Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  In her dreams. I switch some of my attention back to the catalog, half listening to her, half interested in the property, but I turn the page again, not wanting a seven-bedroom house near Guildford. Too close to my parents and old friends who used to know Alex. That’s the past. My future’s in London. And Gloucestershire, a twenty-bedroom Georgian mansion to be precise.

  “I can’t talk long,” says Camilla. “There are so many people I want to tell. I just wanted to let you know that Mummy is throwing a small luncheon for us tomorrow, a sort of pre-engagement-party gathering. I know it’s midweek and a lot of people are in town so it’ll just be a few close friends and neighbors. Do say you’ll come.”

  By the time I’m finished with the property magazine Camilla has told three other people and now she’s phoning another. Henrietta, she told me, as if I cared. Henrietta is an old schoolfriend of Camilla’s, temporarily indulging in a career at Asprey and Garrard, jewellers to the queen. Camilla wants her to open early so we can buy an engagement ring, so that Camilla will have one to wear at the luncheon tomorrow.

  “Hen?” says Camilla. “I have a huge favor to ask. And you’ll never guess what’s happened. I’m getting married.”

  what surprising taste you have, camilla

  At eight o’clock in the morning—well, four minutes to eight to be exact—Camilla and I arrive at the doors of Asprey and Garrard. Camilla is early and I think that this would do her street cred a lot of damage but for the fact that the infamous Henrietta is ready and waiting, grinning, simpering, including me in her joy, assuming I fully appreciate my luck in gaining Camilla’s hand, allowing that this is one occasion a girl can’t be too eager for.

  My smile of euphoria, of the happy groom-to-be is perfect. I practiced in the mirror for a good ten minutes before breakfast. A man has to be prepared for these things. It’s all about image. And image is all about appearance. Appearances are normally accepted at face value. Oh, look at him, look at her, look at them, they look so happy, they must be so happy. To look happy is to be happy. Isn’t it?

  Last night I fell asleep to the sound of her voice relating the joyous news over and over, and when I woke this morning Camilla was applying the last finishing touches to her makeup. I don’t think she slept (too many people to tell, too much gloating to do), but you couldn’t tell by looking at her. She looks radiant. A perfect picture of health and happiness.

  I stare at Camilla while Henrietta leads us to the engagement-ring area. This won’t be such a hardship. I can’t complain. A beautiful, wealthy, classy wife. What more could a man want?

  There are trays and trays of rings. Diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds. Yellow gold and platinum bands. Brilliant cut, pear, emerald cut, heart shapes, oval, marquise, blah blah blah blah blah. I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about and I soon lose interest. The displays look beautiful, the rings look beautiful, they’re shining and glittering and there’s something in the lighting or the air or just the atmosphere that screams money and privilege and cries out, “I’ve made it,” to the world. She’ll find something appropriate.

  Camilla and Henrietta throw terminology back and forth at one another like a tennis ball. Is this one of those subjects women instinctively know everything about? Would my mother, daughterless and married for over thirty years, be able to join in this conversation? Would she be able to hold her own when discussing carats and clarity and brilliance?

  Camilla tries on dozens of rings, mostly focusing her attention on the image of her hands in the mirrors or discussing the various options with Henrietta. Occasionally a “What do you think of this one, Alexander?” is thrown my way.

  Whatever you want, dear. I don’t say it, but I think it. Is this what it’s like for most men? Do we just not care or is it something in me? Let her have what she wants. I don’t care. I don’t care what it looks like, I don’t care what it costs, I just don’t care. It’s her ring, she’s the one that’ll have to wear the thing.

  I should have cared.

  Camilla turns to me, her eyes as bright as the diamonds in the display. “This one,” she says, lifting her hand, flashing a ring at me. “I want this one. Do you like it, Alexander? Can I have this one? Let’s get this one.”

  I can do no more than smile my smile of euphoria, earning my second Academy Award of the day, as I stare at the ring on her finger.

  I make some sort of noise in my throat, a noise Camilla takes as one of assent, for she turns to Henrietta and says, “We’ll take it.”

