High Fidelity (14 page)

PENNY'S
easy. I don't mean, you know,
easy
(if I meant that, I wouldn't have to meet up with her and talk about knobbing and Chris Thomson, because I would have knobbed her first and he wouldn't have been able to shoot his mouth off in the classroom that morning); I mean she's easy to track down. My mum sees her mum quite often, and a while back Mum gave me her phone number and told me to get in touch, and Penny's mum gave her mine, and neither of us did anything about it, but I kept the number anyway. And she's surprised to hear from me—there's a long computer-memory silence while she tries to make sense of the name, and then a little laugh of recognition—but not, I think, displeased, and we arrange to go to a film together, some Chinese thing that she has to see for work, and to eat afterwards.

The film's OK, better than I thought it would be—it's about this woman who's sent off to live with this guy, and he's already got loads of wives, so it's about how she gets on with her rivals, and it all goes horribly wrong. Of course. But Penny's got one of these special film critic pens that have a light in the end of them (even though she's not a film critic, just a BBC radio journalist) and people keep looking round at her and nudging each other, and I feel a bit of a berk sitting there with her. (I have to say, although it is ungallant, that she looks funny, anyway, even without the special film critic pen: she always was a girl for sensible clothes, but what she's wearing tonight—a big floral dress, a beige raincoat—pushes sensible over the edge toward death. “What's that cool guy in the leather jacket doing with Julie Andrews?” the audience is thinking. Probably.)

We go to this Italian place she knows, and they know her, too, and they do vulgar things with the pepper grinder that seem to amuse her. It's often the way that people who take their work seriously laugh at stupid jokes; it's as if they are under-humored and, as a consequence, suffer from premature laugh-ejaculation. But she's OK, really. She's a good sort, a good sport, and it's easy to talk about Chris Thomson and knobbing. I just launch into it, with no real explanation.

I try to tell the story in a lighthearted, self-deprecatory way (it's about me, not him and her), but she's appalled, really disgusted: she puts her knife and fork down and looks away, and I can see that she's close to tears.

“Bastard,” she says. “I wish you hadn't told me that.”

“I'm sorry. I just thought, you know, long time ago and all that.”

“Well, it obviously doesn't seem that long ago to you.”

Fair point.

“No. But I just thought I was weird.”

“Why this sudden need to tell me about it, anyway?”

I shrug. “Dunno. Just…”

And then I show her that, on the contrary, I do know: I tell her about Laura and Ian (although I don't tell her about Marie or money or abortions or pain-in-the-arse Rosie) and about Charlie, maybe more about Charlie than she wants to know; and I try to explain to her that I feel like the Rejection Man, and that Charlie wanted to sleep with Marco and not me, and Laura wanted to sleep with Ian and not me, and Alison Ashworth, even all those years ago, wanted to snog with Kevin Bannister and not me (although I do share with her my recent discovery about the invincibility of fate), and that as she, Penny, wanted to sleep with Chris Thomson and not me, perhaps she would be able to help me understand why it kept happening, why I was apparently doomed to be left.

And she tells me, with great force, with
venom,
frankly speaking, about what she remembers: that she was mad about me, that she wanted to sleep with me, one day, but not when she was sixteen, and that when I packed her in—
“When you packed me in,”
she repeats, furiously, “because I was, to use your charming expression, ‘tight,' I cried and cried, and I hated you. And then that little shitbag asked me out, and I was too tired to fight him off, and it wasn't rape, because I said OK, but it wasn't far off. And I didn't have sex with anyone else until after university because I hated it so much. And now you want to have a chat about rejection. Well, fuck you, Rob.”

So that's another one I don't have to worry about. I should have done this years ago.

SCOTCH-
taped to the inside of the shop door is a handwritten notice, yellowed and faded with age. It reads as follows:

The advertisement used to end with the intimidating postscript “
NO SLACKERS PLEASE
,” but after a disappointing response during the first couple of years of the recruitment drive, Barry decided that slackers were welcome after all, to no noticeable effect; perhaps they couldn't get it together to walk from the door to the counter. A while back, a guy with a set of drums made inquiries, and though this minimalist vocal/drums two-piece did rehearse a few times (no tapes survive, sadly), Barry eventually and perhaps wisely decided that he needed a fuller sound.

Since then, though, nothing…until today. Dick sees him first—he nudges me, and we watch fascinated as this guy stares at the notice, although when he turns round to see which of us might be Barry, we quickly get on with what we were doing. He's neither hip, nor young—he looks more like a Status Quo roadie than a
Smash Hits
cover star hopeful. He has long, lank dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a stomach that has wriggled over his belt to give itself a bit more room. Eventually he comes up to the counter and gestures back toward the door.

“Is this Barry geezer around?”

“I'll get him for you.”

I go into the stockroom, where Barry is having a lie-down.

“Oi, Barry. There's someone come to see you about your ad.”

“What ad?”

“For the band.”

He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Fuck off.”

“Seriously. He wants to talk to you.”

He gets to his feet and walks through to the shop.

“Yeah?”

“You put that ad up?”

“That's right.”

“What can you play?”

“Nothing.” Barry's all-consuming desire to play at Madison Square Garden has never driven him to do anything as mundane as learn an instrument.

“But you can sing, right?”

“Yeah.”

“We're looking for a singer.”

“What sort of stuff are you into?”

“Yeah, the kind of stuff you, you know, mentioned. But we want to be a bit more experimental than that. We want to retain our pop sensibilities, but kind of stretch them a bit.”

