Once the vast e-mail is sent (Paul thought we should send it from Kenneth’s own e-mail account so we did, or Paul did, I just watched—let Kenneth sweat and wonder if he’d pressed a few wrong buttons by mistake), Paul and I spend the rest of the afternoon talking. Just talking and talking. Not about Jed or Sarah or even my revenge, just talking about everything and anything that crosses our minds. And I feel better when I leave, my mind is more at ease.
I walk north from Waterloo station, crossing Hungerford Bridge and thinking, as I always do, about that man who was thrown to his death a few years ago for the two pounds in his pocket. For two pounds. That’s how little a single human life is valued.
I walk for a mile or so, dodging tourists, using the main roads, sifting small bits of torn paper—the remains of the salary printout—from my pockets into half a dozen trash receptacles. Then I catch a cab home.
And I work and work. And work.
At about seven there’s a knock on my door.
Can’t they just leave me alone? I’ve shut the door: that means I want a little privacy. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
“Come in,” I call. It’d better not be Noreen coming to tell me off for polluting the fridge with more of my free-range eggs.
“Hi,” says Amber, poking her head into my room, “sorry to disturb you.” She’s dressed in tight black trousers and a sleeveless top and I could have died and gone to heaven she’s such a sight of loveliness.
I feel instant guilt. Amber hadn’t known I didn’t want to be disturbed.
I set down my pen and smile at her. “That’s okay,” I say, “I’m only working.”
“I was just coming to ask if, well,” she hesitates, “if you wanted to come out with us tonight. With Noreen and me. We’re going clubbing.”
Sorry, my sweet, I did that last night. And Noreen wouldn’t be allowed into the sort of places I go to.
“Sorry,” I say aloud, “I can’t.”
Her face falls and she flushes, and I realize that she’s actually asking me out, that she worked up the courage to come here, knock on my door and ask me out and all I can say is no.
“I have to work,” I explain. “I have so much to do. But how about lunch tomorrow?”
Hello, Alexander, knock knock, are you in there? What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be nice, you shouldn’t be giving her false hope.
But there’s no reason we can’t be friends. Surely Amber and I can be friends. What’s the harm in that?
“Lunch sounds good,” says Amber.
Oh, dear, is she expecting a date?
“I’m afraid I have to work tomorrow as well,” I say, “so it’ll only be a lunch break here at home. Is that okay?”
She’s still smiling. “That’s fine. I’ll even cook so it won’t interrupt you too much. See you tomorrow. Good luck with your work.”
And Amber leaves. I worry for a moment, knowing I should just have said no and ended it all right there, but I couldn’t bear the look of disappointment in her eyes, I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed to bump into me in the kitchen, I didn’t want her to think I’m not attracted to her, for I am. I just have to keep everything above board, on the straight and narrow. It’ll be okay. I’m Alexander, I’m in control.
I get back to work and work and work and work.
I go to bed at three A.M. (Amber and Noreen aren’t back yet. Where are they?)
After my obligatory four hours I’m wide-awake and I return to my slogans and posters, my magazine spreads, radio jingles, and television spots.
By noon I have enough material to present to four more clients. I’ve tailor-made two of the campaigns for clients of Wilmington-Wilkes, but I’m leaving the other two up in the air. It’s time for me to try some cold selling.
this is better than a sunday roast
After all my work, all my successful hours, I’m feeling happy and energetic and I want to do something to expend my energy. I have to do something to expend my energy.
I spare an hour for lunch with Amber. (Noreen’s out protesting against the destruction of the greenbelt surrounding London and there’s no sign of Clarence or Diana so we have the kitchen to ourselves.) She’s obviously been cooking most of the morning and she’s crafted a cheese quiche that melts in your mouth, along with homemade bread, salad, and my favorite, hot apple pie with ice cream and custard.
We’re chatting the whole time, there are no awkward moments, and I have to force myself to tell her that I have more to do on my presentations. I help Amber wash up and then everything’s put away and clean and I can’t drag this moment out any longer.
“That was delicious,” I say.
“Thanks.”
She looks up at me and blushes. She’s standing next to me holding a dishcloth and blushing and I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help myself, I kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you,” I say. “Next time I’ll take you out to dinner.”
Next time? What the hell am I talking about? There can’t be a next time.
“I’d like that,” says Amber.
I force myself to meet her smile, I act like nothing’s changed, but inside I’m screaming. You bloody fool, Alexander. What the hell are you doing? You have to stop this right now.
I say good-bye and go to my room.
I have to get out of the house. I can’t stay here. I’m weak. I like Amber. I want Amber, but I mustn’t have Amber. She’s off limits. She’s off limits, Alexander.
I know what it is. I know what it must be. I’m feeling withdrawal symptoms. It’s been over twenty-four hours since my last shag and I’ve been working so hard that my body is demanding a reward. I deserve some relief and I can’t use Amber like that. I like Amber.
I nearly go for a run to clear my head, but I decide it’s better to phone Kate.
