“Thanks, that’s very generous,” I say aloud, “but I don’t need any references.”
I can see they’re dying with curiosity, but I don’t say any more. Let them wonder. Let them stew. You can’t have everything you want out of life, can you?
“So,” says Sarah after a moment, trying to fill the gap, uncomfortable as always with silences, whether polite, or like now, not so polite, “where are you thinking of buying?”
“I don’t know. Kensington or Chelsea, Mayfair or Belgravia, somewhere like that,” I say.
Jed snorts. “Looking for a studio flat, are you?”
“No, no,” I say, “a proper home, I’m getting fed up with all this moving around. I’ll look for somewhere with at least three or four bedrooms. Maybe a flat. Maybe a house. I’ll see what I can find.”
“But how will you get a mortgage?” asks Sarah.
“A mortgage? I don’t need a mortgage.” And that’s the truth. By next week I won’t need a mortgage. I’ll be able to buy myself a nice little three- or four-bedroom place for cash once I sign up a few more clients.
They look confused and I can see more questions forming on their lips so I decide to leave. Conversations with the enemy are so tedious when you’re all trying to be civil.
I take another look around the sitting room, my eyes halting on the stereo. “Once I move into my new place I’ll come round and collect my TV and hi-fi.”
Sarah glances at Jed. He opens his mouth to protest.
I smile at them both. “But you can keep the video. Consider my half a moving-in present to Jed.”
young, free, single, and rich
Being single and being Alexander is better than anything Alex ever dreamed about. I absolutely love being Alexander. It’s like the rest of my life was some bizarre sort of dream, perhaps a play in which I was forced to act out a part that was nearly me but not quite. I feel more myself than I’ve ever felt before.
I leave Sarah and Jed’s on a high. I’m so pumped up for action, I want an excuse, any excuse, to pummel some sorry loser into the ground. I need action.
Not wanting to punch any old someone walking down the street—I’m not a complete animal, I have my principles—I go to the gym. As soon as I enter the fitness room I see Kate and then I smile this wolfish smile of victory. A shag will do just as well as a fight to alleviate my restlessness. Kate blushes, she actually blushes, when she sees me, like she’s embarrassed, like she’s never done anything like that before when I know all too well that she has.
“Hi, Kate,” I say, as I climb on to the bike beside her and begin pedalling.
“Hi.” She smiles at me and then looks away, her flush deepening.
I’m really quite amazed that she can blush. She must have had dozens of one-night stands over the years. Surely she’s beyond such maidenly responses. And then I remember that she is a natural blonde (ha, so there, Sarah) and that her skin is really quite thin and translucent despite the layers of makeup, so her blushes would be more obvious than most other people’s.
“You didn’t call,” I say. As if I’ve had time to notice. I figure I might as well go on the offensive before she has time to get all coy and cold and blame me for not phoning her.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I was hoping to bump into you here.”
“Did you come yesterday?”
She blushes again and I laugh. She did, she came to the gym on Monday, hoping to see me. Poor dear, she must have been so disappointed when I didn’t show up.
“Do you fancy a coffee?” I ask.
“Now?” She looks startled. I have, after all, just arrived.
“Why not?”
Her surprise turns to pleasure, that I would give up my workout to be with her, but I plan that she will be my workout.
And, of course, that’s what happens. I never realized how valuable my gym membership was before. I may have missed out on the rowing machine and weights, but I get plenty of exercise of the horizontal kind.
Another five hours of sex with Kate and I’m really beginning to like her. Not enough to make firm arrangements for a date, but enough that I don’t mind confirming for her that I will see her again. I don’t know when, I quote late nights at work as an excuse, but I’m willing to allow her to be a member of my harem.
