Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  Would they want to do a search? Would they rifle through my room of boxes?

  Would they want to prosecute me? Me?

  (It would be so unjust. Alex was the victim and I am he so it would be unsporting to punish me for my justifiable actions of vengeance.)

  And that is why I remove all traces of incriminating evidence. The negatives and spare photos are already gone; I got rid of those last night. It takes me under an hour to dump the typewriter, wiped of prints, at the door of a charity shop across London and discard the various pieces of clothing I wore on the night of the twenty-seven pubs. (I pop the shirt, trousers, and jacket into separate carrier bags, tie them up and drop them into bins a minimum of three streets apart.) They’re only Alex-wear, so it’s no sacrifice.

  When I am done, when it is all finished and there’s not a shred of physical proof left to tie me to the Mrs. Oi Man photos, I head for the gym.

  My intent was to spend a good hour lifting weights, but when I see Kate pedaling away on a stationary bike I change my mind.

  Doesn’t she have a life? Is she some kind of exercise addict who has to get her daily fix of endorphins?

  She sees me. I know that Kate sees me as soon as I enter the room—is she looking out for me?—but she pretends that she doesn’t. I nearly leave her to it and head to the weights, let her come to me and beg, but then I change my mind. The sooner I say hello the sooner we’ll be shagging.

  “Hi, Kate,” I say, and climb on to the bike beside her.

  She barely glances at me. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

  That’s nearly it. I almost stop pedaling and walk away. I don’t want to deal with her emotional insecurities. It’s only because Camilla is busy and I want to feel a woman’s body beneath mine that I stay.

  And what right has she to castigate me? I could have returned an hour ago from spending four days and nights locked away in a boardroom and be desperate for some physical exertion. She’s not my keeper. I don’t owe her anything.

  I waste five minutes of the night making tedious small talk, starting by telling her, after a pause, that I telephoned and left a message on her machine earlier today. Let her feel guilty. Let her want to make it up to me later.

  Ten more minutes pass. Yawn, yawn, yawn. Why do I have to pretend to be interested in her opinion on the location of the next Olympic games? We have sex with one another. That’s what we do. That’s it. Why does she want to maintain the farce that there’s anything more?

  At last we head back to her place.

  She lets us inside and before I can take her into my arms, she dashes across the room and presses play on her answering machine. “I just need to check my messages,” she says.

  Enough talking.

  I grab one of the large candlesticks from the table by the door and smash her over the head.

  I don’t, of course, I’m in control, but it’s tempting all the same.

  She doesn’t trust me. She’s checking up on me. She’s making sure that I did phone before she sleeps with me. What a slap in the face. She should believe me; she shouldn’t need confirmation.

  Am I losing my touch? Is Alex, the old Alex, the old me, seeping through? Are there holes in my persona like the gaps in the ozone layer? Must I be on constant lookout for contamination?

  Mine is the only message, and as my voice plays out over the crackly tape Kate relaxes. She slips off her shoes.

  “Make yourself at home,” she says, talking over my words, wanting me to stay now that she’s satisfied herself that I’m not a liar.

  Send her to the guillotine. Off with her head.

  I return her smile as she slips her T-shirt over her head, her gray sports bra flattening her lovely breasts.

  “Would you like something to drink? Or anything to eat? I’ve got some food in the fridge, I can whip us up something for dinner.”

  That’s it, I’ve had enough, I stride across the room and take her in my arms. As I suckle her neck I inhale the distinctive musk and vanilla scent of the perfume—Camilla’s favorite—that I gave to her on Sunday.

  After the second shag I’ve had enough. I have a free evening, all to myself, and I can do whatever I want to do and for now I want to go home. I don’t want dinner and I don’t want to talk.

  I smile as I kiss her on the nose. “Thanks for that, Kate.” I roll off her and start to dress.

  “You’re going?”

  I nod. “I’ve got to catch a flight to Singapore at four.” (Safe subject this, if she insists on grilling me. I was there on a business trip only six months ago.)

