Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  I snarl. Those are Alex thoughts. The little thugs deserve to have bent and crooked noses for what they’ve done.

  I feint and jab and use a right hook to hit a different boy on the nose and a great fountain of blood sprays out. He doubles over, clutching his nose. Is it broken? Is it broken? Is it broken?

  Like a pack of hyenas the boys circle me, wary, but soon they’ll rush in as a group and attack. One of them flicks open a knife. A switchblade. The boy—he looks thirteen—is threatening me with a knife.

  The bloodlust roars in my ears and I’m readying myself for their attack when a wailing noise approaches. Sirens. The police.

  I take off running, we all take off running, tearing away in the same direction. For now I am part of the pack. Our rivalries are forgotten as, together, we run to elude the police. Over a low wall, down an allotment path, and behind a row of garages we all run together. At the garages we stop and I realize that this is their hideout, their den, the place they feel safest and strongest.

  They suddenly seem to remember that I’m the enemy and they gather in a group, waiting to see what I will do. I can feel the Alex in me cringing away in fear, not wanting confrontation, but I do not flinch. I am Alexander.

  “Touch those fucking cars again,” I say, “and I’ll fucking kill you all.”

  Sad I know, verging on the pathetic, I mean talk about an empty threat, but I can’t think of anything better.

  I turn away, presenting them with my back, showing them my contempt, half expecting someone to attack me from behind, half wanting them to attack so I’ll have an excuse to fight.

  They do nothing. I walk away into the night, no longer concerned about the police. They didn’t see me before and if they see me now they’ll see a lone man walking along the street at night. They’re looking for a group of teenagers. And I am not a teenager.

  Tomorrow I’ll ring the police anonymously and report the hideout. Maybe the police will keep an eye on the boys in the future. I certainly won’t have time.

  As I walk toward home it begins to rain. I turn my face toward the sky and the raindrops fall on to my face like a benediction, approval for what I have done, for what I am doing.

  People suck, I decide. And there’s nothing I can do to change that.

  We’re selfish and destructive and rather horrible when it comes down to it. Think about how long it takes to build a house compared with how long it takes to destroy it. Weeks and months to build. Only mere hours to destroy with a sledgehammer.

  Civilization is like this. It’s taken us hundreds of years, no, thousands of years to get this far, and give us a motivational speech from someone like Hitler or even just the hysteria that overtakes an angry mob and it’s all gone in seconds. Where are our fine principles then?

  another day closer to success

  In the wee hours of Friday morning I let myself back into the flat and collapse on to my bed for a few hours of sleep. I don’t, by any means, think I’ve obtained justice and revenge against those yobbos out there who destroyed my car, but I like to think I’ve taken one small step for mankind in my quest.

  Friday is a busy day, taking care of endless business details, looking into hiring an assistant, getting the rest of my stitches removed, working on new ideas and organizing things for my existing clients.

  Three. I, Alexander Fairfax, have three clients of my very own. They’re mine. Earned by my hand, with my ideas, persuaded by my tongue.

  It’s fair to say that I can rate the first week of Platypus-fox as a success.

  out on the town

  For one insane moment I nearly pull an Alex and invite my flatmates out clubbing. What horror. As fond as I’ve grown of Amber and Noreen in the privacy of our kitchen (I’ve hardly seen Clarence and Diana, the one too stoned to leave his room, the other at her boyfriend’s most of the time), I don’t kid myself. They’re not the kind of people I can afford to associate with in public, not here in London. It’s not my fault. It’s a cruel world and I’m determined not simply to live in it but to thrive.

  I retire to my room before my mouth can do any damage. (I like Amber, I’d enjoy her company and I know that’s bad. Alex would enjoy her company, Alex would want to spend the night dancing with her and buying her drinks, but I’m Alexander, I’m Alexander, and I’ve got other plans.) I change into my clubbing clothes. Nothing too trendy or too dull: my new trousers and shirt reek sophistication. And money. Understated money. Let’s never forget that success breeds success. I’m determined to have fun tonight, but I’m also on an agenda. If I’m going to be an ultrasuccessful business tycoon—which I will be—I need new friends. I don’t kid myself, my old friends (well, most of them) go back a long way and I genuinely like them, but they’re not the sort of people that get featured in the pages of Hello! magazine, are they?

