Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  (the tenth, to be precise)

  When my mother rings me in the afternoon I’m so happy, so excited about everything that I have to force myself not to blurt out all that’s been happening. For I’m not stupid, I don’t want my mother to know about the darker side of my new and improved personality. She doesn’t need to know about my steps toward revenge. Let her just be proud of my success. That’s all she needs to know about.

  She quizzes me about my weekend and I tell her only that I went clubbing and worked. I’m tempted to tell her about seeing Madonna at the party, but I know it would come out wrong if I try to explain how I’m finally moving in the right circles. And, anyway, I’m Mr. Cool these days, I’ll be hanging out with lots of stars soon. It’s unbecoming to make a big deal of it and I have no desire to namedrop. It’s expected that I’ll hang out at those sorts of places with those sorts of people. Mum might not know it yet, but I do.

  Once the initial chitchat is out of the way and we’ve had some quality conversing time together, she gives away the ulterior motive behind this call. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your father’s birthday,” she says.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t.” How could I forget? She’s been reminding me weekly for over two months. If there’s one constant in my life, it’s got to be her: she has her ways and she sticks to them.

  “And you’ll be here for his birthday dinner?”

  “Yes, Mother. Next Monday. I’ll be there.”

  “Oh dear. It just occurred to me that Sarah won’t be coming. Unless you two have made up?”

  “No, Mother, Sarah will not be coming. We split up. Remember?”

  “I’m not senile, Alex. I was only hoping you’d come to your senses and forgiven her. Maybe you should give her another chance. She’s a really nice girl. We all make mistakes.”

  “Sarah is not a really nice girl. She was having an affair with my boss. I don’t want to forgive her.”

  “But maybe she’s learned her lesson. Maybe—”

  “Sarah is a slut. You really don’t want a woman like that for a daughter-in-law.” I don’t think she’s ever heard me use such a nasty tone of voice before. But what does she expect, harping on about Sarah like that? And I’m only speaking about Sarah the Whore. Sarah lost her right to my respect days ago.

  There’s an awkward pause while she’s waiting for me to say something more, but I don’t oblige her, I don’t want to talk about things. This isn’t an AA meeting.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Alex? Is something bothering you? Has something happened? You sound strange.”

  “Do I?” Is it so obvious I’m more confident and no longer the self-effacing, placating wimp I used to be?

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, everything’s great.” And it is. Life is wonderful. “Look,” I say, “I’ll see you next week. I’m really busy today.”

  I don’t hang up on her exactly—she is my mother—but I don’t give her time to start pestering me for more information. I say good-bye before I put the phone down. I really can’t be dealing with this right now.

  And yes, Mother, something has happened. I’ve changed. But I can hardly come right out and say, “I’ve changed, Mum. I’m Alexander now.” That would sound lame. And lame utterances no longer become me.

  I take a few minutes to calm myself. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. I picture Sarah abandoned and alone, Jed unemployed and poor, both friendless, both outcasts, both destroyed by me. And suddenly, as the images run through my mind, as I picture Jed huddled in a doorway somewhere, clutching a threadbare blanket and an empty bottle of beer, I start to smile. I’ve regained my equilibrium. I’m back in the zone. I’m happy again. I shouldn’t let my mother upset me. She means well. She always has.

  my new office

  A sharp-eyed estate-agent type in his mid-thirties is waiting for Camilla and me as we stroll up to the building at a couple of minutes to seven. (Camilla insisted on stopping to reapply her lipstick, making us a few minutes late when I wanted to be on time.) He launches into a clearly rehearsed spiel about the benefits of this area and the office itself.

  (I checked, the rate they’re offering is fantastic. I won’t find anything better. Not around here.)

  The building is well maintained. It’s old and stately in appearance and the interior is all polished wood and marble, yet the office available to me is surprisingly light and airy, a pleasant mix between the modern and the traditional. There’s a large reception area, a kitchen, three good-sized offices and a fourth that I decide to use as a meeting room. (No furniture, of course, I’ll have to provide that myself.) And there’s even a balcony. The view isn’t great, it looks over the back of another building, but if you lean precariously over the side you can just make out a small segment of the London Eye.

