Beta Male (15 page)

‘What kind of magazines do you read, Ed?'

‘Ones that help me to understand the incomprehensible, rapacious creatures that women are.'

‘Amanda is simply a bitter and disturbed misanthrope,' explained Matt, the unemployed doctor turned amateur psychologist. ‘She would rather see other people miserable than be happy herself.'

Alan nodded vigorously. This seemed to fit his experience of Amanda. ‘You're right, Matt: she's probably jealous of my stable relationship, given that hers have always been so screwed-up.' A brief smile flickered across his face at the thought of his boring, happy, stable relationship. The smile quickly turned to a frown: ‘On the other hand, maybe she just wants me to sleep with her because I'm one of the few people left in the office who haven't.'

‘Really?' said Ed. ‘She's even more of a player than Sam.'

‘Then again,' continued Alan, a worried frown now permanently fixed on his face, ‘it might just be her way of getting back at me because I stood up to her the other day. I was really quite rude.'

‘Oooh,' said Matt. ‘Stand up to her, did you? I bet that turned her on.'

The others droned on with their teasing and their theories, but there was a missing dimension that no one else knew about, and that I didn't mention because I was too ashamed. It came
to me in a sudden shock of recollection during Matt's amateur diagnosis of Amanda's mental health problems.
Could this be it, then? Was this Amanda's revenge?

Earlier that year, I had been a plus-one at Alan's firm's summer party, which Jess had been unable to attend, and I'd met Amanda for the first time. She'd struck me as a fairly fun person to spend an evening with: borderline psychotic, admittedly, even on a first meeting, but otherwise attractive, flirty and unbelievably direct. I'd never slept with an older woman before so thought I'd give it a whirl when she suggested it. Unfortunately, she forgot to tell me that her boyfriend was also there that evening. Taking an untimely break from the party downstairs, he had caught us
in flagrante
on her desk, whereupon he'd screamed blue murder, picked up a knife (one that was meant for opening letters, fortunately, not arteries) and chased me, my trousers flapping helplessly around my ankles, the length and breadth of the office. I'd eventually holed up behind a photocopier in Human Resources while Amanda went to call security, leaving her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend hurling a torrent of expletives in my general direction.

I'd finally got out of the party with everything except my dignity intact and thought that was the end of it. However, I'd stupidly given Amanda my number earlier in the evening and was bombarded with text messages over the next few days, each one more extraordinary than the last. Her boyfriend had dumped her, which was understandable, and she blamed me for it, which was not. I'd felt bad for the guy, of course, but it was hardly my fault, was it? Amanda hadn't even mentioned his existence, let alone the fact he was at the same party. How was I meant to know that some coked-up, cuckolded banker was going to appear with a letter-knife mid-coitus and force me to hide behind a photocopier?

I'd rung Amanda to apologise, in any case, which was another mistake because she told me I could make up for it by taking her out for dinner. I recognised an arch manipulator
when I saw one and offered lunch instead, if only to placate her. It was not a success. After paying the bill, she said that if I didn't go to a hotel room with her right then, she'd get back at me by making Alan's life hell. I assumed she was joking and politely declined. We'd parted fairly amicably.

And that, I thought, was finally that. She'd find someone else to push around. I'd go back to playing with people my own age. I'd kept the whole thing a secret for so long that I'd almost forgotten about it myself. And now, several months later, as these drunken and half-forgotten scenes swam hazily into focus, it appeared that she wasn't joking after all. She really did mean to get back at me by punishing Alan.
The sins of the actor would be visited upon his flatmate.
If so, Matt's psychological appraisal had been far too generous: she wasn't a misanthrope; she was a bloody nutcase.

Of course, I should have owned up straight away. I should have told Alan that this was probably all my fault and had little to do with Amanda's jealousy of his stable relationship with Jess, or her apparent desire to complete a full house by copulating with the entire office. Alan would have been understanding, in the quietly forgiving way he always is. But by the time I had weakly joined the others in recommending prevarication and prudence – print out all her emails, said Ed; carry a recording device next time she asks you into her office, suggested Matt – it was far too late to come clean. The only consolation was that I appeared to have at least a few months to make everything all right again. Amanda's deadline for the fulfilment of her indecent proposal was Alan's wedding day itself.

