Beta Male

by Iain Hollingshead

  It was my mum’s turn to make life more difficult first. On leaving the office I rang home to tell my parents that they were not going to be losing a son but gaining a daughter-in-law. My dad was delighted, mainly because I didn’t tell him that it was Jess who had proposed (thank God she hadn’t completed my emasculation by asking him for permission), but also, I think, because he has a small, secret crush on her. It’s not difficult for girls to win over their prospective fathers-in-law. All they have to do is listen attentively, flirt gently and give off a quiet impression of being fertile, honest, intelligent and unlikely to embarrass the extended family by giving the grandchildren ridiculous names or ending up in jail, divorced or on reality television. It is much the same in reverse for men and their prospective mothers-in-law.

  Convincing the in-law of the same sex, however, is a much thornier task.

  ‘Your father tells me you’re engaged,’ said my mum after he had congratulated me warmly and handed over the phone. ‘Is it Jess?’

  ‘No, Mum, it’s someone I met on the street this morning. Of course it’s Jess.’

  ‘Then commiserations,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll be very unhappy.’

  My mum seems to think I’m still at the primary school where she used to teach, my ability to make sensible autonomous decisions stalled for ever at the age of ten and three-quarters.

  ‘I’ve told you before, Alan,’ she droned on, ‘she’s bad news, that girl. You could do much better. What about Lisa? You always got on very well with her.’

  ‘She’s married, Mum. I went to her wedding, remember?’

  ‘Or Hayley? Your father and I always liked Hayley.’

  ‘She’s a lesbian.’

  ‘Or Claire? We liked her when Sam brought her round last Christmas. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Nothing at all is wrong with Claire, Mum. She’s a good friend. But I just don’t fancy her.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t fancy your father when I first met him. But we soon – ’

  For the first time in my life I hung up on my mum. It wasn’t just that I had no intention of listening to the technicalities which had led to my birth – like most children with two siblings, I like to cling to the notion that my parents have only made love on three occasions, at least two of them on Valentine’s Day – I was also genuinely offended that my mum still hadn’t come round to Jess after all this time.

  I’d feared it from the start, of course. I didn’t introduce Jess to my parents for ages – partly because Jess can be a bit of an unintentional snob and I stupidly thought she would dump me if she saw where I had grown up, but mainly because I knew that my mum, the world’s least successful class warrior, just wouldn’t take to her. The first time they met, three years after we’d started going out, at an awkward Sunday lunch in London, my mum excelled herself by disparaging Jess’s job before we’d even finished our starter – ‘You can only be a barrister if you’ve been to private school, can’t you?’ The atmosphere didn’t improve when she asked during the main course whether Jess’s mum cooked her own roast or had a servant to do it for her. The parting promise that ‘we shouldn’t leave it so long until next time’ was happily broken on all sides.

  Maybe it’s not a class thing at all. Maybe my mum only likes my female friends who don’t constitute a threat. Maybe she doesn’t think anyone is good enough for me. Or perhaps it’s simply third-and-final-child syndrome. Whatever it was, she had never made any effort to be anything more than coolly civil towards Jess and it really, really annoyed me. There were flaws in my mum’s relationship with my dad, but I didn’t point them out. So what business of hers was it who I ended up with? I was the one who had to live, sleep, procreate, holiday, grow old and die with the person I married, not her. She could just see them at Christmas, and funerals.

  It was not, therefore, in the best of moods that I turned my phone off for the evening and went round to Jess’s flat after work. I was always going to Jess’s flat after work, partly because she lived nearby, on the South Bank, but mainly because she disliked north London almost as much as she appeared to dislike Sam.

  I arrived before Jess had got home and bumped into her flatmate, Olivia, lugging a large suitcase down the stairs.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Olivia, putting down her case and surprising me with a hug. She worked in the same chambers as Jess and I hadn’t known her very long. ‘Can I see the ring?’

  ‘No,’ I said, a little too abruptly. I’d managed to bury that painful incident at the back of my mind and didn’t welcome it resurfacing. ‘It’s at home.’

