“Where are we going for dinner?” she asks.
“Mirabelle.”
Camilla kisses me lightly on the mouth, all smiles again. The restaurant obviously wins her approval. “In that case, I’m very hungry.”
I make a little bet with myself that she’ll order the priciest items on the menu. And then she’ll claim she’s too full, she’s eaten too much, how could she possibly manage it all?
introducing alexander
When we arrive at the restaurant Camilla is happy and flushed: she seems a different person from the petulant, spoiled brat I’d glimpsed at her apartment.
It takes ten minutes to reach our table, not from the neglect or slowness of the staff—on the contrary, they’re very attentive and they all appear to know Camilla and greet her as they pass: our progress is slow because Camilla seems to know half the diners and insists on treating our entrance as some sort of grand procession, stopping, however briefly, at all the tables along our route that contain her friends and acquaintances.
I forgive her for her earlier tantrum. I’m not with Camilla because I like her, I must remember that, I’m with her because of times like these.
“Darling,” she says, again and again, and leans down and kisses a few dozen people on the cheek (or the air near their cheek) as we make our way across the room. Others she merely smiles at. I wonder if we’re causing a commotion, but then I think not. This is one of those places in which people like to be seen.
To give her credit, Camilla is meticulous about introducing me to all the people she stops to greet. I meet City bankers, a marquess, the wife of the latest British Airways boss, a director of the English National Ballet, a crusty old High Court judge (a friend of Camilla’s father, I’m told), various young women of about Camilla’s age, most with double-barreled surnames that have centuries of wealth and breeding behind them, and a handful of women friendly with her mother from numerous charities and art committees.
I smile and make polite conversation, but mostly I watch Camilla. She is gracious and charming. But clearest of all I can see that she fits in. She’s one of the elite.
It must be obvious to her that I don’t come from the same background. I have no regional accent, although I grew up in Surrey, and my voice is crisp and precise, but not as posh as Camilla’s. Not that that’s necessarily a sign these days when the younger generation of toffs assume common accents, and brothers and sisters often sound as if they come from different social classes. But more telling is that I don’t know a single soul in this restaurant except Camilla.
I worry for a moment. Will she care? Will she think I’m a failure? That I have no prospects? Will she be like Sarah and think other men can offer more security?
My stomach heaves and I have to clench my jaw so no one will notice. I’m a nobody. One of the masses. Camilla matters. But me? The world wouldn’t notice if I sank into the ground and was swallowed up in a pool of sludge and quicksand. Only if my disappearance was witnessed and judged to be unusual would the world take notice. But if something happened to Camilla, well, there’d be a fuss. Those in authority would miss her, she’d be discussed, she’d be a topic of conversation up and down the drawing rooms of the land.
I take a deep breath, my smile frozen in place as Camilla greets more people. I am not a loser. Alex was a loser. It’s Alex’s fault I don’t know any of these people. I am not a loser. I am Alexander. Yes, I am. I am Alexander. My smile relaxes. I am Alexander. And soon they’ll all know it.
Camilla takes my hand and squeezes it. See? I knew it. She wants to be here with me. She’s proud of me; she’s showing me off.
And on our progress through the restaurant we’re invited out afterward for drinks. Each time Camilla looks at me, a question in her eyes, letting the decision rest with me. Part of me wants no more than to eat, go back to her place and fuck until dawn (she’s that good), but another part of me knows I can’t refuse, I need to make contacts. We’ll go out for a few hours, meet and mingle, and then we’ll go back to hers.
And each time we’re asked out, I nod and smile and say, “We’ll try and make it.” Like I’m some sort of gracious prince. Another two or three weeks and I will be. I’ll be a powerful man. I’ll be sitting in restaurants such as these and the people-in-the-know will hope I remember them when they stop by to say hello.
Alex was a pathetic worm, crawling around in the dirt and the dung of the earth. He would have smiled and been friendly and liked everyone, and they would have eaten him for breakfast. Alex wouldn’t have survived more than a day with this crowd. He would have been booted out. Alex wasn’t one of the elite, but Alexander is joining it.
