Beta Male

by Iain Hollingshead

  ‘Sack of shit,’ summarised one, succinctly.

  ‘Gay,’ opined another, even more succinctly.

  Others were, at least, vaguely witty.

  ‘I’d like to use this forum to challenge the editor of Nuts to unarmed combat in Trafalgar Square,’ wrote ‘Germaine Greer’, who was almost certainly not Germaine Greer.

  ‘This is drivel,’ wrote ‘Sam Hunt’, who almost certainly was Sam Hunt. ‘What Ed needs to do is to have a good night out with his friends and get laid.’

  Of all the hundreds of comments, I found just one that actually tackled the issues I had raised or which could be construed as positive in any way.

  ‘Saynotospermbanks.com,’ it demanded, enigmatically. I looked up the site and was disappointed to find nothing there.

  ‘Don’t be disheartened,’ said the journalist friend who had stitched me up in the first place, when I rang up to moan.

  ‘Don’t be bloody disheartened?’ I shouted. ‘The caption under my picture says “Is this the future leader of the new suffragits?”’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he lied, laughing. ‘We meant to write suffragists, but typos happen. Anyway, the readers always savage new writers online. I bet you get a much more positive response via your email.’

  Naturally, bile poured into my inbox as well. Tara wrote a markedly un-positive email, her anger and embarrassment only tempered by the concern she evidently felt: ‘Ed, are you okay? I had no idea it was this bad. Do you want to meet up to talk? Somewhere public… ?’

  But my treacherous journalist friend turned out to be at least partially right, as I was also bombarded with a torrent of man-love from emasculated men all over the world. ‘I would never admit this openly,’ wrote Tom from Washington DC, ‘but you are completely right. Thank God someone has come out and said this at last. I’m not saying I don’t like the way the Western world is going, but I do think we should debate it.’

  ‘Spot on, Ed,’ wrote Pete from Liverpool. ‘Everyone always discusses women’s post-feminism role. What about men’s? What are we for any longer?’

  Others just used the article as an excuse to sound off about their girlfriends. How come they were allowed to be moody once every twenty-eight days? Why did guys always find themselves apologising? Why did girls always talk about ‘training’ their boyfriends? Why did all the sacrifices come on our part? What exactly did girls give up for marriage compared to blokes?

  I didn’t agree with most of these comments. The main reason I was so upset was because I had enjoyed making sacrifices for Tara and now they all seemed pointless. But there was one final email, at the end of the following week, just as they were beginning to die out, which made me think.

  ‘Fair shout, mate,’ it said, ‘but if you really believe all this, what are you going to do about it?’

  And I thought, yes, that is a fair shout, Al from Earls Court, Australia. If these were my convictions, did I have the courage to see them through? And where would they logically lead?

  I was just contemplating this when another email popped into my inbox, from Sam’s friend, Claire.

  ‘Hello, suffra-git,’ it said. ‘Do you fancy a drink some time soon?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘So basically, Sam, you have a month,’ summarised Claire.

  It was the day after Alan had stormed out to go and live south of the river with Jess. Matt and I had joined Claire for a coffee in Covent Garden.

  ‘Yep,’ I confirmed. ‘A month in which to find some money for Rosie, make her fall in love with me and move in with her before Alan evicts me. Otherwise, I’ll be spending this Christmas on the street.’

  ‘You could just apologise to Alan now and hope he lets you stay there.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Matt. ‘I spoke to Alan again this morning and he’s still fairly livid. Sam’s basically insulted his entire life. By criticising Jess, you criticise him. That’s the way he sees it, anyway.’

  ‘I just can’t believe you left it so long after the window of opportun – ’ said Claire.

  ‘Look, I know about the bloody window of opportunity, okay? Anyway, Matt, it’s not as if you’re entirely blameless in this whole thing. You moved into our flat without even asking Alan. And you didn’t exactly stand up for Jess when I put my foot in it.’

  Matt glared at me and sensibly decided to change the subject. ‘Claire,’ he said, ‘Sam was telling me yesterday that the two of you had a cunning, foolproof plan to find some rich women.’