  (And I don’t even want to see any of my old friends until I can wow them with my great successes and feats of derring-do, until I no longer need to fear the Alex in me rising up and fighting for control of my conscious self. I can’t take the risk that Alex would gain strength in their presence. And I can’t be seen in public with them either. I have an image to maintain. Standards.)

  I say farewell to Amber and Noreen before I leave and I can see from their expressions that they’re impressed, that they’re dying to ask where I’m going, but they don’t. I decide to leave them in suspense and then I’m out the door. I walk down our little street and out on to the main road and what do you know? Within seconds I catch a cab. Not once in his long twenty-nine years did Alex ever catch a cab so quickly.

  I tell the cabbie to head to Pyramid X.

  He doesn’t need an address. I’d never heard of Pyramid X until a couple of hours ago when I saw the listings in the newspapers, but the cabbie says he’s been taking people there for months.

  The cabbie knows where the in-crowd goes, but I had to look it up in a newspaper.

  I blame Alex. He should have had more of a life. But I won’t be a social reject like Alex. I won’t.

  Traffic is heavy and we’re forced to crawl toward the door, but I don’t get out, I want to be delivered to the entrance. We creep forward and I watch the people in the queue, all dolled up and ready, hoping that tonight of all nights will be the night when they’re finally spotted by a modeling agency or a film director and told they have something special and that they can make it. The crowd snakes around the corner and I experience a twinge of discomfort in my stomach. What if they won’t let me in? What if they expect me to queue like the rest of them? What if the bouncers refuse me entry?

  I take a deep breath and think of daisy petals. Of course they won’t refuse me. I am Alexander.

  The car in front stops at the club and a slim, lanky woman—I swear I’ve seen her face before, not a model, not an actress, but one of those society girls continually cropping up in magazine events’ photos—is assisted out of the backseat by her chauffeur and she saunters to the front door. The bouncers (two hulking testimonies to the power of weightlifting) smile, greet her, and let her pass. She calls them Paul and Bobby (I hear her through my open window) and flashes them a winsome grin.

  I’m only in a cab. Should I have come in a car?

  Ignoring the crowds, knowing they’re staring at me, I hand the cabbie his money, climb from the cab and slam the door. Coolly, so coolly, I approach the entrance. The queue, full of ordinary Joes and wannabe Tracys, watches me, half in anger, half in awe, as I nod casually to the bouncers and greet both of them, “Paul. Bobby,” without stopping, without slowing my pace. I don’t smile, for that wouldn’t do, that might give me away. They look at me, they wonder if they know me—they don’t, not yet, but they will—and they step aside. I look right. I am right. I fit in. I’ve passed the first test. Sit back, world, and take notice.

  Inside the music rolls over me like a wave crashing against the crumbling sand of a beach. It is loud, very loud, and for a second I wonder how the hell I’m supposed to actually converse with anyon
e in here and then I let my worries disappear. I remember it’s all about hedonism and I smile. Thank God the music’s loud: it’ll drown out all that unnecessary small talk. And if I do want to talk, I’ll have to lean in close and shout into her ear like it was the faintest whisper. Oh, yes, I suddenly have a newfound respect for these club owners. They know how to ensure a good time. At least for winners like me.

  I scan the crowd, getting a feel for the people and the scene. It’s one of those ultratrendy places that was probably a hidden pearl until word got out to the masses. At some point, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps today, please, God, not yesterday, the glamorous will turn their backs on this club and flee to somewhere else, the latest hip place that only those in the know would think to attend. I vow to myself that by the time that happens I’ll be one of those people.

  Pyramid X is crowded, but not too crowded, and from the look of things only a handful of punters are allowed in at a time.