  I could be happy here. I could work here.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, interrupting our guide in midflow.

  Camilla frowns. “You didn’t ask if I like it,” she says to me. “I thought that’s why you wanted me along. Because you value my opinion.”

  Spoiled bitch.

  I stare at her for a second without speaking. She’s not so cute when she’s awake. Beautiful but not cute. You have to be cuddly and soft to be cute.

  “And do you like it?” I ask, in an even tone, my face blank.

  “Yes.” She smiles, instantly happy. “I think you should take it.”

  Well, I’m glad that’s settled, then.

  “Is that a yes?” asks the estate-agent type.

  I turn to him, glad for the distraction. “I’d like a one-year lease.” I’m not stupid, I’m going to have a proper contract. It’s all got to be signed and legal. Who knows how things will turn out with Camilla. And I have a feeling, just a feeling, that Camilla turns nasty when she’s let down, when she’s cross or when she just decides she’s had enough of you. I don’t want to have to worry about what will happen if all doesn’t go well between Camilla and me.

  It’s not that I want it to go wrong. She’s exactly what I’m looking for, but you can’t count on these things. You have to make allowances for extenuating circumstances.

  He hesitates. “We’d prefer a term of six months. And then we’d be willing to renew it under new terms.”

  I shrug. “One year. I don’t want to waste my energy moving in only to have to move again.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t force you to move, Mr. Fairfax.”

  No, you’d just raise the rents and try to charge me above market value to make up for the losses you’ll experience under this first lease.

  And in a year I expect I’ll need bigger offices and I’ll need to move anyway.

  “One year,” I say.

  He hesitates, his face slightly pale. He takes a deep breath, then he smiles, all business again. “Done.”

  He doesn’t like this. It’s obviously going to lose them a lot of money. That must be some favor Charles St. John has called in. I shrug. It’s nothing to me. Not really. Not once the papers are signed.

  We shake on it and I’m happy. This is it, then. My offices. Platypus-fox is truly in business now. These rooms will comfortably hold between fifteen or twenty employees. That should do for a year. (I was exaggerating when I said I’d take on all of the underpaid Wilmington-Wilkes staff. Some but not all. I wouldn’t want everyone anyway.)

  “I’d like the paperwork ready for tomorrow,” I say.

  “Certainly, Mr. Fairfax.”

  “And I’d like the lease to start on Wednesday. I’ll need a day to sort out insurance.”

  “Of course. If you could just pop round my office tomorrow afternoon and sign the papers, I can give you the keys first thing on Wednesday morning.”

  Camilla turns the full force of her beauty on the estate agent and smiles a brilliant smile. “Perhaps you could just leave the keys with us now?”

  She’s not even looking at me and I feel a little jolt pass through my body as I catch a glimpse of
her smile. She’s so gorgeous. And sexy. I want her. I want her right now.

  He blinks. “Tonight?” Clearly he’s not used to beautiful women paying attention to him.

  “Yes,” says Camilla. “I’d like to help Alexander with his interior-design ideas. We need to get working if he wants the best furniture. We don’t want to wait four weeks for his desk to arrive.”

  “Well—”

  “Great,” she says, stepping close to him and holding out her hand, “I knew you’d agree with me.”

  Dazed, he hesitates, then drops the keys into her hand.

  “Don’t worry,” says Camilla, “we don’t expect you to stay. You go on home. We’ll lock up.”

  And just like that he leaves.

  When he’s gone I grab Camilla and kiss her and she’s kissing me and right there in the reception we sink to the floor. We’re like wild animals, tearing at one another’s clothes, pushing them out of the way. We don’t bother removing anything, just slide things up and down and then I’m inside her and then she’s coming and I’m coming and I’m happy. The office has been christened.

  I let my breathing slow, relaxing for a moment, wanting to do it again, but Camilla stands and pulls down her skirt.