I feel a flicker of that old possession feeling—Alex again, trying to break free—as I leave Kate in the middle of the night. She looks sad this time and even I, the Alexander I, can tell that she wants me to stay. But I don’t. I can’t. That is something Alex would have done. He, me, I as I was then, would have stayed whether I wanted to or not. But I’m Alexander now. I do only the things I want to do. I am not nice. I will not be a nice man. I will not condemn myself to that road again. I will not be a drone and a drudge to niceness. I will not. I. Am. Alexander.
lust and longing on the river cam
Punting isn’t as easy as it looks. And it doesn’t look easy.
When you go to Cambridge and walk along the river you see all these students, or people of the right age pretending to be students, nimbly standing on the stern of their punts (if a punt has such a thing as a stern), holding a long pole, lifting it, letting it slide through their hands and hit the bottom, then pushing. These silly little flat-bottomed boats are propelled by this single pole pushing against the river bottom. They’re certainly not as fast as a good rowboat, or is that just me?
The boats—other people’s punts—glide up and down the river Cam, weaving in and out, avoiding swans and ducks and everything in their path. But, alas, the same cannot be said for me.
I’m standing on the end of the boat (not in a suit, I’m not a moron, I brought a change of clothes), a small, flat area that’s wet and slippery, trying desperately to steer around an overhanging tree rather than straight through it. I’m having limited success and at least Amber doesn’t have to duck.
She giggles as I dodge a particularly stout branch at the last moment, narrowly saving myself from being hurled into the river. The sound is joyful. And contagious.
Soon I’m laughing, too, we’re both laughing and I realize I’m having fun. This is the best day I’ve had in ages.
My meeting went well; I now have two clients. Everything’s working out just as I planned.
I stick the pole into the river, give it a little tug, but it’s stuck. I have a moment’s panic. What do I do? I can’t lose my pole. I need my pole to steer, I need it to go forward.
Amber holds her stomach she’s laughing so hard. “Let go,” she puffs, trying to speak over her giggles, “let go.”
If I was Alex I’d freeze, I wouldn’t be able to let go, my fingers would refuse to unclench and I’d be left there swinging from the pole as the boat carried on. I’d be hanging on desperately, trying to balance so I wouldn’t fall into the river, but I’d be sliding down, down, down. Fortunately I’m Alexander and I have Alexander’s luck if not Alexander’s style at the moment, for if I’d been paying attention, if I’d kept myself alert, I wouldn’t have lost control of it in the first place.
I let go of the pole and I stand there and the punt glides miraculously forward and slows and ever so gently bumps against the shore and we are saved. I jump out and pull the punt up on to the bank. I help Amber out and then we stand side by side and contemplate the sight of our lone pole sticking up out of the water.
It looks sad somehow, abandoned, and then I start to laugh. And Amber’s laughing and we’re choking and chortling and snorting it’s just so funny. It’s one of those private jokes that you have to be there for that Amber and I will be able to crack up over for weeks to come. We’re not going much farther by river today.
If I’d been Alex I would have ended up in the water. If I’d been Alex I’d be sopping wet. If I’d been Alex I probably would have tumbled into the river and the pole would have come unstuck and hit me on the head and I would have been knocked unconscious and I would have drowned, or Amber would have had to leap in and save me.
B
ut I’m not Alex.
My laughter dies away.
I’m not Alex. I’m Alexander and I shouldn’t be indulging in this silliness. I should be working for the future. None of this is going to help me. I don’t need to know how to punt to make it in the boardroom.
And then Amber turns to me and looks up at me with her wide gray eyes and she smiles a smile of such tenderness, she’s so pretty and so attractive, that I think it doesn’t matter. None of that matters at this moment. I can take this one afternoon off: Amber doesn’t know I shouldn’t be acting this way, Amber won’t tell anyone, she won’t give me away.
I nearly kiss her, my lips are ready, her lips are ready, but I don’t. I can’t. I won’t do this to Amber. Amber isn’t the kind of woman I need.
and the clients keep rolling in
Thursday’s meeting is a repeat of Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s. Well, strictly speaking, that’s not true. The client and ideas are different, it’s only the speed of the success that is the same. Wilmington-Wilkes has become so stale and predictable that it’s easy to impress others with my fresh campaigns. At the end of my first three presentations I have my first three clients.
