Beta Male (21 page)

‘What's wrong, darling?' I asked.

‘I think you know what's fucking wrong,' said Jess, who never usually swore. She gave up ripping, screwed the paper into a tight ball instead and hurled it at me. ‘You bastard.'

‘Sweetheart,' I said, genuinely confused. My conscience was clear. ‘I don't know what I've done.'

‘You don't know what you've done,
sweetheart
?' She
mimicked. ‘You're having an affair with your boss. That what you've fucking done. And your nasty little friend Sam is laughing about it. Take recording equipment, he sniggers. Keep a record. What, so he can whack up in your old flat over it?'

I actually laughed, despite myself. Only Jess could come up with a phrase like ‘whack up'. And the misunderstanding about the recording equipment was so ridiculous. That wasn't what Sam had written at all. She was always so quick to misinterpret him, I protested.

Jess, however, wasn't in the mood to see the funny side. And could I blame her, really? I explained the Amanda situation, and I think she was just about willing to believe that I had done nothing wrong, but she was still livid that I hadn't told her about it.

‘I didn't tell you about it because I knew you would react like this,' I explained, which, judging by the shoe she aimed at me, was the wrong explanation.

‘I just don't understand why Amanda would want you so much,' she said, once I'd finally calmed her down a few notches on the Jess-Richter scale.

‘Oh, thanks.'

‘I blame Sam,' she continued, giving me another filthy look. ‘I don't know why, but I just sense he has something to do with this.'

‘Why do you always have to blame him for everything?' I said.

‘And why do you always have to excuse him for everything?'

‘Because he's my friend.'

‘And I'm your fiancée.'

‘He's my friend. You're my fiancée. They're not mutually exclusive.'

‘They are from now on.'

‘What?'

‘You have to choose, Alan. Either you drop contact with Sam or you don't marry me.'

‘That's unfair.'

‘Life's unfair. Anyway, what kind of friend gets up to the ridiculous things he's been doing with this Rosie girl? That silly bet made me really angry, too. Sam
and
Matt, but especially Sam. It makes a mockery of marriage.'

‘He's only doing it because he's got no other choice at the moment. Anyway, it's just his bit of fun.'

‘Fun? It's immoral. That's what it is. I hate him. I've always hated him.'

‘Sam's going to make an effort with you. He said you were nice in his letter.'

‘Nice? Fucking
nice
? And that's a compliment, is it, Alan? I'm not going to be very nice if I ever see him again.'

‘But he's going to be my best man.'

‘Not if you get married to me, he isn't. I'm not having a best man who thinks I'm “nice”.'

‘So the wedding day is all about you, is it?'

‘Yes, Alan. It is.'

And that, it would seem, was that. Perhaps I should have been more forceful. I should, at the very least, have got upset that Jess was reading my private correspondence. I should have pointed out that we couldn't go on like this, that she couldn't expect to call all the shots. I should have pointed out that Sam had tried to make more of an effort with her than she had with him. She had been against him from the start.

These are all things I could have done – should have done – to save more heartache later. But I was already on the back foot for not having told her about Amanda's threat. What's more, bitter experience had taught me that arguments could drag on for days, even weeks, when Jess was in a mood like this. She wasn't such a good barrister for nothing. No, it would be much quicker and easier to admit full culpability and give her whatever she wanted.

So instead of standing up for myself, instead of standing up for my friend, I found myself apologising, for things I had and
had not done, for things I might yet do; apologising for the state of the world as a whole, while agreeing, fervently and apologetically, that Jess was right, I was wrong and that the invitations for our engagement party, whenever she decided it might be, would not include Sam.

And then I waited until she was in the shower and rang him anyway.

After my business trip to Gloucestershire, I felt like the cat who'd got the cream, killed an army of mice and scratched the family dog's eyes out all in the course of one glorious Sunday afternoon. As soon as Mr Money-Barings's cheque had cleared my bank account, I was able to send off my payment to Taylor Williams's accounts department. I also sent Claire a cheque for £100 for the Albert Hall night, with a note thanking her for helping me to become a very happy man.

