High Fidelity (21 page)

“Why couldn't you have just come out with it in the first place? How am I supposed to guess? What's the big secret?”

“There's no secret. I'm simply pointing out that what happens to us isn't the whole story. That I continue to exist even when we're not together.”

I would have worked that out for myself, in the end. I would have seen that just because I go all fuzzy around the edges when I don't have a partner, it doesn't mean that everybody else does.

 

4. (In front of the TV, the following evening.)

“…somewhere nice. Italy. The States. The West Indies, even.”

“Excellent idea. What I'll do is, tomorrow I'll get hold of a box full of mint Elvis Presley 78s on Sun, and I'll pay for it that way.” I remember the Wood Green lady with the errant husband and the amazing singles collection, and feel a quick pang of regret.

“I presume that's some kind of sarcastic male record collector joke.”

“You know how broke I am.”

“You know I'll pay for you. Even though you still owe me money. What's the point of me doing this job if I have to spend my holiday in a tent on the Isle of Wight?”

“Oh yeah, and where am I going to find the money for half a tent?”

We watch Jack Duckworth trying to hide a fifty-pound note he won on the horses from Vera.

“It doesn't matter, you know, about the money. I don't care how little you earn. I'd like you to be happier in your work, but beyond that you can do what you like.”

“But it wasn't supposed to be like this. When I met you we were the same people, and now we're not, and…”

“How were we the same people?”

“You were the sort of person that came to the Groucho, and I was the sort of person that played the records. You wore leather jackets and T-shirts, and so did I. And I still do, and you don't.”

“Because I'm not
allowed
to. I do during the evenings.”

I'm trying to find a different way of saying that we're not the same people we used to be, that we've grown apart, blah blah blah, but the effort is beyond me.

“‘We're not the same people we used to be. We've grown apart.'”

“Why are you putting on that silly voice?”

“It's supposed to indicate inverted commas. I was trying to find a new way of saying it. Like you tried to find new way of saying that either we have babies or split up.”

“I did
not…”

“Just joking.”

“So we should pack it in? Is that what you're arguing? Because if you are, I'm going to run out of patience.”

“No, but…”

“But what?”

“But why doesn't it matter that we're not the same people we used to be?”

“First, I feel I should point out that you are entirely blameless.”

“Thank you.”

“You are exactly the same person you used to be. You haven't changed so much as a pair of socks in the years I've known you. If we've grown apart, then I'm the one who's done the growing. And all I've done is changed jobs.”

“And hairstyles and clothes and attitude and friends and…”

“That's not fair, Rob. You know I couldn't go to work with my hair all spiked. And I can afford to go out shopping more now. And I've met a couple of people I like over the last year or so. Which leaves attitude.”

“You're tougher.”

“More confident, maybe.”

“Harder.”

“Less neurotic. Are you intending to stay the same for the rest of your life? Same friends, or lack of them? Same job? Same attitude?”

“I'm all right.”

“Yeah, you're all right. But you're not perfect, and you're certainly not happy. So what happens if you
get
happy, and yes I know that's the title of an Elvis Costello album, I used the reference deliberately to catch your attention, do you take me for a complete idiot? Should we split up then, because I'm used to you being miserable? What happens if you, I don't know, if you start your own record label and it's a success? Time for a new girlfriend?”

“You're being stupid.”

“How? Show me the difference between you running a record label and me moving from legal aid to the City.”

I can't think of one.

“All I'm saying is that if you believe in a long-term monogamous relationship at all, then you have to allow for things happening to people, and you have to allow for things not happening to people. Otherwise what's the use?”

“No use.” I say it mock-meekly, but I am cowed—by her intelligence, and her ferocity, and the way she's always right. Or at least, she's always right enough to shut me up.

 

5. (In bed, sort of beforehand and sort of during, if you see what I mean, two nights later.)

“I don't know. I'm sorry. I think it's because I feel insecure.”

“I'm sorry, Rob, but I don't believe that for a moment. I think it's because you're half-cut. When we've had this sort of trouble before, it's usually been because of that.”

“Not this time. This time is because of insecurity.” I have trouble with the word
insecurity,
which in my rendition loses its second
i.
The mispronunciation doesn't strengthen my case.

“What would you say you're insecure about?”

I let out a short, mirthless “Ha!,” a textbook demonstration of the art of the hollow laugh.

“I'm still none the wiser.”

“‘I'm too tired to split up with you.' All that. And Ray, and you seem…
cross
with me all the time. Angry that I'm so hopeless.”

“Are we giving up on this?” She's referring to the lovemaking, rather than the conversation or the relationship.

“I s'pose.” I roll off her, and lie on the bed with an arm around her, looking at the ceiling.

“I know. I'm sorry, Rob. I haven't been very…I haven't really given the impression that this is something I want to do.”

“And why's that, do you think?”

