Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  It rings. And rings. And finally the door is thrown open and Camilla says, “Come in,” and stalks across the room to her sofa.

  Ah. Call me clever. I sense trouble.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say. I should have stopped and bought her a present. I should have phoned. If I want to keep Camilla on my side, if I want to use her connections, I need to think about these things.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Camilla throws herself on to the sofa and picks up the remote control, turning up the volume, watching an episode of The Simpsons I’ve seen three or four times.

  (Name a show. Name any television show, excluding soaps, and I can guarantee that if I’ve only seen one single episode of that series from all its years of broadcast, I’ll have seen that one episode two, three, or even four times. Years apart, but it’s true. I seem to exist in some weird sort of Twilight Zone, that whenever I fancy a repeat showing of Seinfeld or Frasier or Friends, Home Improvement or, indeed, The Simpsons, the only episode I have ever seen of that particular show will be on. Is this some kind of sod’s law that has yet to be discovered?)

  I join Camilla on the sofa, sitting close but not so close that she’ll pull away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying for a note of sincerity.

  She shrugs, eyes focused on Homer and Bart.

  I take her hand. “It was thoughtless of me. I should have rung.”

  She doesn’t look at me, but she lets me hold her hand. I give it a little squeeze and start to stroke her fingers.

  “I was working on some new ideas at the office,” I tell her, “and I got carried away. I was going to phone, but my mobile needs charging.”

  Lying, telling her what she wants to hear, is so much better than the truth.

  I scoot closer to her on the sofa, my thigh just brushing hers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, trying to sound guilty.

  (I don’t feel guilty.)

  I think I’ve succeeded, for she turns and looks at me. She’s still frowning and her expression is tense, but at least she’s acknowledging my existence now. Her reaction, the drama she forces into every scene, reminds me why I didn’t want another girlfriend right away, but these are extenuating circumstances. (I wonder if Camilla sees herself as my girlfriend or if, like me, she thinks we’re just trying things out, going for a test run, so to speak.) I need a woman like Camilla. I need Camilla. And she is so very, very good in bed.

  “Did you make any plans for this evening?” I ask.

  “I’m hungry,” she says. Grudgingly, with no warmth, wanting me to suffer a little longer. “I’d like to eat.”

  “Why don’t we head over to my offices and look through the decorating and furniture catalogues I’ve collected? We could pick up a take-away and eat it there.”

  She shudders. “I don’t eat take-away.”

  “Then we’ll go out to dinner first.” I stroke her thigh. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  And then she bursts into tears and I pull her into my arms. “Hey,” I say, “what’s wrong?”

  “I thought you were dead. I thought something horrible had happened to you. And I was so angry when you turned up all smiling and cheerful when I’d been so worried.”

  I stroke her hair. “Hush. Hush. It’s all right. I won’t let it happen again.”

  She pulls away, wiping her eyes. “You promise?”

  “I do.” I cross my fingers behind her back where she can’t see them.

  Why do we do this? Why would such a childish gesture give me permission to voice a lie without making me into a liar? What’s the logic behind that? It must be descended from some mystical, magical spell from olden times, but we do it without knowing why we do it.

  And why did I even bother? I’ve got nothing against lying. Not when I’m the one doing the lying.

  another day, another client

  I’m like an unstoppable steamroller. No, a vacuum cleaner, a Hoover, sucking clients away from the carpet that is Wilmington-Wilkes. I am bloody invincible.

  It’s now Thursday afternoon and I have yet another client. Seven presentations, seven clients. I know in my heart of hearts that this cannot continue, that at some point I may run out of ideas, that at some time in the near future I’ll be—gasp—turned down, but it’s inevitable and I decide grandly, with a wave of my hand, that I won’t mind, that I’ll forgive whoever it is, that I won’t hold it against them personally.

