High Fidelity

by Nick Hornby

  Laura pays the cabbie and I unlock the front door, put the timer light on, and usher her inside. She stops and goes through the post on the windowsill, just through force of habit, I guess, but of course she gets herself in difficulties immediately: as she’s shuffling through the envelopes, she comes across Ian’s TV license reminder, and she hesitates, just for a second, but long enough to remove any last remaining trace of doubt from my mind, and I feel sick.

  “You can take it with you if you want,” I say, but I can’t look at her, and she doesn’t look at me. “Save me having to redirect it.” But she just puts it back in the pile, and then puts the pile back among the takeaway menus and minicab cards on the windowsill, and starts walking up the stairs.

  When we get into the flat, it’s weird seeing her there. But what’s particularly odd is how she tries to avoid doing the things that she used to do—you can see her checking herself. She takes her coat off; she used to chuck it over one of the chairs, but she doesn’t want to do that tonight. She stands there holding it for a little while, and I take it off her and chuck it over one of the chairs. She starts to go into the kitchen, either to put the kettle on or to pour herself a glass of wine, so I ask her, politely, whether she’d like a cup of tea, and she asks me, politely, whether there’s anything stronger, and when I say that there’s a half-empty bottle of wine in the fridge, she manages not to say that there was a whole one when she left, and she bought it. Anyway, it’s not hers any more, or it’s not the same bottle, or something. And when she sits down, she chooses the chair nearest the stereo—my chair—rather than the one nearest the TV—her chair.

  “Have you done them yet?” She nods toward the shelves full of albums.

  “What?” I know what, of course.

  “The Great Reorganization.” I can hear the capital letters.

  “Oh. Yes. The other night.” I don’t want to tell her that I did it the evening after she’d gone, but she gives an irritating little, well-fancy-that smile anyway.

  “What?” I say. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just, you know. Didn’t take you long.”

  “Don’t you think there are more important things to talk about than my record collection?”

  “Yes, I do, Rob. I’ve always thought that.”

  I’m supposed to have the moral high ground here (she’s the one who’s been sleeping with the neighbors, after all), but I can’t even get out of base camp.

  “Where have you been staying for the last week?”

  “I think you know that,” she says quietly.

  “Had to work it out for myself, though, didn’t I?”

  I feel sick again, really sick. I don’t know how it shows on my face, but suddenly Laura loses it a little: she looks tired, and sad, and she stares hard straight ahead to stop herself from crying.

  “I’m sorry. I made some bad decisions. I haven’t been very fair to you. That’s why I came to the shop this evening, because I thought it was time to be brave.”

  “Are you scared now?”

  “Yes, of course I am. I feel terrible. This is really hard, you know.”

  “Good.”

  Silence. I don’t know what to say. There are loads of things I want to ask, but they are all questions I don’t really want answered: when did you start seeing Ian, and was it because of the, you know, the ceiling noise thing, and is it better (What? she’d ask; Everything, I’d say), and is this really definitely it, or just some sort of phase, and—this is how feeble I’m becoming—have you missed me at all even one bit, do you love me, do you love him, do you want to end up with him, do you want to have babies with him, and is it better, is it better, IS IT BETTER?

  “Is it because of my job?”

  Where did that one come from? Of course it’s not because of my fucking job. Why did I ask that?

  “Oh, Rob, of course it isn’t.”

  That’s why I asked that. Because I felt sorry for myself, and I wanted some sort of cheap consolation: I wanted to hear “Of course it isn’t” said with a tender dismissiveness, whereas if I’d asked her the Big Question, I might have got an embarrassed denial, or an embarrassed silence, or an embarrassed confession, and I didn’t want any of them.

  “Is that what you think? That I’ve left you because you’re not grand enough for me? Give me some credit, please.” But again, she says it nicely, in a tone of voice I recognize from a long time ago.

  “I don’t know. It’s one of the things I thought of.”

  “What were the others?”

  “Just the obvious stuff.”

