High Fidelity (16 page)

WHEN
Charlie opens the door, my heart sinks: she looks beautiful. She still has the short, blond hair, but the cut is a lot more expensive now, and she's aging in a really elegant way—around her eyes there are faint, friendly, sexy crow's-feet which make her look like Sylvia Sims, and she's wearing a self-consciously grown-up black cocktail dress (although it probably only seems self-conscious to me because as far as I'm concerned she's only just stepped out of a pair of baggy jeans and a Television T-shirt). Straightaway I start to worry that I'm going to fall for her again, and I'll make a fool of myself, and it's all going to end in pain, humiliation, and self-loathing, just as it did before. She kisses me, hugs me, tells me I don't look any different and that it's great to see me, and then she points me to a room where I can leave my jacket. It's her bedroom (arty, of course, with a huge abstract painting on one wall and what looks like a rug on another); I have a sudden panic when I'm in there. The other coats on the bed are expensive, and for a moment I entertain the idea of going through the pockets and then doing a runner.

 

But I want to see Clara, Charlie's friend, who's right up my street. I want to see her because I don't know where my street is; I don't even know which part of town it's in, which
city,
which
country,
so maybe she'll enable me to get my bearings. And it'll be interesting, too, to see what street Charlie thinks I live on, whether it's the Old Kent Road or Park Lane. (Five women who don't live on my street, as far as I know, but would be very welcome if they ever decided to move into the area: the Holly Hunter of
Broadcast News;
the Meg Ryan of
Sleepless in Seattle;
a woman doctor I saw on the telly once, who had lots of long frizzy hair and carved up a Tory MP in a debate about embryos, although I don't know her name and I've never been able to find a pinup of her; Katharine Hepburn in
The Philadelphia Story;
Valerie Harper in the TV series
Rhoda.
These are women who talk back, women with a mind of their own, women with snap and crackle and pop…but they are also women who seem to need the love of a good man. I could rescue them. I could redeem them. They could make me laugh, and I could make them laugh, maybe, on a good day, and we could stay in and watch one of their films or TV programs or embryo debates on video and adopt disadvantaged children together and the whole family could play soccer in Central Park.)

 

When I walk into the sitting room, I can see immediately that I'm doomed to die a long, slow, suffocating death. There's a man wearing a sort of brick red jacket and another man in a carefully rumpled linen suit and Charlie in her cocktail dress and another woman wearing fluorescent leggings and a dazzling white silk blouse and another woman wearing those trousers that look like a dress but which aren't. Isn't. Whatever. And the moment I see them I want to cry, not only through terror, but through sheer
envy: Why isn't my life like this?

Both of the women who are not Charlie are beautiful—not pretty, not attractive, not appealing,
beautiful—
and to my panicking, blinking, twitching eye virtually indistinguishable: miles of dark hair, thousands of huge earrings, yards of red lips, hundreds of white teeth. The one wearing the white silk blouse shuffles along Charlie's enormous sofa, which is made of glass, or lead, or gold—some intimidating, unsofa-like material, anyway—and smiles at me; Charlie interrupts the others (“Guys, guys…”) and introduces me to the rest of the party. Clara's on the sofa with me, as it were, ha ha, Nick's in the brick red jacket, Barney's in the linen suit, Emma's in the trousers that look like a dress. If these people were ever up my street, I'd have to barricade myself inside the flat.

“We were just talking about what we'd call a dog if we had one,” says Charlie. “Emma's got a Labrador called Dizzy, after Dizzy Gillespie.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “I'm not very keen on dogs.”

None of them says anything for a while; there's not much they
can
say, really, about my lack of enthusiasm for dogs.

“Is that size of flat, or childhood fear, or the smell, or…?” asks Clara, very sweetly.

“I dunno. I'm just…” I shrug hopelessly, “you know, not very keen.”

They smile politely.

As it turns out, this is my major contribution to the evening's conversation, and later on I find myself recalling the line wistfully as belonging to a Golden Age of Wit. I'd even use it again if I could, but the rest of the topics for discussion don't give me the chance—I haven't seen the films or the plays they've seen, and I haven't been to the places they've visited. I find out that Clara works in publishing, and Nick's in PR; I find out too that Emma lives in Clapham. Anna finds out that I live in Crouch End, and Clara finds out that I own a record shop. Emma has read
Wild Swans;
Charlie hasn't, but would very much like to, and may even borrow Emma's copy. Barney has been skiing recently. I could probably remember a couple of other things if I had to. For most of the evening, however, I sit there like a pudding, feeling like a child who's been allowed to stay up late for a special treat. We eat stuff I don't know about, and either Nick or Barney comments on each bottle of wine we drink apart from the one I brought.

