High Fidelity Part 8

We get back to sleep, in the end, and we wake up late, and I look and perhaps even smell a bit grottier than she might have wanted, in an ideal world, and she's friendly but distant; I get the feeling that last night is unlikely to be repeated. We go out for breakfast, to a place that is full of young couples who have spent the night together, and though we don't look out of place, I know we are: everybody else seems happy and comfortable and established, not nervy, and new and sad, and Marie and I read our newspapers with an intensity that is designed to cut out any further intimacy. It's only afterwards that we really set ourselves apart from the rest, though: a quick and rueful peck on the cheek, and I have the rest of Sunday to myself, whether I want it or not.

What went wrong? Nothing and everything. Nothing: we had a nice evening, we had s.e.x that humiliated neither of us, we even had a predawn conversation that I and maybe she will remember for ages and ages. Everything: all that stupid business when I couldn't decide whether I was going home or not, and in the process giving her the impression that I was a halfwit; the way that we got on brilliantly and then had nothing much to say to each other; the manner of our parting; the fact that I'm no nearer to appearing in the record sleeve notes than I was before I met her. It's not a case of the gla.s.s being half full or half empty; more that we tipped a whole half-pint into an empty pint pot. I had to see how much was there, though, and now I know.

Eleven

All my life I've hated Sundays, for the obvious British reasons (Song of Praise, (Song of Praise, closed shops, congealing gravy that you don't want to go near but no one's going to let you escape from) and the obvious international reasons as well, but this Sunday is a corker. There are loads of things I could do; I've got tapes to make and videos to watch and phone calls to return. But I don't want to do any of them. I get back to the flat at one; by two, things have got so bad that I decide to go home - closed shops, congealing gravy that you don't want to go near but no one's going to let you escape from) and the obvious international reasons as well, but this Sunday is a corker. There are loads of things I could do; I've got tapes to make and videos to watch and phone calls to return. But I don't want to do any of them. I get back to the flat at one; by two, things have got so bad that I decide to go home -home home, Mum and Dad home, congealing gravy and home, Mum and Dad home, congealing gravy and Songs of Praise Songs of Praise home. It was waking up in the middle of the night and wondering where I belonged that did it: I don't belong at home, and I don't home. It was waking up in the middle of the night and wondering where I belonged that did it: I don't belong at home, and I don't want want to belong at home, but at least home is somewhere I know. to belong at home, but at least home is somewhere I know.

Home home is near Watford, a bus ride away from the Metropolitan Line station. It was a terrible place to grow up, I suppose, but I didn't really mind. Until I was thirteen or so, it was just a place where I could ride my bike; between thirteen and seventeen a place where I could meet girls. And I moved when I was eighteen, so I only spent a year seeing the place for what it was - a suburban s.h.i.+t hole - and hating it. My mum and dad moved about ten years ago, when my mum reluctantly accepted that I had gone and wasn't coming back, but they only moved around the corner, to a two-bedroom semi, and they kept their phone number and their friends and their life. home is near Watford, a bus ride away from the Metropolitan Line station. It was a terrible place to grow up, I suppose, but I didn't really mind. Until I was thirteen or so, it was just a place where I could ride my bike; between thirteen and seventeen a place where I could meet girls. And I moved when I was eighteen, so I only spent a year seeing the place for what it was - a suburban s.h.i.+t hole - and hating it. My mum and dad moved about ten years ago, when my mum reluctantly accepted that I had gone and wasn't coming back, but they only moved around the corner, to a two-bedroom semi, and they kept their phone number and their friends and their life.

In Bruce Springsteen songs, you can either stay and rot, or you can escape and burn. That's OK; he's a songwriter, after all, and he needs simple choices like that in his songs. But n.o.body ever writes about how it is possible to escape and rot - how escapes can go off at half-c.o.c.k, how you can leave the suburbs for the city but end up living a limp suburban life anyway. That's what happened to me; that's what happens to most people.

They're OK, if you like that sort of thing, which I don't. My dad is a bit dim but something of a know-all, which is a pretty fatal combination; you can tell from his silly, fussy beard that he's going to be the sort who doesn't talk much sense and won't listen to any reason. My mum is just a mum, which is an unforgivable thing to say in any circ.u.mstance, except this one. She worries, she gives me a hard time about the shop, she gives me a hard time about my childlessness. I wish I wanted to see them more, but I don't, and when I've got nothing else to feel bad about, I feel bad about that.

