Nick Hornby - High Fidelity

High Fidelity
http://www.fictionbook.ru/author/hornby_nick/high_fidelity/hornby_high_fidelity.html
Page 49 of 112
6/20/2006
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 bollocks, 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 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,
cocks 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.
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. It’s the follow-up to A 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 fucking 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