The difference between these people and me is that they finished college and I didn't (they didn't split up with Charlie and I did); as a consequence, they have smart jobs and I have a scruffy job, they are rich and I am poor, they are self-confident and I am incontinent, they do not smoke and I do, they have opinions and I have lists. Could I tell them anything about which journey is the worst for jet lag? No. Could they tell me the original lineup of the Wailers? No. They probably couldn't even tell me the lead singer's name.

But they're not bad people. I'm not a class warrior, and anyway, they're not particularly posh—they probably have mothers and fathers just outside Watford or its equivalent, too. Do I want some of what they've got? You bet. I want their opinions, I want their money, I want their clothes, I want their ability to talk about dogs' names without any hint of embarrassment. I want to go back to 1979 and start all over again.

It doesn't help that Charlie talks bollocks all night; she doesn't listen to anyone, she tries too hard to go off at obtuse angles, she puts on all sorts of unrecognizable and inappropriate accents. I would like to say that these are all new mannerisms, but they're not; they were there before, years ago. The not listening I once mistook for strength of character, the obtuseness I misread as mystery, the accents I saw as glamor and drama. How had I managed to edit all this out in the intervening years? How had I managed to turn her into the answer to all the world's problems?

I stick the evening out, even though I'm not worth the sofa space for most of it, and I outstay Clara and Nick and Barney and Emma. When they've gone, I realize that I spent the whole time drinking instead of speaking, and as a consequence I can no longer focus properly.

“I'm right, aren't I?” Charlie asks. “She's just your type.”

I shrug. “She's everybody's type.” I help myself to some more coffee. I'm drunk, and it seems like a good idea just to launch in. “Charlie, why did you pack me in for Marco?”

She looks at me hard. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“You
are
going through one of those what-does-it-all-mean things.” She says “what-does-it-all-mean” in an American accent and furrows her brow.

I cannot tell a lie. “I am, actually, yes. Yes, indeed. Very much so.”

She laughs—at me, I think, not with me—and then plays with one of her rings.

“You can say what you like,” I tell her, generously.

“It's all kind of a bit lost in the…in the dense mists of time now.” She says “dense mists of time” in an Irish accent, for no apparent reason, and waves her hand around in front of her face, presumably to indicate the density of the mist. “It wasn't that I fancied Marco more, because I used to find you every bit as attractive as him.” (Pause.) “It's just that he knew he was nice-looking, and you didn't, and that made a difference, somehow. You used to act as though I was a bit peculiar for wanting to spend time with you, and that got kind of tiring, if you know what I mean. Your self-image started to rub off on me, and
I
ended up thinking I was peculiar. And I knew you were kind, and thoughtful, and you made me laugh, and I loved the way you got consumed by the things you loved, but…Marco seemed a bit more, I don't know, glamorous? More sure of himself, more in with the in-crowd?” (Pause.) “Less hard work, 'cause I felt I was dragging you round a bit.” (Pause.) “A bit sunnier, and a bit sparkier.” (Pause.) “I don't know. You know what people are like at that age. They make very superficial judgments.”

Where's the superficial? I was, and therefore am, dim, gloomy, a drag, unfashionable, unfanciable, and awkward. This doesn't seem like superficial to me. These aren't flesh wounds. These are life-threatening thrusts into the internal organs.

“Do you find that hurtful? He was a wimp, if that's any consolation.”

It's not, really, but I didn't want consolation. I wanted the works, and I got it, too. None of Alison Ashworth's fate here; none of Sarah's rewriting of history, and no reminder that I'd got all the rejection stuff the wrong way round, like I did about Penny. Just a perfectly clear explanation of why some people have it and some people don't. Later on, in the back of a minicab, I realize that all Charlie has done is rephrase my own feelings about my genius for being normal; maybe that particular talent—my only one, as it happens—was overrated anyway.

BARRY'S
band is going to play a gig, and he wants to put a poster up in the shop.

“No. Fuck off.”

“Thanks for your support, Rob. I really appreciate it.”

“I thought we had a rule about posters for crap bands.”

“Yeah, for people who come in off the street begging us. All the losers.”

