High Fidelity

  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.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I TAKE Laura to see Marie; she loves her.

  “But she’s brilliant!” she says. “Why don’t more people know about her? Why isn’t the pub packed?”

  I find this pretty ironic, as I’ve spent our entire relationship trying to make her listen to people who should be famous but aren’t, though I don’t bother pointing this out.

  “You need pretty good taste to see how great she is, I suppose, and most people haven’t got that.”

  “And she’s been to the shop?”

  Yeah. I slept with her. Pretty cool, eh?

  “Yeah. I served her in the shop. Pretty cool, eh?”

  “Starfucker.” She claps the back of the hand that’s holding the half of Guinness when Marie finishes a song. “Why don’t you get her to play in the shop? A personal appearance? You’ve never done one of those before.”

  “I haven’t been in a position to before.”

  “Why not? It would be fun. She probably wouldn’t even need a mike.”

  “If she needed a mike in Championship Vinyl, she’d have some kind of major vocal cord disorder.”

  “And you’d probably sell a few of her tapes, and probably a couple of extra things besides. And you could get it put into the Time Out gigs list.”

  “Ooer, Lady Macbeth. Calm down and listen to the music.” Marie’s singing a ballad about some uncle who died, and one or two of the people look round when Laura’s excitement gets the better of her.

  But I like the sound of it. A personal appearance! Like at HMV! (Do people sign cassettes? I suppose they must do.) And maybe if the Marie one goes well, then other people would want to do it—bands maybe, and if it’s true about Bob Dylan buying a house in north London…well, why not? I know that pop superstars don’t often do in-store appearances to help flog secondhand copies of their back-catalogue, but if I could get a shot of that mono copy of Blonde on Blonde at an inflated price, I’d go halves with him. Maybe even sixty-forty, if he threw in a signature.

  And from a small, one-off acoustic event like Bob Dylan at Championship Vinyl (with a limited-edition live album, maybe? Could be some tricky contractual stuff to deal with, but nothing impossible, I wouldn’t have thought), it’s easy to see bigger, better, brighter days ahead. Maybe I could reopen the Rainbow? It’s only down the road, and nobody else wants it. And I could launch it with a charity one-off, maybe a reenactment of Eric Clapton’s Rainbow Concert…

  We go to see Marie in the interval, when she’s selling her tapes.

  “Oh, hiii! I saw Rob out there with someone, and I hoped it might be you,” she says to Laura, with a big smile.

  I was so busy with all the promotion stuff going on in my head that I forgot to be nervous about Laura and Marie face to face (Two Women. One Man. Any fool could see there was going to be trouble, etc.), and already I have some explaining to do. I served Marie in the shop a couple of times, according to me. On what basis, then, was Marie hoping that Laura is Laura? (“That’ll be five pounds ninety-nine, please. Oh, my girlfriend’s got a wallet like that. My ex-girlfriend, actually. I’d really like you to meet her, but we’ve split up.”)

  Laura looks suitably mystified, but plows on.

  “I love your songs. And the way you sing them.” She colors slightly, and shakes her head impatiently.

  “I’m glad you did. Rob was right. You are special.” (“There’s four pounds and a penny change. My ex-girlfriend’s special.”)

  “I didn’t realize you two were such pals,” says Laura, with more acidity than is good for my stomach.

  “Oh, Rob’s been a good friend to me since I’ve been here. And Dick and Barry. They’ve made me feel real welcome.”

  “We’d better let Marie sell her tapes, Laura.”

  “Marie, will you do a PA in Rob’s shop?”

  Marie laughs. She laughs, and doesn’t reply. We stand there foolishly.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Not really. On a Saturday afternoon, when the shop’s busy. You could stand on the counter.” This last embellishment is Laura’s own, and I stare at her.

  Marie shrugs. “OK. But I get to keep any money I make from the tapes.”

  “Sure.” Laura again. I’m still staring at her from before, so I have to content myself with staring at her even harder.

  “Thanks, it was nice to meet you.”

  We go back to where we were standing.

  “See?” she says. “Easy.”