  I’m back at the office and I’m sitting on the floor, enjoying the novelty of it, knowing that the furniture is arriving tomorrow and that this won’t be a long-term thing. The design Camilla and I decided on (she has expensive tastes, I’ll give her that) is sold by a friend of her father’s and she’s managed to furnish my entire office at cost. (And ensured I jump to the front of the queue. The desk I want for myself isn’t kept in stock, but they’re giving me one that someone else ordered so I’ll have everything all at once.)

  That’s the secret of wealth. The more wealth you have the less you have to pay for things. Sort of like a reverse taxation where the poor people, the middle classes with all their striving for the trappings of success, pay full price and subsidize the discounts of the rich.

  Camilla’s opening my eyes to a whole new world and I am amazed at how much fun it is. I thought I’d enjoy it, I’ve known all along that I’d like being one of those at the apex of the pyramid rather than at the base, but it’s good up here, it’s damn good, and it’s where I want to stay. And Camilla seems to want to be with me. With me. I stare at the spot in the reception room where we had sex last night and where I think the receptionist’s desk should go when it arrives and I snap out of it.

  Of course she wants to be with me. I am successful and charming and popular. Everyone loves me.

  Love?

  Do I want her to love me?

  Maybe I do. It would make things a hell of a lot easier if she doted on my every word and command.

  The idea has possibilities. I don’t love her, I don’t know if I’ll ever love anyone again, it seems foolish to let yourself be ruled by so capricious an emotion as love, but I would like it if she loves me. I need a woman like her. I’ve found Camilla; so I may as well try and keep her. She’s easy on the eyes and she seems a reasonable sort of companion, and I certainly can’t complain about the physical side of our relationship, if relationship it is.

  I doodle on a pad, brainstorming for ideas for Charles St. John’s charity. Ethics in genetic engineering. I want something futuristic. There’s e-mail and v-mail for electronic mail and video mail. I need something suitably catchy. I know Wilmington-Wilkes, I worked there for long enough so I should know the way the company thinks. Kenneth will come along on Saturday and present some clever acronym like EDGE, Ethical Decisions in Genetic Engineering. Or, if they’re more desperate just EG, Ethical Genetics, or EEG, Ethically Engineered Genetics. Don’t think they’ll go with GOD, Geneticists Opposed to Debate or Geneticists Opposed to Discussion.

  My bet goes on EDGE or something similar. Kenneth would like it. Kenneth may even come up with it himself. He thinks he’s good at catchy little phrases. And sometimes he is. We all get lucky.

  I need to think about who these men are. They’re all likely to be wealthy and successful, and I imagine most see the business possibilities inherent in genetic engineering. So generally they’d support it, with perhaps a few qualms and a few more worries, which is why they want to promote ethics. And it’s always good for the punters. Calm a few of society’s uneasy speculations. It’s better to support a company that signs up to ethical charters than companies that don’t. Hmm. That’s got to influence my choice of names.

  There’s e-trade, e-mail. How about e-dig? Ethics—decisions in genetics? Nope. Too boring. Not enough punch.

  What about e-genes? E-genes. Yep. That’s the one.

  If the charity gets in there quickly they can claim this name. It can stand for Ethical Genes, Ethical Genetics, even Engineered Genes. It’s perfect. It’s a word describing a thing but can come to r
epresent the ethics of it all. Just think of it: one day, maybe ten, twenty, thirty years down the road, expectant parents are going to talk about how many e-genes their child is going to have. Or maybe not. Maybe E-genes the charity will stop such activities; maybe they’ll promote only the growing of replacement organs from our own DNA and the less controversial uses of Gen Eng. (Gen Eng, another name Kenneth would like, if it’s not already in use.)

  return of the angelic son

  I ring my mother and apologize for being short with her when she rang the other day. (She’s my mother, I don’t need to be Alexander tough with her. She’s not one of the ones who deserves to suffer. She doesn’t need to pay for anything.) Her instant forgiveness makes me smile. I know that she’s mentally reapplying the halo over my head even as we speak. I’ve always been her golden boy.

  “No, it’s my fault,” she says, “I shouldn’t have been asking you about Sarah.”

