High Fidelity

  I want to see them now: Alison Ashworth, who ditched me after three miserable evenings in the park. Penny, who wouldn’t let me touch her and who then went straight out and had sex with that bastard Chris Thomson. Jackie, attractive only while she was going out with one of my best friends. Sarah, with whom I formed an alliance against all the dumpers in the world and who then went and dumped me anyway. And Charlie. Especially Charlie, because I have her to thank for everything: my great job, my sexual self-confidence, the works. I want to be a well-rounded human being with none of these knotty lumps of rage and guilt and self-disgust. What do I want to do when I see them? I don’t know. Just talk. Ask them how they are and whether they have forgiven me for messing them around, when I have messed them around, and tell them that I have forgiven them for messing me around, when they have messed me around. Wouldn’t that be great? If I saw all of them in turn and there were no hard feelings left, just soft, downy feelings, Brie rather than old hard Parmesan, I’d feel clean, and calm, and ready to start again.

  Bruce Springsteen’s always doing it in his songs. Maybe not always, but he’s done it. You know that one “Bobby Jean,” off Born in the USA? Anyway, he phones this girl up but she’s left town years before and he’s pissed off that he didn’t know about it, because he wanted to say good-bye, and tell her that he missed her, and to wish her good luck. And then one of those sax solos comes in, and you get goose pimples, if you like sax solos. And Bruce Springsteen. Well, I’d like my life to be like a Bruce Springsteen song. Just once. I know I’m not born to run, I know that the Seven Sisters’ Road is nothing like Thunder Road, but feelings can’t be so different, can they? I’d like to phone all those people up and say good luck, and good-bye, and then they’d feel good and I’d feel good. We’d all feel good. That would be good. Great, even.

  FIFTEEN

  I AM introduced to Anna. Dick brings her to the pub on a night when Barry isn’t around. She’s small, quiet, polite, anxiously friendly, and Dick obviously adores her. He wants my approval and I can give it easily, loads of it. Why would I want Dick to be unhappy? I wouldn’t. I want him to be as happy as anybody has ever been. I want him to show the rest of us that it is possible to maintain a relationship and a large record collection simultaneously.

  “Has she got a friend for me?” I ask Dick.

  Normally, of course, I wouldn’t refer to Anna in the third person while she’s sitting with us, but I have an excuse: my question is both endorsement and allusion, and Dick smiles happily in recognition.

  “Richard Thompson,” he explains to Anna. “It’s a song off a Richard Thompson album. ‘I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight,’ isn’t it, Rob?”

  “Richard Thompson,” Anna repeats, in a voice which suggests that over the last few days she has had to absorb a lot of information very quickly. “Now, which one was he? Dick’s been trying to educate me.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got up to him yet,” says Dick. “Anyway, he’s a folk/rock singer and England’s finest electric guitarist. Would you say that’s right, Rob?” He asks the question nervously; if Barry were here, he’d take great pleasure in shooting Dick down at this point.

  “That’s right, Dick,” I reassure him. Dick nods with relief and satisfaction.

  “Anna’s a Simple Minds fan,” Dick confides, emboldened by his Richard Thompson success.

  “Oh, right.” I don’t know what to say. This, in our universe, is a staggering piece of information. We hate Simple Minds. They were number one in our Top Five Bands or Musicians Who Will Have to Be Shot Come the Musical Revolution. (Michael Bolton, U2, Bryan Adams, and, surprise surprise, Genesis were tucked in behind them. Barry wanted to shoot the Beatles, but I pointed out that someone had already done it.) It is as hard for me to understand how he has ended up with a Simple Minds fan as it would be to fathom how he had paired off with one of the royal family, or a member of the shadow cabinet: it’s not the attraction that baffles so much as how on earth they got together in the first place.

  “But I think she’s beginning to understand why she shouldn’t be. Aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. A bit.” They smile at each other. It’s kind of creepy, if you think about it.

  It’s Liz who stops me phoning Laura all the time. She takes me to the Ship and gives me a good talking-to.

  “You’re really upsetting her,” she says. “And him.”

  “Oh, like I really care about him.”

  “Well, you should.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…because all you’re doing is forming a little unit, them against you. Before you started all this, there was no unit. There were just three people in a mess. And now they’ve got something in common, and you don’t want to make it any worse.”

  “And why are you so bothered? I thought I was an arsehole.”

  “Yeah, well, so is he. He’s an even bigger arsehole, and he hasn’t done anything wrong yet.”

  “Why is he an arsehole?”

  “You know why he’s an arsehole.”

  “How do you know I know why he’s an arsehole?”

  “Because Laura told me.”

  “You had a conversation about what I thought was wrong with her new boyfriend? How did you get onto that?”

  “We went the long way round.”