  Occasionall
y, during the first few weeks of Laura’s return, I try to work out what life is like now: whether it’s better or worse, how my feelings for Laura have changed, if they have, whether I’m happier than I was, how near I am to getting itchy feet again, whether Laura’s any different, what it’s like living with her. The answers are easy—better, kind of, yes, not very near, not really, quite nice—but also unsatisfying, because I know they’re not answers that come from down deep. But somehow, there’s less time to think since she came back. We’re too busy talking, or working, or having sex (there’s a lot of sex at the moment, much of it initiated by me as a way of banishing insecurity), or eating, or going to the pictures. Maybe I should stop doing these things, so as I can work it all out properly, because I know these are important times. But then again, maybe I shouldn’t; maybe this is how it’s done. Maybe this is how people manage to have relationships.

  “Oh, great. You never asked us to play here, did you?”

  Barry. Idiot. I might have known he’d find something in Marie’s imminent in-store performance to moan about.

  “Didn’t I? I thought I did, and you said no.”

  “How are we ever going to get going if even our friends won’t give us a break.”

  “Rob let you put the poster up, Barry. Be fair.” This is quite assertive for Dick, but there is something in him that doesn’t like the idea of Barry’s band anyway. For him, I think, a band is too much like action, and not enough like fandom.

  “Oh, fucking great. Big fucking deal. A poster.”

  “How would a band fit in here? I’d have to buy the shop next door, and I’m not prepared to do that just so’s you can make a terrible racket one Saturday afternoon.”

  “We could have done an acoustic set.”

  “Oh, right. Kraftwerk unplugged. That’d be nice.”

  This gets a laugh from Dick, and Barry looks round at him angrily.

  “Shut up, jerk. I told you, we’re not doing the German stuff anymore.”

  “What would be the point? What do you have to sell? Have you ever made a record? No? Well, there you are, then.”

  So forceful is my logic that Barry has to content himself with stomping around for five minutes, and then sitting on the counter with his head buried in an old copy of Hot Press. Every now and again he says something feeble—“Just because you’ve shagged her,” for example, and, “How can you run a record shop when you have no interest in music at all?” But mostly he’s quiet, lost in contemplation of what might have been had I given Barrytown the opportunity to play live in Championship Vinyl.

  It’s a stupid little thing, this gig. All it will be, after all, is half a dozen songs played on an acoustic guitar in front of half a dozen people. What depresses me is how much I’m looking forward to it, and how much I’ve enjoyed the pitiful amount of preparation (a few posters, a couple of phone calls to try and get hold of some tapes) it has involved. What if I’m about to become dissatisfied with my lot? What do I do then? The notion that the amount of…of life I have on my plate won’t be enough to fill me up alarms me. I thought we were supposed to ditch anything superfluous and get by on the rest, and that doesn’t appear to be the case at all.

  The big day itself goes by in a blur, like it must have done for Bob Geldof at Live Aid. Marie turns up, and loads of people turn up to watch her (the shop’s packed, and though she doesn’t stand on the counter to play, she does have to stand behind it, on a couple of crates we found for her), and they clap, and at the end, some of them buy tapes and a few of them buy other stuff they see in the shop; my expenses came to about ten pounds, and I sell thirty or forty quid’s worth of stock, so I’m laughing. Chuckling. Smiling broadly, anyway.

  Marie flogs the stuff for me. She plays about a dozen songs, only half of which are her own; before she starts, she spends some time rummaging through the browsing racks checking that I’ve got all the cover versions she was intending to play, and writing down the names and the prices of the albums they come from. If I haven’t got it, she crosses the song off her set list and chooses one I do have.

  “This is a song by Emmylou Harris called ‘Boulder to Birmingham,’” she announces. “It’s on the album Pieces of the Sky, which Rob is selling this afternoon for the unbelievable price of five pounds and ninety-nine pence, and you can find it right over there in the ‘Country Artists (Female)’ section.’ This is a song by Butch Hancock called…” And at the end, when people want to buy the songs but have forgotten the names, Marie is there to help them out. She’s great, and when she sings, I wish that I weren’t living with Laura, and that my night with Marie had gone better than it did. Maybe next time, if there is a next time, I won’t feel so miserable about Laura going, and then things might be different with Marie, and…but I’m always going to feel miserable about Laura going. That’s what I’ve learned. So I should be happy that she’s staying, right? That’s how it should work, right? And that’s how it does work. Kind of. When I don’t think about it too hard.