  “That’s okay. I know you meant well.” Control, control, it’s all about control. She doesn’t need to know my true thoughts about that woman.

  There’s a pause and I know my mother wants me to elaborate, that she genuinely thinks it would be a good thing for me to tell her all about my split with Sarah, but I don’t. I’m protecting my mother; she wouldn’t want to know all the sordid details, it would upset her. I sit back in my chair and relax. I can deal with this conversation. I can deal with my mother. She loves me. She loves me no matter who I am or what I do. It’s up to me to shield her from the truth.

  After a moment my mother speaks again, her tone different now, my previous testiness forgiven and dismissed.

  “Our new neighbors, the ones who moved into the old vicarage, are having a party on Saturday night and it just struck me that you might like to come. They have two gorgeous daughters just a few years younger than you, identical twins, and I know you’d get along smashingly.”

  The thought of a pair of gorgeous twins is tempting. I’ve not known any identical twins, but I doubt my mother’s rating of gorgeous would match my own and, besides, I’m busy. “Sorry,” I say, “I already have plans for the weekend.”

  “But you’re still coming to your father’s dinner on Monday?”

  “Yes, Mum.” I smile. That’s reminder number eleven, even if it’s camouflaged as a genuine question. “And I’ve invited someone. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “You’ve invited someone?” she asks. “A date?”

  I can hear the smile in her voice. And just like that she’s hoping that I have a new girlfriend, that there’ll be a new woman in the picture, that she’ll be able to hope for wedding bells, after all.

  “A friend,” I say. “One of my flatmates.”

  “A female friend?”

  “Yes, Mum, a female friend. You should know that she’s a vegetarian.”

  “You know all about her eating habits, do you?”

  “We share a kitchen. It’s come up in conversation.”

  “I’ll fix her my special nut roast, but check with her and let me know if she doesn’t eat nuts. I’ll have to make certain your father doesn’t wear that orange paisley tie of his. We wouldn’t want to frighten her off.”

  “She’ll survive,” I say.

  And then she’s off, she’s rambling about this and that, but she hasn’t fooled me: I know she’s dying to meet Amber. I let my mother talk, for it makes her happy. She’s a firm believer in communication.

  details and disappointment

  (but don’t forget the opportunity)

  The good news is that my beloved Jaguar XKR will be ready for collection by lunchtime tomorrow as promised and Camilla won’t be forced to soil herself in a mere hire car. The bad news? I don’t have any.

  I wonder if Camilla has some kind of cutoff point. Is it the value of the car she objects to? Does it have to cost over forty thousand, or even fifty thousand, to be acceptable for her to ride in? Or is it the brand name that matters? And what about lower-end BMWs? I’m sure she likes the name, but you can pick up a decent three series for around twenty. Would that be expensive enough? Or is it the look of the car? Does it have to be sleek and fast or classical and elegant? And what about 4x4s? Are they trendy enough for her? Or too trendy?

  I’ll never understand her.

  I spend the last hour of my workday on endless details and it’s boring but necessary.

  (The temp starts tomorrow. Hurrah.)

  My mobile rings and I wonder for a second if it’s a client, if I’m needed, if someone wants my expertise, but it’s Camilla and I taste the sour tang of disappointment.

  “Darling,” she says, purring in a way to make that word seem special, reserved for me, when, in fact, I know she calls everyone darling. “I’m afraid I have to cancel tonight.”

  Cancel? She’s canceling on me? How dare she? Doesn’t she know that I don’t respond kindly to being taken for granted?

  “Della’s having a crisis,” says Camilla. “I’ve got to go to her.”

  Della? Camilla says her name like I should know who she is. I frown and then it hits me. Della. The blonde from the club. That Della.

  “What’s happened?” I try to modulate my voice and make it sound sympathetic.

  “Man trouble,” says Camilla, and I can picture her waving her hands in the air as she talks. She’s very good with her hands. “Simon’s dumped her.”

  “Simon?”

