Chapter 1: The Temple

The day was heavy and grey.

The street was grey, the tarmac on the road dark grey, the pavement a mix of grey squares all glistening with the sheen of rain. Figures walked with hats or umbrellas or both, all grey, hunched, miserable. Only the shop windows were bright, carousels of colour in the gloom, and past them walked a girl. Well ... a woman of twenty-five, although she had the air of a girl—slim figure, medium height, blond curly hair flowing out from beneath her dark, woolly hat, the sound of her boots clopping on the pavement. She disappeared briefly into one of the bright shops and emerged with her square black bag a little heavier than when she entered. She crossed the road, avoiding a male cyclist who whistled at her, and walked, eyes fixed ahead, to a coffee house on the corner of the street. It was an oasis of orange and brown amidst the grey, its long street-facing windows like living paintings of people in warm, contented comfort, their coats and hats over the backs of their chairs or piled upon the window sills inside. The door was situated on the corner and its brass handle creaked as the girl opened it and entered.

Inside, the coffee house was warm, relaxed, a refuge from the heaviness outside. Light jazz floated in the air. A huge table made of rough-hewn, polished wood stretched all the way along the windows facing the street, surrounded by black chairs with steel legs, half of them filled with customers. There were also seats further into the café, but the girl had her eye on the great table as she walked to the counter. Her favourite spot at the farther end by the window was vacant. There was a guy working on a laptop nearby, but not too near.

She ordered her coffee, paid for it and took off her hat, scarf and coat as she waited for it. It was a latte, always a latte. When it was ready the girl carried it to her chosen spot and placed it reverently on the table. She shrugged off her bag and placed it on the window sill behind her, took off her coat and placed it next to her bag, then placed her scarf and her hat on her coat. The guy at the laptop glanced over, but the girl performed her operation in a way that ensured there would be no eye contact. Only when everything was in order did she turn her attention to the coffee.

She took a sip. The latte felt creamy, hot, expensive but perfect. She smiled in sheer pleasure, eyes closing. She seemed to be forcing herself to wait, to wait, to savour the moment ... and then she could wait no longer. She put down the coffee, opened her bag and took out her purchase.

It was a journal.

Its cover was deep burgundy, laced with gold. The girl ran her fingers over it, smiling at the feel of it. It was cool and not quite smooth. She opened it. There was the gentlest crackle and the pages lay open, slightly cream with faint grey lines. She ran her fingers over paper which was perfectly smooth, smooth as silk; it seemed to invite a pen to glide across it. An invitation she could not resist.

The girl found a pen in her bag. She clicked it on and opened the journal to the first page. She paused for a moment and then wrote:

Charlene's Journal

She frowned. She clearly did not like what she had written. She crossed out the name and wrote underneath it:

Charley's Journal

That was better. That felt right.

Charley turned over the first page and looked down at the second. She didn't want to do any more crossings-out if she could help it. She wanted to get this right, wanted to write something important. What was important to her? She considered for a moment and then she wrote, in block capitals:

WHY IS IT SO HARD TO FIND A DECENT MAN?

Charley put down the pen and took a sip of coffee, reading her simple sentence. She felt a longing inside of her, a deep ache, like an ocean wave you see building in the distance, far away at present, but rolling, inevitably, towards you. She turned and stared through the window. The grey people were rushing past, on foot or on bicycles. Cars and vans droned along, their headlights yellow, their tyres fogged in clouds of spray. Charley was enveloped by a comfortable melancholy. She sat, silent, for a long time.

The mood passed. Charley turned back to the table, looking for distraction. There were newspapers and magazines lying among the coffee cups. One caught her eye—not a newspaper itself, but a supplement, something on the arts. The cover story was about the Italian artist, Botichelli, and the accompanying picture was of his masterpiece, the 'Birth of Venus.' In the picture, Venus was a naked woman with flowing, reddish hair, one hand covering her breasts, the other held over her vagina. She stood upon a giant seashell on the ocean and cherubs blew her waving hair.

Charley looked at the picture, something bothering her about the name Venus. When Charley was a child, her mother had loved to tell her stories of the Greek myths and Charley grew to share her mother's opinion that the Greek gods were far superior to the Roman versions; that their identities had been stolen by a nation of conquerors over a nation of thinkers. Even the name Venus did not sound nearly as musical on the tongue as the goddess's true name:

'Aphrodite,' said Charley to herself.

She looked from the picture of the goddess to the question she had written in her journal and nearly laughed out loud. An idea had popped into her head, an impish, silly, playful idea. But there was a kind of logic to it as well. If there was anyone who knew the answer to the question Charley had posed, wouldn't it be Aphrodite? Wasn't she the Goddess of Love? What if Charley were to ask her? Charley stared out the window wondering if she should do it. It seemed so childish.

'Oh, what the hell…'

Charley picked up her pen, turned to a clean page and began to write.

I'm in Ancient Greece.

I stand at the foot of a hill surrounded by cypress trees. It is a warm night and the sky is a deep shade of indigo with stars brightly shining. There is no moon; the whole scene is lit by starlight. The grass is dark blue, the trees even darker and the surrounding hills roll away into the distance, empty of houses. I hear the chirping of crickets and I smell the scent of cypress and orange blossoms. On the summit of the hill where I stand is a Greek temple with steps and pillars of white marble. I know this to be the temple of Aphrodite.