  “What’s the obvious stuff?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So it’s not that obvious, then.”

  “No.”

  Silence again.

  “Is it working out with Ian?”

  “Oh, come on, Rob. Don’t be childish.”

  “Why is that childish? You’re living with the bloke. I just wanted to know how it was going.”

  “I’m not living with him. I’ve just been staying with him for a few days until I work out what I’m doing. Look, this has nothing to do with anyone else. You know that, don’t you?”

  They always say that. They always, always say that it’s nothing to do with anyone else. I’ll bet you any money that if Celia Johnson had run off with Trevor Howard at the end of Brief Encounter, she would have told her husband that it was nothing to do with anyone else. It’s the first law of romantic trauma. I make a rather repulsive and inappropriately comic snorting noise to express my disbelief, and Laura nearly laughs, but thinks better of it.

  “I left because we weren’t really getting on, or even talking, very much, and I’m at an age where I want to sort myself out, and I couldn’t see that ever happening with you, mostly because you seem incapable of sorting yourself out. And I was sort of interested in someone else, and then that went further than it should have done, so it seemed like a good time to go. But I’ve no idea what will happen with Ian in the long run. Probably nothing. Maybe you’ll grow up a bit and we’ll put things right. Maybe I’ll never see either of you ever again. I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s not a good time to be living here.”

  More silence. Why are people—let’s face it, women—like this? It doesn’t pay to think this way, with all this mess and doubt and gray, smudged lines where there should be a crisp, sharp picture. I agree that you need to meet somebody new in order to dispense with the old—you have to be incredibly brave and adult to pack something in just because it isn’t working very well. But you can’t go about it all halfheartedly, like Laura is doing now. When I started seeing Rosie the simultaneous orgasm woman, I wasn’t like this; as far as I was concerned, she was a serious prospect, the woman who was going to lead me painlessly out of one relationship and into another, and the fact that it didn’t happen like that, that she was a disaster area, was just bad luck. At least there was a clear battle-plan in my head, and there was none of this irritating oh-Rob-I-need-time stuff.

  “But you haven’t definitely decided to pack me in? There’s still a chance that we’ll get back together?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, that must mean there’s a chance.”

  “I don’t know if there’s a chance.”

  Jesus.

  “That’s what I’m saying. That if you don’t know there’s a chance, there must be a chance, mustn’t there? It’s like, if someone was in hospital, and he was seriously ill, and the doctor said, I don’t know if he’s got a chance of survival or not, then that doesn’t mean the patient’s definitely going to die, does it? It means he might live. Even if it’s only a remote possibility.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So we have a chance of getting back together again.”

  “Oh, Rob, shut up.”

  “I just want to know where I stand. What chance I have.”

  “I don’t bloody know what bloody fucking chance you have. I’m trying to tell you
that I’m confused, that I haven’t been happy for ages, that we got ourselves into a terrible mess, that I’ve been seeing someone else. These are the important things.”

  “I guess. But if you could just tell me roughly, it would help.”

  “OK, OK. We have a nine percent chance of getting back together. Does that clarify the situation?” She’s so sick of this, so near to bursting, that her eyes are clenched tight shut and she’s speaking in a furious, poisonous whisper.

  “You’re just being stupid now.”

  I know, somewhere in me, that it’s not her that’s being stupid. I understand, on one level, that she doesn’t know, that everything’s up in the air. But that’s no use to me. You know the worst thing about being rejected? The lack of control. If I could only control the when and how of being dumped by somebody, then it wouldn’t seem as bad. But then, of course, it wouldn’t be rejection, would it? It would be by mutual consent. It would be musical differences. I would be leaving to pursue a solo career. I know how unbelievably and pathetically childish it is to push and push like this for some degree of probability, but it’s the only thing I can do to grab any sort of control back from her.