  What’s she doing? I’m not finished. I’m not ready to leave.

  “You’ll drive this weekend, won’t you? I detest driving in traffic.”

  “Hmm?” I’m still wondering why she’s not in my arms. Didn’t she enjoy it? She did enjoy it, didn’t she? She certainly seemed wild. But could I really tell the difference? Alex always thought Sarah was satisfied and look what happened there: she ran off with another man, a weedy, smug, skinny little bastard at that. Camilla’s not like that. Is she?

  But then she’s speaking again and I force myself to concentrate. Of course she enjoyed it, she instigated it, didn’t she?

  “What kind of car do you have?”

  “Car? Why? Does it matter?”

  She smiles a hard little smile. “Don’t be silly. Of course it matters. I can’t be seen in any old car. What would people say?”

  I sit up and run my fingers through my hair. The sex is clearly over for the moment.

  “I have a Jag.” I don’t tell her it’s in the garage being mended. (They’ve promised it’ll be ready by Friday.)

  “Oh, that’s okay then.” She suddenly sits on my lap, winding her legs around me. “I like Jags.”

  She starts to unbutton her shirt. I watch her fingers slowly parting the fabric. She’s teasing me, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

  “Do you want to spend the weekend at my parents’ house?” she asks. “If we’re going all the way out there for Charles’s meeting we might as well make a minibreak of it. We’re very close neighbors. It’d be convenient.”

  “Okay,” I say, catching a glimpse of her lacy white bra.

  I know she’s trying to manipulate me, but I don’t care. I want to meet her parents, I want to get more involved in her life. I need someone like her. She doesn’t have to use her body for sex to get what she wants, but I’m awfully glad she does.

  two more clients

  By five P.M. on Tuesday I feel higher than the time I accidentally drank the jug of orange juice and vodka my father had placed in the fridge before a party when I was ten. I was thirsty, I’d just come in from playing football and I drank all of it. For the first hour I was floating around. I was funny. I was hilarious. And then I was very, very sick. My father was angry with me. My mother was angry with my father. But I saw the humor in it all. Or I did two days later once I felt better. It’s a good experience for any preteen, I’d recommend it to parents: it put me off alcohol for years.

  My morning meeting went well; they signed me up straight away, but the afternoon appointment was more trying. For a second I could feel Alex-doubts and thought they were going to turn me down, but I carried on, I persevered, I talked and talked and persuaded them in the end.

  Ching. Ching. Ching. (The sounds of an old-fashioned till.)

  I now have five clients under my belt. Five. When I get to ten I’ll be content. At least for a week or two.

  I had a bit of spare time between meetings, so I signed my lease and set up the insurance. I’m all ready to move in tomorrow. As fond as I’ve grown of my daisies, having an office will beat working in a room full of boxes.

  never forget the revenge

  I can’t be selfish and have sex with Camilla on Tuesday. The world needs me. I have to remember my position as the protector and defender of the weak and meek. It’s time for a little revenge.

  Camilla is upset when I speak to her on Tuesday and tell her I’m busy, but I feel it’s good for her. And I do relent and make arrangements to see her on Wednesday night. She needs a night to pine for me. I mustn’t be too easy or she’ll lose interest. Remember, Alexander, nice guys never win.

  I go over my list of revenge. My plans are on schedule for Jed and Wilmington-Wilkes. I feel I’ve got Sarah in hand. Spotty youths who smash cars? Besides punching them on the nose I can’t see how I’m going to make much difference. (And I can hardly go around beating up nine-year-olds.) Maybe I should donate a bunch of money for CCTV cameras. That’s an idea. I’ll consider it. The men who mugged me? No, I’ll save that one up. Thomas and William at Wilmington-Wilkes? Not yet. Not yet. All in good time. The snooty librarian? Perhaps. I haven’t decided whether or not her actions merit a measure of vengeance.

  That leaves the Neanderthal at the pub who threw a glass into my face.

  Oi, those’re my wife’s tits you’re staring at.