  Claire laughed, sat back in the comfortable Starbucks armchair and started to describe the shambolic discussion we’d had on the phone only a few hours earlier. This was a great girl, I thought, as I watched her speak. Not that pretty, admittedly. Not that cool, either. But pretty damn cool, nonetheless. How many other girls would decide to take a holiday from work to help out two old friends on a silly plan like this? How many other girls would find this amusing instead of infantile? At what age was it we’d jokingly arranged to marry each other if we couldn’t find anyone else? Thirty-three? Thirty-five? Why couldn’t it be sooner? And why didn’t I bloody fancy her?

  ‘So what do you think?’ Claire asked Matt when she had finished.

  ‘I think it’s an excellent idea. We should have done it from the start.’

  Matt was right: we definitely should have thought of this earlier. The plan was fairly simple: namely that to snare rich women we had to go to where rich women hung out: premieres, art openings, auctions, etc. We couldn’t rely on our friends, or our friends’ friends, or strange, unvetted people we met online. We had to cast the net wide. We had to go out into the community – a very exclusive community, admittedly, but a community nonetheless. Our task would be made a whole lot easier if we weren’t just two predatory blokes working alone, but two cousins accompanied by their sister / cousin. Claire was nobly volunteering to join our very dysfunctional family.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘I haven’t acted for a very long time.’

  ‘You never really did,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘You must act well enough at your job to pretend you don’t find it irredeemably boring,’ said Matt.

  ‘And you must have acted a little with that new boyfriend of yours to pretend he wasn’t physically and morally repulsive.’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend any more, Sam.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not. And neither am I. Anyway, don’t think I’m just doing this for you guys. I want to find another entertaining man of my own. Preferably a rich one.’

  ‘Because you want to spend another five years having fun with alpha males before marrying a safe beta?’ I quoted.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, this is going to be fun,’ said an unconvinced Matt, who had no idea what we were talking about.

  *

  Yet fun it undoubtedly was. Matt and Claire might have pointed out that there was no real need for me to join them, given that my chief concern was finding money for my primary target, Rosie. But I didn’t have any money for Rosie. And what was my alternative: hanging round with Ed while he publicly sabotaged his chances of ever meeting another woman again? I have always been very bad at saying no to anything, in any case. Lisa used to describe this as my greatest failing, which I think says a lot about why we eventually broke up. I have always modestly thought it my greatest attribute.

  As much as possible, Claire tried to limit our activities to freebies, of which there were an enormous number in London, if you knew the right people, or knew how to blag. Claire, it turned out, was equally good at both, partly thanks to her sister who worked for a PR company and provided her with a long list of daily events. You would never have known we were supposed to be in the middle of a recession. Champagne, or at least fizzy white wine, still flowed at book launches, film launches, art gallery launches, fragrance launches… Anything that could be launched was launched, trumpeted with expensive and entirely unnecessary fanfare. Not that we were complaining. Ch
aperoned by Claire, we crawled from party to party, living strange nocturnal lives of half-remembered conversations, vol-au-vents and elaborate deceit. In the course of one evening I was a literary agent to the stars, an extra in EastEnders, a composer of advertising jingles and a reclusive avant-garde poet who spent most of the year in a cave in Wales. This last idea came from Claire, who took great delight in testing me with surprise introductions and then leaving me to sink or swim.

  ‘And how do you pass the time in your cave?’ asked the attractive publishing intern Claire had introduced me to, floundering around rather sweetly for a topic of conversation.

  I mimed at the confused intern, and then at Claire, until the latter finally took the hint.

  ‘I’m afraid my cousin Samuel took a vow of silence three years ago,’ she explained. ‘He feels that to speak would ruin his art.’

  ‘Samuel?’ I remonstrated, once I’d dragged a giggling Claire away to the vol-au-vents on the other side of the room. ‘Cave-dwelling, poetic hermit? Just you wait… ’

  Later that evening, at a party to celebrate the first album by a new band no one would ever hear of again, I interrupted Claire’s conversation with a drummer who was exactly her type and asked if she wanted to be paid now or later and whether the agency’s price included the ‘full girlfriend experience’.