  When I saw Laura outside the shop I knew absolutely, without any question at all, that I wanted her again. But that’s probably because she’s the one doing the rejecting. If I can get her to concede that there is a chance we’ll patch things up, that makes things easier for me: if I don’t have to go around feeling hurt, and powerless, and miserable, I can cope without her. In other words, I’m unhappy because she doesn’t want me; if I can convince myself that she does want me a bit, then I’ll be OK again, because then I won’t want her, and I can get on with looking for someone else.

  Laura is wearing an expression I have come to know well in recent months, a look that denotes both infinite patience and hopeless frustration. It doesn’t feel good to know that she has invented this look just for me. She never needed it before. She sighs, and puts her head on her hand, and stares at the wall.

  “OK, it could be that we sort things out. There may be a chance of that happening. I would say not a good chance, but a chance.”

  “Great.”

  “No, Rob, it’s not great. Nothing’s great. Everything’s shit.”

  “But it won’t be, you’ll see.”

  She shakes her head, apparently in disbelief. “I’m too tired for this now. I know I’m asking a lot, but will you go back to the pub and have a drink with the others while I’m sorting some stuff out? I need to be able to think while I’m doing it, and I can’t think with you here.”

  “No problem. If I can ask one question.”

  “OK. One.”

  “It sounds stupid.”

  “Never mind.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Just…just ask it.”

  “Is it better?”

  “Is what better? Is what better than what?”

  “Well. Sex, I guess. Is sex with him better?”

  “Jesus Christ, Rob. Is that really what’s bothering you?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “You really think it would make a difference either way?”

  “I don’t know.” And I don’t.

  “Well, the answer is that I don’t know either. We haven’t done it yet.”

  Yes!

  “Never?”

  “No. I haven’t felt like it.”

  “But not even before, when he was living upstairs?”

  “Oh, thanks a lot. No. I was living with you then, remember?”

  I feel a bit embarrassed and I don’t say anything.

  “We’ve slept together but we haven’t made love. Not yet. But I’ll tell you one thing. The sleeping together is better.”

  Yes! Yes! This is fantastic news! Mr. Sixty-Minute Man hasn’t even clocked on yet! I kiss her on the cheek and go to the pub to meet Dick and Barry. I feel like a new man, although not very much like a New Man. I feel so much better, in fact, that I go straight out and sleep with Marie.

  TEN

  FACT: Over three million men in this country have slept with ten or more women. And do they all look like Richard Gere? Are they all as rich as Croesus, as charming as Clark Gable, as preposterously endowed as Errol Flynn, as witty as Oscar Wilde? Nope. It’s nothing to do with any of that. Maybe half a dozen or so of that three million have one or more of these attributes, but that still leaves…well, three million, give or take half a dozen. And they’re just blokes. We’re just blokes, because I, even I, am a member of the exclusive three million club. Ten is not so many if you’re unmarried and in your mid-thirties. Ten partners in a couple of decades of sexual activity is actually pretty feeble, if you think about it: one partner every two years, and if any of those partners was a one-night stand, and that one-night stand came in the middle of a two-year drought, then you’re not in trouble exactly, but you’re hardly the Number One Lover Man in your particular postal district. Ten isn’t a lot, not for the thirtysomething bachelor. Twenty isn’t a lot, if you look at it that way. Anything over thirty, I reckon, and you’re entitled to appear on an Oprah about promiscuity.

  Marie is my seventeenth lover. “How does he do it?” you ask yourselves. “He wears bad sweaters, he gives his ex-girlfriend a hard time, he’s grumpy, he’s broke, he hangs out with the Musical Moron Twins, and yet he gets to go to bed with an American recording artist who looks like Susan Dey. What’s going on?”

  First off, let’s not get carried away here. Yes, she’s a recording artist, but she records with the ironically titled Blackpool-based Hit Records, and it’s the type of record contract where you sell your own tapes during the interval of your own show in London’s prestigious Sir Harry Lauder nightspot. And if I know Susan Dey, and after a relationship that has endured for over twenty years I feel I do, I reckon she’d be the first to admit that looking like Susan Dey in L.A. Law is not the same as looking like, say, Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind.

