High Fidelity (17 page)

FINALLY,
finally, a month or so after she's left, Laura comes to move her stuff out. There's no real argument about what belongs to whom; the good records are mine, the good furniture, most of the cooking stuff, and the hardback books are hers. The only thing I've done is to sort out a whole pile of records and a few CDs I gave her as presents, stuff that I wanted but thought she'd like, and which have somehow ended up being filed away in my collection. I've been really scrupulous about it: she wouldn't have remembered half of these, and I could have got away with it, but I've pulled out every single one.

I was scared she was going to bring Ian round, but she doesn't. In fact, she's obviously uncomfortable about the fact that he rang.

“Forget it.”

“He had no right to do that, and I told him so.”

“Are you still together?”

She looks at me to see if I'm joking, and then gives a little hard-luck grimace that actually isn't too attractive, if you think about it.

“Going all right?”

“I don't really want to talk about it, to be honest.”

“That bad, eh?”

“You know what I mean.”

She's borrowed her dad's Volvo Estate for the weekend, and we fill every inch of it; she comes back inside for a cup of tea when we're done.

“It's a dump, isn't it?” I say. I can see her looking round the flat, staring at the dusty, discolored spaces her things have left on the wall, so I feel I have to preempt criticism.

“Please do it up, Rob. It wouldn't cost you much, and it would make you feel better.”

“I'll bet you can't remember what you were doing here now, can you?”

“Yes, I can. I was here because I wanted to be with you.”

“No, I meant, you know…how much are you on now? Forty-five? Fifty? And you lived in this poky little hole in Crouch End.”

“You know I didn't mind. And it's not as if Ray's place is any better.”

“I'm sorry, but can we get this straight? What is his name, Ian or Ray? What do you call him?”

“Ray. I hate Ian.”

“Right. Just so's I know. Anyway, what's Ian's place like?” Childish, but it makes me happy. Laura puts on her pained, stoical face. I've seen that one a few times, I can tell you.

“Small. Smaller than here. But neater, and less cluttered.”

“That's 'cause he's only got about ten records. CDs.”

“And that makes him an awful person, does it?”

“In my book, yes. Barry, Dick, and I decided that you can't be a serious person if you have—”

“Less than five hundred. Yes, I know. You've told me many, many times before. I disagree. I think it's possible to be a serious person even if you have no records whatsoever.”

“Like Kate Adie.”

She looks at me, frowns, and opens her mouth, her way of indicating that I'm potty. “Do you know for a fact that Kate Adie's got no records whatsoever?”

“Well, not
none.
She's probably got a couple. Pavarotti and stuff. Maybe some Tracy Chapman, and a copy of
Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits,
and two or three Beatles albums.”

She starts to laugh. I wasn't joking, to be honest, but if she thinks I'm funny then I prepared to act like I was.

“And I'll bet she was one of the people at parties who used to go ‘Woooh!' to the fade-out of ‘Brown Sugar.'”

“There is no greater crime than that, as far as you're concerned, is there?”

“The only thing that runs it close is singing along to the chorus of ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining,' at the top of your voice.”

“I used to do that.”

“You didn't.”

The joking has stopped now, and I look at her appalled. She roars.

“You believed me! You believed me! You must think I'm capable of
anything.”
She laughs again, catches herself having a good time, and stops.

I give her the cue. “This is where you're supposed to say that you haven't laughed this much in ages, and then you see the error of your ways.”

She makes a so-what face. “You make me laugh much more than Ray does, if that's what you're getting at.”

I give a mock-smug smile, but I'm not feeling mock-smug. I'm feeling the real thing.

“But it doesn't make any difference to anything, Rob. Really. We could laugh until I had to be taken away in an ambulance, but it doesn't mean I'm going to unload the car and move all my stuff back in. I already knew you could make me laugh. It's everything else I don't know about.”

“Why don't you just admit that Ian's an arsehole and have done with it? It would make you feel better.”

“Have you been talking to Liz?”

“Why? Does she think he's an arsehole too? That's interesting.”

“Don't spoil it, Rob. We've got on well today. Let's leave it at that.”

I pull out the stack of records and CDs that I've sorted out for her. There's
The Nightfly
by Donald Fagen, because she'd never heard it, and some blues compilation samplers I decided she ought to have, and a couple of jazz-dance things I bought for her when she started going to a jazz-dance class, although it turned out to be a different and frankly much crappier form of jazz-dance, and a couple of country things, in my vain attempt to change her mind about country, and…

She doesn't want any of it.

“But they're
yours.”