  Camilla gazes down at the ring, at her ring, a tone of love in her voice. “I’ve always wanted a platinum and diamond engagement ring.”

  Are you sure it’s platinum? Looks more like stainless steel to me. (Shiny like the set of saucepans I bought for Sarah two months ago for no other reason than that she wanted them.)

  How has Camilla managed to choose the only ugly ring in the whole place? I thought her taste was supposed to be impeccable. Is this a signal that the thought of a big, white wedding with hundreds and hundreds of guests has turned her mind to mush? Will she walk down the aisle in some hideous concoction of tulle, lace, and crinoline? What’s happening to the world? It’s all topsy-turvy and Camilla has gone mad. Any other ring would do. Why did she have to choose this one?

  How to describe it in one word? Hideous. Tacky. Gaudy. It’s like the most disgusting piece of jewelry my grandmother ever owned. It’s too much. Garish. Is this what all the girls are wearing? Is this a fashion trend so new I’ve yet to hear of it? Where has minimalism gone? I want it back right now.

  There’s one huge solitaire diamond, about three carats give or take, and it’s so shining, so sparkling, there’s so much fire inside this diamond that I feel like it’s alive, that it’s the eye of some creature, that it’s looking out and winking at the world. If we’re in the countryside and we go out at night we’ll no longer need a torch: her diamond will reflect the starlight back a thousandfold, it’ll light up the night.

  The stone itself is pretty, I admit that; I like diamonds, but it’s so big on her dainty finger it looks silly. And as for the rest of it, well, the band is thick and chunky and it’s encrusted with diamond chips so that there’s diamonds twinkling at you from every direction. It’s not a feminine ring—even with all those glittering diamonds. It’s like some sort of futuristic bauble. I thought she didn’t want her wedding to be dated. To be dateable.

  It costs so much and has so many diamonds that only the other wealthy will truly appreciate the beauty of this ring. No middle-class woman would ever wear such a thing. Sarah wouldn’t. Amber certainly wouldn’t. They wouldn’t dare be so ostentatious.

  I’m going to make certain that everyone knows Camilla chose the ring. That it’s what she wanted. Either people will like it and think Camilla has excellent taste and congratulate me on having such a woman, or they’ll think that I must really love Camilla to have bought her such a grotesque ring because it’s what she wanted.

  It’s a win-win situation. So long as I try not to look at the ring too often. Wonder if I’ll get used to it over time. Maybe as the years go by it will seem to shrink. Or eventually my eyesight will fade and dim and then I’ll be glad it’s so big and bright, glad that there’s one thing I can still see without my trifocals.

  When Henrietta has finished measuring Camilla’s finger and has ascertained her ring size, she takes the platinum monstrosity away to get it resized. As we sit there waiting for her, Camilla turns to me and kisses me passionately, her hands, her lips, her limbs promising more, much more.

  “I can’t wait until we’re home,” she says.

  Neither can I.

  We kiss again and then she pulls away, smiling.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she says.

  So long as she doesn’t expect me to wear an engagement ring or change my surname upon marriage.

  Camilla takes out her mobile. “Just let me make one call and then you’ll see.”

  I feel like this proposal thing
has taken on a life of its own, that it’s following some preordained path that is confusing to the uninitiated male, but to the female of the species is as clear as a glass of mineral water.

  “Hi,” says Camilla, into her phone, “let me speak to Janey.”

  Janey, whom I haven’t met, is Camilla’s boss.

  “Janey, it’s me. I quit.” Camilla laughs.

  She quits? Surprise. I knew this would happen, I just wasn’t expecting it to happen today. It’s not like I mind—I mean I don’t expect her to work, her job is to be my wife and make me look good—but surely we should have talked about this. She could have mentioned it to me beforehand. We’ll have a discussion about these hasty decisions of hers after the wedding. Then she’ll remember to consult me in the future. And if she does anything like this again I’ll throw her from the top of an office building in the City and watch her body fall on to the spiked railings below.