She’s home and I can tell she’s thrilled to hear from me. I ask if she’s free and when she says she is I ask if I can come round. She hesitates for just one second and I wonder if she’s disappointed, I wonder if she wanted to go out, like on a proper date, a proper couple-y thing of holding hands and walking around Hyde Park. Kate? No, that’s not Kate. Is it? We make arrangements for me to go to her place in an hour. (I wonder if she has to shower and shave her legs.)
And after I hang up I feel bad for a second. Am I using Kate?
Does she expect more from this than I’m offering?
Alex would feel guilty, but I don’t feel guilty. I can’t feel guilty. I’m Alexander.
I relax. I’m using her exactly as she’s using me. For sex. She’s not a bad person but neither am I. Nonetheless, as I make a detour to Oxford Street to buy Camilla a bottle of Givenchy’s Indecence, which I hope is her favorite perfume, I buy Kate a bottle as well. (Okay, okay, I admit it, I did a bit of snooping when I was at Camilla’s place. She had a bottle of Indecence in her bathroom and I sniffed it and it was definitely what she was wearing.) I don’t know if Kate’ll like it, but it sure smelt dynamite on Camilla. I’m tempted to buy Amber something, too, not this perfume, something different, but I don’t. I mustn’t. I resist the impulse.
When I reach Kate’s, I hand her the present at once and her face lights up and I can see instantly that she’s delighted that I thought enough of her to buy her something. She opens the box and sprays on some perfume. She sniffs it and then throws her arms around me, giving me a hug and not a kiss. And the hug feels strange, more intimate somehow than the sex, as if she’s saying, I know you and you know me and we’re both people together in this world and we’re more than just bodies. I feel uneasy for a second. Surely she’s not expecting more from this than there is?
No, how could she possibly? We’ve never been on a date, we don’t go out in public together, we’re not seeing one another, we’re hardly more than acquaintances even if I feel pretty well acquainted with her body.
After the hug things go back to normal and Kate thanks me. Again and again.
I could grow used to such gratitude in a woman.
And afterward I look at my watch and I see that it’s time to go. I can tell that Kate wants to have dinner, but I can’t, I can’t be late for Camilla. I apologize and promise we’ll go out soon.
Her face drops and I want to set a date, so she’ll be happy, but I can’t. I’ve got my future to think of. And Camilla, or women like Camilla, are my future. If I’m to be a success—which I’m going to be—I need the appropriate female accessory on my arm.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” I tell her. And it’s the truth, or so close to the truth that it doesn’t matter. Going out with Camilla is work. In a way. It’s working toward my future.
“On Sunday night?”
Have we reached the nagging stage already? Is she trying to be my girlfriend? I won’t be sticking around if that’s the way she’s playing it.
“I’ve been working all weekend,” I say. And I have. Revenge, making social connections, coming up with advertising ideas, it’s all work toward making Alexander as successful as possible. I can’t just sit back and relax because it’s Sunday.
I’m slightly cold and distant as I tell her that I have a number of business trips coming up, that I’ll be traveling most of the next month so I don’t know when I’ll be able to see her, but I know, looking at her moist eyes, that I’ll squeeze her in somehow.
I take my leave and she puts me off a little, the way she clings to me at the door when we’re saying good-bye, and I come back to my senses. We don’t have a relationship, we don’t talk, we really don’t know anything about one another, why should I feel guilty?
As I walk down the stairs I feel a great weight lift from my shoulders. And then I am free.
I feel no guilt. I am Alexander. Alex would have behaved differently, but Alex would never have gone to bed with her in the first place, he never would have moved so quickly, he would never have been interested in a woman so enamored of makeup. And I am not Alex. I feel no guilt. I am Alexander.
the camilla chameleon
After I leave Kate’s I go home to shower and change. If I see Amber, I’m planning to tell her that I’d left to go to my brother’s but that I’ve forgotten something. I’m planning to tell her I’m spending the day and probably the night at my brother’s so that I can use his color printers. I don’t want to hurt Amber. I don’t want her wondering where I am. I don’t want her guessing the truth.
Fortunately no one’s home so I don’t have to lie. I get ready quickly and then I leave again, deciding that while perfume might have made Kate nearly swoon with delight, Camilla is more demanding. I briefly contemplate flowers again. No, still too predictable and she might have hay fever. Chocolates? No. I’ve learned over the years never to give a woman chocolate (unless you’ve been together over a year and you know her really, really well): either she won’t eat it because she thinks they’ll make her fat, or she devours the box in one day, feels sick, and then blames you for making her fat. Or (this has happened to me in the past) she might think you’re hinting that she’s too thin and needs to gain some weight, or on the other hand that she doesn’t watch what she eats and therefore it doesn’t matter if she gobbles the whole box. No, however much she may adore chocolate it’s a definite mistake.
Clothing? I don’t know her well enough. Lingerie? Certainly not. Regardless of how many times you’ve shagged, you should have known someone over a month before you purchase such intimate apparel. Silly, really, but it’s true. Purchasing lingerie for someone then giving it to her is a step beyond going to bed with her. I’d never give lingerie to someone I hadn’t been to bed with, but equally, I can’t give Camilla lingerie just because I’ve been to bed with her.