“Like…let's see. Suede, you turned down. The Auteurs. St. Etienne. Losers like that, you mean?”

“What's all this
‘I
turned them down'? It was your rule.”

“Yeah, but you loved it, didn't you? It gave you great pleasure to tell all those poor kids to take a running jump.”

“Well, I was wrong, wasn't I? Oh, come on, Rob. We need the regulars from here, otherwise there'll be nobody.”

“OK, what's the name of the band? If it's any good, you can put a poster up.”

He thrusts a poster at me—just the name of the band, with some squiggly design.

“‘Barrytown.' ‘Barrytown'? Fucking hell. Is there no end to your arrogance?”

“It's not because of me. It's the Steely Dan song. And it was in
The Commitments.”

“Yeah, but come on, Barry. You can't be called Barry and sing in a group called Barrytown. It just sounds…”

“They were fucking called that before I came along, OK? It wasn't my idea.”

“That's why you got the gig, isn't it?”

Barry of Barrytown says nothing.

“Isn't it?”

“That was one of the reasons why they asked me originally, yes. But…”

“Brilliant! Fucking brilliant! They only asked you to sing because of your name! Of course you can have a poster up, Barry. I want as many people to know as possible. Not in the window, OK? You can stick it above the browser racks over there.”

“How many tickets can I put you down for?”

I hold my sides and laugh mirthlessly. “Ha, ha ha. Ho, ho ho. Stop, Barry, you're killing me.”

“You're not even coming?”

“Of course I'm not coming. Do I look like a man who'd want to listen to some terrible experimental racket played in some horrible north London pub? Where is it?” I look at the poster. “The fucking Harry Lauder! Ha!”

“So much for mates, then. You're a bitter bastard, Rob, you know that?”

Sour. Bitter. Everyone seems to agree that I don't taste very nice.

“Bitter? Because I'm not in Barrytown? I hoped it wasn't that obvious. And you've been great to Dick about Anna, haven't you? Really made her feel a part of the Championship Vinyl family.”

I'd forgotten that I have been wishing nothing but everlasting happiness to Dick and Anna. How does that fit in with my sourness, eh? What's bitter about that?

“That Anna stuff was just a bit of fun. She's all right. It's just…it's not my fault that you're fucking up left, right, and center.”

“Oh, and you'd be first in the queue to see me play, wouldn't you?”

“Not first, maybe. But I'd be there.”

“Is Dick going?”

“'Course. And Anna. And Marie and T-Bone.”

Is the world really that generous-spirited? I had no idea.

 

I guess you could see it as bitterness, if you wanted to. I don't think of myself as bitter, but I have disappointed myself; I thought I was going to turn out to be worth a bit more than this, and maybe that disappointment comes out all wrong. It's not just the work; it's not just the thirty-five-and-single thing, although none of this helps. It's…oh, I don't know. Have you ever looked at a picture of yourself when you were a kid? Or pictures of famous people when they were kids? It seems to me that they can either make you happy or sad. There's a lovely picture of Paul McCartney as a little boy, and the first time I saw it, it made me feel good: all that talent, all that money, all those years of blissed-out domesticity, a rock-solid marriage and lovely kids, and he doesn't even know it yet. But then there are others—JFK and all the rock deaths and fuckups, people who went mad, people who came off the rails, people who murdered, who made themselves or other people miserable in ways too numerous to mention—and you think, stop right there! This is as good as it gets!

Over the last couple of years, the photos of me when I was a kid, the ones that I never wanted old girlfriends to see…well, they've started to give me a little pang of something—not unhappiness, exactly, but some kind of quiet, deep regret. There's one of me in a cowboy hat, pointing a gun at the camera, trying to look like a cowboy but failing, and I can hardly bring myself to look at it now. Laura thought it was sweet (she used that word! Sweet, the opposite of sour!) and pinned it up in the kitchen, but I've put it back in a drawer. I keep wanting to apologize to the little guy: “I'm sorry, I've let you down. I was the person who was supposed to look after you, but I blew it: I made wrong decisions at bad times, and I turned you into me.”

See, he would have wanted to see Barry's band; he wouldn't have worried too much about Ian's dungarees or Penny's flashlight-pen (he would have
loved
Penny's flashlight-pen) or Charlie's trips to the States. He wouldn't have understood, in fact, why I was so down on all of them. If he could be here now, if he could jump out of that photo and into this shop, he'd run straight out of the door and back to 1967 as fast as his little legs would carry him.