  “Oh.” She blinks rapidly and I can see the moisture in her eyes. Her lip is trembling.

  What the hell is she playing at? Is she some sort of delusional psycho woman? Has she been telling herself that we’re having a relationship? There’s never been anything but sex between us. I’ve never pretended otherwise.

  “When will I see you again?” she asks.

  I shrug, deliberately casual. “I’ll be away two or three weeks.”

  “Call me.” Her eyes aren’t merely moist, they’re wet: I can see tears trembling on her lashes.

  She has no right to cry. She has no right to try and guilt me into promising I’ll phone or forcing me to feel sorry enough for her that I’ll arrange a date. She made her bed the day we met and now she has to lie in it. She can’t give me one thing and then demand another. That’s not how the world works. If she’d insisted on acting like a virgin I might have taken her out to dinner, but she didn’t and this, Katie girl, is what happens when you play with the grown-ups. I am not Alex, I will not be forced into anything. I feel no guilt.

  I give her a perfunctory kiss on the lips. See, I’m not a complete bastard. And I said thank you. My mother taught me always to say thank you.

  “See you around, Kate,” I say.

  And then I leave.

  I slam the door behind me.

  Why did she have to make it so complicated? We’ve never had a relationship. We’re never going to have a relationship.

  It was just sex.

  I never came to Kate for the conversation and there were never any emotions beyond the physical. Never. She’s an idiot if she thinks otherwise.

  I pound down the stairs and kick the ground-floor banister.

  Good-bye, Kate. Have a nice life.

  thank you, i like the things you’ve dumped in that open field, they really add something to the postcard quality of the scene

  Maybe it’s something that happens as you get older that you become more aware of the world around you, but it seems that this country has become littered with abandoned cars in the past few years. (I know. Cars. There might be lots of refuse and debris strewn across the land, but it’s the cars I notice.) On city streets, in town centers, dumped into rivers and left at the edge of forests. What is the point? Sure, some have been smashed and dumped by gangs of joyriding youths, spotty or not as the case may be. But not all.

  I know of a man who buys very old, clapped-out cars. He strips them of all their useable parts and then, at dead of night, he loads the shells on to the back of his tow truck. He’s an independent man and makes his own decisions. He doesn’t want to pay for the rubbish tip. Why should he waste his hard-earned money?

  Aren’t we glad we’ve got him to decide that a rusty hunk of metal left among the trees is as pretty as a giant Christmas bauble?

  I just love people.

  kitchen therapy

  I’m not supposed to be a nice man. I’m Alexander, not Alex. Women might think they like nice men, they might think they want a nice man, but they don’t, not really. Nice men are boring. Sarah proved that. There’s no point in being nice.

  I reach the flat, wanting nothing more than a hot shower to scrub away the residue of my time with Kate, but laughter, genuine, honest, delighted laughter, rolls from the kitchen and my feet move as if under their own volition and then I’m pushing open the kitchen door and I’m in.

  It’s like one of th
ose scenes on television where the hero has been away from home for years and when he returns the family is all grouped around a fireplace or a kitchen table and everything looks incredibly cozy and welcoming, and you think, Why did the hero stay away so long, how could he bear it.

  Amber and Noreen are playing a complicated form of double solitaire called nerts. Amber showed me the other day or I wouldn’t have had a clue what it is. It’s like solitaire, only for two people (each with their own deck) and you have to compete, using the same central piles to count from ace to king and the winner is whoever finishes his or her cards first.

  There’s an open bottle of wine at the far end of the table and, next to it, an empty bottle.

  They’re playing fast and furious, ignoring the wine at the moment, but both girls take the time to flash me a grin and say, “Hi, Alexander,” in unison before turning back to the game.

  Amber adds a seven to the pile of hearts and speaks to me without looking up again. “Help yourself to the wine, there’s another glass in the cupboard.”