  ‘Well, then, you better bring it along to your new home,’ said Olivia with a smile sweeter than I deserved. ‘Or I think we both know you’ll be in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘You’re moving out?’ I asked, dumbly gesticulating at the suitcase.

  ‘Of course,’ said Olivia. ‘And more importantly, you are moving in.’

  ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of any of this.’

  Olivia shrugged. ‘Really? Well, welcome to the rest of your life with Jess.’

  After I’d helped Olivia to load the rest of her stuff into her brand new Mini – most of Jess’s friends were far too flash for my liking – I let myself into ‘our’ flat with Olivia’s key and sat, fuming, in the empty bedroom to await the return of my fiancée. This would probably become our study, I thought bitterly. She would paint it ‘fuchsia pink’. If I was lucky, I’d be allowed a small corner for my music collection, a desk and a laptop which she’d monitor ruthlessly for any signs of suspicious online activity. The bedroom would be lightly fragranced with a hint of pine. Socks would have to be stored in my third of the cupboard, and not on the floor. The radio alarm would be set permanently to Magic FM. We’d have to make the bed together in the mornings. The bathroom… No, don’t get me started on the bathroom.

  ‘YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE ME USE SCENTED BUBBLE BATH, AREN’T YOU?’

  It was a strange accusation with which to greet Jess when she finally arrived home an hour after me. But I was so worked up that I felt an uncharacteristic desire to be entirely irrational about everything. The result was a full-blown, no-holds-barred argument during which we danced around each other like prizefighters, landing painful blows in all the weakest spots. There’s no point spending years getting to know someone really well unless you can use that knowledge to your advantage in a fight.

  So I accused her of being manipulative and she countered by calling me lazy and vacillating, to which I retorted that she was controlling, which prompted her to tell me that I never listened to her, which I didn’t hear because I wasn’t listening, which made her even more angry, which made me angry as I had run out of insults to hurl at her, so I just shouted something nonsensical and she shouted something nonsensical back and called me stupid so I called her fat and then she threw a shoe at me, which I caught because it wasn’t a very good throw, so she started laughing, and then I laughed, too, and we had furious make-up sex and everything was okay again.

  It wasn’t an unfamiliar pattern.

  As we lay together afterwards in our new bed, which wasn’t really ‘new’ at all, of course, because I had slept there a thousand times before, Jess asked me what was really wrong and I told her the truth because we were in a grown-up relationship. So I said that I was concerned about losing my independence, that I was also a little worried about missing my friends, who seemed to be having a whole lot more fun than me (I didn’t mention the specifics; she’d disapprove). I told her that the whole engagement thing had left me feeling doubly shaken because it had come out of the blue for me, and that I felt as though I was no longer in control of anything and I didn’t like it when she made decisions without me.

  I rambled on, sometimes coherently, often not, while Jess listened and soothed and explained and skilfully made everything seem all right again without actually giving an inch on one issue of importance. Did I want to get married? Then what did it matter if she had asked me? Did I want to live together? T
hen what difference did it make if we lived at hers or mine? I could never throw Sam out of my uncle’s flat. Matt could take my place and keep him company. Neither of them could survive in London, in any case, without mates’ rates.

  We barely left that bed until Monday morning, ordering in food and DVDs, making love and discussing our future – honestly and openly – until I was in no doubt that this was the girl I loved, and wanted to love until the day I died.

  We spent the rest of that week in post-engagement bliss, too, rushing home from work simply to spend time together. And then, on Friday afternoon, just as I was about to leave work early in order to pick up the more traditional engagement ring I’d had commissioned, Amanda stuck her head round her office door and beckoned for me to join her inside.

  ‘I really do have to leave soon, Amanda,’ I said, determinedly. She had been very quiet since the recent outburst. Perhaps my tactic of standing up to her had worked after all.