“They're not really, though, are they? I know you bought them for me, and that was really sweet of you, but that was when you were trying to turn me into you. I can't take them. I know they'd just sit around staring at me, and I'd feel embarrassed by them, and…they don't fit in with the rest of what's mine, do you understand? That Sting record you bought me…that was a present for
me.
I like Sting and you hate him. But the rest of this stuff…” She picks up the blues sampler. “Who the hell's Little Walter? Or Junior Wells? I don't know these people. I…”

“OK, OK. I get the picture.”

“I'm sorry to go on about it. But, I don't know, there's a lesson in here somewhere, and I want to make sure you get it.”

“I get it. You like Sting but you don't like Junior Wells, because you've never heard of him.”

“You're being deliberately obtuse.”

“I am, actually, yes.”

She gets up to go.

“Well, think about it.”

And later on, I think, what for? What's the point of thinking about it? If I ever have another relationship, I'll buy her, whoever she is, stuff that she ought to like but doesn't know about; that's what new boyfriends are for. And hopefully I won't borrow money off her, or have an affair, and she won't need to have an abortion, or run away with the neighbors, and then there won't be anything to think about. Laura didn't run off with Ray because I bought her CDs she wasn't that keen on, and to pretend otherwise is just…just
…
psychowank.
If she thinks that, then she's missing the Brazilian rain forest for the twigs. If I can't buy specially priced compilation albums for new girlfriends, then I might as well give up, because I'm not sure that I know how to do anything else.

I USUALLY
enjoy my birthday, but today I don't feel so good about it. Birthdays should be suspended in years like this one: there should be a law, of man if not of nature, that you are only allowed to age when things are ticking along nicely. What do I want to be thirty-six for now? I don't. It's not convenient. Rob Fleming's life is frozen at the moment, and he refuses to get any older. Please retain all cards, cakes, and presents for use on another occasion.

Actually, that seems to be what people have done. Sod's law decrees that my birthday should fall on a Sunday this year, so cards and presents are not forthcoming; I didn't get anything Saturday, either. I wasn't expecting anything from Dick or Barry, although I told them in the pub after work, and they looked guilty, and bought me a drink, and promised me all sorts of things (well, compilation tapes, anyway); but I never remember their birthdays—you don't, do you, unless you are of the female persuasion—so a tantrum would not be particularly appropriate in this case. But Laura? Relatives? Friends? (Nobody you know, but I do have some, and I do see them sometimes, and one or two of them do know when my birthday is.) Godparents? Anyone else at all? I did get a card from my mum and a P.S. from my dad, but parents don't count; if you don't even get a card from your folks, then you're really in trouble.

On the morning of the day itself I spend much too much time fantasizing about some enormous surprise party organized by Laura, maybe, with the help of my mum and dad, who could have provided her with the addresses and phone numbers of some of the people she wouldn't know about; I even find myself irritated by their not having told me about it. Suppose I just took myself off to the pictures for a solitary birthday treat without letting them know? Then where would they be, eh? They'd all be hiding in some cupboard somewhere while I was watching a
Godfather
triple-bill at the Scala. That'd serve them right. I decide not to tell them where I'm going; I'll leave them squashed up in the dark, cramped and ill-tempered. (“I thought
you
were going to ring him?” “I told you I didn't have time,” etc.) After a couple of cups of coffee, however, I realize that this sort of thinking is not profitable, that it is, in fact, likely to drive me potty, and I decide to arrange something positive instead.

Like what?

Go to the video shop for a start, and rent loads of things I've been saving up for just such a dismal occasion as this:
Naked Gun 2 ½, Terminator 2, Robocop 2.
And then ring up a couple of people to see if they want a drink tonight. Not Dick and Barry. Marie maybe, or people I haven't seen for a long time. And then watch one or two of the videos, drink some beer, and eat some crisps, maybe even some Kettle Chips. Sounds good. Sounds like the sort of birthday a brand-new thirty-six-year-old should have. (Actually, it is the
only
sort of birthday a brand-new thirty-six-year-old could have—the sort of thirty-six-year-old with no wife, family, girlfriend, or money, anyway. Kettle Chips! Fuck off!)

 

You thought there was going to be nothing left in the video shop, didn't you? You thought I cut such a tragic figure that I'd be reduced to watching some Whoopi Goldberg comedy-thriller which never got a cinematic release in this country. But no! They're all there, and I walk out with all the rubbish I want tucked under my arm. It's just turned twelve, so I can buy some beer; I go home, pop a can, draw the curtains to keep out the March sunshine, and watch
Naked Gun 2 ½,
which turns out to be pretty funny.