Eventually Camilla and I reach our table. I was expecting a romantic tête-à-tête. I hadn’t thought tonight would be any more useful than in helping me to charm Camilla so that next time, or the time after, I could make use of her social contacts. But what a bonus. My plan is surging forward. I’ve set it in motion and now all I have to do is sit back and let events take their course, with a friendly nudge here and there, of course.
Camilla smiles at me, a dazzling smile that lights up her face, and for a moment I’m confused.
Did I misread her earlier? Were our signals getting crossed?
And how can a woman like her like me?
Stop it, you’re not Alex any more, I tell myself. I am not that man. I am Alexander.
Amber might be nice and sweet and mighty fine, Amber would have done for Alex, but Amber is not for me. Amber is not for Alexander: Amber can never give me what Camilla is giving me now, here tonight, what Camilla will give me the next time I take her out and the next and the next and the next.
I deserve women like Camilla. They’ll be crawling all over me soon. Camilla’s beautiful and great in bed and she certainly seems to have the right connections, but let’s not get confused here, she’s no angel. She’s probably fucked more men in one year of her life than I have women in the whole of mine. She’s what nice girls would call fast and easy, a loose woman.
And thank you, kind Fates, or whoever’s looking out for me. She’s just what I need.
Camilla will do nicely for now.
on my way up
Dinner is fantastic. The food is fabulous, the wine like ambrosia, Camilla’s company convivial, the atmosphere electric. I feel like a goldfish in a goldfish bowl, wondering if they’re all watching me, watching me watching them watching me, wondering who the man with Camilla is.
But I don’t fool myself. It’s not like that at all. Men must constantly be taking Camilla out to dinner. She’s that sort of girl. People probably don’t have time to sit back and wonder whom she’s dating. Is she here with a different man every week?
After the best apple tart concoction I’ve ever had in my life, we head to the flat of Harriet (her family’s London flat, not their real home), one of Camilla’s friends we bumped into at the restaurant.
I feel an ache in my groin and force myself to ignore it. I need Camilla’s connections. Sure, the sex is good, the sex is great, but it’s not the be-all and end-all. I can have sex with anyone, but not everyone can offer me the kind of life Camilla can. I need her support, her patronage, her introductions and then I’ll be off. I can handle it from there, I just need to meet people—meet them properly and make certain that I’ll see them again and that they’ll remember me. I’m one of the big boys now.
We ring the bell and Harriet opens the door. She’s a big, horsy-looking woman, obviously not a townie, and though she wasn’t wearing tweeds and Wellingtons at the restaurant, she looked like she ought to have been. She seems rather tipsy and throws her arms around Camilla with a cry of joy.
I take advantage of the moment and my eyes scan the room. There were eight of them at dinner, but the flat is crowded. It’s obviously turned into a small party.
After a moment Harriet and Camilla pull apart and Harriet turns to me. Her face is flushed and I think, cruelly, that it does nothing for her complexion, but I push those thoughts
away and smile at her. “Hi, Alexander,” says Harriet, pumping my hand up and down enthusiastically. (She remembers my name. She remembers my name.) “Glad you could make it.”
An older woman, thinner than Harriet but with the same strong jaw and wide-eyed stare, sees us and approaches. “Darling,” she says to Camilla, as she kisses her cheek, “it’s so good to see you. And you look well. Your mother will be thrilled when I tell her you came to visit.”
Camilla laughs. “It’s all his fault,” she says, meaning me. “He insists on being respectable.”
The woman, obviously Harriet’s mother, raises an eyebrow and looks at me.
Camilla introduces us. “Grace, I’d like you to meet Alexander. Alexander Fairfax. Alexander, this is Grace St. John. Harriet’s mother.”
“How do you do?” says Grace, and shakes my hand. She’s frowning and staring at me, obviously trying to place me.