Maybe Jed does deserve my thanks. If it weren’t for him I would never have had the balls to go freelance. Maybe just before I disembowel him with the final thrust of my vengeance I’ll show him my genuine gratitude for his help in turning me into Alexander. I am, after all, a stickler for fairness.
vigilante vengeance
Now that my career is on its way to becoming a runaway success, it’s time for some justifiable vengeance. With all the fun I’m having, both professionally and socially, I must never forget my prime objective of revenge. The new me has made a first brush against Sarah and Jed’s supposed togetherness, and Wilmington-Wilkes will feel my bite before too long, but if I’m to do this properly I need some practice.
It’s Thursday evening now and I’ve got special plans for the night that have nothing to do with being single, free, and wealthy.
After a mild flirtation with Amber over dinner I retire to my room for a well-deserved nap. I’m tempted to invite her to join me in bed, but I don’t want to hurt her and I can’t afford for tiredness to slow me down tonight.
At ten minutes to midnight I wake up before my alarm and climb out of bed smiling. If I thought I was an action hero at the cinema when I broke that bloke’s nose (I must have broken it, there was that satisfying crunch and all that blood), then tonight I will become a true superhero. Not anything corny like Batman or Spiderman (I mean, come on), I will be Justice and Judgement rolled into one. Prosecutor, jury, judge, and executioner all at once.
I slide on a pair of faded black jeans and a black T-shirt. I almost take my black jacket, but it’s too confining, I need freedom of movement so I grab a dark sweatshirt instead.
I slip out of my room. The flat is silent but for the sound of a radio in Clarence’s room; so I’m careful as I make my way to the front door. A moment later and I’m free, I’m outside and the night is mine. I walk down the street, strolling, casual and confident on the outside while inside my blood is boiling. I am so ready.
My run of bad luck (though part of me acknowledges that maybe it was good luck in disguise) all started with those spotty teenagers who trashed my car. I don’t delude myself that I’ll be able to find the exact culprits, I know I wouldn’t recognize them if they passed me in the street, but this one at least is a mutable form of revenge. Any gang of spotty youths will do. I see them attacking a car, I see them breaking a window, hell, I see them breaking a milk bottle and they’re mine.
The only thing I need to avoid is the police. And areas where there are CCTV cameras (see, good people of London, those cameras do work, at least against a good boy like me). I’m not overly concerned about getting black eyes or a bloody nose. If someone mars my pretty face (which would be a shame for my sex life, which I’m hoping to expand, but at least I’ve already got Kate), I can explain it away as a minor car accident or something like that. It certainly won’t halt my revenge.
I pass a few couples and a handful of lone men wending their way home after a night out at the pub, but I know it won’t be long before they’re all tucked up in bed. Thank God for eleven o’clock closing time. In the past I’d always resented being kicked out so early, but now I’m thankful that all those hardworking men and women will be safely behind locked doors. Wouldn’t want them to witness what I’m planning, poor dears might get rather alarmed and upset. Give it another hour and all honest folk’ll be in bed.
I wander the streets, heading nowhere in particular, just walking. Just walking and waiting.
A bit after one A.M. I hear the sound of breaking glass. I sprint toward the noise and as I round the corner I see two young boys of nine or ten crouching between two cars, waiting to see if anyone has noticed the noise. The passenger window of a BMW across the street is broken and I see the young hooligans smiling and nudging one another. Now, I’m not as big a fan of BMW as I used to be, not after what they did to Rover (and after all their promises, too), but they make some damn fine cars and I’m not about to stand by and let any vehicle be desecrated. There’s a special bond between a man and his car and it’s a form of emasculation to deliberately damage all that metal and glass. I’m sincere when I say it’s sacrilege.