  I no longer feel like being on my own so I pour myself some wine and slide into the chair beside Amber to watch their game.

  They’re not bathed in golden light, there’s no symphony announcing that this is a special moment, but I feel privileged to sit here in this kitchen with these people. I, Alexander Fairfax, am happy to be here. It’s not what I would have expected this morning, or even yesterday, but it’s true. I feel happy. Content.

  Everyone’s allowed a little downtime from the battle for supremacy and spending a little time enjoying the company of friends qualifies. Friends. Yes, I admit it, I consider both Amber and Noreen friends, in a bizarre way that wouldn’t include introducing them to Charles St. John or Camilla or even inviting them out for my birthday meal next year. But I do like them. And I really like Amber. (I’d take Amber out for a private meal, just the two of us so she’d never know that she wasn’t invited to my proper birthday celebration. It’s nothing personal against her, she just wouldn’t fit in with my new crowd. She wouldn’t have fun, she wouldn’t feel comfortable, and I wouldn’t want her to feel out of place.)

  Their game finishes a few minutes later, with Noreen storming ahead at the last moment in a whirl of cards and motion. When it’s over both girls turn to me with gratifying smiles, their pleasure at seeing me both obvious and genuine. (They’d invite me to their birthday parties.)

  “Been working on those muscles again?” asks Noreen. Her eyes dart to Amber’s and both women start giggling.

  “I do what I can to keep fit,” I say. And a shag a day keeps the doctor away.

  I smile as I recall a few choice details of the night’s workout and take a sip of my wine. It’s cheap supermarket plonk and not very nice, but it doesn’t taste like the cat’s piss I feared it would.

  We all laugh and flirt and tell one another outrageous jokes for over an hour. I can see that they’re both attracted to me, that they like me, and I wonder for an instant if I can persuade Amber into my bed tonight.

  I’ve got spare time now that I’m finished with Kate.

  Then Amber bursts out laughing at one of Noreen’s impersonations of the Teletubbies and I give myself a rueful smile. Who am I kidding? I can’t sleep with her. I’d feel like I was killing Bambi every time she turned to me with disappointed eyes. That would be cruel and I don’t want to be cruel. It’s not a daily requirement, there’s nothing that says I have to be malicious to two people a day, it’s not like it’s a doctor’s prescription. There’s no formula for being Alexander. I’m in control and I make my own rules.

  Oh, but I do want Amber. I’ve wanted her from the very first moment I saw her.

  It’s like Noreen is telepathic, that she somehow picks up on my thoughts and feelings, for she suddenly yawns this great big yawn and says she’s off to bed. “You coming?” she asks Amber.

  Amber blushes and looks down at the table. “I’m not tired,” she says, “I think I’ll stay.”

  “Good night, Noreen,” I say.

  She stares at us both for a moment. And then she grins. “Night, night. Have fun.”

  I hesitate. I shouldn’t do this. I can’t succumb to my desires, I’m stronger than that, it wouldn’t be fair on Amber. I like Amber. I respect her. I don’t want to hurt her.

  And as I’m telling myself I can’t sleep with Amber, that I mustn’t touch Amber, she leans forward and kisses me softly on the lips.

  Oh, God, she tastes so good.

  And then we’re kissing, properly kissing, and I pull her on to my lap.

  I’ve been so good, I’ve tried to be so good, but she kissed me and I can’t help myself. Surely I’m being rewarded for being so good. She’s so cute and I really like her. How can I help myself? I’ll be careful, I’ll look out for her, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get hurt. She doesn’t need to know about Camilla. If she doesn’t know about Camilla she’ll be happy. I’ll make her happy. I want to make her happy.

  I can’t resist her. I want Amber.

  We keep kissing.

  A minute later I pull away and run my hand down Amber’s cheek. She looks up and meets my eyes. Her face is shining. She’s happy. I said I’d make her happy.

  “I need a bath,” I say. I have to have a bath. I have to wash away the Kate smells; I can’t go to bed with Amber stinking of Kate, even if Amber thinks I’ve only been to the gym. “Care to join me?”