Well, tough luck, lady. You won’t know me. You won’t have heard of me. Alex had control of my life way too long for any of that. Deal with it. Enjoy meeting one of the people.
“The pleasure is mine,” I say, and give her what I hope is a charming smile.
“Have you known Camilla long?” asks Grace. She’s wondering who I am, trying to discover if I’m worthy of Camilla, if I’m grand enough to be welcomed into her home with open arms.
Shove it up your rectum. You’ve no right to question me. No right to look down your snooty nose and judge me your inferior. The tables are turning, Grace, the tables are bloody well flipping over in their rush to do my bidding. You’d better be pleasant before I decide to step on you and crush your face into the ground. I make a bad enemy, Gracie, a fucking bad enemy. And I never forgive a slight. However polite the terms in which it’s issued.
“Not as long as I would like,” I say aloud, and the answer seems to please her, for she smiles a little and relaxes.
“Charles,” she calls, not really raising her voice, but a big, florid gentleman, looking like a nineteenth-century country squire, hears her from across the room and approaches.
“Charles, look who’s here,” says Grace, when he reaches our little group.
Charles looks at me and raises his brows, then he sees Camilla chatting animatedly to Harriet. “Milla,” he says, and gives her a big hug.
Harriet and Grace roll their eyes at one another and then Harriet grins at me, including me in their minor despair.
Camilla laughs. “No one’s called me that since I came to London.”
“Nonsense,” says Charles. “You’ve been Milla since you were three weeks old and my Harriet couldn’t manage all three syllables. You’ll always be Milla to me. And how are you, Milla? Is London treating you well? You look good so I would have to say it is, but I was rather hoping you wouldn’t like it. Poor Harriet has been distraught—she has no one to giggle with now that you’re gone.”
Camilla glances at me, trying to make me feel included. “Our families are neighbors in Gloucestershire,” she explains.
This seems to interrupt his train of thought, for Charles turns back to me with a frown. “Do I know you?” he asks. He says it in such a way that makes it obvious he knows he doesn’t, that he’s never heard of my family, that he’s skeptical of my prospects.
My stomach does a little jump, it’s like I’m free-falling from the top of a roller-coaster that’s lumbering out of control. He’s not polite, he goes for the jugular. Alex would die of embarrassment.
“Charles, don’t be rude,” says Grace. “This is Alexander Fairfax.”
He shakes my hand. “Alexander Fairfax. Alexander Fairfax.” He thinks a moment. “Any relation to the Oxfordshire Fairfaxes?”
“Not that I know of,” I say.
“Alexander is in advertising,” says Camilla.
She inserts this quickly. Is she on my side? Does she want me to win their approval or doesn’t she care?
“Is that so?” asks Charles. He’s obviously uncertain about this. Advertising is a big field. And not everyone involved is successful.
Camilla smiles and takes my arm. “He has his own company.”
“Ah,” says Charles. That’s obviously better. “Anything we’d know?”
Grace sighs. “You’ll have to forgive my husband,” she says to me. “He had a bump on the head in the night and has forgotten all his manners.”
“I’d be surprised if you’ve heard of me already,” I say, smiling at Grace to show her I heard, smiling at them all, deliberately dropping my news like a bomb, “I’ve only been in business for a week.”
I can feel Camilla’s surprise. And her unease. I know she’s thinking, Only a week? She drops my arm like it’s a hot piece of charcoal that jumped out of a barbecue pit, trying to fit in where it doesn’t belong. Does she want to dump me back into my dank little hole? Is that where she thinks I’ve come from?
She hasn’t stepped away, but she’s tense, her eyes aren’t so warm, she’s ready to disassociate herself from me in an instant if I don’t measure up.
That’s right, Alexander, you’re being judged. Remember that. You’re not the only one calling the shots. There are plenty of others out there who want to be king of the jungle. Who already think of themselves as king of the jungle, and they don’t take kindly to young pretenders.
“A week?” Charles glances at Camilla. He doesn’t know whether or not to disapprove. “Do you have any clients?”
“Yes. Marriott Hotels, to name just one.”