  It could be argued that my little event is, on its own terms, more successful than Live Aid, at least from the technical point of view. There are no glitches, no technical fuckups (although admittedly it would be hard to see what could go wrong, apart from a broken guitar string, or Marie falling over), and only one untoward incident: two songs in, a familiar voice emerges from the back of the shop, right next to the door.

  “Will you play ‘All Kinds of Everything’?”

  “I don’t know that,” says Marie sweetly. “But if I did, I’d sing it for you.”

  “You don’t know it?”

  “Nope.”

  “You don’t know it?”

  “Nope again.”

  “Jesus, woman, it won the Eurovision Song Contest.”

  “Then I guess I’m pretty ignorant, huh? I promise that the next time I play live here, I’ll have learned it.”

  “I should fockin’ hope so.”

  And then I push through to the door, and Johnny and I do our little dance, and I shove him out. But it’s not like Paul McCartney’s microphone conking out during “Let It Be,” is it?

  “I had a terrific time,” says Marie afterwards. “I didn’t think it would work, but it did. And we all made money! That always makes me feel good.”

  I don’t feel good, not now that it’s all over. For an afternoon I was working in a place that other people wanted to come to, and that made a difference to me—I felt, I felt, I felt, go on say it, more of a man, a feeling both shocking and comforting.

  Men don’t work in quiet, deserted side streets in Holloway: they work in the City or the West End, or in factories, or down mines, or in stations or airports or offices. They work in places where other people work, and they have to fight to get there, and perhaps as a consequence they do not get the feeling that real life is going on elsewhere. I don’t even feel as if I’m the center of my own world, so how am I supposed to feel as though I’m the center of anyone else’s? When the last person has been ushered out of this place, and I lock the door behind him, I suddenly feel panicky. I know I’m going to have to do something about the shop—let it go, burn it down, whatever—and find myself a career.

  THIRTY

  BUT look:

  My five dream jobs

  New Musical Express journalist, 1976–1979 Get to meet the Clash, Sex Pistols, Chrissie Hynde, Danny Baker, etc. Get loads of free records—good ones, too. Go on to host my own quiz show or something.

  Producer, Atlantic Records, 1964–1971 (approx.) Get to meet Aretha, Wilson Pickett, Solomon Burke, etc. Get loads of free records (probably)—good ones, too. Make piles of money.

  Any kind of musician (apart from classical or rap) Speaks for itself. But I’d have settled just for being one of the Memphis Horns—I’m not asking to be Hendrix or Jagger or Otis Redding.

  Film director Again, any kind, although preferably not German or silent.

  Architect A surprise entry at number 5, I know, but I used to be quite good at technical drawing at s
chool.

  And that’s it. It’s not even as though this list is my top five, either: there isn’t a number six or seven that I had to omit because of the limitations of the exercise. To be honest, I’m not even that bothered about being an architect—I just thought that if I failed to come up with five, it would look a bit feeble.

  It was Laura’s idea for me to make a list, and I couldn’t think of a sensible one, so I made a stupid one. I wasn’t going to show it to her, but something got to me—self-pity, envy, something—and I do anyway.

  She doesn’t react.

  “It’s got to be architecture, then, hasn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “Seven years’ training.”

  I shrug.

  “Are you prepared for that?”

  “Not really.”

  “No, I didn’t think so.”

  “I’m not sure I really want to be an architect.”

  “So you’ve got a list here of five things you’d do if qualifications and time and history and salary were no object, and one of them you’re not bothered about.”

  “Well, I did put it at number five.”

  “You’d really rather have been a journalist for the New Musical Express, than, say, a sixteenth-century explorer, or king of France?”

  “God, yes.”

  She shakes her head.

  “What would you put down, then?”

  “Hundreds of things. A playwright. A ballet dancer. A musician, yes, but also a painter or a university don or a novelist or a great chef.”

  “A chef?”

  “Yes. I’d love to have that sort of talent. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t want to work evenings, though.” I wouldn’t, either.

  “Then you might just as well stay at the shop.”

  “How d’you work that out?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather do that than be an architect?”