Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  There hadn’t been any signs. There had been no clues. Our sexual patterns hadn’t changed, she hadn’t suddenly turned into a love bunny frenzied with guilt, neither had she shut me out. We talked, we laughed, we made plans, we made love, we were a couple. When had all that changed for her?

  In my mind I replayed scenes from the past few months over and over and over again. I must have missed something. What had I done wrong?

  Finally there was a lull and someone took pity on me. Pity being the operative word. Who’d puke on their own feet? Thankfully my stitches didn’t need to be taken out and resewn; the vomit hadn’t soaked through and there was no risk of infection. After a little cleaning and a reapplication of clean bandages—less bulky this time so some of my shoes would fit—I was free to go.

  Free to go. But where?

  As I shuffled out of the hospital, haggard, drawn, my soul in agony, Sarah’s last words echoed in my head.

  “When do you want me to leave?” I’d asked, like the coward I was. I just gave up. I didn’t fight, I didn’t argue, I simply accepted. It was done. A fait accompli. I was out.

  “As soon as possible,” she’d said. ASAP. ASAP. ASAP.

  “As soon as possible.”

  alex the coward at work

  Nine the next morning found me in the meeting room with Jed and four of Jed’s graduate groupies I can’t be bothered to name. They were young, they were keen, they were in Jed’s pocket. Jed the Almighty. Jed the Invincible. Jed the God of Advertising. I’d believed it once. Now it was up to the next generation to carry the torch to his glory.

  For someone who’d had no sleep the night before (after the hospital I’d wandered around the streets of London, the dirtier, the darker the better, I’d almost wanted someone to mug me: if I was severely beaten, if I was killed, Sarah would be sorry) and little sleep the night before that, I was looking remarkably well put together (showered, change of clothes, hair brushed, eyes no longer wild and staring).

  I’d finally succumbed and returned to the flat around seven. She was gone. I’d spent the night in agony, not wanting to face her, not wanting to go back to the scene of the crime, and she wasn’t even there. I mean, did she really think I wanted to live there? That I wanted to be reminded of Jed’s smirking face in my bed?

  I can’t lie to you. I wanted her to love me. I wanted her to take me back. I wanted to forgive her, to love her, for everything to go back to the way it had been. I was a poor, pathetic little bastard. I cringe when I remember my thoughts. I still had hope. Even after I’d seen what I’d seen, even after she’d told me to leave, I still had hope. (Once she changed her mind surely she’d agree to get a new mattress? I’d like to burn the current mattress, but we didn’t have to. We could give it away, donate it to charity and buy a new one. She’d agree to that when she took me back. Wouldn’t she? That’s what I was thinking. That’s what I was like. Fool.)

  “This really isn’t up to your usual standard, Alex,” said Jed, bringing me back to the meeting with a jolt. He had my half-completed file spread across the table. “Even if they’re not paying very much, they are paying for our services. We can’t offer them this.”

  The graduate groupies were embarrassed for me.

  Bastard. Jed stood there lecturing me with a knowing half grin on his face, thinking, I’ve screwed your girlfriend in your own bed and you can’t do anything about it. He knew I wouldn’t say anything. He knew me. Bastard. He knew I was a coward. He knew I wouldn’t make any waves.

  “Well,” said Jed, with a grand sweep of his arms, “I’ll give you another day. We all know how upset you are over the loss of your car.”

  Loss? It’s not lost. It’ll be repaired. It’ll be just like new. Or as new as a three-year-old used car can be. (I’ve only had it for eleven months.)

  “And don’t let me down, Alex. The owners of the Shire Horse Centre are personal friends of Elizabeth,” he said, rubbing it in that he was on Christian-name terms with Mrs. Wilmington-Wilkes. “This is an important account.”

  new flat, new life, same old me

  You don’t need to hear the boring details of how I spent the next two days searching for somewhere else to live. I worked late Tuesday (good old Alex, slogging away at work, earning more money for the firm) and returned to the flat—my flat, our flat—to find a note from Sarah. She was going to spend the next couple of nights away, to give me time to find a new flat. She didn’t say where she was staying, but I knew she was staying with that rutting bastard. Sarah wouldn’t even face me. No doubt she didn’t want to be mean to “nice” Alex.