That’s what it’s like in today’s world. You can know what a woman looks like naked. You can feel her all over, you can know exactly how she likes her clitoris stroked before you know what kind of music she listens to or what her favorite films are. Bizarre, but I like it.
I leave the house and glance at my watch. I have an hour to find another gift and get to Camilla’s. I don’t want to be too punctual, but I don’t want to be more than a few minutes late. There’s a fine line between being fashionable and annoying the woman who’s waiting for you to turn up. If you’re too early she’ll be annoyed that she’s not ready. And if you’re too late, well, then you’re not eager enough and she’ll probably give you the cold shoulder all night. (Unless you have a really good excuse, something like a car accident or a death in the family that makes her feel guilty for cursing you before your arrival. And I’m afraid traffic or Underground delays—God forbid mentioning you rely on anything like public transport to see your beloved, unless she’s a committed environmentalist like Noreen—won’t do. You’re expected to allow for any such potential disasters.)
I need a gift that’s original. Something that shows I appreciate Camilla for more than just her beauty and her body. (Not to mention her social connections.) I don’t really know her tastes. I know she makes this funny little face—like a baby lion trying to roar, but without the sound—when she reaches orgasm, but that doesn’t help me here. I can hardly buy her a vibrator. Jewelry? No. Too much too soon. I may be wealthy and successful, but I’m certainly not desperate.
I walk down the road and try to visualize her apartment, searching for a clue. Suddenly it clicks. Her spare bedroom is a minilibrary filled with books. I can buy her a book. She lives alone, so those must be her books. A woman with a brain. A beautiful, sexy, wealthy, intelligent woman. Thank God we’ll have more to discuss over dinner than the latest colors of nail polish.
A book, yes, that’s what I’ll buy her. But which one? I decide to get her a copy of John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. He’s one of my favorite authors and that’s one of my favorite books, so at least if she’s one of those people who has to analyze every last page it won’t be too much of a chore for me.
As I climb the stairs to her flat, I suddenly have doubts. Is a book enough for her? Will she like it?
She should be flattered that I see her as more than a body built for great sex.
And there’s also the perfume. I don’t just come bearing a gift, I come bearing gifts.
I ring the bell at five past seven, perhaps a little too early, but I don’t really know her tastes.
Don’t think like Alex, Alexander. You don’t care what her tastes are.
That’s right. I show up when I’m ready to show up. Whether it’s early, late, or dead on time it’s what I want. (Alex was very punctual.)
Camilla opens the door and I forget to breathe for a moment. She is, simply, the most stunning woman I have ever seen in real life. And I know, right then, that she is exactly what I need. And what I want. Whatever doubts I might have been nursing that she wasn’t as beautiful as I remembered have fled. And then, I think, I’ve slept with her. I, Alexander Fairfax, have tasted her luscious lips, have felt her bare legs wrap around me, pulling me deeper inside her. I’m the kind of man beautiful women sleep with. I’m a stud.
I give her a broad smile and kiss her on the cheek as she invites me in. She closes the door and gives me a longer kiss, on the lips.
“These are for you,” I say, and hand her first the perfume (wrapped, of course) and then the book (it’s only in a bag but I don’t think she’ll mind).
“For me?” She gives me a slow smile and I know she’s used to this, that men always bring her presents, and then I’m doubly glad that I didn’t stop with the perfume. “Which one shall I open first?”
“The wrapped one,” I say, wanting to save the boo
k for last, partly to postpone the moment in case she doesn’t like it, partly not to distract from it if she does.
She opens the perfume and laughs. “You’ve done your homework.”
“So I have.” I step closer, take her in my arms and give her a big sniff.
She laughs. “Yes, yes, it’s my favorite. But I warn you, my favorites change. I get bored easily.” She says this with a smile, but I wonder if it’s some kind of warning. Does she go through lots of men? I bet she does. They’re probably queuing up, waiting for her to ditch her latest fling.
Well, thanks for the warning, Camilla. You just look after yourself and leave my life to me. I’m a big boy. I won’t get burned. My heart and soul are never going to be yours and my body, it would miss you, but it could cope with the loss.
I release her and step back, wanting to watch her face. I know she can feel it’s a book, but I can’t tell what she thinks of that. She opens the bag and pulls out the novel. “Thanks,” she says, and tosses the book on to a table in the hall. Camilla doesn’t smile.
She doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like it and I’m disappointed. I wanted her to like it.
“He’s a really good author,” I say.
Camilla picks up her handbag. “I know. I’ve tried him. I like his style.”
Then what’s the problem?
I stare at her, annoyed. Alex would shrug it off and pretend this wasn’t happening, but I’m not Alex. I won’t tolerate this sort of behavior. Amber certainly wouldn’t act like this.
“What’s the problem?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “I was expecting something else.”
And then it clicks. I know where she’s coming from.
Books are too inexpensive to give as presents. I’ll have to see how long I want to keep her around.
Being Alexander Page 13