Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  The young man is introduced to us all as the Honorable Alastair Archibald, Harriet’s second cousin on her mother’s side. An escort then, not a date, even if he is the son of a baron.

  I’m watching Charles and see him throwing concerned glances at Harriet. A moment later he hastens everyone off to the dining room. It’s rather abrupt, Charles hasn’t left enough time for the initial socializing, but no one is rude enough to comment.

  It’s a father speaking and his daughter comes first.

  and the winner is . . .

  Dinner is delightful. I couldn’t have asked for better company or better conversation. Or a better seating placement.

  Charles St. John’s table is at one end of the room, raised slightly on a dais as if in medieval times, so all his retainers can have a good view. At the head table sit Charles and Grace, Harriet and Alastair, Rupert and Celeste, and Camilla and I. That’s it. Eight of us on the dais. Is Charles signaling his favor for me and my proposal? Is that his deeper meaning, even if his unspoken excuse is that I’m accompanying Camilla’s family and hence am being welcomed into the inner circle merely for this reason?

  And where is that delightful Wilmington-Wilkes couple?

  In social Siberia, of course, stuck on the table with the least glamorous people in the room. Dare I conjecture that their delightful dining companions are the token scientists included on the committee?

  Are Kenneth and Elizabeth fuming at the seating arrangements? Are their smiles as false as they look? Do they feel dumb and ignorant as the scientists relive the decoding of a particularly interesting gene sequence on chromosome seventeen or sixteen or something equally confusing to the layperson? And the scientists, well, they’re probably trying to be polite, but they can’t restrain their enthusiasm for the subject and despite their best intentions they’re soon talking over Kenneth and Elizabeth. I can see what’s happening even if I can’t hear the words. I smile all the broader as I slide my hand on to Camilla’s knee beneath the table and give it a little squeeze. She looks beautiful tonight. I belong here at the head table, with these people. This is my world.

  Dinner is delicious, but I’m not here for the food. Finally the last course has been served and cleared away and Charles rises to his feet.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he says. “Science moves at a rapid pace and as frequently as scientists tell us that science is neither good nor bad, that is has no intentions, good or evil, by our presence here tonight we acknowledge that we are all concerned where this pursuit of knowledge can lead. We all agree that it is necessary, that it is vital that ethical decisions are used to influence scientific achievements. Particularly today when genes are being studied and the potentials are staggering. Soon our scientists might be able to clone humans, to make designer babies, to manipulate our DNA down to the lowest levels. Now is the time to think about the implications of all this great science. Now is the time for ethics.”

  I glance at Kenneth. He meets my eyes, trying not to glare, but I can read his stare, I can read his mind. I know the nasty thoughts he’s thinking. He knows exactly who I am now.

  Charles continues speaking: “I invited you here tonight for two reasons. First of all so that you may meet your fellow committee members and, second, so that we can choose a name for our new charity. I’ve asked for ideas from two advertising firms. Most of you know Kenneth Wilmington-Wilkes of Wilmington-Wilkes.”

  Kenneth smiles and waves, and people turn, glance at him and smile. They know him. But is to know him to like him? Will people choose his idea because they’re friends? Because they’re acquainted with him?

  “Also here tonight is young Alexander Fairfax.” Charles indicates me with a sweep of his arm and a fond smile. “He’s a bright whiz-kid of advertising and he’s here representing Platypus-fox.” Charles smiles at me and gives Camilla a wink. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll all be seeing a lot more of Alexander. You might even say he’s almost family.”

  Camilla blushes. The audience laughs and I give them a sheepish smile that I think they’ll take as the smile of a man who’s not yet proposed. It’s like they’re my audience, waiting for me to speak. I sit on the stage, I look official whereas Kenneth is merely one of the crowd. You’d better get used to it, Kenneth. This is how it’s going to be from now on.

  “First we’ll hear Kenneth’s presentation,” says Charles, “and then Alexander’s. Kenneth?” Charles takes his seat.