  I head to the bar and a path seems to clear for me, I don’t even have to push my way forward, it’s like magic. And the bartender flashes me a little smile and serves me right away, ignoring those poor bastards who’re clutching their money, waiting to be noticed, and I know he’s flirting with me. I’m momentarily surprised and then I’m flattered. I’m not interested, but I am a tolerant fellow and it gives me a pleasant buzz to be considered lustworthy.

  I order a vodka. Straight and simple. Alex would have ordered a martini, trying to be sophisticated. Or a beer. But Alex would never have come to a place like this, not while it was still the place to be. And Alex would never, ever have been served so quickly. I would have stood there, thirsty and tired and hot, clutching my money for ten minutes, patiently waiting to be served while others pushed their way ahead of me. Finally my date would have come to search for me and she’d find me just as the bartender turned his attention to me so it looked like he was reacting only to the presence of a female.

  Thank God I am Alexander. Life is good.

  I smile to myself, take a sip of vodka and catch the eye of a beautiful (beautiful, really beautiful) woman. She’s wearing a scarlet dress and for an instant the lyrics to Chris de Burgh’s “Lady in Red” (my mother’s favorite song and one she works into any familial celebration, be it Christmas, Easter, or even Father’s Day) flash through my mind until I suppress them.

  She—I already think of her as my woman—is sitting at a table with two other women, both equally beautiful, but both wearing all black so that my woman stands out, looking so alive and hot enough to eat. She doesn’t smile, nor do I, but she’s as aware of me as I am of her and if I were any animal but man, I’d be able to smell the sexual pheromones we’re both secreting.

  I stare into her eyes and she stares into mine, and it’s like some corny film where our eyes meet across a crowded room. I hold her eyes and approach her table. Vaguely, out of the corner of my eye, I note that there are waitresses (short black leather skirts and lots of cleavage, proof enough that this club is owned by a man) serving the tables, American-style, so that the fashionable folk can avoid the jostling at the bar. I pass to the table next to hers where there is a free chair and take it with a brief smile and nod for the couple seated so close together and so intent upon one another that they barely notice the chair’s absence. I swing the chair and place it down with a little swirl right beside my woman, sliding into the seat and signaling the nearest waitress all at once.

  “What will you have, ladies?” I ask. The music is loud and I have to raise my voice, but there must be some special acoustic design that makes this seating area slightly quieter than the rest of the room, and it’s easier to hear than I expected.

  I include them all but it’s obvious where my interest lies.

  They don’t react to my presence, so used to such attentions from members of the opposite sex that my appearance is nothing unusual.

  One of the women in black, she looks to be about twenty-five—they all look in their mid-twenties—flicks her short blonde bob, shifts infinitesimally in her chair so that I’m afforded a quick glimpse of bosom before it’s hidden away again. “Cranberry and vodka,” she says, in a voice so posh I know instantly that I’ve chosen the right table.

  The other woman in black, her perfectly straight brown hair stopping at her shoulder blades, tilts her head to one side, takes a sip from her wineglass and then says, “I feel like champagne.”

  Of course. They’re testing me, seeing how deep my pocket is. Part of me wants to stand and leave right then and I think, Bitches, they’re only after my money, they’re not interested in me, and then I recall that I want something, too. And it’s not really sex, though that would obviously be good: I want their social connections. I need women of a certain standard, a certain level. And money will be my password. Money and attitude. They’ll have to be. They’re all I have.

  Finally I turn to my woman. The woman in scarlet. Her hair, it’s difficult to describe, is a rich, deep brown, but I can see flashes of auburn caught in the lights of the club, and it’s thick and shiny and luxurious, hanging halfway down her back, and I have to resist the sudden urge to reach out and stroke it. Her eyes are bright blue, the color of the perfect tropical sea that adorns postcards from around the world. Her height—it’s difficult to tell, she looks small, slim, but not too petite. And her legs, her legs look nothing like the legs of a short person.

