Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  I steer Camilla toward the door and I smile at her tenderly and whisper in her ear, knowing it’ll appear as if I’m whispering endearments, and say, “We have to talk. In private.”

  I can feel her body go rigid at my tone of voice, but by looking at her face you can’t tell anything is amiss. She gives me a brilliant smile, takes my hand and we slip out of the room. Slip, I think, but I’m not fooled, I know everyone is watching us as we walk down the hall until we’re out of sight. We are, after all, the entertainment and Camilla is the undeniable star of the ball.

  We don’t speak until Camilla leads us into the library at the other side of the house and shuts the door. She steps away from me, crosses her arms and says, “What is it?”

  I feel a moment’s regret for the loss of this house, for the loss of Camilla’s inheritance, for the loss of her world, for the loss of her skills in bed when she’s trying to get her own way, but then I look into her eyes and I know I don’t want to spend my life with her. I have no doubts about my decision. This is something I have to do.

  Life is not about love, I’ll accept that. I know it’s true. Life is about success, but isn’t a part of success about being happy? I’d never be happy with Camilla. We’re just not suited. And I don’t love Camilla. I don’t love anyone at this moment, but I think I could love Amber. I haven’t allowed myself the luxury of feelings, but I like Amber, I’ve always liked Amber, we have fun together; it’d be easy to love Amber. I want Amber. I want to be with Amber. I don’t want Camilla.

  Even if I take Amber out of the equation I don’t want to spend my life with Camilla.

  I am me. I am an Advertising God. Marrying a woman like Camilla will do nothing for me, being with a woman like Amber will not change me, I’ll still be Alexander. And to Amber I can be sweet and kind, to her I can be Alex. Alex is dead inside me, but I can practice, I will practice, she’ll make it easy. I want to be Alex for her. I want to be kind and gentle to Amber. I want to make her happy. I’ll save Alexander for people like Jed and Sarah and Kenneth. And Camilla. I could never show her my sweet side.

  “I don’t think this is going to work,” I say, filling the silence, realizing I’ve been thinking too long, that Camilla has been standing there, tensely waiting for my words.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to marry you.” Six little words. Too harsh, maybe, but they get my point across. There’s no sense in prolonging this discussion. I want to get on my way. I want to get out of here.

  “But you asked me to marry you, Alexander,” says Camilla. “You proposed.” Her face is white, her eyes are huge, wounded, like a fawn’s, and I feel a flicker of sympathy.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am.” I decide to lie, it’ll make her feel better. I can be magnanimous in my victory, she’s never been on my list of revenge, she’s never done me any personal harm. “It’s me, not you. I thought I was ready to settle down, but hearing all these people congratulate us today and call us engaged was too much for me. I’m too young for marriage, I want to enjoy life a little more.”

  “But—”

  “I’m truly sorry, Camilla. You don’t have to tell everyone today. We’ll think of something. You can blame me, I don’t mind.” I nearly snort, but I catch myself in time. She can blame me? Of course she’s bloody well going to blame me. It is my fault, after all, and she’ll make me out into some black-hearted villain, but I don’t care. It’s not like I’m leaving her at the altar; my reputation will survive this little lovers’ spat.

  Will it make the papers? Will some vindictive gossip columnist who hates Camilla print this juicy tale? I don’t care if it does—it doesn’t bother me. It’s not like I left her during the wedding ceremony. I only proposed one day and called it off the next, and anyone who’s seen beyond Camilla’s perfect face will understand. It won’t harm my career. It won’t harm my standing in society. No one will be foolhardy enough to think to shun me, for I’m too important. I’m invincible.

  Camilla stares at me, her lips curling with disdain. She uncrosses her arms and slaps me across the cheek with the flat of her palm. Her beautiful face is contorted with rage.

  But there are no tears. Camilla sheds no tears.

  “You bastard,” she says.

  Yes, I’ll accept that. I am a bastard.

  I feel my smile of euphoria stretching across my face, but this time it’s for real. I am euphoric. The world suddenly looks like a better place. It has sunshine and flowers and birdsong and joy. I will be happy. I can be happy. I am happy.