  Wednesday night I moved into my new room. Room, I say (a flat of my own would have taken too long to find and organize and, besides, I was still hoping she’d take me back, that this was only temporary). I now live in a room. I no longer have my own bathroom. I no longer have my own kitchen. I don’t even have my own TV. I am sharing a flat in Islington with four strangers. Well, three complete strangers and one friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a work colleague.

  I moved into my room with one bag of clothes, a few CDs, a couple bags of food (freshly purchased, wouldn’t want to take anything from Sarah’s place in case she missed it, would I?) and a head full of sorrow. I’ve left most of my stuff at the flat. At Sarah’s.

  I live in a room whose last occupant was named Daisy. She wasn’t very artistic, but that didn’t stop her from painting dozens of her namesake flower above the bed, on the ceiling, so that when you lie in bed you look up and see a sky filled with daisies.

  “Do you like it?” asked Amber, one of my new flatmates, when she’d shown me the room.

  It sucks.

  “It’s lovely,” I’d said.

  “Great.” She’d smiled, this open, honest-looking woman-girl wearing a snug Greenpeace T-shirt. With her big gray eyes, her tiny nose, and her slender but very curvy figure, she might have been the model for one of the more busty Disney cartoon heroines. Sarah would be jealous; Sarah’s always wanted to be slim and voluptuous at the same time, but Sarah’s only slim. And Amber is also a pleasant person to be around. “You can move in as soon as you like,” said Amber. Translation: they needed help paying the rent.

  “Super,” I’d said. “Tonight?”

  “Great,” she’d said, beaming. They must really need help paying that rent.

  I lay under a sky of daisies. The night passed in fits and starts so I suppose I must have slept at some point, but I don’t recall any dreams. And in the morning when I stared up at the yellow-centered daisies I suddenly grew calm and then I realized that I was ravenous.

  Twenty minutes later I sat down in front of my masterpiece, my ham-filled, pepper-filled, mushroom-filled, cheese-filled omelette and took my first bite. Mmmm. It was delicious. If there’s one thing I can cook, it’s omelettes. Crack the eggs, whisk the eggs, chop the vegetables, meat and cheese, cook the eggs, fill the eggs, turn the eggs. Eat the eggs. That’s the most important part. I closed my eyes and took another bite, savoring the taste.

  “Don’t you know that free-range chickens aren’t actually free?”

  “Huh?” I opened my eyes and blinked.

  Noreen, whom I’d met vaguely the night before as I’d been shown round the flat, stood with her hands on her hips and her lips compressed in fury.

  “Free range,” said Noreen. “You do know what that’s supposed to mean? Chickens running around wild and free. But free range doesn’t actually mean free, it’s just a con, they’re not actually free, they’re hardly better off than battery hens even if technically they’re not battery hens.”

  She paused and I looked down at my cooling omelette. “Oh,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t eat eggs at all,” she said. “It’s not fair to the chickens. Or if you insist on eating eggs, you should try those cholesterol-free, healthy-eating fake eggs they’ve brought out. They’re really tasty. And they’re good for you, too.”

  I just bet they are. All those chemicals and additives.

&n
bsp; “I’ll try them sometime,” I said, attempting a smile. I sneaked a glance down at my plate. Would it be too rude to take a bite?

  “And just how many eggs do you have in that omelette?”

  I was beginning to see why it had been Amber who’d shown me round the flat. Noreen had been a smile, a wave, and a jumble of curly black hair, and then we’d moved on to the next room.

  “Eight.” I was sheepish, but I’d been hungry. I hadn’t eaten properly since I’d found Sarah and Jed in my bed. But Noreen didn’t need to know my reasons. I’d paid for the food, I’d bought the eggs, they were mine to eat whenever I wanted to eat them.