  “Yes,” says Camilla, “I am getting married. To Alexander. He’s simply gorgeous. Yes, and loaded. And Mummy and Daddy approve.” She slips off her shoe and rubs her foot up and down my ankle. “I’ll stop by tomorrow or the day after and collect my things and show you all my ring. Uh-huh.” She smiles at me. “Uh-huh. Thanks.” She ends the call.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she says to me.

  It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it, sweetheart?

  “It’s just that planning a wedding is such a huge undertaking. It’ll be a full-time job for me. And for Mummy, too.”

  Aren’t I lucky to have such a dedicated mother-in-law-to-be?

  Camilla pouts sexily. “I couldn’t let myself be distracted by all those boring little PR things now, could I?” She kisses me. “You don’t mind, do you, darling?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say. “But next time let’s discuss things first.”

  And it is fine. I require the best wedding possible. Everyone will be there. It has to be perfect. And if it takes all of her time to plan it then it takes up all of her time.

  “But I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted to give you something priceless, to show you how much I love you. I was thinking only of you,” she says, still trying to convince me that it was the right thing to do when convincing isn’t necessary. “You deserve my full support and attention. I did it all for you.”

  Yeah, right, Camilla, sure, Camilla, I believe you. Of course I believe you when you say you don’t mind getting up early, that you don’t think promoting someone else is tedious when the time could be spent so much better by talking about yourself, I believe you, I do. You’ve had your stint in the real world, or as near to it as you’ll ever get, you’ve realized that working isn’t as glamorous as it seems on the big screen and now you’ve had enough.

  And wanting a spectacular wedding to best all of your friends has nothing to do with it, does it?

  But that’s as it should be. Success is no fun if no one else knows about it.

  life doesn’t get any better than this

  A few hours later we’re in Gloucestershire and our small, cozy luncheon has turned into a celebration for fifty. Mostly wives and daughters, it is true, but a handful of men such as Rupert (of course the father of the bride is here), Charles, and a few others who obviously don’t bother to work are also present.

  Camilla stays glued to my side, showing me off as she drags me around to accept congratulations and flash her ring at everyone. The women all ooh and ahh over the sparkle of the diamonds and the men, well, the men catch my eye for a brief second and I wonder if we’re having some kind of male solidarity here—do they hate it too?—but everyone says complimentary things. You do, don’t you?

  And as I’m making small talk it suddenly strikes me that I’ve made it.

  These people want to be with me. These people like me, or like me as much as they like anybody. They’re flattering me. They consider me one of them. They recognize that I am one of them. I’m being welcomed into Camilla’s family with open arms.

  I’m a success. I’m at the top. I’ve made it.

  I’ve had my revenge against Sarah and Jed and Kenneth. I’ve got everything I wanted when I had my first moment of clarity upon becoming Alexander.

  And I can never go back to being Alex. I don’t even want to be Alex. I don’t like Alex. (He was pathetic. I was pathetic.) And Alex, well, Alex wouldn’t like me either. We wouldn’t be friends.

  I know I was Alex, but I can no longer just look inside my mind and know instinctively what he would do in every situation. Not now. I can only guess—guess—at his most obvious actions and reactions, like I’d do with my brother. It’s like Alex is a different person. Like I’m a different person now. I’m the pure Alexander Fairfax undiluted by Alex.

  I can never be Alex again even if I wanted to go back. I don’t know how to be him. I can’t remember what it feels like to be Alex. I wanted to kill him, to rid myself of his annoying little ways, and now I have. Alex is dead.

  Alex is dead. Long live Alexander.

  It’s good to be Alexander.

  I’m in control of my own fate, my own destiny. I’ve got my life in my hands. I can do anything I want to do because I am me.

  A handful of servants (the females all presentable, average, but none even approaching pretty, Camilla and her mother obviously want no competition) circulate with champagne.

  As soon as everyone has a glass Rupert clears his throat and says, “I’d like to say a few words.”

  They accept me. I am one of them. It’s all about success and I am successful.

  Rupert continues speaking. “My darling daughter has always made me proud, but today, the day she arrived on the arm of her future husband, I realized that she is a woman. She’s a woman embarking on her own life and I couldn’t be more proud of her choice. Welcome to the family, Alexander.”