  “You fucking bastard. How dare you,” says Camilla. “I’m pregnant.”

  The smile is wiped from my face. Each and every last trace of joy is gone, removed in an instant, vanished in less time than a puff of smoke. Gone. Obliterated. Utterly and totally destroyed.

  “What?” My voice is hoarse. “Pregnant?” Oh, God. I feel sick. All my plans have come crashing down upon me.

  “You heard me. I,” she says slowly, “am carrying a fucking child inside of me.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I went to the doctor, Alexander. There’s a thing called modern science, these days. Maybe you’ve heard of it? There’s tests and everything.”

  A baby. I never thought there’d be a baby. But then I frown as something dawns on me. “But isn’t it too soon? How can you know already?”

  “I’m three months pregnant.” And then she smiles, a vicious, evil, wounding smile.

  “Three months?” I feel like I’m some sort of automaton, doomed forever to repeat the last thing I heard. “Three months?”

  She pats her belly. It’s as flat as ever. “Three months.”

  “But I haven’t known you for three months,” I say.

  “No, you haven’t, have you?” Her smile grows wider.

  I feel a jolt of white hot rage pass through me. It’s not my baby. “You were going to pass it off as mine?”

  “You’ve got it in one. What amazing intelligence you have, Alexander. You don’t think I actually wanted to marry you, do you?”

  “Who’s the father?”

  She shrugs. “You’ll never know.”

  “You don’t even know, do you?” I feel sick inside. She either doesn’t know the guilty party or she doesn’t like him or she’d have her father hounding the poor man, bribing or blackmailing him with whatever it would take for him to marry Camilla. No wonder she was so keen on me so quickly. I must have seemed like a heavenly angel sent to save her. “Three months gone is a long time. The baby won’t exactly appear premature, will it?”

  “My doctor fancies me. He would have sworn it was three months early; you’d never have known.” Camilla smiles at me and then studies the ring on her finger. The engagement ring I just spent a fortune on. “Such a pretty diamond,” she says. Then she looks up at me. “If you leave me I’m going to tell everyone you abandoned your pregnant fiancée, that you abandoned your child.”

  “It’s not my child.”

  “Do you think anyone will believe you? And then when I have a miscarriage from the stress and grief of your leaving it’ll be even worse for you.”

  “You’d kill your baby to spite me?” She’s unbelievable. I don’t know how I thought I ever came close to understanding her.

  Camilla laughs. “You’re a fucking gullible moron, Alexander. I’m not pregnant. I never was pregnant. You should have seen your face. Like I’d keep a baby at this stage in my life. I don’t want a baby. I don’t want babies. I want a husband, not a family. You think I’d destroy this body just like that?”

  “You still want to get married?”

  “No longer to you.” She studies the engagement ring. “Such a pity. You would have done wonderfully; you’d have felt eternally grateful to me for helping you climb out of the pit of social nothingness. You’d have treated me like a princess.”

  I ignore her insult and concentrate on what I want to hear. She doesn’t want to marry me. “So you’ll let me go? We’ll call it
off?”

  Camilla looks up from her studying of the diamond and smiles. “You go ahead and call it off, Alexander.” Her smile falls and she puts on a worried face. “Oh, no, oh dear, I feel a pain in my stomach. You don’t think I’ll lose the baby, do you?”

  “You’re not even pregnant.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  If I weren’t so angry I’d concentrate on studying her manipulations. She’s a master: she’s had her entire life to practice getting her own way. She is the ultimate in selfishness and be damned to everyone else.

  “No,” I say, “you’re not. And if you are you’ll have to produce either a baby or a fetus and then we’ll do DNA tests and prove it’s not mine.”

  “Such a shame the poor little miscarried thing will be cremated immediately, isn’t it?”