  Yes, yes, this one I want to do. I’m in the mood.

  Now what would be the appropriate piece of poetic justice?

  Violence? No. He’d understand that. It wouldn’t be anything new. He needs to be taught a lesson.

  That leaves a good old-fashioned dose of humiliation.

  vengeance on the oi man

  The Oi Man. I call him that because it’s the first word I heard him say and I imagine it’s his favorite word. Oi this. Oi that. Oi, you.

  I haven’t quite decided what I want to do to him. I realize that the glass wasn’t aimed at me personally, but anyone who could break a glass and throw it across a crowded pub is a moron and a thug. He needs to be punished. And not just for the pain and angst he put me through, or for the scar along my temple that will probably fade over time but will never quite go away. No, he needs to be punished for humanity’s sake, maybe even taught a lesson, but I try at all times to be honest with myself and I seriously doubt I’ll have the patience to teach him anything lasting.

  Wait a minute. What am I saying? It’s not up to me to punish him for all of humanity. It’s a selfish world. I’m Alexander, not Alex the Loser. I’m punishing the Oi Man solely for the wrong he did to me. Nothing else. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and all that. Though I won’t enact literal vengeance. I doubt I’d enjoy smashing a glass in his face, and enjoyment is something I demand from my revenge. Vengeance is no fun if it’s a chore. No. I have to be clever. Very clever.

  Still pondering what form my revenge should take, I head to the pub where it all happened. I doubt they’ll recognize me. I was only Alex then, and besides, if they remember anything at all it’ll be all that blood. The tea towel I’d pressed to my head was like a sponge soaking up red dye. If it hadn’t been happening to me, it would have been fascinating to watch and I wouldn’t have cared who the poor bleeding bugger was, no, siree, not me.

  I approach the pub, walking the same route I had taken on that fateful night (there’s nothing deliberate or spooky about that, it’s the quickest way from the flat to the pub). My heart rate accelerates and it seems like I’m more aware, that I can hear things happening two streets away, that my eyesight is so sharp I can see the mole on a woman’s collarbone across the street. I am aware, I am ready. Is this what a spy feels like at the start of a mission? Is this the euphoria an SAS man or an American commando experiences immediately before parachuting into enemy
territory?

  With all the civility and professionalism of the past couple days, I’m ready for something different. To Camilla, to the world, I cannot show this side of myself. No, no, the predator has to remain hidden behind a veneer of affability. But I know, all successful men know, that to be a success takes more than just politeness: a degree of ruthlessness is required and this ruthlessness can’t be switched off, it can only be disguised. I am a man, and a mass of my testosterone is desperate for release. The Oi Man should never have messed with me.

  The pub is not quite like I remember it. It’s not so crowded (it’s Tuesday now instead of Friday night) and it’s not the seedy place I’d built it into in my mind. Inside it’s just a pub like any other pub across the country. It’s not the sort of place Alexander would frequent, but Alex would have liked it well enough. Actually, I did like it, Alex liked it. While I was here and chatting to Amber and the others I’d been able to stop thinking about the ruination of my career and the sad mess of my life. Until, that is, that glass smashed into my face and brought me back to reality with a jolt, forcing me to acknowledge what a sad bastard I was.

  I scan the room, not really expecting to see the Oi Man, but stranger things have happened. He’s not here and suddenly I’m relieved. I don’t have a plan, not a real plan, and I don’t want to confront him until I decide what to do.

  Go away, Alex, I scream inside. I, Alexander, want to confront the Oi Man. I need to see him, to get inspiration on how to bring him down a peg or two. How will he be punished if I don’t know where to find him?

  Is this the Oi Man’s local? It could be, but has he been back since the night of the fight? (If you can call it a fight.) The pub is half filled with a combination of builders (tanned, muscular, slightly rumpled) and office workers (pale, some thin, some flabby, all neat, with a desperate, slightly staring look in their eyes like they can’t believe their good fortunes in having a few hours’ respite away from the glare of their computer screens).