‘And when exactly is the happy day?' asked Matt,

‘I'm not sure. Next summer, maybe. You'll have to ask Jess,' said Alan, entirely seriously.

‘Wow, you really are under her thumb,' said Ed.

‘Yep, under her thumb and wrapped around her little finger.' Alan laughed. Perhaps he didn't mind being trapped under one
of her podgy digits. ‘There's something else, too; another reason why I came round tonight. Jess appears to have decided that we're going to live together. In her flat.'

I jumped.

‘But it's not all bad,' continued Alan, hastily. ‘I think I'm going to be allowed a small corner of the spare room for my PlayStation.'

‘You fight that good fight, mate,' said Matt.

‘So
that's
where you've been,' I said. ‘You've moved in with your fiancée without telling us.'

‘She's not my fiancée yet. Until
I
propose to
her
, she's just my flatmate.'

‘I'd like to see you say that to her face,' said Ed.

‘She is not your bloody flatmate,' I said, surprised at my own anger. ‘I'm your flatmate. We are your mates. And don't you forget it.'

‘I'm not forgetting it,' said Alan, gently.

‘Yes, you bloody are,' I said, not so gently. ‘This is the beginning of the end, I tell you. First you move in with her, then you get married, then you knock her up and then we never see you again.'

‘We'll get you round for dinner,' said Alan.

‘I don't want to come round for fucking dinner, Alan. I don't want Classic FM and seating plans. I don't want to “bring a bottle” and “something for pudding”. I don't want to ask how the kids are getting on or fantasise about swapping wives over coffee and After Eights. I want to go out and get drunk with you, like the good old days.'

‘And when were those good old days, Sam?' Alan's voice was reasoned, measured, as if talking to a recalcitrant toddler. ‘When did we last go out together on a whim in London and get drunk? Three years ago? Four? They're old days, mate. And how good were they, anyway? Time's moved on. We've moved on.'

‘I don't want to move on. I want things to stay the way they are.'

Ed and Alan exchanged looks across the room – looks which, roughly translated, said:
Why is Sam being such a dickhead?

‘Why are you being so weird about this?' said Alan, at last.

‘I'm not being weird about it,' I shouted, knowing full well I was. The guilt of my Amanda secret was making me aggressive, but it was the news that Alan was definitely and finally moving out that had really got me. Here it was, at last, in all its stark reality. I'd feared it long enough, of course, but always refused to prepare for it. A small part of me had even convinced myself that this day would never come. I didn't want to grow up. For all my talk of settling down, there was no way that I was ready, no way that I was sufficiently mature. Alan, Matt, Ed, well… They were like my family. I didn't want a divorce.

At least that's what I should have said. Again, Alan would probably have understood. He might even have felt similarly himself. But instead, like the fool that I am and the dick than I can be, I started to insinuate that Jess was to blame for taking our friend away from us. Alan, by nature averse to any unnecessary confrontation, became increasingly irritable. Eventually he snapped.

‘Why don't you just come out and say it?'

‘Say what?'

‘Say that you don't like Jess.'

‘I don't like Jess.'

‘Fine.'

‘Fine.'

‘She doesn't like you much either.'

‘I've never liked her. And I wish I'd said that eight years ago.'

‘Fuck you, Sam.'

‘Fuck you, too.'

‘Just go and fuck yourself.'

‘You fucking go and fuck yourself.'

Alan sprang to his feet and moved towards me, his fists raised. I was a head taller, but he was a great deal angrier. The others got up, too. For a moment I thought we were going to
have a full-on fight. But who was fighting whom? I was the one who deserved to get hit by all the others.