Over the course of the next few weeks the final stages of the strategy could be implemented: I was made redundant from my non-existent banking job, my fictional flat was repossessed and I officially moved in with Rosie. This would be the acid test – perhaps she only liked me for my perceived money – but any fears were quickly assuaged. Rosie was as much in love with me as I with her. Occasionally she would tease me gently about not having a job or not being the ‘rich man with a plan' she'd first met. And I'd simply laugh, and make her laugh, by saying I was going to ‘get back on my bike' (she loved that weak joke) and come up with a better plan than the Max House. I felt progressively less guilty, day by day. It was still the real Sam she had grown to know; it was still Sam she had fallen in love with, not Max. She made me want to become a better person. I actually believe I did around her.

Rosie was even enthusiastic when I mentioned that I had done a bit of drama at university and might give it a go again. I finally summoned up the courage to sack my agent and found a better one. Now that my life was no longer one big act, perhaps I would have more luck with my career. I could even try my hand at something else. In the meantime, I had Rosie to
support me. I no longer had to maintain the illusion of a being a banker. Max was dead. Long live Sam and Rosie.

‘And what about Mary?' asked Matt, when we met up for a midweek daytime game of pitch and putt in late January to swap our news.

‘I'm trying to fizzle it out gently,' I said. ‘But it's not that easy.'

‘She still likes you, does she? Why?'

‘God knows.'

I hoped he did, because I was pretty damned confused: the more Mary's barking father took a shine to me, the more she seemed to like me as well. I'd expected an argument about the cheque on the way back from Gloucestershire, but Mary didn't even seem to care that much. He had lots of money, I suppose. ‘Anyway,' she'd said, ‘the production will make the money back, won't it?'

‘Yes,' I lied, knowing full well that there was no production and that, even if I were to stage one, I would almost certainly lose the loan. There's no money in theatre, unless you find the lead actress on reality TV or re-work a pop group's hits into a narrative that would embarrass a three-year-old.

Back in London Mary and I saw less of each other, but I still felt I had to keep her sweet, if only in gratitude for how she had unwittingly helped me out with Rosie. Ultimately, I hoped it would fizzle out completely into a simple friendship, which, I reassured my conscience, was all we'd really had anyway since I'd become manically Christian and decided I no longer wanted to fool around with her in bed.

‘Maybe she was just using you all along, mate,' said Matt after we'd finished our golf round and were safely back in the bar.

‘Using me?'

‘Yes. For your body.'

‘It is very possible.'

I sat back in the comfortable armchair at the nineteenth hole and took a deep swig of my gin and tonic. It had been paid for
by Matt, who had been lent some money by Debbie, but still, it felt good.

‘You know what, Sam?' said Matt. ‘You look really happy.'

‘You know what, Matt? I am. I'm no longer living a lie.'

‘No, mate. You're living the dream.'

‘Never say that again,' I laughed. But it was true. It did feel as though I was living the dream. Now that Max was out of the picture, and Mary was well on her way to joining him, I was able to devote all my time to Rosie. We had become inseparable, spending our time reading, eating, drinking, going out with her friends, having sex, talking about going travelling, talking about the future… Ironically, she didn't actually have very much money at all, despite the cut-glass accent, the nice clothes and the worldly confidence. The house was part-owned by her five siblings and her job didn't pay quite as well as I'd imagined. None of this mattered, though. It was Rosie I wanted.

Later that evening, Matt and I joined Debbie and Rosie for our first dinner all together. ‘So, it's the two career girls and their workshy other halves,' joked Rosie after we had all sat down.

‘Your better halves,' I said. ‘You're looking at someone who's just got a part in
Richard II
.'

Matt stared at me. ‘Mate, you didn't tell me this earlier.'

‘Well, I wanted to tell Rosie first. She was the one who pushed me to go for the audition. Anyway, it's only a fringe venue and I'm just second spear-carrier or something.'

‘A very lovely second spear-carrier,' said Rosie, kissing me.

‘And how's
my
work-shy better half?' Debbie asked Matt.

