.’
‘I did. You’re right.’
‘So, when is Alex coming back?’
‘I don’t know. I texted him last night to ask him whether he wanted me to fly home. I haven’t received a reply yet. I’m sure he’s still very angry with me. But at
least I know he’s safe.’
‘So, you might be leaving here very soon?’
‘If Alex needs me in England, then of course, I will go.’
‘Helena, if you are leaving, then there is something I should show you.’
She looked at his serious expression. ‘Alexis, what is it?’
‘I have come here to tell you so many times but . . .’ he shrugged, ‘the moment has never seemed right. Is Angelina here?’
‘Yes, she’s upstairs making the beds.’
‘Would she watch the children? There is somewhere I need to take you. Don’t worry, it is not far away.’
‘Alexis, please, not bad news. I really couldn’t cope,’ she groaned.
‘No.’ He laid a calming hand on her shoulder. ‘This is not bad news. It is just something you must know. Trust me.’
‘All right. I’ll speak to Angelina and we’ll go.’
‘Where on earth are you taking me?’ she asked a few minutes later, as Alexis led her down towards the swimming pool.
‘You will see.’ He walked across the pool terrace, and at the far end, unhooked and pulled back a panel of the wooden fence which separated the grounds from the olive grove that
surrounded Pandora.
‘Goodness, I’d never noticed this gate was here before,’ she remarked.
‘No, you were not meant to. It was a secret.’
‘Who put it there?’ Helena asked, as she followed Alexis through the trees.
‘Patience, Helena, please.’
They walked on for a while, steering their way under the branches of the tightly packed grove, until they entered a small clearing. They stood side by side, looking at the mountains surrounding
them, the olive trees tumbling down the valley beneath them and the thin, shimmering line of sea in the distance.
‘Is this what you wanted to show me, Alexis?’
‘This is the spot, yes.’ He turned slightly to his right and pointed. ‘But
that
is what I brought you to see.’
Helena followed the direction of his finger, and walked over to it.
‘Oh, how beautiful. It’s a statue of Aphrodite, isn’t it?’ she asked as she stood in front of it.
‘No. Not quite.’
She looked up at him. ‘Then who is it, and what’s it doing here?’
‘Look at the bottom of the statue, Helena. Look at the name.’
She bent down. ‘I can hardly read it, it’s so badly worn.’
‘You can, if you try.’
Helena cleared away the leaves that had collected around the small plinth and rubbed a finger across the inscription.
‘There’s an “
I
” and an “
E
” . . . and an
“N”
. . . and a “
V
” is the first letter, I . . .’ She looked
up at Alexis in confusion. ‘It spells
Vivienne
.’
‘Yes.’
‘But Vivienne was my mother’s name.’
‘That is right, yes.’
‘What does it mean? Is this meant to be her? Fashioned as Aphrodite?’ Helena traced her hand across the alabaster face.
‘Yes.’
‘But Alexis, why? And why here?’
‘Angus had it sculpted after she died,’ he replied. ‘This, so my grandmother Christina told me, was your mother’s favourite spot.’
‘But . . .’ Helena put a hand to her brow. ‘I know she came to Cyprus regularly, and loved it, but I . . .’ She looked up at Alexis, and suddenly understood. ‘Are
you telling me Angus was in love with my mother? Is that right?’