  ‘Bastard,’ she mouthed as the drummer looked around for an escape route.

  ‘One-all,’ I mouthed back, smiling.

  Matt seemed to enjoy himself as well over those few weeks – in his element simply being himself, the charming unemployed doctor. Everyone loves doctors, especially the pneumatic actress at a premiere who thought he was a plastic surgeon and might be able to provide a free nip here and a complimentary tuck there in return for her own favours. Matt, however, was far too honest – far too foolish, in my opinion – to allow her to continue in her misapprehension.

  In the cab home after the music industry party – a cab paid for on expenses by Claire’s unknowingly generous firm – Matt complained of another problem with being a doctor, employed or otherwise. Every profession has its ‘Room 101’ question. For barristers, it’s how they can justify defending someone who is probably guilty. For teachers, it’s how they spend their overly long summer holidays (no one should ever ask Ed how he spent his summer). For me, and many other actors, it’s what production I’ve been in last. And for doctors it was any question that started with ‘Would you mind having a look at… ’ in the middle of a social engagement.

  ‘Someone actually came up to me tonight and took their sock off to show me their in-growing toenail,’ said Matt. ‘And then one of the band’s groupies asked if Chlamydia was still contagious if they had sex with another girl and the band just watched. I mean, come on, what am I? A walking, unemployed Google?’ He swivelled round in the front seat to face us. ‘Guys, I’m very grateful and everything, but I’m not sure this is really working. Sure, I’m having a good time, but I’m not convinced these parties are the best places to meet rich women. As far as I can tell, there is a tiny bunch of rich blokes at the top of all these fun media industries, while everyone else is paid a pittance, but pretends not to mind because at least they’re doing something interesting for a living, their colleagues are entertaining, the parties are free and the drugs are subsidised.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ I said to Claire.

  ‘Speak for yourselves, boys. That room was swarming with eligible people.’ She flicked a couple of business cards at us playfully. ‘I can’t do everything for you.’

  ‘But Claire, we need you to do everything for us,’ pleaded Matt.

  ‘Okay.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I’ve got another plan for tomorrow, but it does involve spending money.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not your auction brainwave again, is it?’ Matt asked Claire.

  Claire giggled. Earlier that week, she had had the genius idea of taking us to a modern art auction at Sotheby’s on the grounds that it might be swarming with rich, bored women. Instead, it had been swarming with rich, bored sheikhs. The afternoon had almost ended in disaster when, after a long liquid lunch, Matt thought it would be amusing to raise my arm during the bidding for a Rothko. The guy with the hammer spotted me and, for a horrible, long minute, it looked as if I might be the proud owner of a few square metres of colourful stripes and £36m worth of extra debt. Fortunately, someone speaking frantically into a mobile at the back of the room eventually raised their hand and I was saved.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ said the owner of the rival hand afterwards. ‘You looked as if you really wanted it.’

  ‘No, not really,’ I said truthfully, patting the young sheikh gratefully on the back.

  ‘Oh, I love your charming British modesty. I could give it to you, if you really wanted.’

  ‘Give it to me?’ I had sudden visions of wealth beyond my wildest dreams. I would hang it in Alan’s flat. No, I’d sell it and buy my own flat, my own house, set up a theatre company of my own, spend my life with whomever I wanted, travel, do good works…

  The Arab laughed. ‘Well, not exactly give it to you. But I’m happy to sell it to you for a fraction more than I bought it for. It was only really a business investment, in any case. For my father. I mean, look at it.’ I looked at it. ‘How do you say, “It’s a horrible piece of shit”?’

  I agreed that that was exactly how you said it and we parted on friendly terms.

  Back in the taxi, Claire laughed at the memory. ‘The look on your face, Sam, when you thought you’d found an Arab sugar-daddy… ’

  ‘The look on yours when you tried to flirt with his brother and spilled tea over his white robe.’

  ‘Anyway.’ Claire hastily changed the subject. ‘My plan for tomorrow is nothing like the auction. There’s a one-off performance of Tosca at the Albert Hall.’