God help us.

“Sounds great.”

“We haven't got any gigs or anything. We've only just got together. For a laugh, like. But we'll see how we go, yeah?”

“Fine.”

The Quo roadie jots down an address, shakes Barry's hand, and leaves. Dick and I gape at his back view, just in case he self-combusts, or disappears, or sprouts angel's wings; Barry just tucks the address into his jeans pocket and looks for a record to put on, as if what has just happened—a mysterious stranger walking in and granting him one of his dearest wishes—were not the kind of little miracle that most of us wait for in vain.

“What?” he says. “What's up with you two? It's just a poxy little garage band. Nothing special.”

 

Jackie lives in Pinner, not far from where we grew up, with my friend Phil, of course. When I call her, she knows who I am straightaway, presumably because I'm the only Other Man in her whole life, and at first she sounds guarded, suspicious, as if I want to go through the whole thing again. I tell her that my mum and dad are OK, that I have my own shop, that I'm not married and have no children, at which point the suspicion turns to sympathy, and maybe a touch of guilt (Is this my fault? you can hear her thinking. Did his love life just stop dead in 1975, when I got back together with Phil?); she tells me that they have two children and a small house, that they both work, and that she never went to college, just as she feared she wouldn't. To end the brief silence that occurs after this résumé, she invites me to their house for supper, and in the brief silence that occurs after the invitation, I accept.

Jackie has gray streaks in her hair but otherwise still looks pretty and friendly and sensible and all the other things she used to be; I kiss her and offer Phil my hand. Phil is now a man, with a moustache and shirtsleeves and a bald patch and a loosened tie, but he makes a big show of pausing before he returns the gesture—he wants me to realize that this is a symbolic moment, that he is forgiving me for my misdemeanors of all those years ago. Jesus, I think, it's supposed to be elephants that never forget, not British Telecom customer service people. But then, what am I doing here, if not to meddle around with things that most people would have forgotten about years ago?

Jackie and Phil are the most boring people in the southeast of England, possibly because they've been married too long, and therefore have nothing to talk about, apart from how long they've been married. In the end, I am reduced to asking them, in a joky sort of way, for the secret of their success; I was only saving time, because I think they would have told me anyway.

“If you've found the right person, you've found the right person, it doesn't matter how old you are.” (Phil)

“You have to work at relationships. You can't just walk out on them every time something goes wrong.” (Jackie)

“That's right. It would have been easy to pack it in and start all over again with someone else who's swept you off your feet, but then you're still going to get to the stage when you're going to have to work at the new one.” (Phil)

“There aren't too many candlelit dinners and second honeymoons, I can tell you. We're beyond all that. We're good friends more than anything.” (Jackie)

“You can't just jump into bed with the first person you fancy and hope that you don't damage your marriage, no matter what people think.” (Phil)

“The trouble with young people today is…” No. Just kidding. But they're
…evangelical
about what they have, as if I've come up from north London to arrest them for being monogamous. I haven't, but they're right in thinking that it's a crime where I come from: it's against the law because we're all cynics and romantics, sometimes simultaneously, and marriage, with its clichés and its steady low-watt glow, is as unwelcome to us as garlic is to a vampire.

 

I'm at home, making a tape of some old singles, when the phone goes.

“Hi. Is that Rob?”

I recognize the voice as belonging to someone I don't like, but I don't get any further than that.

“This is Ian. Ray.”

I don't say anything.

“I thought maybe we should have a chat? Sort a couple of things out?”

This is
…something…
gone mad.
Blank
gone mad. You know when people use that expression to communicate the fact that something OK has got right out of control? “This is democracy gone mad.” Well, I want to use that expression, but I'm not sure what the something is. North London? Life? The nineties? I don't know. All I do know is that in a decent, sane society, Ian wouldn't be ringing me up to sort a couple of things out. Nor would I be ringing him up to sort a couple of things out. I'd be sorting
him
out, and if he wants to be eating dungarees for a week, he's going the right way about it.

“What needs sorting out?” I'm so angry my voice is shaky, like it used to be when I was on the verge of a fight at school, and consequently I don't sound angry at all: I sound scared.

“Come on, Rob. My relationship with Laura has obviously disturbed you a great deal.”

“Funnily enough I haven't been too thrilled about it.” Sharp and clear.

“We're not talking joky understatement here, Rob. We're talking harassment. Ten phone calls a night, hanging around outside my house…”

Fucking hell. How did he see that?

“Yeah, well, I've stopped all that now.” Sharp and clear has gone; now I'm sort of mumbling, like a mad guilty person.

“We've noticed, and we're glad. But, you know…how are we going to make the peace here? We want to make things easier for you. What can we do? Obviously I know how special Laura is, and I know things can't be good for you at the moment. I'd hate it if I lost her. But I'd like to think that if she decided she didn't want to see me anymore, I'd respect that decision. D'you see what I'm saying?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. So how shall we leave it then?”

“Dunno.” And then I put the phone down—not on a smart, crushing one-liner, or after a raging torrent of abuse, but on a “dunno.” That's taught him a lesson he won't forget.

Oh, well.

Oh well, nothing. I should have said any of those things. I should have used at least one obscenity. I should certainly have threatened him with violence. I shouldn't have hung up on a “dunno.” These things are going to eat away at me and eat away at me and I'm going to drop dead of cancer or heart disease or something. And I shake and shake, and I rewrite the script in my head until it's 100-proof poison, and none of it helps at all.