My mum calls just as I'm putting
Robocop 2
into the machine, and again, I'm disappointed that it isn't someone else. If you can't get a phone call from your mum on your birthday, then you're really in trouble.

She's nice to me, though. She's sympathetic about me spending the day on my own, even though she must be hurt that I'd rather spend the day on my own than spend it with her and Dad. (“D'you want to come to the pictures this evening with your father and Yvonne and Brian?” she asks me. “No,” I tell her. That's all. Just “No.” Restrained or what?) She can't really think of anything to say after that. It must be hard for parents, I guess, when they see that things aren't working out for their children, but that their children can no longer be reached by the old parental routes, because those roads are now much too long. She starts to talk about other birthdays, birthdays where I was ill because I ate too many nutella sandwiches or drank too many rainbow cocktails, but these were at least pukes conceived in happiness, and her talking about them doesn't cheer me up much, and I stop her. And then she starts on a whiny, how-come-you've-got-yourself-into-this-mess speech, which I know is a result of her powerlessness and panic, but it's my day today, such as it is, and I'm not prepared to listen to that either. She's OK about me shutting her up, though: because she still treats me like a child, birthdays are times when I am allowed to behave like one.

 

Laura rings in the middle of
Robocop 2, from a callbox.
This is very interesting, but maybe now is not the time to talk about why—not with Laura, anyway. Maybe later, with Liz or someone, but not now. This is obvious to anyone but a complete idiot.

“Why are you ringing from a callbox?”

“Am I?” she says. Not the smoothest answer.

“Did you have to put money or a card into a slot to speak to me? Is there a horrible smell of urine? If the answer to either of these questions is yes, it's a callbox. Why are you ringing from a callbox?”

“To wish you a happy birthday. I'm sorry I forgot to send you a card.”

“I didn't mean…”

“I was just on my way home, and I…”

“Why didn't you wait till you got back?”

“What's the point of me saying anything? You think you know the answer anyway.”

“I'd just like it confirmed.”

“Are you having a good day?”

“Not bad.
Naked Gun 2 ½:
very funny.
Robocop 2:
not as good as the first one. So far, anyway.”

“You're watching videos?”

“I am.”

“On your own?”

“Yep. Want to come round? I've still got
Terminator 2
to see.”

“I can't. I've got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Anyway.”

“How's your dad?”

“He's not too bad, at the moment, thanks for asking.”

“Good.”

“Have a nice day, OK? Do something good with it. Don't waste all day in front of the TV.”

“Right.”

“Come on, Rob. It's not my fault you're in on your own. I'm not the only person you know. And I am thinking of you, it's not like I've just jumped ship.”

“Tell Ian I said hi, OK?”

“Very funny.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do. Very funny.”

Got her. He doesn't want her to phone, and she's not going to tell him she has. Cool.

 

I'm at a bit of a loss after
Terminator 2.
It's not four o'clock yet, and even though I've plowed my way through three great crap videos and the best part of a six-pack, I still cannot shake the feeling that I'm not having much of a birthday. There are papers to read, and compilation tapes to make, but, you know. I pick up the phone instead, and start to organize my own surprise party in the pub. I shall gather a few people together, try to forget I called them, take myself off to the Crown or the Queen's Head around eight for a quiet pint, and get my back slapped raw by well-wishers I never expected to see there in a million years.

 

It's harder than I thought, though. London, eh? You might as well ask people if they'd like to take a year off and travel around the world with you as ask them if they'd like to nip out for a quick drink later on: later on means later on in the month, or the year, or the nineties, but never later on the same day. “Tonight?” they all go, all these people I haven't spoken to for months, ex-colleagues or old college friends, or people I've met through ex-colleagues or old college friends. “Later on
tonight?”
They're aghast, they're baffled, they're kind of amused, but most of all they just can't believe it. Someone's phoning up and suggesting a drink tonight, out of the blue, no Filofax to hand, no lists of alternative dates, no lengthy consultation with a partner? Preposterous.

But a couple of them show signs of weakness, and I exploit that weakness mercilessly. It's not an ooh-I-shouldn't-really-but-I-quite-fancy-a-pint sort of weakness; it's an inability-to-say-no sort of weakness. They don't want to go out tonight, but they can hear the desperation, and they cannot find it in themselves to respond with the necessary firmness.

Dan Maskell (real first name Adrian, but it had to be done) is the first to crack. He's married, with a kid, and he lives in Hounslow, and it's a Sunday night, but I'm not going to let him off the hook.