  Kenneth stands. “Thank you, Charles. Thank you, everyone. I’ll be direct and to the point. We all know why we’re here so I won’t bother with a slogan or a spiel about our cause. We want a name and I’ve come up with two that I think you’ll all adore.”

  Adore? Inwardly I smirk. Kenneth must be fuming. Does he know what he’s done to infuriate Charles? Does he even realize Charles is out for his blood? Does he know how much Charles despises him?

  Kenneth clears his throat loudly and then he speaks. “EDGE. Ethical Decisions in Genetic Engineering.”

  Bingo. That was my first guess. I knew Kenneth would like it. I worked there long enough to know the sort of things he favors. I scan the faces of the audience. They like it. As they should. It’s fine. It’s easy to remember. The name explains what they do. It’s adequate.

  “Or, if we,” Kenneth emphasises that we, shooting a little glare of hatred at me, indicating that I, of course, am the outsider, that I am not on the committee, “want something a little simpler, I’d suggest two letters. EG.” He says it EEE GEE. “Ethics in Genetics. Thank you.”

  There’s polite applause as Kenneth takes his seat. He’s smug. The bastard thinks he’s so clever. He thinks I won’t have thought of anything better. He thinks I’m just a little punk he was forced to sack because I was useless at my job.

  If I had a peashooter I’d shoot him in the eye.

  I smile and stand as the applause dies away. “Thank you, Kenneth,” I say, as if he’d presented his ideas at my request, “that was very illuminating.” Illuminating in that he’s crap, that is. “I, too, initially thought you might like an acronym,” I tell the audience, my eyes slowly moving across the crowd, meeting each and every person’s gaze, “but then I thought you deserved something better. Something unique. Something modern, something for the twenty-first century, something indicating the incredible technology at hand.”

  I pause, holding the moment for half a second. I know my submission isn’t earth-shattering, but it’s clever. And it’s a damn sight better than Kenneth’s.

  “E-genes,” I say.

  Heads cock and people look contemplative. Camilla flashes me a brilliant smile, as if to say, You’re fantastic, I always knew you’d win.

  “E-genes can be the name of the charity and the name of the subject of the charity all in one. E-genes. Ethical Genes. Ethical Genetics. Engineered Genes. A threefold name for a complicated subject. E-genes.”

  I am a gracious genius displaying my talent to the crowd.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I sit to rapturous applause.

  I smile at Charles and Grace, at Camilla and her parents, at my whole table. I accept their congratulations gracefully. I smile at the audience, acknowledging their response. I glance at Kenneth and Elizabeth, seeing their sickly smiles as they join in the clapping. They’re not very good losers, are they? What’s happened to their stiff upper lips?

  The vote is carried out by secret ballot, with every person in the room (bar the staff, they don’t count in this world) receiving one vote. I abstain, saying I don’t want to sway the decision if it’s that close.

  (Kenneth, I note, does vote.)

  I’m going to win. Alexander is here tonight and I have no doubts. I will win.

  Charles sorts the votes into three piles at a side table where no one can peek at the count.

  EG gets one vote, EDGE four, and E-genes thirty-four.

  I watch Kenneth as Charles announces the results. A muscle in his cheek twitches violently.

  Charles speaks
over the noise. “Let the charity E-genes begin.”

  I’m given a round of applause and I graciously smile and nod, trying to remain modest in the scale of my victory. Amber would be proud of me.

  Kenneth, owner and leader of one of the top advertising agencies in the country, has been defeated by a young whippersnapper. How deeply does he feel the humiliation? Will he have nightmares about it tonight? I certainly hope so. I’d be disappointed otherwise that all my hard work had been in vain.

  Charles takes a check out of his pocket and signs it with a flourish. He walks back to the dais, almost marching. He looks as happy as I feel.

  Thrust one against Kenneth has been a success.

  Will Charles want more vengeance or will this satisfy his thirst for Kenneth’s blood?

  Charles reaches the head table and presents me with the check. “Your fee, Alexander.”

  “Fee?” I’m confused. The check is for two hundred thousand pounds. And it’s made out to me.