They'll be pleased to see me this afternoon, although my heart sinks when I see that f.u.c.king Genevieve Genevieve is on TV this afternoon. (My dad's top five films: is on TV this afternoon. (My dad's top five films: Genevieve, The Cruel Sea, Zulu, Oh! Mr. Porter, Genevieve, The Cruel Sea, Zulu, Oh! Mr. Porter, which he thinks is hilarious, and which he thinks is hilarious, and The Guns of Navarone. The Guns of Navarone. My mum's top five films: My mum's top five films: Genevieve, Gone With the Wind, The Way We Were, Funny Girl, Genevieve, Gone With the Wind, The Way We Were, Funny Girl, and and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, You get the idea, anyway, and you'll get an even better idea when I tell you that going to the cinema is a waste of money, according to them, because sooner or later the films end up on television.) You get the idea, anyway, and you'll get an even better idea when I tell you that going to the cinema is a waste of money, according to them, because sooner or later the films end up on television.)

When I get there, the joke's on me: they're not in. I've come a million stops on the Metropolitan Line on a Sunday afternoon, I've waited eight years for a bus, f.u.c.king Genevieve Genevieve is on the f.u.c.king television, and they're not here. They didn't even call to let me know they wouldn't be here, not that I called to let them know I was coming. If I was at all p.r.o.ne to self-pity, which I am, I would feel bad about the terrible irony of finding your parents out when, finally, you need them. is on the f.u.c.king television, and they're not here. They didn't even call to let me know they wouldn't be here, not that I called to let them know I was coming. If I was at all p.r.o.ne to self-pity, which I am, I would feel bad about the terrible irony of finding your parents out when, finally, you need them.

But just as I'm about to head back to the bus stop, my mum opens the window of the house opposite and yells at me.

'Rob! Robert! Come in!'

I've never met the people across the road, but it soon becomes obvious that I'm in a minority of one: the house is packed.

'What's the occasion?'

'Wine tasting.'

'Not Dad's homemade?'

'No. Proper wine. This afternoon, it's Australian. We all chip in and a man comes and explains it all.'

'I didn't know you were interested in wine.'

'Oh, yes. And your dad loves it.'

Of course he does. He must be terrible to work with the morning after a wine-tasting session: not because of the reek of stale booze, or the bloodshot eyes, or the crabby behavior, but because of all the facts he has swallowed. He'd spend half the day telling people things they didn't want to know. He's over on the other side of the room, talking to a man in a suit - the visiting expert, presumably - who has a desperate look in his eye. Dad sees me, and mimes shock, but he won't break off the conversation.

The room is full of people I don't recognize. I've missed the part where the guy talks and hands out samples; I've arrived during the part where wine tasting becomes wine drinking and, though every now and again I spot someone swilling the wine around in their mouth and talking b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, mostly they're just pouring the stuff down their necks as fast as they can. I wasn't expecting this. I came for an afternoon of silent misery, not wild partying; the one thing I wanted from the afternoon was incontrovertible proof that my life may be grim and empty, but not as grim and empty as life in Watford. Wrong again. Nothing works, as Catweazle used to say. Life in Watford is grim, yes; but grim and full. What right do parents have to go to parties on Sunday afternoons for no reason at all?

'Genevieve 'Genevieve is on the telly this afternoon, Mum.' is on the telly this afternoon, Mum.'

'I know. We're taping it.'

'When did you get a VCR?'

'Months ago.'

'You never told me.'

'You never asked.'

'Is that what I'm supposed to do every week? Ask you whether you've bought any consumer durables?'

A huge lady wearing what appears to be a yellow kaftan glides towards us.

'You must be Robert.'

'Rob, yeah. Hi.'

'I'm Yvonne. Your host. Hostess.' She laughs insanely, for no discernible reason. I want to see Kenneth More. 'You're the one who works in the music industry, am I right?'

I look at my mum, and she looks away. 'Not really, no. I own a record shop.'

'Oh, well. Same thing, more or less.' She laughs again, and though it would be consoling to think that she is drunk, I fear that this is not the case.

'I guess so. And the woman who develops your photos at Boots works in the film industry.'

'Would you like my keys, Rob? You can go home and put the kettle on.'

'Sure. Heaven forbid that I should be allowed to stay here and have fun.'

Yvonne mutters something and glides off. My mum's too pleased to see me to give me a hard time, but even so I feel a bit ashamed of myself.

'Perhaps it's time I had a cup of tea, anyway.' She goes over to thank Yvonne, who looks at me, c.o.c.ks her head on one side, and makes a sad face; Mum's obviously telling her about Laura as an explanation for my rudeness. I don't care. Maybe Yvonne will invite me to the next session.