  ‘That’s okay, Alan,’ she said with a small smile. ‘It won’t take long.’ She closed the door behind me, took a chair and smoothed down her expensive charcoal business suit. Amanda never really did dress-down Fridays. She gave another fake half-smile. ‘Now, I don’t really feel I’ve congratulated you properly on your engagement. So, congratulations. Being engaged suits you. You look happy. More confident. And so you should. It’s an exciting time for a young man, of course. You’ll be thinking of getting a bigger place together, probably. Maybe even starting a family. Your career will be taking off as well, I hope.’ She frowned, every conniving muscle in her taut, attractive face playing its part, and pushed a stray strand of blonde hair back behind her ear. ‘It would certainly be a very bad time for your job to go wrong. Just imagine how awful the timing would be if you got a poor review now. Just imagine if you were passed over for promotion. Or even sacked. Would Jess still marry you? She’s in love with a hotshot young accountant, right? Not a loser washout.’ Amanda edged her chair a little closer to mine, her blue eyes boring directly into mine. ‘So what’s it to be, Alan?’

  I looked at my boss evenly. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Amanda leant forwards, put a hand on my knee and whispered in a voice of mad, piercing authority: ‘Fuck me, Alan. Fuck me before you get married to that fat barrister tart of yours or I’ll destroy your career.’

  Chapter Eleven

  If ever there were a case of Beauty and the Beast, it was the moment Ed collapsed drunkenly into my arms while Rosie, the divine junior analyst, looked on in confusion. One moment we were en route to an expensive lunch to celebrate Max’s dreadful new business idea. The next I was cradling a foul-smelling pugilist who kept on mumbling the name ‘Sam’.

  But it wasn’t as if I had much choice. Ed needed help, and no one else appeared willing to step in. Tempting as it was to waltz off in the other direction to continue the courtship of my rich wife-to-be, I wasn’t about to leave a mate in trouble.

  As the crowd slowly regrouped around the two of us, there stepped forward a short, almost square man with the neck and the vowels of an East End boxer.

  ‘Mate of yours, is ’e?’

  I nodded. I didn’t want to speak unless absolutely necessary. Speaking would have meant breathing in afterwards and smelling Ed.

  ‘Fiery little fucker, isn’t ’e?’

  Ed stirred a little, vomited over my shoe and then passed out completely. ‘What happened?’ I asked the square man.

  ‘Fucked if I know, mate. I’m jus’ standin’ on the door at that law firm over there and he runs at the barrier shoutin’ some bird’s name. Tara or summink. Pissed as a fart. An’ before lunch an’ all. Well violent, ’e was, when I frew ’im out.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ asked the square man.

  ‘Max,’ I said, hoping Ed wouldn’t wake up.

  ‘Well, Max. You’re getting your mate’s dribble all over your nice threads.’

  I looked down at my father’s expensive suit, my only suit, and eased my comatose friend into a more comfortable position. ‘He’s had a rough time,’ I explained, sticking out a hand to hail a cab. ‘I better get him home.’

  ‘A bloody men’al home, more like,’ said the security guard, heading back into Tara’s cavernous glass law office, which appeared to be the signal for the rubbernecking crowd to disperse and leave us to it.

  The first three taxis didn’t stop. The fourth slowed down to take a closer look at Ed and then quickly switched off its light and sped away. Finally, Rosie, whom I had barely dared look at since the whole episode had started, walked into the middle of the road, put out an arm and forced the next cab to come to a squealing standstill.

  ‘I’d like you to take these two people to wherever it is they would like to go,’ she told the driver, handing him one £20 note and me another. ‘You can charge them double if they make any mess.’

  Rosie helped me ease Ed into the back while the driver, a young man with a Bluetooth headset attached to his ear as if he was expecting to take an emergency call from Jack Bauer at any moment, looked on sullenly, almost willing Ed to be unwell again so he could claim his extra fare.

  ‘This is far too kind of you,’ I said to Rosie as I straightened up to say goodbye. ‘I feel bad for bailing on lunch but, you see, Ed’s a very old friend and his girlfriend dumped him recently… ’ I tailed off and gestured at his nodding, limp head. ‘Well, he didn’t take it too well.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re a good man, Max.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I said, truthfully. I was not good, nor was I Max.