“Hold on. I want to try to explain this properly. OK. I thought that we were bound by one simple little cord, our relationship, and if I cut it then that would be that. So I cut it, but that wasn't that. There wasn't just one cord, there were hundreds, thousands, everywhere I turned—Jo going quiet when I said we'd split up, and me feeling funny on your birthday, and me feeling funny…not
during
sex with Ray, but afterwards, and I felt sick when I played a tape you'd made me that was in the car, and I kept wondering how you were and…oh, millions of things. And then you were more upset than I thought you'd be, and that made it harder…and then on the day of the funeral…it was me that wanted you to be there, not my mum. I mean, she was quite pleased, I think, but it never occurred to me to ask Ray, and that's when I felt tired. I wasn't prepared to do all that work. It wasn't worth it, just to be shot of you.” She laughs a little.

“This is the nice way of saying it?”

“You know I'm not very good at slushy stuff.” She kisses me on the shoulder.

You hear that? She's not very good at slushy stuff? That, to me, is a problem, as it would be to any male who heard Dusty Springfield singing “The Look of Love” at an impressionable age. That was what I thought it was all going to be like when I was married (I called it “married” then—I call it “settled” or “sorted” now). I thought there was going to be this sexy woman with a sexy voice and lots of sexy eye makeup whose devotion to me shone from every pore. And there is such a thing as the look of love—Dusty didn't lead us up the garden path entirely—it's just that the look of love isn't what I expected it to be. It's not huge eyes almost bursting with longing situated somewhere in the middle of a double bed with the covers turned down invitingly; it's just as likely to be the look of benevolent indulgence that a mother gives a toddler, or a look of amused exasperation, even a look of pained concern. But the Dusty Springfield look of love? Forget it. As mythical as the exotic underwear.

Women get it wrong when they complain about media images of women. Men understand that not everyone has Bardot's breasts, or Jamie Lee Curtis's neck, or Cindy Crawford's bottom, and we don't mind at all. Obviously we'd take Kim Basinger over Phyllis Diller, just as women would take Keanu Reeves over Sergeant Bilko, but it's not the body that's important, it's the level of abasement. We worked out very quickly that Bond girls were out of our league, but the realization that women don't ever look at us the way Ursula Andress looked at Sean Connery, or even in the way that Doris Day looked at Rock Hudson, was much slower to arrive, for most of us. In my case, I'm not at all sure that it ever did.

I'm beginning to get used to the idea that Laura might be the person I spend my life with, I think (or at least, I'm beginning to get used to the idea that I'm so miserable without her that it's not worth thinking about alternatives). But it's much harder to get used to the idea that my little-boy notion of romance, of negliges and candlelit dinners at home and long, smoldering glances, had no basis in reality at all. That's what women ought to get all steamed up about; that's why we can't function properly in a relationship. It's not the cellulite or the crow's feet. It's the…the…the
disrespect.

ABOUT
two weeks in, after a lot of talking and a lot of sex and a tolerable amount of arguing, we go for dinner with Laura's friends Paul and Miranda. This might not sound very exciting to you, but it's a really big deal to me: it's a vote of confidence, an endorsement, a sign to the world that I'm going to be around for a few months at least. Laura and I have never seen eye-to-eye about Paul and Miranda, not that I've ever met either of them. Laura and Paul joined the law firm around the same time, and they got on well, so when she (and I) were asked round, I refused to go. I didn't like the sound of him, or Laura's enthusiasm for him, although when I heard that there was a Miranda I could see I was being stupid, so I made up a load of other stuff. I said that he sounded typical of the sort of people she was going to be meeting all the time now that she had this flash new job, and I was being left behind, and she got cross, so I upped the ante and prefaced his name with the words “this” and “wanker” whenever I mentioned him, and I attributed to him a hoity-toity voice and a whole set of interests and attitudes he probably hasn't got, and then Laura got
really
cross and went on her own. And having called him a wanker so many times, I felt that Paul and I had got off on the wrong foot, and when Laura invited them round to ours I went out until two in the morning just to make sure I didn't bump into them, even though they've got a kid and I knew they'd be gone by half-past eleven. So when Laura said we'd been invited again, I knew it was a big deal, not only because she was prepared to give it another go, but because it meant she'd been saying stuff about our living together again, and the stuff she'd been saying couldn't have been all bad.

As we stand on the doorstep of their house (nothing swanky, a three-bedroom terraced in Kensal Green), I fiddle with the fly button on my 501s, a nervous habit that Laura strongly disapproves of, for perhaps understandable reasons. But tonight she looks at me and smiles, and gives my hand (my other hand, the one that isn't scrabbling frantically at my groin) a quick squeeze, and before I know it we're in the house amid a flurry of smiles and kisses and introductions.

Paul is tall and good-looking, with long (untrendy, can't-be-bothered-to-have-it-cut, computer-nerdy long, as opposed to hairdressery long) dark hair and a shadow that's nearer six-thirty than five o'clock. He's wearing a pair of old brown cords and a Body Shop T-shirt depicting something green, a lizard or a tree or a vegetable or something. I wish a few of the buttons on my fly were undone, just so I wouldn't feel overdressed. Miranda, like Laura, is wearing a baggy jumper and leggings, and a pair of pretty cool rimless specs, and she's blond and round and pretty, not quite Roseanne Barr round, but round enough for you to notice straightaway. So I'm not intimidated by the clothes, or by the house, or the people, and anyway, the people are so nice to me that for a moment I almost feel a bit weepy: it's obvious to even the most insecure that Paul and Miranda are delighted that I am here, either because they have decided that I am a Good Thing, or because Laura has told them that she is happy with the way things are (and if I've got it all wrong, and they're just acting, then who cares anyway, when the actors are this good?).