  “Take me there the quick way.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Come on, Liz.”

  “OK. She told me that when you used to take the piss out of Ian, when you were living in the flat…that was when she decided she was going off you.”

  “You have to take the piss out of someone like that, don’t you? That Leo Sayer haircut and those dungarees, and the stupid laugh and the wanky right-on politics and the…”

  Liz laughs. “Laura wasn’t exaggerating, then. You’re not keen, are you?”

  “I can’t fucking stand the guy.”

  “No, neither can I. For exactly the same reasons.”

  “So what’s she on about, then?”

  “She said that your little Ian outbursts showed her how…sour was the word she used…how sour you’ve become. She said that she loved you for your enthusiasm and your warmth, and it was all draining away. You stopped making her laugh and you started depressing the hell out of her. And now you’re scaring her as well. She could call the police, you know, if she wanted.”

  The police. Jesus. One moment you’re dancing round the kitchen to Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys (Hey! I made her laugh then, and that was only a few months ago!), and the next she wants to get you locked up. I don’t say anything for ages. I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound sour. “What have I got to feel warm about?” I want to ask her. “Where’s the enthusiasm going to come from? How can you make someone laugh when they want to set the police on you?”

  “But why do you keep calling her all the time? Why do you want her back so badly?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Laura doesn’t know either.”

  “Well, if she doesn’t know, what’s the point?”

  “There’s always a point. Even if the point is to avoid this sort of mess next time, that’s still a point.”

  “Next time. You think there’ll be a next time?”

  “Come on, Rob. Don’t be so pathetic. And you’ve just asked three questions to avoid answering my one.”

  “Which was the one?”

  “Ha, ha. I’ve seen men like you in Doris Day films, but I never thought they existed in real life.” She puts on a dumb, deep, American voice. “The men who can’t commit, who can’t say ‘I love you’ even when they want to, who start to cough and splutter and change the subject. But here you are. A living, breathing specimen. Incredible.”

  I know the films she’s talking about, and they’re stupid. Those men don’t exist. Saying “I love you” is easy, a piece of piss, and more or less every man I know does it all the time. I’ve acted as though I haven’t been able to say it a couple of tim
es, although I’m not sure why. Maybe because I wanted to lend the moment that sort of corny Doris Day romance, make it more memorable than it otherwise would have been. You know, you’re with someone, and you start to say something, and then you stop, and she goes “What?” and you go “Nothing,” and she goes, “Please say it,” and you go, “No, it’ll sound stupid,” and then she makes you spit it out, even though you’d been intending to say it all along, and she thinks it’s all the more valuable for being hard-won. Maybe she knew all the time that you were messing about, but she doesn’t mind, anyway. It’s like a quote: it’s the nearest any of us gets to being in the movies, those few days when you decide that you like somebody enough to tell her that you love her, and you don’t want to muck it up with a glob of dour, straightforward, no-nonsense sincerity.

  But I’m not going to put Liz straight. I’m not going to tell her that all this is a way of regaining control, that I don’t know if I love Laura or not but I’m never going to find out while she’s living with someone else; I’d rather Liz thought I was one of those anal, tongue-tied, and devoted clichés who eventually sees the light. I guess it won’t do me any harm, in the long run.

  SIXTEEN

  I START at the beginning, with Alison. I ask my mum to look up her parents in the local phone book, and I take it from there.

  “Is that Mrs. Ashworth?”

  “It is.” Mrs. Ashworth and I were never introduced. We never really got to the meet-the-parents stage during our six-hour relationship.

  “I’m an old friend of Alison’s, and I’d like to get in touch with her again.”

  “You want her address in Australia?”

  “If…if that’s where she lives, yeah.” I won’t be forgiving Alison in a hurry. In fact, it will take me weeks: weeks to get around to writing a letter, weeks for a reply.

  She gives me her daughter’s address, and I ask what Alison’s doing out there; it turns out that she’s married to someone with a building business, and she’s a nurse, and they have two children, both girls, and blah blah. I manage to resist asking whether she ever mentions me at all. You can only take self-absorption so far. And then I ask about David, and he’s in London working for a firm of accountants, and he’s married, and he’s got two girls as well, and can’t anybody in the family produce boys? Even Alison’s cousin has just had a little girl! I express disbelief in all the right places.

  “How did you know Alison?”

  “I was her first boyfriend.”

  There’s a silence, and for a moment I worry that for the last twenty years I have been held responsible in the Ashworth house for some sort of sexual crime I did not commit.

  “She married her first boyfriend. Kevin. She’s Alison Bannister.”

  She married Kevin Bannister. I was ousted by forces beyond my control. This is tremendous. What chance did I stand against fate? No chance at all. It was nothing to do with me, or any failings on my part, and I can feel the Alison Ashworth scar healing over as we speak.