Alan, though, had already decided which side he was on. ‘Actually, fuck all of you,' he said, dropping his fists and heading towards the door. ‘I came round because I thought you might listen, because I thought you might care about the situation I've got myself into at work, because you're my oldest mates. I came round to say that I was moving into Jess's, but also to say that I've spoken to my uncle and he's happy for you, Sam, and you, Matt, to stay here. I thought that might make you happy. I thought you might even be happy for me and Jess… ' He shrugged and tailed off. ‘And instead it ends up like this. Well, I tell you, I don't want
this
any more. I've got Jess. I don't need you guys. You know what I think? I think you're just jealous. That's what your sad little bet is really about.' He pointed at me and Matt. ‘A couple of losers who can't even keep a girl beyond a couple of months. A couple of losers trying to get what I already have. Well, good luck with it. And good luck with finding somewhere else to live, guys. You've got a month to move out.'

And with that Alan turned his back on his friends and returned south of the river to his new flatmate, or his fiancée, or whatever else he wanted to call the woman he loved and I had so clumsily criticised, the Thames a stinking metaphor for the chasm that now separated us.

*

During the recriminations that inevitably followed, the general consensus – with which I found it difficult to disagree – was that I had acted fairly appallingly.

‘Basically, you're a complete tosser,' summarised Ed. ‘Surely you realise that you missed the window of opportunity to criticise Jess years ago.'

‘I know,' I said, apologetically. If only I had listened better
to my own internal monologue when I was policing my earlier thoughts about Amanda.

‘You're worse than Alan's mum,' continued Ed. ‘Sure, none of us is mad about Jess, but that doesn't mean that we know better than Alan what's good for him.'

I said nothing. I really did think I knew better than Alan what was good for him. Alan's mum and I had always got on very well in that respect. I was her favourite pupil.

‘So where are we supposed to live now?' I moaned.

‘We?' questioned Matt.

‘Well, obviously not Ed – he's already got a shoebox with negative equity he can call his own until Tara decides to sell it. But you and me, Matt. You're not leaving London, are you? We're in this together, right?'

I looked at Matt pleadingly while he stared at his shoes. ‘I don't know, mate,' he said, eventually. ‘I just don't know. I mean, it hasn't exactly been a resounding success so far, has it? You were on the verge of committing a cardinal sin with an evangelical Christian while simultaneously convincing another impressionable young woman – whom incidentally you owe £5,000, if you ever want to see again – that you are the CEO of a promising start-up. And me? Well, I've had a blind date with a Spanish fascist.' He shook his head ruefully. ‘Alan's right, you know. We
are
losers. This
is
a silly scheme. I'm up to my eyeballs in debt. I've got a degree in medicine, a further three years of pointless specialist training behind me, and I'm squatting here in my engaged mate's uncle's flat in the vain hope of trying to get married to someone rich. I should be moving around the country, trying to get locum work. Or moving to Australia. Moving anywhere, in fact, that isn't here.' He thumped the sofa and finally looked me in the eye. ‘I'm sorry, Sam. But you're on your own now.'

But I didn't want to be on my own. I've never wanted to be on my own. ‘Come on,' I pleaded. ‘Just one more month. Just see me through that and then I'll give up, I promise.'

‘Really?'

‘Promise. One more month to find myself the money for Rosie. And one more month to find you a rich wife as well. Then I'll apologise to Alan and we can all go on with our lives as before.'

‘Who says I need your help, anyway?' said Matt, trying and failing to conceal his wounded pride that the bet wasn't going too well for him.

‘I have a particularly cunning plan which is foolproof, even for a fool like you. It's the art of seduction meets the science of seduction. And it involves Claire.'

‘Claire?'

‘You'll see.' I turned to Ed. ‘Now, are you with us or are you against us?'

‘Neither,' said Ed.

‘What do you mean? You're not planning another drunken attack on the security guard at Tara's office, are you?'

‘No. This is a much more sober and subtle plan.' Ed rustled around in his man-bag. ‘Do you remember me telling you that I was going to become a masculinist – that I was going to stand up for men's rights?' He handed me a few sheaves of paper. ‘Well, I wasn't joking. In fact, I turn your question back on you: are you with us or against us?'