There isn't any what-would-you-call-your-dog stuff, partly because everyone knows what everyone does (Miranda is an English lecturer at a community college), and partly because the evening isn't like that for a moment. They ask about Laura's dad, and Laura tells them about the funeral, or at least some of it, and also some stuff I didn't know—like, she says she felt a little thrill, momentarily, before all the pain and the grief and everything hit her—“Like, God, this is the most grown-up thing that's ever happened to me.”

And Miranda talks a bit about her mum dying, and Paul and I ask questions about that, and Paul and Miranda ask questions about my mum and dad, and then it all somehow moves on from there to aspirations, and what we want, and what we're not happy about, and…I don't know. It sounds stupid to say it, but despite what we're talking about, I really enjoy myself—I don't feel afraid of anybody, and whatever I say people take seriously, and I catch Laura looking fondly at me from time to time, which helps morale. It's not like anyone says any one thing that's memorable, or wise, or acute; it's more a mood thing. For the first time in my life I felt as though I'm in an episode of
thirtysomething
rather than an episode of…of…of some sitcom that hasn't been made yet about three guys who work in a record shop and talk about sandwich fillings and sax solos all day, and I love it. And I know
thirtysomething
is soppy and clichéd and American and naff, I can see that. But when you're sitting in a one-bedroom flat in Crouch End and your business is going down the toilet and your girlfriend's gone off with the guy from the flat upstairs, a starring role in a real-life episode of
thirtysomething,
with all the kids and marriages and jobs and barbecues and k.d. lang CDs that this implies, seems more than one could possibly ask of life.

 

The first time I had a crush on anyone was four or five years before Alison Ashworth came along. We were on holiday in Cornwall, and a couple of honeymooners had the next breakfast table to us, and we got talking to them, and I fell in love with both of them. It wasn't one or the other—it was the unit. (And now that I come to think about it, it was maybe these two as much as Dusty Springfield that gave me unrealistic expectations about relationships.) I think that each was trying, as newlyweds sometimes do, to show that they were brilliant with kids, that he'd make a brilliant dad and she'd make a fantastic mum, and I got the benefit of it: they took me swimming and rock-pooling, and they bought me Sky Rays, and when they left I was heartbroken.

It's kind of like that tonight, with Paul and Miranda. I fall in love with both of them—with what they have, and the way they treat each other, and the way they make me feel as if I am the new center of their world. I think they're great, and I want to see them twice a week every week for the rest of my life.

Only right at the end of the evening do I realize that I've been set up. Miranda's upstairs with their little boy; Paul's gone to see whether there's any ropy holiday liqueurs moldering in the back of a cupboard anywhere, so that we can stoke up the log-fire glow we all have in our stomachs.

“Go and look at their records,” says Laura.

“I don't have to. I am capable of surviving without turning my nose up at other people's record collections, you know.”

“Please. I want you to.”

So I wander over to the shelf, and turn my head to one side and squint, and sure enough, it's a disaster area, the sort of CD collection that is so poisonously awful that it should be put in a steel case and shipped off to some Third World waste dump. They're all there: Tina Turner, Billy Joel, Kate Bush, Pink Floyd, Simply Red, the Beatles, of course, Mike Oldfield (
Tubular Bells I
and
II
), Meat Loaf…I don't have much time to examine the vinyl, but I see a couple of Eagles records, and I catch a glimpse of what looks suspiciously like a Barbara Dickson album.

Paul comes back into the room.

“I shouldn't think you approve of many of those, do you?”

“Oh, I don't know. They were a good band, the Beatles.”

He laughs. “We're not very up on things, I'm afraid. We'll have to come into the shop, and you can put us right.”

“Each to his own, I say.”

Laura looks at me. “I've never heard you say it before. I thought ‘each to his own' was the kind of sentiment that'd be enough to get you hung in the brave new Fleming world.”

I manage a crooked smile, and hold out my brandy glass for some ancient Drambuie out of a sticky bottle.

 

“You did that deliberately,” I say to her on the way home. “You knew all along I'd like them. It was a trick.”

“Yeah. I tricked you into meeting some people you'd think were great. I conned you into having a nice evening.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Everybody's faith needs testing from time to time. I thought it would be amusing to introduce you to someone with a Tina Turner album, and then see whether you still felt the same.”

I'm sure I do. Or at least, I'm sure I will. But tonight, I have to confess (but only to myself, obviously) that maybe, given the right set of peculiar, freakish, probably unrepeatable circumstances, it's not what you like but what you're like that's important. I'm not going to be the one who explains to Barry how this might happen, though.