I walk up the hill towards the temple.

I wear a long white dress that reaches to just above my ankles. It is sleeveless and made of white cotton, but I am not cold. I do not wear shoes or sandals and the grass feels cool beneath my bare feet as I walk. A warm breeze blows on my face and ruffles my hair. I'm naked under the dress and my heart beats faster as I near the base of the temple steps.

The temple is not the Greek temple of today—a ruin of chipped and discoloured marble. It is complete, the pillars smooth and the marble glistens white in the starlight. It is quite a modest temple in size, nowhere near as huge as the Parthenon, but beautiful in its modesty which feels, somehow, appropriate. From between the pillars I see a faint orange glow. This place is not empty.

When I reach the steps, I pause on the grass and notice a few things about myself. My hair is long—instead of shoulder-length I feel it reach to halfway down my back. I wear no make-up and my fingernails have no varnish. However, I notice that the fingernail on the index finger of my left hand is cut short. I tore it in my kitchen a couple of days ago and had to cut it short, and it is also short here.

(Charley paused in her writing. What is the relevance of that? she thought. Don't judge, said an inner voice. Just write.)

I stand and look at my left hand and puzzle over my fingernail. Then I shrug and begin to climb the steps. I reach the top, walk through the columns and find myself in an kind of inner courtyard, rectangular, wider than it is long, and surrounded by white marbles pillars. It is lit by two iron braziers holding some kind of burning coal which gives a faint orange glow to the place. There is incense in the air; not sweet-smelling, but a richer, subtler scent that makes me think of Christmas. I walk across a mosaic floor that feels warm under my feet towards the pillars at the far side. Between the pillars hang heavy tapestries, each one depicting a scene from Greek mythology. There are seven in all and I stop a short distance before the one at the centre. The air is still and I hear the faint crackle of the coal as I look at a figure on the tapestry in the dim flickering light.

It is Perseus. He wears a warrior's helmet with a tall crest and holds a sword dripping blood in his left hand. Held aloft in his right hand is the head of the Medusa. Her mouth gapes hideously in death and the snakes she has for hair seem to move in the flickering light. As I gaze at this image, it ripples, is pulled aside and a woman steps out from behind the tapestry.

She stands before the tapestry like an actress before a theatre backdrop. She has long brown hair that looks almost black in the dim light. I can't tell what colour her eyes are. She is slightly taller than me and wears a long white robe that hangs straight on her body. Her bare arms and feet are slender and graceful. I suddenly feel like an awkward little girl. I don't know whether this woman is a priestess or the goddess herself and I feel it would be impolite to ask. I try to smile.

'Hi,' I say.

'Hello, Charlene.'

I winced. My father called me Charlene after a TV actress he thought was beautiful. I thought she was a bimbo. I looked at the woman, wondering what to say. It didn't feel right just to blurt out my question.

'Nice place you have here,' I said, waving an arm. My voice echoed, magnifying my discomfort.

'Thank you,' said the woman. 'Would you like to see the rest of it?'

'Sure.'

'Very well. But first you must take off your dress.'

I stared at her, my mouth suddenly dry.

The woman tilted her head, seeming to wonder why I hesitated. She slipped off her robe and allowed it to fall to the floor, standing naked in a pool of white fabric. She had beautiful, full breasts and her hips and legs were curved and slim. Her skin seemed to glow in the light of the braziers and I caught the scent of almond cream. She opened her hands as if to say, see how simple it is?

'Is this really necessary?' I asked.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

The woman did not answer.

'I'm not taking anything off until I know why,' I said.

The woman walked towards me. I took an involuntary step back and forced myself to stand firm. Surely I wasn't afraid of a naked woman? But she was so confident in her nakedness; her eyes were clear and direct. She should have been awkward and vulnerable, but she was not and, shocked as I was, I realised that I envied her. She stopped within touching distance and I saw now that her eyes were green.

'Charlene,' she said. 'Right now, you are sat fully clothed in a coffee house writing out this whole encounter in a journal. I'm asking you to take off your dress in your imagination.'

'You can't say that!' I said.

'Take off that dress and we'll talk.'

'No!'

The woman looked at me and smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile.

'Interesting,' she said. 'You can't be naked even in the privacy of your own fantasy. No wonder you have problems with men.'

The woman turned, stooped to pick up her robe and walked back towards the Perseus tapestry.

'Where are you going?' I said.

'You're clearly not ready.'

'Wait! You can't just walk out! I'm writing you!'

The woman turned, gave me a look that said 'Oh really?' and disappeared behind the tapestry. I ran over, pulled it aside and...

Charley looked up from her writing. And what?

The temple had vanished from her mind. She glared down at the journal, her pen poised over the page, willing herself to write. To write what? Anything! This was her story! She could write what she wanted! But nothing would come. Charley shut the journal with a loud 'crack!' making the laptop guy jump.

'Sorry,' mumbled Charley.

She packed away the book and the pen. Frustrated, she put on her coat, scarf and hat and left as quickly as she could, bag slung over one shoulder. A few moments after she left the coffee house it began to rain.