We go home and watch the rest of Genevieve. Genevieve.

My dad comes back maybe an hour later. He's drunk.

'We're all going to the pictures,' he says.

This is too much.

'You don't approve of the pictures, Dad.'

'I don't approve of the rubbish you go to watch. I approve of nice well-made films. British films.'

'What's on?' my mum asks him.

'Howard's End. 'Howard's End. It's the follow-up to A It's the follow-up to A Room with a View.' Room with a View.'

'Oh, lovely,' my mum says. 'Is anyone else going from across the road?'

'Only Yvonne and Brian. But get a move on. It starts in half an hour.'

'I'd better be going back,' I say. I have exchanged hardly a word with either of them all afternoon.

'You're going nowhere,' my dad says. 'You're coming with us. My treat.'

'It's not the money, Dad.' It's Merchant and f.u.c.king Ivory. 'It's the time. I'm working tomorrow.'

'Don't be so feeble, man. You'll still be in bed by eleven. It'll do you good. Buck you up. Take your mind off things.' This is the first reference to the fact that I have things off which my mind needs taking.

And, anyway, he's wrong. Going to the pictures aged thirty-five with your mum and dad and their insane friends does not take your mind off things, I discover. It very much puts your mind on things. While we're waiting for Yvonne and Brian to purchase the entire contents of the Pick'n'Mix counter, I have a terrible, chilling, bone-shaking experience: the most pathetic man in the world gives me a smile of recognition. The Most Pathetic Man In The World has huge horn-rimmed spectacles and buckteeth; he's wearing a dirty fawn anorak and brown cord trousers which have been rubbed smooth at the knee; he, too, is being taken to see Howard's End Howard's End by his parents, despite the fact that he's in his late twenties. And he gives me this terrible little smile by his parents, despite the fact that he's in his late twenties. And he gives me this terrible little smile because he has spotted a kindred spirit. because he has spotted a kindred spirit. It disturbs me so much that I can't concentrate on Emma Thompson and Vanessa and the rest, and by the time I rally, it's too late and the story's too far on down the road for me to catch up. In the end, a bookcase falls on someone's head. It disturbs me so much that I can't concentrate on Emma Thompson and Vanessa and the rest, and by the time I rally, it's too late and the story's too far on down the road for me to catch up. In the end, a bookcase falls on someone's head.

I would go so far as to say that TMPMITW's smile has become one of my all-time top-five low points, the other four of which temporarily escape me. I know I'm not as pathetic as the most pathetic man in the world (Did he spend last night in an American recording artist's bed? I very much doubt it.); the point is that the difference between us is not immediately obvious to him, and I can see why. This, really, is the bottom line, the chief attraction of the opposite s.e.x for all of us, old and young, men and women: we need someone to save us from the sympathetic smiles in the Sunday-night cinema queue, someone who can stop us from falling down into the pit where the permanently single live with their mums and dads. I'm not going back there again; I'd rather stay in for the rest of my life than attract that kind of attention.

Twelve

During the week, I think about Marie, and I think about The Most Pathetic Man In The World, and I think, at Barry's command, about my all-time top five episodes of Cheers: Cheers: 1) The one where Cliff found a potato that looked like Richard Nixon. 2) The one where John Cleese offered Sam and Diane counseling sessions. 3) The one where they thought that the chief of staff of the U.S. armed forces, played by the real-life admiral guy, had stolen Rebecca's earrings. 4) The one where Sam got a job as a sports presenter on TV. 5) The one where Woody sang his stupid song about Kelly. (Barry said I was wrong about four of the five, that I had no sense of humor, and that he was going to ask Channel 4 to scramble my reception between nine-thirty and ten every Friday night because I was an undeserving and unappreciative viewer.) But I don't think about anything Laura said that Sat.u.r.day night until Wednesday, when I come home to find a message from her. It's nothing much, a request for a copy of a bill in our household file, but the sound of her voice makes me realize that there are some things we talked about that should have upset me but somehow didn't. 1) The one where Cliff found a potato that looked like Richard Nixon. 2) The one where John Cleese offered Sam and Diane counseling sessions. 3) The one where they thought that the chief of staff of the U.S. armed forces, played by the real-life admiral guy, had stolen Rebecca's earrings. 4) The one where Sam got a job as a sports presenter on TV. 5) The one where Woody sang his stupid song about Kelly. (Barry said I was wrong about four of the five, that I had no sense of humor, and that he was going to ask Channel 4 to scramble my reception between nine-thirty and ten every Friday night because I was an undeserving and unappreciative viewer.) But I don't think about anything Laura said that Sat.u.r.day night until Wednesday, when I come home to find a message from her. It's nothing much, a request for a copy of a bill in our household file, but the sound of her voice makes me realize that there are some things we talked about that should have upset me but somehow didn't.