  “Eight?” She was horrified. “That’s revolting. Eight eggs could feed a family of four in Africa. And what have you got in it? I bet you don’t even use organic vegetables.”

  No, I don’t. I don’t eat vegetables. They’re for sissy, nancy-boys. I’m a carnivore. So what do you think of that? That’s a lie, of course, I’ve already said I had peppers and mushrooms in my omelette, but that’s what I wanted to say. How dare she attack me at six in the morning? I didn’t even know this woman.

  “Of course they are,” I said. That was the truth. I was a nice bloke. I was concerned with the environment. I was concerned with my own health. I could afford it. I didn’t need to eat all those pesticides.

  “Oh, good.” Noreen was mollified, but only for a moment. She sniffed. “Is that meat?”

  “Ham,” I said. Always like to be of help.

  “How can you pollute your body like that? And what about the poor pigs? A tour of an abattoir would turn you into a vegetarian. All those horrible squeals. The pigs know they’re about to be slaughtered. They can smell death. And all that blood. Blood everywhere.”

  I don’t want to be a vegetarian. I don’t care if she wants to be a vegetable-lover, but I like meat. So there. It tastes great. It smells great. Juicy chicken on a grill, thick, rich steak juices dripping down on to the coals of a barbecue. That is my idea of a little piece of heaven. (And, no, even as Alexander I don’t want the animals to suffer unduly. I’m sure we could come up with ways to kill them less cruelly. As Alexander I can still be kind to animals. It’s people who should suffer.)

  “You shouldn’t be eating such food,” she said.

  I touched the edge of my omelette. It was cold.

  I’d thought I was quick, but she’d seen me.

  “Fine, eat it,” she said. “See if I care.”

  Did she want me to waste it? To just throw it away? What about all those poor starving kids in Africa?

  Noreen thrust her nose into the air and stormed out of the kitchen.

  Well done, Alex, you’d made a new friend. And without even trying.

  I tucked into my omelette. Even the cheese was cold.

  See? That’s what I was like. A pathetic jellyfish with no backbone, no courage. I could have cut her dead with my witty repartee (there’s always hope), but I just sat there like a lump of coal. That’s what I was. A lump of stone. Totally inert.

  I’d lost my car (I was lying before, it’ll never be the same, I’ll always know), my girlfriend, my flat, my promotion at work, and now I was stuck living in a room advertised as cosy (i.e. small) with a psychotic flatmate.

  Yet I was still Alex. I was still Mr. Nice Guy.

  Makes you want to puke, doesn’t it? Just watch out for those shoes.

  underground etiquette

  Push, shove, stomp, bite, elbow. Let me on. Just let me get on. Let me squeeze in. Push, shove, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Surely there’s room for one more. Push, shove, squeeze. Me, me. It’s my turn. Me. Me. Let me on. Push, shove, squeeze.

  Stay orderly. Stay orderly. We’re British.

  On at last.

  Sweat and stink. Armpits in the noses of the petite. (The real reason London women wear high heels.)

  Push, shove, squeeze. Let me off. Let me off.

  Please let the passengers off first.

  Push, shove, squeeze.

  I’m off. I’m off.

  Follow the swarms to the escalators.

  Twice a day we put up with this.

  We’ve survived the Blitz, we can put up with anything.

  Quiet. Stiff upper lip. No complaints.

  Push, shove, squeeze.

  why the sandwich maker has a better life than i do

  Think about it. I buy a sandwich from my corner sandwich shop five days a week. Plus various cakes, snacks, and drinks. A sandwich costs two or three pounds. I spend ten to fifteen pounds per week on a few slices of bread and some cheese. That’s around five hundred pounds per year on sandwiches alone, plus another three hundred or so on drinks and snacks. And the queue is always three or four deep.

  Get an education, they said. Enter a profession. Slog your guts out. Die of a stress-related heart attack before you’re fifty. Make something of yourself.

  And never forget that money shows success.

  Last week I saw the sandwich maker pull up to work in a brand new S-Class Mercedes.

  (I’ve been had.)

