It wasn’t a surprise when Dad told me to keep Sunday evening free for a family gathering. When I told him it would interrupt my hair-washing routine, he was predictably dismissive.
“How long could it possibly take to wash one’s hair, Helen?” Before I could explain my detangling and conditioning routine, he walked away muttering something about humans finding endless ways to fill their short lives with nonsense.
That’s rich, coming from the man who has a filing system for every back issue of Railway Digest.
But my coconut hair mask wasn’t the only reason I wanted to skip this family gathering. It was bound to be annoying as hell. All the gods seemed to do is moan about their lives, or how much better things were in ancient times. Even Eros couldn’t make me want to sit through that. The modern times couldn’t be all that bad, could they? We have Wi-Fi now. And soap.
Honestly, some people have no idea how lucky they are. The gods have everlasting life! Beauty! The freedom to do what they like! If I, an un-kissed loser with no romantic prospects, could stay positive about life, then they could too.
It had been a while since I’d last seen any of the other gods from my extended family. How long would it be until they brought up the fact that I had no powers? Or call me a “half-lifer”? Maybe they wouldn’t dare say that word in front of Dad. He did say it was a slur.
I lay down on my bed, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Mum,” I said to myself. “I know it sounds ridiculous to be nervous about this. But I am. I wish I had your don’t-give-a-damn attitude. Wherever you are, can you lend me some?”
I opened my eyes, wriggling my fingers and toes. The churning in my tummy had slowed down. I was still dreading an evening with no one but immortal beings but reminded myself that my bedroom was just upstairs. I could always pretend that I had French homework due for Monday and make a dash for it (I mean, I do, but I’m sure Mr Parsons won’t mind if it’s a day late. Hair washing is clearly more important than Pierre’s trip to the zoo).
EIGHT
“Helen! Come and say hello,” Dad called from the kitchen. I went to the living room, where my half-brother Apollo was subjecting Eros and Aphrodite to a song on his guitar.
I’ll never forget the time I went to hug Apollo and he fist-bumped me instead. I haven’t tried again since. That was a few years ago, but he looked pretty much the same as I remembered. His dirty-blond hair was tied up in a messy man bun, and his skin was tanned to a deep bronze. He looked as though the phrase “sun-kissed” was invented for him. I guess an everlasting tan is a major perk of being the sun god. That, and the fact that he spends his summers DJing in Ibiza.
Oh gosh. I hoped he wasn’t going to hold our arms together, compare skin tones and say he was nearly as brown as me. Firstly, it wasn’t true because I will always beat Apollo on the melanin front. And secondly, it was a truly corny thing to say.
He was deep in concentration, singing along to a tune he strummed on his guitar. Eros and Aphrodite were indifferent, but I found myself sitting on the sofa and tapping my feet. The beat was infectious. When the song finished, I was the only one who clapped.
A smile lit up his face when he noticed me clapping. “How’s it going, Helen? Long time no see,” said Apollo. He looked pleased to see me, but Apollo looked pleased to see everyone. Kind of like a golden retriever.
“I’m fine, thanks. I just started at a new school, and—”
“You’re still at school? What a drag,” Apollo interrupted. “I’m up to the usual: DJing private parties, recording my next album and some private music tutoring. It’s easy money, but every one of these kids is dying to be the next Ed Sheeran. Like, show some originality.”
“God, that sounds dreary. Hanging around with children all day. Just awful,” said Aphrodite, shuddering.
Apollo shrugged, pretending that her comment didn’t bother him. “I’d take private school brats over D-list celebs any day.”
Shots. Fired. We all knew that Aphrodite was far from satisfied working on a breakfast TV show, even if it was the most viewed show before ten a.m. I pursed my lips to keep from giggling (I didn’t want a repeat of the crazy-green-hair incident).
Just as Aphrodite looked ready to explode, Dad called us in from the kitchen for dinner. That was strange. Maria’s the only one who cooks around here, and she didn’t work on Sundays. Was Dad going to make something other than coffee? Impossible.
We took our seats at the kitchen table, but there wasn’t a hint of food anywhere. Not on the stove, or in the oven.
“Is the takeaway on its way, then?” I asked Dad.
“Takeaway? Of course not! This is our first family meal in your presence. As you’ve all made an effort to keep this evening free, you will be served a very special meal indeed,” he said. Some of us had been given no choice but to come, I thought.
“I found one of my most beloved objects while unpacking. All you need to do is think about the most splendid meal you’ve ever eaten and it will create it for you. That is what you’ll have for supper,” Dad said. He looked very pleased with himself.
“Let me get this straight. You can conjure up any meal I choose out of thin air?” I asked. Why was I only hearing about this now? It seemed too good to be true.
“Not quite out of thin air,” he said. He went to a cardboard box on the counter and pulled out what looked like a huge … horn? “Remember this, gang? I found my old cornucopia!”
“Now, Pops,” Apollo said. “Won’t those cranks in the Council have something to say about you using the horn of plenty?”
Dad peered over his fake spectacles. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“What does this giant horn have to do with dinner?” I asked.
“Like Apollo said, it’s the horn of plenty. It’ll produce any food that you like,” Dad said. “But I thought it would be fun if we conjured up the best meals we’ve ever eaten. Now, who wants to go first?”
Aphrodite looked deep in concentration. “The best meal by far was a feast in Tuscany around the 1470s. Florence, I think. I was the artist’s muse, and all the guests were utterly besotted with the portrait he painted of me. I wore the most fabulous emerald silk gown, and—”
“The food, Mother? I’d like to eat this century,” said Eros, winking at me.
Aphrodite cut her eyes at Eros, annoyed at having her reverie interrupted. “I hardly touch refined sugar, but I’d make an exception for the marzipan cake they served during the dessert course. It was the height of luxury, in those days.”
“As you wish, Aphrodite,” Dad said. “Your turn, Apollo. What will you dine on?”
“I once ate a particularly good roasted pigeon dish. Back when I played for an audience in the Ottoman Palace. In the thirteenth century, few people knew their way around the zither as I did,” Apollo said wistfully.
Wow. Had Apollo gone from playing in the presence of emperors to tutoring ten-year-olds? What a comedown. No wonder he was obsessed with the past.
Dad nodded. “Your turn, Eros. What delights can I summon for your dining pleasure?”
“Easy! It has to be the vegan noodle soup with fermented tofu I tried while hitch-hiking my way across Vietnam in the 1970s. I haven’t found it anywhere else since.”