  Charles claps me on the back. “The winner’s fee.” He lowers his voice. “You don’t think Kenneth agreed to this for free, do you? He insisted on the amount. Wouldn’t accept anything less.”

  “But it’s for charity,” I say. “I didn’t think—”

  “It’s yours,” says Charles, smoothly interrupting my protests. “I’d rather you have it than Wilmington-Wilkes.”

  I shake my head, amazed at my determination in this. The old Alex wouldn’t have accepted the money, he wouldn’t have wanted to accept the money, but he may have been persuaded to keep it. He would have been persuaded to keep it. Alex would never have held strong against a personality like Charles. But I’m Alexander now. No one tells me what to do.

  I stare at the check. Even to the new me it’s a lot of money for ten minutes’ work, but I know what I have to do.

  “Thank you, Charles, I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t accept this. Put the money towards E-genes instead.”

  I tear the check in two. I, Alexander Fairfax, refuse two hundred thousand pounds.

  I’m not being nice. I’m not. This is the sort of gesture Alexander can make, and it’s not being nice, it’s being calculating. It’s making me look good. (I hope.)

  As I set the torn check on the table I become aware of the fact that the room is silent. Everyone is watching me.

  Charles is taken aback. He seems like a man who prides himself on judging a man’s character and I think I’ve surprised him.

  And I’ve shown myself that Alexander isn’t only skin deep. I can stand up for myself. I can do what I want to do. I will do what I want to do. I am me. I am Alexander.

  Charles holds up his hands for quiet. “Thank you, Alexander, for your donation of two hundred thousand pounds.” I hear a gasp from the audience. “I’m certain I speak for everyone present when I invite you to join our board of directors. E-genes needs a man like you.” Charles claps me on the back again and then he offers me his hand.

  And just like that I’m a hero.

  And a member of the board alongside men like Charles St. John and his ilk. It’ll look good when I’ve got an entry in Who’s Who.

  basking in glory

  (lovely, lovely sunday)

  Camilla sleeps in the passenger seat as I drive along in the fast lane, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music.

  Rupert and Celeste seem to approve of me now.

  Bloody followers.

  It’s okay to like me now that I’m so popular—and when I’m obviously not a fortune hunter, for a true fortune hunter wouldn’t have turned down two hundred grand.

  Before we left Rupert gave me his card. He told me that he’s involved with British Gas and he knows they’re looking for some punchy new advertising so why don’t I give him a call in a few days and he’ll set up a meeting for me?

  I drop Camilla off at her apartment. “I have to work today,” I say. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  She’s not very happy, but my masterful victory and success with E-genes is fresh in her mind so she doesn’t argue.

  And I know what she must be thinking. If he doesn’t work there will be no money, and if there’s no money there will be no fun.

  I race home, letting the power of the engine roar, surging like the adrenaline inside my body.

  Will Amber be home? It’s not even five. I didn’t think I’d be back so early.

  I screech into an empty space on the street. Is it safe to leave my Jag here? It’s very vulnerable to hooligans. Pah. It’s insured. I’ll get a garage next week. Sod the expense and sod the waiting lists. I have connections now, I’ll be able to get whatever I want. And I’ll buy a new car if it’s damaged again.

  I tiptoe into the flat and find Amber alone in the living room, chatting on the phone to her sister. She’s curled into a ball on the sofa and when she sees me she smiles this great gigantic smile and I feel happy.

  She’s glad to see me.

  I run toward her in slow motion, making exaggerated gestures with my arms. When I reach her I throw myself on to the sofa, trapping her where she sits.

  I kiss the palm of her hand and then the tip of every finger. And then I start to tickle her. She tries to fight it, she tries to carry on her conversation like nothing is happening, but soon I have her bursting out in laughter. “I’ve got to go,” says Amber into the phone, desperately squirming away from my hands. “Alexander’s here. I’ll call you later. Bye.” She hangs up.

  I lift her shirt and press my lips against her belly and blow, making loud noises, like fathers do to their six-year-olds. She wiggles and writhes, and then she starts to tickle me. It feels funny and I laugh and scoot away, out of her reach. Amber leaps from the sofa and I chase her across the room, catching her about the waist and dragging her with me to the floor.