“Hello, Dan? It's Rob.”

“Hello, mate.” (Genuine pleasure at this point, which is something, I suppose.)

“How are you?”

So I tell him how I am, and then I explain the sad situation—sorry it's too last-minute, bit of a cock-up on the arrangement front (I manage to resist telling him there's been a bit of a cock-up on the life front generally), be nice to see him anyway, and so on and so forth, and I can hear the hesitation in his voice. And then—Adrian's a big music fan, which is how I met him at college, and why we kept in touch afterwards—I steal a trump card and play it.

“Have you heard of Marie LaSalle? She's a very good folky country kind of singer.”

He hasn't, not surprisingly, but I can tell that he's interested.

“Well, anyway, she's a…well, a friend, and she'll be coming along, so…she's great, and she's worth meeting, and…I don't know if…”

It's just about enough. To speak frankly with you, Adrian's a bit of an idiot, which is why I thought Marie might be an enticement. Why do I want to spend my birthday drinking with an idiot? That's a long story, most of which you already know.

Steven Butler lives in north London, doesn't have a wife, and doesn't have that many friends either. So why can't he come out tonight? He's already rented his video, that's why.

“Fucking hell, Steve.”

“Well, you should have called me earlier. I've only just come back from the shop.”

“Why don't you watch it now?”

“No. I'm a bit funny about watching videos before my tea. It's like you're just watching for the sake of it, do you know what I mean? And every one you watch in the daytime, that's one less you can watch at night.”

“How d'you work that out?”

“'Cause you're wasting them, aren't you?”

“Watch it another time, then.”

“Oh, yeah. I've got so much money I can give two pounds to the bloke in the video shop every night.”

“I'm not asking you to do it every night. I'm…Look, I'll give you the two quid, all right?”

“I dunno. Are you sure?”

I'm sure, and there we have it. Dan Maskell and Steve Butler. They don't know each other, they won't like each other, and they have nothing in common apart from a slight overlap in their record collections (Dan's not very interested in black music, Steve's not very interested in white music, they both have a few jazz albums). And Dan's expecting to see Marie, but Marie's not expecting to see Dan, nor does she even know of his existence. Should be a cracking night out.

 

Marie's got a phone now, and Barry has her number, and she's happy that I called, and more than happy to come out for a drink, and if she knew it was my birthday she'd probably explode with joy, but for some reason I decide not to tell her. I don't have to sell the evening to her, which is just as well, because I don't think I'd be able to give it away. She's got to do something else first, however, so there's an agonizing hour or so alone with Steve and Dan. I talk to Dan about rock music, while Steve stares at somebody getting lucky on the fruit machine, and I talk to Steve about soul music, while Dan does that trick with a beer mat which only the truly irritating person knows. And then we all talk about jazz, and then there's some pretty desultory what-do-you-do kind of stuff, and then we run out of petrol altogether, and we all watch the guy who's getting lucky on the fruit machine.

Marie and T-Bone and a very blond, very glamorous, and very young woman, also American, finally turn up around quarter to ten, so there's only forty-five minutes of drinking time left. I ask them what they want to drink, but Marie doesn't know, and comes up to the bar with me to have a look at what they've got.

“I see what you mean about T-Bone's sex life,” I say as we're waiting.

She raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Isn't she something else? And you know what? That's the ugliest woman he's ever dated.”

“I'm glad you could come.”

“The pleasure is ours. Who are those guys?”

“Dan and Steve. I've known them for years. They're a bit dull, I'm afraid, but I have to see them sometimes.”

“Duck noires, right?”

“Sorry?”

“I call 'em duck noires. Sort of a mixture of lame duck and
bête noire.
People you don't want to see but kinda feel you should.”

Duck noires. Bang on. And I had to fucking beg mine,
pay
mine, to come out for a drink on my birthday.

I never think these things through, ever. “Happy birthday, Rob,” says Steve when I put his drink down in front of him. Marie attempts to give me a look—of surprise, I would guess, but also of deepest sympathy and bottomless understanding, but I won't return it.

It's a pretty bad evening. When I was a kid, my granny used to spend Boxing Day afternoon with a friend's granny; my mum and dad would drink with Adrian's mum and dad, and I'd play with Adrian, and the two old codgers would sit in front of the TV exchanging pleasantries. The catch was that they were both deaf, but it didn't really matter: they were happy enough with their version of a conversation, which had the same gaps and nods and smiles as everyone else's conversation, but none of the connections. I haven't thought about that for years, but I remember it tonight.