  “He was at Seb’s last week. Della’s been lusting after him for absolutely ages and they finally got together at the party, but now he’s dumped her. She’s devastated. Absolutely devastated.”

  Devastated? After a week? Embarrassed, humiliated, that I’ll accept, but devastated? Please. Devastation has got to be reserved for the engaged, the cohabiting, or the married. Distraught, disappointed, even desolate I’ll accept, but a week is not long enough for complete and utter destruction.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” says Camilla. “I know we were planning on dinner, but we’ll be together all weekend.”

  “No, of course I don’t mind. You go ahead.” I bloody well do mind. I was looking forward to the sex. How dare she leave me in the lurch like this?

  an evening on my own

  I catch a cab home and as I sit in the back stuck in a traffic jam midway between my office and the flat (sheer weight of traffic or an accident), I decide there’s no reason I have to suffer this enforced solitude. Camilla may be otherwise occupied but that doesn’t mean I have to sit on my own in my room counting daisy petals. I was expecting female companionship and there’s no reason I shouldn’t have female companionship. I’m not a man who copes well with celibacy.

  Oh, Alex, he was okay with it, he once went eleven months between shags, but now, as Alexander, I don’t like to let it build up for more than a day. It’s not healthy.

  I give Kate a ring, foresight having caused me to program her number into my mobile, but there’s no answer. Where the hell is she? Why isn’t she waiting by the phone for my calls? Ungrateful woman. It’s only been a few days since Sunday. I told her I was going out of town. Her answering machine clicks in and I leave a message, telling her I’m in the city tonight. (Thursday, I say, to avoid confusion.)

  The traffic clears and the cab starts to move. My mood lifts as suddenly as the jam disperses.

  Why am I being all grouchy and out of sorts?

  This is a free evening. I’ve been let off Camilla’s hook for a night. I am young and rich and free and single (no commitments, Camilla, remember that). I can do anything I want to do.

  workout

  First things first. The Oi Man’s not stupid. He’s not about to sit around and ponder the identity of the man—the insane man—who sent him the photos. No, that’s not the Oi Man’s style. He’ll be after revenge, just like I was. He’ll talk, he’ll listen to the word on the street, and when that fails (I was pretending to be Alex, I was pretending to be him, no one will remember me, Alex is not memorable, Alex could wear a badge with his name and address and national insuran
ce number on it and still no one would remember him), he’ll go to the police. The Oi Man will carefully destroy the more scandalous of the Mrs. Oi Man photos (I wonder how many pubs he’ll visit before he’s satisfied he’s found them all; his friends are bound to find at least one or two and that will set the Oi Man’s reptilian brain to wondering, his blood to boiling, his fists clenching, and leave him with an overwhelming urge to beat some sorry fool into a great bloody pulp).

  But will he find all the photos? Each and every one? Or will one or two lurk in the deep and the dark and jump out at him in a week or two or even three?

  He’ll go to the police claiming harassment. (He’ll enjoy complaining to them and giving them a piece of his mind, blaming them for not keeping his family safe. He’s a taxpayer, after all, he’ll think it’s about bloody time the police did something for him rather than persecuting him like they normally do whenever his lawful business just happens to take him too near the scene of a crime.) The Oi Man will tell the police that his wife is being stalked and he’ll toss the photos of Mrs. Oi Man in her dressing gown down on to the counter like a gauntlet. (But only the photos where she is alone.)

  The lover will be airbrushed out of the story. The Oi Man will never admit that he’s a cuckold.

  If the police take him seriously, and I know they’ll at least look into it, they’ll search for the Oi Man’s enemies and eventually, eventually, they might find out about the night the Oi Man glassed me. I could even be a routine inquiry as the incident—my incident—took place at one of the photo gallery pubs. (They’ll find me easily enough, all my details are in police records.)

  Poor little Alex with a broken glass in his face.

  And what if the police think there’s something fishy going on? What if I act too cool and self-assured? If I play it too forgiving or too angry? Would they begin to suspect me?