  I smile into her eyes. “I missed you,” I say.

  And as I say it I know it’s true. I did miss her. She’d have enjoyed staying in a Georgian mansion; I’d have enjoyed staying there with her. It’s good to see her again. I don’t need to pretend.

  “I missed you, too,” she says.

  I lower my lips to hers.

  Ten minutes later we move to her room and let’s just say she never has time to ring her sister back.

  all i ever wanted was revenge

  Monday, Monday. I love Mondays. Mondays are days to reflect on the glorious successes of the weekend before. And to start work on brilliant new campaigns. I need to come up with some ideas for British Gas, so that I’m ready when Rupert gets me a meeting slot.

  And, lo and behold, just when I think the day can’t get any better, the phone rings and my temp answers it and tells me that Kenneth Wilmington-Wilkes is on the line. That Kenneth is phoning me.

  “Kenneth,” I say, taking the call, all hearty chums, “good to hear from you.”

  “Hello, Alexander.” His voice sounds funny and I wonder if he’s choking on his own bile, so greatly must he hate me.

  “I’m right in the middle of a creative flow,” I say, deciding he must have held his shame in check and rung Charles St. John to obtain my number, “so can we cut right to the point?”

  “Of course.” He doesn’t want to prolong this conversation any more than I do. “I, uh, I’ve been hearing some good things about your firm, Alex.”

  “It’s Alexander.” My name is not Alex. (I wonder which defections of his old clients he’s discovered.)

  “Oh, uh, Alexander, then. I was hoping you’d be able to come over for a meeting this afternoon.”

  “A meeting? With you? At Wilmington-Wilkes? I didn’t think I was welcome at Wilmington-Wilkes.”

  “That,” says Kenneth, “was a silly misunderstanding. I’d like to put things right. Will you come?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of work I’m hoping to get done today.” Let him think I’m reluctant when in fact I’m dying to get into the Wilmington-Wilkes offices again. My plan, my master plan, won’t be complete without a venture into the old plac
e.

  “I’ll make it worth your while. Please, Alexander. Please come.”

  Please?

  Is Kenneth begging me to come?

  I smile like a Cheshire cat. “Oh, all right,” I say, in an exasperated tone, as if I’m giving in against my better judgement. “Say three?”

  And the pathetic bastard seems grateful.

  Can’t he afford to lose so many clients? Hasn’t he been gaining new accounts? Was he relying on repeat business? Did he really want that couple of hundred grand from E-genes I tore up in front of him? Does he need money?

  in the enemy’s lair

  Kenneth Wilmington-Wilkes himself is standing beside the security desk waiting for me. Kenneth is a man who doesn’t like to leave the sanctity of his own office unless it’s to meet clients or sack an employee. And here he is greeting me. Where’s his smugness now?

  “Alexander,” says Kenneth, hurrying over to shake my hand.

  I grip tightly, using the same trick I used Saturday night, punishing him with the only physical violence I can get away with. I squeeze until he betrays himself with a wince and then I release him. “Kenneth.”

  Kenneth’s smile turns sickly. He’s not used to men like me calling him by his Christian name. In this domain he’s known as Mr. Wilmington-Wilkes, sir, yes, sir, but not by me. Not any longer. I’m a free agent, not an employee. And I’ll never be an employee again. Not of him. Not of anyone.

  “Come on up to my office,” he says. He leads me toward his private lift. (Kenneth does not like to sully himself through contact with lesser mortals.)

  And just as we reach it the doors to one of the main lifts open and disgorge a group of a dozen or so employees. They’re carrying laptops and folders and heavy briefcases, and I know that look: they’re on their way to a presentation. As I pause and watch them I begin to recognize faces and, more importantly, I see that those faces see me and stare for half a second before their expressions turn guarded. They pretend not to notice, but I can see them watching us. They’ve seen us. They’ve seen me. They’ve seen Kenneth in the lobby escorting me into his private lift. What will the Wilmington-Wilkes gossips make of this?