  If money is proof of success, then he’s winning.

  where there’s an alex there’s always a hope

  Thursday. Sarah rang me up at work. She apologized for ringing me at work as if it was no longer her right to do so. As if she’d surrendered all those girl-boy privileges when she’d dumped me. Despite that I felt hope bloom in my chest. She just felt awkward, that was all. Everything would be back to normal soon.

  “Would you come round to the flat tonight?”

  Hope. Rainbows of joy. The flat. Not her flat. She wanted to see me.

  “If you’re sure.” Fool. That was too nice.

  “I want you to collect the rest of your stuff.” Translation: she needed to make room for Jed’s things.

  Oh. I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I’m sorry, Alex.”

  I’m sorry, Alex. I’m sorry, Alex. I’m sorry, Alex.

  For the rest of the afternoon I hatched wild, mad plans to make Sarah fall back in love with me. I’d take her flowers. I’d send balloons. Too boring. Too predictable. I’d book a helicopter flight to Paris and whisk her away for a long weekend. I’d reserve a hot-air balloon for just the two of us. She’d be amazed at my spontaneity; she’d be amazed at all the extra money I had to spend on frivolities. She’d see me as a potential provider. I could do it. I would do it.

  Heart in my fragile, outstretched hand, I knocked on the door of the flat. Our flat. My flat. Her flat. I still had the key but felt awkward about using it. Officially I’d moved out, officially we were over. But I knew I could change that. If she’d just listen to me, if she’d let me touch her, let me kiss her, she’d be mine. I knew it.

  The door opened.

  Buckets of cold water in my face.

  Jed stood there, staring at me for a second, his face open and honest in its viciousness and victory. Then he sort of shifted back into his let’s-be-mates expression.

  “Alex,” he said, like I was the person he most wanted to see in the world (I probably was, the bastard, he couldn’t get enough of this rubbing it in). He stepped to the side and held the door open. “Come in. Sarah’s just popped out for a moment.”

  I dutifully stepped inside. I allowed Jed to welcome me into my own home. If I’d been shocked by Jed opening the door, seeing what had happened to the flat was like having my head plunged into the middle of an iceberg when I’d been merrily surfing along in Hawaii. It looked like someone was moving out. CDs and books were stacked in precarious piles. Even the photographs I’d hung above the sofa (the ones with artistic merit I’d taken on various holidays and insisted upon hanging) were gone, now leaning against the armchair, leaving only the empty nails sticking out of the walls like forlorn flagpoles abandoned at the end of a long and drawn-out war. Signs of the end of the occupation. That’s what it was. I was the new enemy and now my occupation was at an end. Over. Finished. I was through.

  “Sarah popped out to pick up some mor
e boxes and black bin liners. Didn’t know you had so much stuff. That’s a fabulous CD collection you’ve built up. It’s a shame Sarah’s so honest, she could do with keeping a few of yours.” He lowered his voice, confiding in me, his pal from work, knowing that I, better than anyone else, would understand. “She’s got to get rid of her love-song collection. If I hear Chicago, Celine Dion, or Lionel Richie one more time—”

  Jed stopped abruptly at the sound of a key in the lock.

  The door opened and Sarah entered, arms full of boxes. I couldn’t speak; I just stared at her. Sarah. Sarah. She was beautiful. It struck me then that I loved her, really, truly loved her, despite what she’d done to me, despite what she was doing to me now.

  Jed kissed her cheek and relieved her of the boxes all at once. I should have thought of that, but I couldn’t move. I was frozen.

  “Hello, Alex.”

  “Hi.” It was a croak, but I’d done it, I’d managed to speak.

  “I’ve been packing up your things. I thought it’d be easier that way.” She strode into the room, all smiles and forced joyfulness. “You do have room in your new place?”

  “Of course,” I lied. “Plenty of room. It’s a great place.” If you’re a New Age vegan with a fetish for daisies.

  “Will this be enough boxes?” asked Jed. He had to insert something into the conversation, couldn’t let us forget about his presence, now could he?

  “There’re a few more in the car. Would you get them for me, please?”