  “Champagne,” she says, her voice slightly throaty in a way that screams sex. She flashes an unreadable look at her brown-haired friend. Perhaps this is a test they use to see if the male at their table will flinch at such a request, but I only smile.

  The waitress arrives, looking bright-eyed and all too eager. Maybe she knows these girls, maybe she knows how much they spend and guesses how much she’ll receive as a tip.

  I order a magnum of their best champagne and a glass of cranberry and vodka. I know it’s going to cost me a few hundred pounds but I decide it’s an investment I need to make. And if the blonde ignores her vodka in favor of the champagne I won’t complain. I won’t say a word. I won’t even deem it worthy of my thoughts.

  If I want to join the high life—and I do—I have to prove that I can afford the lifestyle. No sense them making a new friend who can’t afford to eat out in the restaurants they like, who can’t drop everything and fly off to St. Tropez for the weekend.

  “I’m Alexander,” I say, and smile at each of the women in turn before my gaze returns to the woman in red.

  “Camilla,” she says, and holds out her hand. We shake and I feel an electric vibe pass between us. Camilla’s beautiful blue eyes widen and I know she feels it, too.

  The blonde smiles briefly. “I’m Della.” Her eyes turn to scan the room, casually, so casually, but you know she’s on radar lookout for her own man for the night.

  “Isabel,” says the third. She gives Camilla a little smile before leaning back in her chair, prepared to watch my progress with a shrewd eye, and I get the feeling she’s the hardest, most calculating of the group.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” says Camilla, speaking into my ear so she won’t have to shout.

  That remark, if nothing else, confirms the signals she’s been sending me. She thinks I’m memorable enough for her to have recognized me. I smile, somewhat ruefully. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Work?” she asks. I see her left eyebrow quirk and I think, You darling girl, and I want to take her into my arms and kiss her. But I don’t. It’s too soon. And this is too public. I’m not an untried teenager: I like to think I have a smidgen of control over my hormones. I know she’s quizzing me, that she’s making certain I’m of the right quality and material wealth before she allows things to proceed any further, but I don’t care. I’ll have my questions for her, too. I think my instincts were correct, but I need to make sure she’s attached to the right crowd if this is to last the night.

  I nod. “I’ve been busy expanding my company.” True, all true, she doesn’t need to know it’s only been going
for a week.

  “Oh,” she says. I see her digest this. “You’re self-employed?” She doesn’t know what to make of this. It might be good. Or really bad.

  “I guess you could say that.” I laugh. “I’m the managing director.”

  She nods and smiles. Managing director, that sounds good. It could be good. “And what do you direct?”

  I lean closer, wanting to smell her perfume. “I run an advertising company.”

  “Really?” She’s excited now. “I work in PR, for KKJ.”

  And then I’m the one who’s excited. KKJ is a big firm. One of the best. Judging by her appearance and her accent I’d guess she’s working only until she finds her Mr. Right, living off her trust fund or Daddy’s money (and not her salary—no doubt that barely covers her weekly wine bill) until she’s safely married and ensconced in her country manor in the Home Counties and her townhouse in West London. I can tell then that she’s my soul mate. At least for the next few weeks. I’ll be good to her. And she’ll be very, very good for me. If she’s any good at her job, and even if she’s not, if she’s just the sort of social butterfly she looks to be, she’ll know everyone and all the latest gossip. She’ll be a godsend. With her help I’ll snatch clients from all the biggest firms, with Wilmington-Wilkes top of my hit list.

  She lays a hand on my knee and I swear I feel a little tingle shoot up my leg. “Why don’t we go to the lounge upstairs? It’s quieter and we’ll be able to talk better,” she says.

  I smile and nod and slide back my chair, helping Camilla to rise. Just at that moment our champagne arrives and I wonder for an instant whether this is another test or if this is mere coincidence, but it doesn’t matter.

  I can tell that she’s mercenary, but so am I. She wants me to be wealthy, I want her to have connections. Seems a fair swap. She’ll use me and I’ll use her and we’ll both be happy.