  She extended a hand, which I held for just a little bit too long. There was an awkward silence. I didn’t want to leave. I liked being Max and Rosie. But what were the chances that I wouldn’t get found out? In all likelihood, there would be a message from the real Max apologising for missing the meeting the moment she walked back into the office. And me? Well, I would have ruined my temping as well as my acting career, not to mention my chances with this perfect girl with the slightly too long hair and the slightly too short legs.

  Still, in for a penny… I took out a Biro and told Rosie I had just set up a new email address: ‘max@maxhouse.co.uk’.

  ‘Didn’t like the dot-com address, then?’ she said, taking the proffered bit of paper with a smile.

  ‘No. Thought I’d keep it local. UK-based, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  Phew. She knew.

  ‘Bye, then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I climbed into the cab and closed the door. There was a knock on the window. I wound it down.

  ‘And Max. Shall we do that lunch another time?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said, smiling to myself as the cab pulled away. I loved this new breed of young, confident women. I loved Rosie.

  In the seat next to me, Ed stirred, fixing me with briefly comprehending eyes. ‘Max?’ he slurred. ‘Why did she call you Max?’

  ‘It’s all a game, mate. It’s all one big stupid game.’

  I took Ed ‘home’, by which I mean my home, which was actually Alan’s, or Alan’s uncle’s, or at least had been Alan’s/Alan’s uncle’s before Matt moved in and became a squatter. Definitions had become a little blurred of late.

  We arrived noisily, prompting Matt to burst out of his War Room. If he was surprised to see me in the middle of the day, accompanied by Ed in that state, he didn’t show it. He quickly helped me take Ed’s clothes off, gave him a shower and, after a brief argument, put him in Alan’s, i.e. Matt’s, bed to sleep whatever it was off.

  ‘It’s just like the good old days back in A&E,’ said Matt, scrubbing his forearms – a little unnecessarily, I felt – with antiseptic soap afterwards. ‘Now, how on earth did you bump into him?’

  I explained how my bizarre morning had seen me attend my own business meeting, get promoted from temp to chief executive, fall in love with Rosie and then cancel a business lunch in order to rescue one of
our drunken friends from a square man. Matt listened increasingly open-mouthed, occasionally prompting and laughing. He was an excellent listener, Matt.

  ‘My word,’ he said, when I’d finally finished. ‘It makes my own adventures today look quite lame.’

  ‘What adventures?’

  Matt took me back into the War Room and closed the door so that Ed’s snores grew fainter.

  ‘Remember that Spanish girl I showed you on here earlier this week?’ He pulled up her profile on the laptop. ‘Bonita. Beautiful name. Beautiful girl, no? Looks fairly normal, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  He flipped down the lid. ‘Wrong. She’s a student at LSE, a very rich student judging by her online chat, so I asked if she fancied meeting up for a coffee this morning. She said she fancied it very much, which was a good start, as I fancied her very much, too. But then she suggested meeting at the Imperial War Museum, which I thought was, well, a little odd. But no matter; there’s nothing wrong with being quirky, and at least we’d have something to talk about. Anyway, I turned up early so that my beautiful Spanish date wouldn’t have to hang around waiting for me. Eleven o’clock came and went. Nothing. Half past eleven – still nothing. And all the while this strange dumpy creature sat on a bench nearby. I ignored her. In desperation, I actually approached three other passers-by, in full view of this girl, and asked them if they were Bonita. And can you guess who the real Bonita turned out to be? This strange dumpling, of course.’

  ‘That’s embarrassing,’ I said.

  ‘It wasn’t the best start to the date. Still, I wouldn’t have minded all that much if she’d turned out to be as friendly as she was online. You win some, you lose some, right? Looks aren’t everything. We might have passed a pleasant hour together. But her first question was, “Do you want to go downstairs and look at genocide or shall we start on the first floor with the Holocaust?” After ten minutes, I bowed out, feigning an important work call, and returned here.’