  “Then I will fight you in the courts, I’ll smear your name across the papers, I’ll fight dirty, I’ll hire someone and dig up all your disgraceful past experiences, I’ll make your father ashamed to call you his daughter. I’ll deny that the child is mine, I’ll accuse you of anything I can, and I’ll air your mistakes and indiscretions in public and tell them all how you fuck strangers hours after meeting them.”

  She gasps. “I’ll sue you for defamation.”

  I’m the one who’s smiling now. “And even if you win and I have to pay you a million pounds there’ll always be those who wonder. Mud sticks, doesn’t it, Camilla? Isn’t that what you were hoping would sway me?”

  “You’re a bastard.”

  “You’ve already said that, Camilla. Let’s both accept a little truth here. I’m a bastard and you’re a bitch and you’d think that would make us deserve one another, but let’s not put ourselves through the misery. Let’s just pretend this is a mutual split. I’m sorry you’re upset about this, but come, now, we really would get on one another’s nerves after a few months. No doubt you can rustle up some lord or other who’d be delighted to marry you.”

  Her eyes are wet now and I could almost feel sorry for her. “But I quit my job,” she whispers. “I’ve told all my friends. Everyone will laugh at me. They already hate me for being beautiful when it’s not my fault; I was born like this. They’ve always hated me for being prettier than they are. Now they’ll talk about me behind my back. They’ll be happy I’m humiliated.”

  Even after all that’s happened here, even after I’ve seen into the shallowness of her soul, I feel a stirring of pity for her. I decide to be kind. I decide to ignore her threats, even if half of me wants to throttle her where she stands, passing off her ghost baby as mine. I shudder to think of Camilla and I playing happy families together. How could I ever have thought it would work?

  “You pretend that our engagement was merely a ruse to make your true love jealous,” I say.

  “I do?”

  I nearly take her hands, but I don’t want to touch her, not now, not ever again. “Yes, you do, then you marry someone as rich as you are and you get your big wedding and a country estate of your own.”

  Camilla stares at me for a long time, then she nods. “Good idea.” She slaps me again, taking me by surprise, and I wonder if I imagined her despair. “But I’m keeping the ring.” She smiles. “And I’m not telling anyone today. I’ll say you’ve had to head back to London on business. Our engagement will last as long as I need it to.”

  “Fine,” I say. And just like that I walk from the room. I leave the house and go to my car and I drive away.

  I’ve had a narrow escape. I’m glad I’m not marrying her. She’s hard and rather annoying and horrid when it comes down to it. I can feel no real sympathy for her. She’ll survive. It’s Amber who needs my concern. Soft, gentle, adorable Amber.

  And as I drive through the gates and leave Camilla’s family behind I feel not even a second’s regret. I’ve made the right decision. My future is not here.

  Have a nice life, Camilla.

  That’s becoming a favorite of mine. Have a nice life. It has a good, honest, Alexander ring to it. An appropriate air of finality.

  flying high, or whoever needs drugs for this feeling should get a life, it worked for me

  I smile my smile of euphoria all the way back to London. I can’t help myself; I’m sitting here behind the wheel grinning like a lunatic. I haven’t been this happy since the night of my transformation when the world suddenly had all these great and exciting possibilities.

  This is how life should be. It’s meant to be fun. I’m supposed to enjoy my success.

  I meet the beginning of the rush-hour crowds but traffic’s moving enough so I don’t have to come to a standstill. I’ve worked it all out in my head. I know Amber’s not going to leap back into my arms, but if I’m really contrite, which I am, and we take things slowly, I know she’ll give me a second chance. I won’t tell her the whole sorry tale, not about Sarah or Kate or Camilla or any of that, but I’ll tell her I was confused. That much is true. I was scared of feeling anything. I knew I’d be safe inside my shell with Camilla, but I’m willing to risk it with Amber. I want to feel something. I want to feel alive. I want to feel excitement and joy and happiness. I want to feel all that with Amber. I want to give it a try. We deserve that chance.

  It may take a lot longer than I want it to, but I will succeed. I’ll win her back. I’m good at achieving the seemingly impossible. I’ll make it up to Amber. It’ll take time but I will make it all better. We can start over; we can have a relationship, just like she wanted. We can be a couple. We can have fun.