“Your only client?” asks Charles.
“I have three, I’m expecting four more to sign on this week.”
He looks impressed, despite himself. It’s not bad for a week. “And before that?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were Camilla’s father,” I say.
There’s a momentary silence. I wonder suddenly if I’ve inadvertently stumbled on to some dark truth, but then Charles bursts out laughing and claps me on the back. I can feel the tension draining away from the women and they’re relaxed now. The worst is clearly over.
Camilla takes my hand and smiles at me. I’m acceptable now, am I?
“I like you, boy,” says Charles. “I like you.” He winks at Camilla. “Think of me as an old family friend. I am an old family friend. And Camilla’s godfather. Who did you work for before last week?”
I smile. “Wilmington-Wilkes.” I know this will impress him. It’s a good firm. Except for the rotten boss at the top.
“Ah.” He nods. “Never did like that old bastard. I can see why you’d want to leave.”
“Charles,” says Grace, her face heavy with disapproval.
I feel a burst of warmth toward Charles. I like him now. I can forgive him for his earlier aggression. He’s obviously a good judge of character.
“Kenneth and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye,” I say.
Charles claps me on the back again, a firm believer in the old-school heartiness-of-men theory. “I’m sure you didn’t.” He turns to his wife. “Where’s one of my cards?” he asks her.
Grace, long used to his ways, reaches into his breast pocket, withdraws a card and hands it to him.
He glances at it in satisfaction. “Never could keep track of the damn things. Here,” he says, handing it to me, “give me a call tomorrow and we’ll set something up. I want to hear some of your ideas.”
I glance at his card. Sir Charles St. John. And a telephone number. Not a company card. A personal card. I wonder what he does. Does he not work? “Thank you,” I say.
“Call me,” he says, turning to greet some new arrivals.
Grace smiles at me. “It was lovely to meet you, Alexander. I hope we see you again.”
Harriet studies me carefully as her mother walks away to mingle with other guests. “I don’t know if we can allow you to stay,” says Harriet.
“What?” What’s this? Have they seen through me? But I’m not Alex, not now. I haven’t been him for days. I am Alexander. I fit in. I’m one of them. I am.
/> Harriet laughs. “My father seems to like you.” She shares a smile with Camilla. “My father doesn’t approve of men under forty. No one’s good enough for me. And no one’s good enough for Camilla.”
Camilla smiles. “Enough. No more Spanish Inquisition.” She’s on my side now, pressing against me, making it obvious to one and all that we’re a couple. Clearly I’ve passed some sort of test.
Was that the real reason Camilla wanted to come along tonight?
We stay an hour, during which Camilla tells me that Charles is on the board of several well-known charities: Save the Children, WWF, Oxfam, and dozens of smaller organizations. She tells me he’s very influential, that he can make recommendations for advertising and promotional campaigns. I smile. Now that I have been accepted Camilla is already helping to promote my career. She’s deliberately helping to promote my career. She must like me. She must want to keep me around.
Mustn’t she?
We go back to Camilla’s.
I spend the night. Eventually we sleep. Need I say more?
I don’t expect life to be totally fair, but I want people to make a stab at it
In our desperate desire not to offend anyone, we’ve gone mad. It’s PC-this, PC-that, we’re not allowed so much as to sneeze without getting prior approval and worrying it’s going to offend some group or the other. I’ve had enough of political correctness.
Take my gym, for example.
Every Wednesday night is ladies’ night. From eight until closing I am forbidden to use the facilities in my gym, to go beyond the front desk. What do they get up to in there? Wild orgies? Male-bashing parties?
Yes, I can understand that women don’t want to be leered at, but things aren’t that bad. And, besides, a woman can wear a baggy T-shirt and baggy shorts or even tracksuit bottoms if she wants to hide herself away and I can guarantee you that most of us men will respect a pretty blatant signal like that. The Alex of old never stared at women at the gym, he was too busy exercising. That is, after all, what people go there to do.
Being Alexander Page 14