  ‘Tosca, eh?’ said Matt, perking up. Matt liked opera, for some strange reason.

  ‘It’s expensive, though,’ warned Claire.

  ‘No problem,’ said Matt. ‘You sometimes have to spend money to meet money, right?’ It had become something of a slogan over the last few weeks.

  ‘Right. And goodness, will we meet money tomorrow night.’

  ‘Will we?’ I asked. ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘Shut up, Sam. Tomorrow night is a huge charity bash on behalf of the Prince’s Trust. Everyone who’s anyone is going to be there. And tomorrow, we can be a someone, too. My sister has some clients who can’t make it.’

  ‘In the same way as prostitutes have clients?’

  ‘Sam! It will be fun. Why are you being so stubborn suddenly?’

  ‘Because I don’t have any money, Claire. Because I’m tired. Because I haven’t acted for months. Because all I really want to do is see Rosie again and I’m nowhere closer to sorting out any of my life.’

  Claire took one of my hands in hers. ‘Well, I’ll lend you the hundred pounds for the ticket. It’s all for a good cause, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘For charity and for Matt.’

  ‘I’m not sure I see the difference.’

  ‘Thanks, Sam.’

  *

  I’d worn white-tie once before – when playing the butler in a drama school production. The people at the Albert Hall that charity evening looked as if they had been born in white-tie, as if they got dressed in it in the morning and walked the streets during the day in full regalia as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Just look how the other half lives,’ whistled Matt as we were ushered into an auditorium of plunging golds and reds, the silk rustle of floor-length dresses, the tinkle of glasses and animated conversation.

  ‘Just look how we’re going to live,’ I replied.

  ‘What is it with posh women?’ asked Matt, wide-eyed. ‘Is it the breeding? The genes? The expensive grooming? The clothes? Those worldly voices that make them sound so damn shaggable? I tell you, mate, they put a lot of t
he girls we grew up with to shame.’

  ‘From my limited experience,’ I replied, ‘their main attraction lies in the fact that they’ve spent the best years of their lives in single-sex boarding schools, with only contraband long-handled hairbrushes for company, and are therefore desperate to make up for lost time.’

  ‘Are you two going to gawp all evening or are you going to get busy?’ demanded Claire, giving us both a little shove. ‘Come on, boys: divide and conquer. Go forth and multiply.’

  There was an hour-long drinks reception before the opera started which I determined, on behalf of the charity, to make the most of. I loathe opera and I challenge anyone who professes to like it to prove that they are anything other than a snob. The fact that it is mainly attended by twats does not make it a superior art form. The extortionate ticket price does not guarantee interpretative genius. I have spent £9 and seen more artistic integrity from someone eating his own penis while playing the ukulele at the Edinburgh Fringe. I like opera’s sense of occasion – I enjoy dressing up as much as the next thesp – but the performance itself is always three hours of your life you will never get back. Fat bint sings to ugly man, then dies. It’s a complete waste of time. Opera music – now that’s a different thing altogether. I love singing along in the bath to the thumping extracts on Classic FM. But fifteen of these in a row with a loosely woven plot that no one can be bothered to translate from the Italian ‘because it spoils it’ (it’s not the Qur’an, for Allah’s sake; have you heard how facile some of the lyrics are?), when the only thing really spoiled is the sense of smug superiority felt by those in the audience who studied Latin at school? Well, no. Opera music has its place: in short clips on The X Factor and ice cream commercials. And the bath. Nowhere else.

  Not that I shared any of these philistine thoughts as Matt, Claire and I mingled with the rest of the audience, champagne flutes in hand. It wasn’t that sort of evening. There was a gentle, pleasant buzz of acceptance and belonging. Outside, anything could be happening for all we knew, for all we cared. Inside this womb we were safe, in body, mind and spirit, content that our generous charitable pounds were going towards nourishing our cultured souls, as well as helping those considerably less fortunate than ourselves. Money, wealth, exclusivity. Was this not what I had wanted all along? Role play on a grand scale, an entire theatre of possibilities, a comic cast of hundreds, a thousand potential plot twists, grand entrances and flamboyant exits.