  I could kick myself for causing her these two days of sorrow, but I needed this experience, I needed to realize the truth for myself. I’m the only one who can keep me on top, it’s up to me—not some woman and her father and her family connections, it’s about me. It’s always been about me.

  Oh, sure, it’s too bad about the loss of Camilla’s contacts. I don’t fool myself: even if Camilla uses my plan to catch herself a new husband—a brilliant plan worthy of an American soap opera if I do say so myself—she’ll find some way to make me look bad. In the final tale I doubt I’ll be her bosom pal helping her to win her true love. She’ll probably claim I was in love with her, poor sod, and that she broke my heart, but it took our engagement to make her realize how much she loved so-and-so (insert name of new man here). But if anyone hears the tale then sees me, they’ll guess the truth about my emotions soon enough. Camilla never had a chance to dent my heart. My pocketbook, yes, but never me. I’ve got to assume that British Gas and E-genes are both write-offs, but it doesn’t matter: it’ll be easy to get other clients and there are lots of charities wetting their pants to get me on board. My entry in Who’s Who will still look good. No, it’ll look better, it won’t mention Camilla. There’ll be no question that I made myself into who I am.

  And if, by some miracle worthy of mention by every town crier in the land, Camilla’s tale doesn’t destroy my E-genes and British Gas opportunities, then I’ll stay involved. Business is business. It’ll be easy to schmooze with Rupert and Charles in public and pretend that everything’s all right. I don’t think it will happen and I don’t particularly care one way or the other, but I could do it. I would do it. I’m a professional.

  I turn up the volume of the car stereo and allow the sounds of Jimi Hendrix (always a favorite) to pour over me as I wait at a set of traffic lights. I think I should feel a bit angrier, a bit more insulted at Camilla’s manipulations, but I’m too happy at the moment to want to seek any form of petty vengeance against her. If she’d succeeded in her plan of passing off her imaginary miscarried child as mine, then I would have had cause for revenge, but she didn’t and she won’t and I’m just delighted to have escaped.

  And I do have a great office at a great rate. I always knew I’d need that lease in the end. At least I gained something from my time with Camilla. (In addition to the furniture. And the sex, I can’t fault her for that. Though I do suspect she’s one of those women that as soon as the wedding night has passed will start doling out the sex like i
t’s sweets to a child, as a reward to be used for good behavior.)

  As I’m nearing the flat, by some quirk of fate or luck or something I pass a florist. Feeling like James Bond, I nip my nifty Jaguar into a space on the side of the road (the sign says one-hour parking only, but that’s long enough for me) and go into the shop.

  What would Amber like? I want to give her flowers so she can see that I am sorry, so that she knows I’ve been thinking about her, that my apology is planned. (I’ll even get down on my knees and beg her to forgive me: I can do that for her.)

  I want to get her roses, but not red, it’s too soon for that. There, those pink roses, I’ll take two dozen of those. Two dozen roses for my lovely lady. Once she’s forgiven me I’ll find out what her favorite flower is and give her three dozen a day every day for a month so she’ll know how very sorry I am.

  The florist smiles at me knowingly, knowing this is a special day, but not guessing the real reason, oh, no, no one would ever guess that this smiling man has just walked out on his overnight fiancée. Camilla my fiancée. Who was I kidding? The woman’s a predator, she doesn’t deserve to be rewarded with my bounty. I don’t like predators who prey on the prey, I certainly don’t want to marry one. I must have been insane. What was I thinking?

  Glad I’ve finally come to my senses, I pay for the flowers, gather them up into my arms, anticipating Amber finally, one day, though I know it won’t be today, succumbing to my charms and forgiving me, and leave the shop.

  I sniff the roses. They smell divine, not like they’ve been grown in a greenhouse. I’m glad: I want the scent to fill Amber’s room, I want her to sleep in a haze of perfume, I want her to live in a rose-smelling world, I want everything to be perfect for her.