I step between the cars and out into the street. It’s quiet but for the distant hum of traffic. In this London suburb the houses are in darkness and parked cars line both sides of the road. Not a creature is stirring outside our little drama.
I hear another little giggle and then they see me. The boys drop their rocks and they turn and run away. They run from me.
No. This is too easy. This isn’t what I wanted. I nearly shout for them to stop, but I don’t want anyone to hear me. It wouldn’t look right for a grown man to be seen chasing such small children. People seem to think youngsters are incapable of real mischief, but I know, I know that it’s not the age that matters, it’s the soul. I was always an angel, I never did anything wrong, I was not a bad child, but I bet that Jed was always plotting and conniving and getting others into trouble, acting innocent and passing any blame to his unfortunate co-conspirators.
I give chase, my long strides eating up their head start until I’m nearly on them. The little fools stick together and it’s easy for me to reach out and grab them both by the collars.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” I ask, lifting them from the ground.
“It wasn’t me, it was him,” says the blond one, pointing a finger at his chubby friend.
At this revelation the chubby one stops fighting me and starts trying to kick the smaller blond boy. “Shut up,” he says. “I didn’t do it, you did. It’s my word against yours. So there.”
The blond boy splutters. “But—”
“Boys, boys,” I say, shaking them ever so gently. Or maybe it isn’t that gently. “You’re both to blame and I’m sure the police will be happy to accept my eyewitness account.”
The chubby one turns his baleful, piggy eyes on me. “Oh, yeah? Well, you didn’t see a thing. It was a group of bigger boys, we were just watchin’.”
“Oh, really. Now tell me, who is the police going to believe? You? Or me?” I look fierce as I glare at the two criminals. And suddenly it hits me that they’re very young. Why are they out on the streets at this time of night? Did they sneak out? Or don’t their parents care? I almost relent and release them, but then I picture my Jaguar defaced and wounded. It’s boys like these who grow up to destroy things of beauty like my car. They’re old enough to know better. They’re old enough to learn.
I lift the boys higher—this is better than weightlifting at the gym—and they renew their little kicks, aiming at both one another and at me.
“Maybe we don’t need to involve the police,” I say. I never intended to involve the police; I’m a vigilante, I don’t have time for all that nonsensical paperwork and due process.
“Really?”
The blond one looks hopeful.
And then it hits me like a sledgehammer in the gut. If I’m not going to the police there’s nothing I can do. I can’t punch them, I can’t beat them up, they’re way too young. It’d be child abuse.
“We’ll never do it again, we promise,” mutters the chubby one, but even the old Alex could have told he’s insincere.
I have no choice. I have to let them go. There’s nothing I can do.
“I’ll let you off this time,” I say, knowing I’m being ineffectual, “but don’t do it again.”
And I’m forced to lower them to the ground and release them. They flee. The chubby one stops after ten yards and sticks his tongue out at me. “Nah nah na-nah nah,” he says, in a singsong voice.
Horrible child. I bet that’s exactly what Jed was like when he was that age.
I watch them run away.
So I can’t solve all of London’s crime problems. I never thought I could.
I start walking, heading in the opposite direction Chubby and his friend took and, after a few minutes, I hear a faint sound. Is that the sound of someone kicking a car? Could I be so lucky again?
My pulse speeds up and I’m smiling as I run and run. The sounds are getting louder and I know I’m right: someone’s definitely trashing a car. I know I shouldn’t smile, for someone’s pride and joy is being dented and damaged, but I’m so anxious to confront the culprits that I can’t hold in my delight. I turn left on to a smaller street and then I see them.
Five boys in their teens, two of them nearly as big as I am. I run toward them and as I get nearer I call out, “Hey, stop that.”
Like deer caught in the headlights of a big truck, they whip their heads in my direction and freeze.
I continue running toward them and as I plow into the stunned group I let swing with my right fist and punch the nearest in the stomach. No need to break their noses, I think. They’re young, I wouldn’t want to scar their faces.
Being Alexander Page 10