  But yes, even so, the night with Marie is my major sexual triumph, my bonkus mirabilis. And do you know how it comes about? Because I ask questions. That’s it. That’s my secret. If someone wanted to know how to get off with seventeen women, or more, no less, that’s what I’d tell them: ask questions. It works precisely because that isn’t how you’re supposed to do it, if you listen to the collective male wisdom. There are still enough of the old-style, big-mouthed, self-opinionated egomaniacs around to make someone like me appear refreshingly different; Marie even says something like that to me halfway through the evening…

  I had no idea that Marie and T-Bone were going to be in the pub with Dick and Barry, who had apparently promised them a real English Saturday night out—pub, curry, night bus, and all the trimmings. But I’m happy to see them, both of them; I’m really up after the triumph with Laura, and seeing as Marie has only ever seen me tongue-tied and grumpy, she must wonder what has happened. Let her wonder. It’s not often that I get the chance to be enigmatic and perplexing.

  They’re sitting round a table, drinking pints of bitter. Marie shuffles along to let me sit down, and the moment she does that I’m lost, gone, away. It’s the Saturday-night-date woman I saw through the window of the cab who has set me off, I think. I see Marie’s shuffle along the seat as a miniature but meaningful romantic accommodation: hey, she’s doing this for me! Pathetic, I know, but immediately I start to worry that Barry or Dick—let’s face it, Barry—has told her about where I was and what I was doing. Because if she knows about Laura, and about the split, and about me getting uptight, then she’ll lose interest and, as she had no interest in the first place, that would put me into a minus interest situation. I’d be in the red, interest-wise.

  Barry and Dick are asking T-Bone about Guy Clark; Marie’s listening, but then she turns to me and asks me, conspiratorially, if everything went all right. Bastard Barry big-mouth.

  I shrug.

  “She just wanted to pick some stuff up. No big deal.”

  “God, I hate that t
ime. That picking-up-stuff time. I just went through that before I came here. You know that song called ‘Patsy Cline Times Two’ I play? That’s about me and my ex dividing up our record collections.”

  “It’s a great song.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you wrote it just before you came here?”

  “I wrote it on the way here. The words, anyway. I’d had the tune for a while, but I didn’t know what to do with it until I thought of the title.”

  It begins to dawn on me that T-Bone, if I may Cuisinart my foodstuffs, is a red herring.

  “Is that why you came to London in the first place? Because of, you know, dividing up your record collection and stuff?”

  “Yup.” She shrugs, then thinks, and then laughs, because the affirmative has told the entire story, and there’s nothing else to say, but she tries anyway.

  “Yup. He broke my heart, and suddenly I didn’t want to be in Austin anymore, so I called T-Bone, and he fixed up a couple of gigs and an apartment for me, and here I am.”

  “You share a place with T-Bone?”

  She laughs again, a big snorty laugh, right into her beer. “No way! T-Bone wouldn’t want to share a place with me. I’d cramp his style. And I wouldn’t want to listen to all that stuff happening on the other side of the bedroom wall. I’m way too unattached for that.”

  She’s single. I’m single. I’m a single man talking to an attractive single woman who may or may not have just confessed to feelings of sexual frustration. Oh my God.

  A while back, when Dick and Barry and I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like, Barry proposed the idea of a questionnaire for prospective partners, a two-or three-page multiple-choice document that covered all the music/film/TV/book bases. It was intended a) to dispense with awkward conversation, and b) to prevent a chap from leaping into bed with someone who might, at a later date, turn out to have every Julio Iglesias record ever made. It amused us at the time, although Barry, being Barry, went one stage further: he compiled the questionnaire and presented it to some poor woman he was interested in, and she hit him with it. But there was an important and essential truth contained in the idea, and the truth was that these things matter, and it’s no good pretending that any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently, or if your favorite films wouldn’t even speak to each other if they met at a party.