  Her face flushes. “A bath?”

  “Uh-huh.” I kiss her gently on the lips. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  oh, what a night

  (or, amber, what lovely toes you have)

  I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows of Amber’s room and Amber curled around me as if she’s always slept this way. I stroke her hair and then her arms, moving on gradually to her hips, her waist, her breasts. She opens her eyes and we make love. Make love. I can call it that. And it does feel special; it’s more than just a shag because I like her. To call it anything else would be too coarse. Too coarse for Amber.

  I hold her for a few minutes in my arms. “I have to go to work.”

  “I know. So do I.” She shows no inclination of disentangling her limbs from mine.

  I kiss her on the mouth. “I really have to go. I’m sorry. My temp is starting today. I have to show her the ropes.”

  Amber sighs. “Will I see you tonight?”

  The question doesn’t annoy me as it would have done if Kate had asked the same thing. I want Amber to want to see me. She should want to see me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t. I’m taking some clients away for the weekend.”

  “Oh.”

  I shower her face with kisses. “Will you miss me?” I want her to miss me.

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll see you Sunday night,” I say. “I’ll get back as quickly as I can.” And I’m not lying. After a weekend with Camilla I’ll be rushing back to Amber’s arms, I’ll be looking forward to her openness and lack of pouting.

  “I’ll be home,” she says. “I’ll be waiting.”

  you’re a good sport, sarah. or am i lying?

  Once I’ve directed the furniture delivery, settled the temp into the office and explained her duties for the day (all stuff I don’t want to do, but things that need to be done), I collect my car.

  My beloved Jaguar XKR. Will it ever be the same?

  It’s all shiny and clean, the new leather seats soft and supple, tires and windows replaced, and I’m careful as I drive it through London. It seems as good as new, but there’s something different and it takes me a moment to pinpoint it. I’m tense as I drive it, I no longer think my Jag is invincible.

  Bad things do happen.

  My stomach churns and I’m queasy as I turn into the NCP car park around the corner from my office (ready for an early-afternoon departure). I find an empty space and I sit there, inside my car with the ignition off, pulling myself together.

  What’s happ
ening here? Alexander doesn’t have nerves.

  I take a few deep breaths, counting to ten.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Everything will be fine. Everything is fine.

  I am Alexander. It’s only the thought of seeing Sarah that’s upsetting my equilibrium. But I’m aware of it now; I won’t let her upset me again.

  I leave the car park and catch a cab to Sarah’s office.

  The trollop is wearing a short skirt and four-inch heels. Not appropriate for an office but more than adequate for an assignation.

  “I found one of your ties,” she says, once I’ve kissed her on the cheek in greeting. “I meant to bring it along and give it to you today, but I left it behind. Maybe we should stop by the flat and pick it up before lunch. So we don’t forget.”

  What’s Sarah’s asking is if I want to go back to her flat and fuck but in language not so crude.

  She makes me sick. She’s like a bitch in heat. She’s got no patience, she doesn’t want to wait, she doesn’t want all the pleasures of anticipation for the hour or so it would take to eat.

  Was this what she was like with Jed?

  Did the little whore take him to our bed on the first date? Did she even get him to buy her a sandwich first?

  I hail a cab with Alexander style and we have to wait less than a minute. We’re holding ourselves apart, not touching, but our faces are flushed and we lean toward one another. We’re fooling no one. It’s obvious we’re about to have sex. Our cabbie knows that we’re dashing home for a lunchtime quickie.

  When we arrive Sarah unlocks the door and it doesn’t seem strange to enter the flat—her flat, Jed’s flat, the place Alex used to call home—and find it filled with Jed’s things. I’ve already seen it, of course, but it’s more than that. I’m glad he’s moved in. I want his possessions to witness Sarah’s betrayal. I want them to witness the whore at work. I want them to know I’ve fucked their owner’s girl.