‘Exhausted,' he replied. ‘Took Sarah to your mother's, cleaned the house, picked Sarah up from your mother's, took David to gym club, picked David up from gym club – '

‘Okay,' said Debbie, laughing. ‘We get the message. And where are the kids now?'

‘Scrubbed, washed, handed over to your mother and tucked up in bed.'

‘Well done, dear,' said Debbie, picking up the wine list.

Just before pudding, Matt and I arranged to visit the men's together at the same time, prompting ribald jokes from the girls about us going to check our teeth and gossip about them.

‘Mate, Rosie is awesome,' gossiped Matt as we washed our hands and checked our teeth for spinach.

I thanked him while quietly thinking how much better I'd done in comparison. This was the first time I'd met Debbie properly and she'd already struck me as manipulative, bossy, and frankly a little bit boring. And how on earth could Matt put up with doing all those menial household chores, even if he did get to escape for an occasional surreptitious round of golf?

Still, I had learned my lesson about commenting on friends' girlfriends.

‘And so is Debbie,' I replied as I dried my hands. ‘Debbie is absolutely bloody awesome, too.'

Matt clapped me on the back. ‘Hasn't this all worked out rather well?'

*

The only sadness in my new, perfect life was that I hadn't yet introduced Rosie to Alan. I thought they'd get on really well. Having someone I really cared about had made me understand him and Jess better. I wanted to tell him that. Most of all, I wanted to show him that the spreadsheet he'd made of my strengths and weaknesses the previous summer was both right and wrong. By ‘pretending to be something I wasn't', I had indeed convinced a rich(ish), successful woman that I was an attractive catch. Ultimately, though, I felt I had done it on my own merits.

But there still hadn't been an opportunity for them to meet. Since Alan and I had made up, we'd gone for a clandestine beer on a couple of occasions when Jess was working late, but Rosie had never been free at the same time. Alan, I discovered, was
on an even tighter leash than usual: Jess had seen my apology letter and wasn't very happy about any of it. According to her, I was an amoral scoundrel who didn't deserve to be friends with her fiancé. She had therefore given him a choice: me or her. Alan was never going to make that decision, so we'd had to conduct a clandestine friendship of whispered telephone calls, furtive emails and occasional stolen lunches, as if I were his mistress or unrecognised love child.

A kamikaze part of me really wanted to take Rosie along to Alan's engagement party at the end of February. He was my best friend; she was my girlfriend. Why couldn't they meet? But it was just too risky. I didn't know how Jess would react to her. She didn't even want
me
there at the party, let alone a random girlfriend who knew me as Max. My ex, Lisa, was good friends with both Alan and Jess, and would probably be there, too. Then there was Claire. Would she be nice to Rosie? Or would this weird thing of being rude to each other's boyfriends and girlfriends continue? And then what if Amanda turned up? No, she wouldn't be invited, surely. Still, none of it bore thinking about. There would be awkward questions about how Rosie and I had met, and so on. Much easier to introduce her gradually to the others at a less high-pressured occasion.

So I kissed Rosie goodbye that morning and said I would be home late because of a preliminary meet-up with the rest of the cast of
Richard II
.

I've never really thought much of engagement parties. They seem to be just one more excuse to put yourself at the centre of attention and make everyone else feel lonely and inadequate. Engagement parties are weddings-lite, with poor imitation speeches, cheaper wine and worse-dressed people. They last too long to be forgettable and not long enough to be enjoyably forgettable. Worst of all, it is almost impossible to get laid. Everyone is on their best – by which I mean worst – behaviour.
The only mild diversion is scoping out potential targets for the wedding itself.

At least that's what I used to think about engagement parties. But surely this one was going to be different. This one was Alan's. I was going to miss having Rosie on my arm, but otherwise it would be a collection of most of my favourite people, together in the same room.

My misgivings should have first been aroused when the gorilla on the door – it was a swanky bar in Embankment, within a stone's throw of Alan's office – produced the guest list, which had two columns: one for Jess's friends, the other for Alan's. The column that contained my name was a quarter of the length of Jess's. ‘Sam Hunt' had been angrily scored out in red ink and, it would appear, equally angrily added in blue ink again at the bottom. I could only guess at what machinations had gone on behind the scenes.