  He accepts me. He wants me to marry his daughter.

  I’ve made it. I’m standing on the top of the world. I am the king of the mountain.

  Life is not about love. It’s not about friendship. It’s certainly not about honor or virtue or living up to some imaginary morality. It’s not about kindness or caring or giving. Or even sex. It’s about success. And, above all, it’s about money.

  I have plenty of money. I’m a success.

  I see Rupert’s mouth moving, I know he’s still speaking, that words are coming out, but I can no longer hear him. My world narrows to the sounds of my own heartbeat.

  I am a success.

  But I wanted to marry Camilla so that I could be a complete success, so that she could help me in my rise to the top. If I’m already there—and I must be there, the proof’s in my acceptance here today—I don’t need Camilla. I don’t need to marry a woman like Camilla. I don’t need to marry Camilla.

  The world speeds up and suddenly it all comes back into focus and I can hear Rupert. “Please raise your glasses,” he says. “I’d like to propose a toast.”

  I don’t need to marry Camilla. I don’t need her kind. I don’t need her.

  I don’t even like the bitch.

  Rupert, Celeste, Charles, Grace, Harriet, they all raise their glasses, smiling at Camilla and me.

  I don’t even like the bitch. I don’t want to live with her, I don’t want to put up with her pouting and whining and tantrums, I certainly don’t want to spend my life with her. I don’t want to marry her.

  But I hurt Amber. I hurt sweet, dear, innocent Amber because of Camilla. Because I thought I needed Camilla. Oh, God, I did. I hurt Amber. I should never have done that to her, I could have lied. I should have lied. I should have told Amber what she needed to hear. I could have let us drift apart naturally. I could have made it seem mutual. I could have saved her all those tears. And it was all for nothing; I didn’t even need to hurt her. I didn’t need to leave her, not when it’s over with Camilla.

  If this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach is guilt then I don’t like it. I’m not supposed to feel guilt, Alexander was never supposed to feel guilt. I’m
not supposed to hurt the prey, I was never supposed to hurt the prey. What have I done?

  I was wrong. I was very wrong and I can’t take it back. But I can try. I will try. I’ll apologize. I’ll apologize and try to make it up to her. It may take days or weeks or even months, but I’ll keep apologizing until she forgives me. I can be patient, I can be persistent, I can do this for Amber.

  “To Camilla and Alexander,” says Rupert.

  I’d forgotten about the toast. Don’t they know? How can they not know I’ve changed my mind?

  “To Camilla and Alexander,” repeats everyone.

  I don’t want to marry Camilla. I can’t marry Camilla.

  I am Alexander and no one is going to make me do anything I don’t want to do.

  They all take a sip of champagne.

  “No,” I say, whispering, the words inaudible, my throat dry. I don’t want to marry Camilla, I’m not going to marry Camilla, but I can’t do this now. I can’t break off the engagement here, in front of all these people; I can’t do that to her. Even Camilla deserves better than that.

  I take a gulp of champagne and plaster a smile on my face when Camilla slips her arm through mine and gives me a kiss on the cheek. No, this isn’t the time and it certainly isn’t the place. Camilla may be spoiled and selfish and she is one of life’s predators, but that alone doesn’t give me an excuse to be cruel to her. She’s never been vicious to me, she hasn’t destroyed my career or my social life. She’s helped me, from the very day I met her she’s been good to me. I can’t dump her now. She does not deserve mass public humiliation. I may not want to spend my life with her, I may not want to marry her, but I can wish her luck in her own life. I can even be generous and wish her happiness.

  We circulate and socialize and I have to say I’m witty and entertaining and I make people smile and laugh when inside my soul is turning over and over in torment. What about Amber? She’s had two whole days to cry and feel used and dirty and wretched. I have to make it up to her, I have to make it all better. I have to do it now, today, there’s no more time to waste, I can’t wait four more hours for everyone to leave, I can’t wait until tomorrow—Amber needs me now. I have to end her suffering. She needs me. I have to go to Amber.