First of all, - actually, first of all and last of all - this business about not sleeping with Ian. How do I know she's telling the truth? She could have been sleeping with him for weeks, months, months, for all I know. And anyway, she only said that she hasn't slept with him for all I know. And anyway, she only said that she hasn't slept with him yet, yet, and she said that on Sat.u.r.day, five days ago. Five days! She could have slept with him five times since then! (She could have slept with him twenty times since then, but you know what I mean.) And even if she hasn't, she was definitely threatening to. What does 'yet' mean, after all? 'I haven't seen and she said that on Sat.u.r.day, five days ago. Five days! She could have slept with him five times since then! (She could have slept with him twenty times since then, but you know what I mean.) And even if she hasn't, she was definitely threatening to. What does 'yet' mean, after all? 'I haven't seen Resevoir Dogs Resevoir Dogs yet.' What does that mean? It means you're going to go, doesn't it? yet.' What does that mean? It means you're going to go, doesn't it?

'Barry, if I were to say to you that I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs Reservoir Dogs yet, what would that mean?' yet, what would that mean?'

Barry looks at me.

'Just . . . come on, what would it mean to you? That sentence? 'I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs Reservoir Dogs yet?' ' yet?' '

'To me, it would mean that you're a liar. Either that or you've gone potty. You saw it twice. Once with Laura, once with me and d.i.c.k. We had that conversation about who killed Mr. Pink or whatever f.u.c.king color he was.'

'Yeah, yeah, I know. But say I hadn't seen it and I said to you, 'I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs Reservoir Dogs yet,' what would you think?' yet,' what would you think?'

'I'd think, you're a sick man. And I'd feel sorry for you.'

'No, but would you think, from that one sentence, that I was going to see it?'

'I'd hope you were, yeah, otherwise I would have to say that you're not a friend of mine.'

'No, but - '

'I'm sorry, Rob, but I'm struggling here. I don't understand any part of this conversation. You're asking me what I'd think if you told me that you hadn't seen a film that you've seen. What am I supposed to say?'

'Just listen to me. If I said to you - '

' - 'I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs Reservoir Dogs yet,' yeah, yeah, I hear you - ' yet,' yeah, yeah, I hear you - '

'Would you . . . would you get the impression that I wanted to see it?' would you get the impression that I wanted to see it?'

'Well . . . you couldn't have been desperate, otherwise you'd have already gone.'

'Exactly. We went first night, didn't we?'

'But the word 'yet' . . . yeah, I'd get the impression that you wanted to see it. Otherwise you'd say you didn't fancy it much.'

'But in your opinion, would I definitely go?'

'How am I supposed to know that? You might get run over by a bus, or go blind, or anything. You might go off the idea. You might be broke. You might just get sick of people telling you you've really got to go.'

I don't like the sound of that. 'Why would they care?'

'Because it's a brilliant film. It's funny, and violent, and it's got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in it, and everything. And a cracking sound track.'

Maybe there's no comparison between Ian sleeping with Laura and Reservoir Dogs Reservoir Dogs after all. Ian hasn't got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in him. And Ian's not funny. Or violent. And he's got a c.r.a.p sound track, judging from what we used to hear through the ceiling. I've taken this as far as it will go. But it doesn't stop me worrying about the 'yet.' after all. Ian hasn't got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in him. And Ian's not funny. Or violent. And he's got a c.r.a.p sound track, judging from what we used to hear through the ceiling. I've taken this as far as it will go. But it doesn't stop me worrying about the 'yet.'

I call Laura at work.

'Oh, hi, Rob,' she says, like I'm a friend she's pleased to hear from (1. I'm not a friend. 2. She's not pleased to hear from me. Apart from that . . . ) 'How's it going?'

I'm not letting her get away with this we-used-to-go-out-but-everything's-OK-now stuff.

'Bad, thanks.' She sighs.

'Can we meet? There're some things you said the other night that I wanted to go over.'

'I don't want . . . I'm not ready to talk about it all again yet.'

'So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?' I know how I'm sounding - whiny, whingey, bitter - but I don't seem to be able to stop myself.

'Just . . . live your life. You can't hang around waiting for me to tell you why I don't want to see you anymore.'

'So what happened to us maybe getting back together?'

'I don't know.'