  “If that’s what she’s saying, she’s a liar.” This is meant to be a joke, but it comes out all wrong.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, seriously, joking apart, ha ha, I went out with her before Kevin did. Only for a week or so”—I have to up it a bit, because if I told the truth, she’d think I was mad—“But they all count, don’t they? A snog’s a snog, after all, ha ha.” I’m not going to be written out of history like this. I played my part. I did my bit.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Rob. Bobby. Bob. Robert. Robert Zimmerman.” Fucking hell.

  “Well, Robert, I’ll tell her you called, when I speak to her. But I’m not sure she’ll remember you.”

  She’s right, of course. She’ll remember the evening she got off with Kevin, but she won’t remember the evening before. It’s probably only me who remembers the evening before. I guess I should have forgotten about it ages ago, but forgetting isn’t something I’m very good at.

  This man comes into the shop to buy the Fireball XL5 theme tune for his wife’s birthday (and I’ve got one, an original, and it’s his for a tenner). And he’s maybe two or three years younger than me, but he’s well-spoken, and he’s wearing a suit, and he’s dangling his car keys, and for some reason these three things make me feel maybe two decades younger than him, twenty or so to his fortysomething. And I suddenly have this burning desire to find out what he thinks of me. I don’t give in to it, of course (“There’s your change, there’s your record, now come on, be honest, you think I’m a waster, don’t you?”), but I think about it for ages afterwards, what I must look like to him.

  I mean, he’s married, which is a scary thing, and he’s got the sort of car keys that you jangle confidently, so he’s obviously got, like, a BMW or a Batmobile or something flash, and he does work which requires a suit, and to my untutored eye it looks like an expensive suit. I’m a bit smarter than usual today—I’ve got my newish black denims on, as opposed to my ancient blue ones, and I’m wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt thing that I actually went to the trouble of ironing—but even so I’m patently not a grown-up man in a grown-up job. Do I want to be like him? Not really, I don’t think. But I find myself worrying away at that stuff about pop music again, whether I like it because I’m unhappy, or whether I’m unhappy because I like it. It would help me to know whether this guy has ever taken it seriously, whether he has ever sat surrounded by thousands and thousands of songs about…about…(say it, man, say it)…well, about love. I would guess that he hasn’t. I would also guess Prince Philip hasn’t, and the guy at the Bank of England hasn’t; nor has David Owen or Oliver North or Kate Adie or loads of other famous people that I should be able to name, probably, but can’t, because they never played for Booker T. and the MG’s. These people look as though they wouldn’t have had the time to listen to the first side of Al Green’s Greatest Hits, let alone all his other stuff (ten albums on the Hi label alone, although only nine of them were produced by Willie Mitchell); they’re too busy fixing base rates and trying to bring peace to what was formerly Yugoslavia to listen to “Sha La La (Make Me Happy).”

  So they might have the jump on me when it comes to accepted notions of seriousness (although as everyone knows, Al Green Explores Your Mind is as serious as life gets), but I ought to have the edge on them when it comes to matters of the heart. “Kate,” I should be able to say, “it’s all very well dashing off to war zones. But what are you going to do about the only thing that really matters? You know what I’m talking about, baby.” And then I could give her all the emotional advice I gleaned from the College of Musical Knowledge. It hasn’t worked out like that, though. I don’t know anything about Kate Adie’s love life, but it can’t be in a worse state than mine, can it? I’ve spent nearly thirty years listening to people singing about broken hearts, and has it helped me any? Has it fuck.

  So maybe what I said before, about how listening to too many records messes your life up…maybe there’s something in it after all. David Owen, he’s married, right? He’s taken care of all that, and now he’s a big-shot diplomat. The guy who came into the shop with the suit and the car keys, he’s married, too, and now he’s, I don’t know, a businessman. Me, I’m unmarried—at the moment as unmarried as it’s possible to be—and I’m the owner of a failing record shop. It seems to me that if you place music (and books, probably, and films, and plays, and anything that makes you feel) at the center of your being, then you can’t afford to sort out your love life, start to think of it as the finished product. You’ve got to pick at it, keep it alive and in turmoil, you’ve got to pick at it and unravel it until it all comes apart and you’re compelled to start all over again. Maybe we all live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship. Maybe Al Green is directly responsible f
or more than I ever realized.

  See, records have helped me to fall in love, no question. I hear something new, with a chord change that melts my guts, and before I know it I’m looking for someone, and before I know it I’ve found her. I fell in love with Rosie the simultaneous orgasm woman after I’d fallen in love with a Cowboy Junkies song: I played it and played it and played it, and it made me dreamy, and I needed someone to dream about, and I found her, and…well, there was trouble.

  SEVENTEEN

  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.