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<strong>High</strong> <strong>Fidelity</strong><br />
http://www.fictionbook.ru/author/hornby_nick/high_fidelity/hornby_high_fidelity.html<br />
Page 57 of 112<br />
6/20/2006<br />
“Come on, Liz.”<br />
“OK. She told me that when you used to take the piss out of Ian, when you were living in the flat …<br />
that was when she decided she was going off you.”<br />
“You have to take the piss out of someone like that, don’t you That Leo Sayer haircut and those<br />
dungarees, and the stupid laugh and the wanky right-on politics and the … ”<br />
Liz laughs. “Laura wasn’t exaggerating, then. You’re not keen, are you”<br />
“I can’t fucking stand the guy.”<br />
“No, neither can I. For exactly the same reasons.”<br />
“So what’s she on about, then”<br />
“She said that your little Ian outbursts showed her how … sour was the word she used … how sour<br />
you’ve become. She said that she loved you for your enthusiasm and your warmth, and it was all<br />
draining away. You stopped making her laugh and you started depressing the hell out of her. And now<br />
you’re scaring her as well. She could call the police, you know, if she wanted.”<br />
The police. Jesus. One moment you’re dancing round the kitchen to Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys<br />
(Hey! I made her laugh then, and that was only a few months ago!), and the next she wants to get you<br />
locked up. I don’t say anything for ages. I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound sour. “What<br />
have I got to feel warm about” I want to ask her. “Where’s the enthusiasm going to come from How<br />
can you make someone laugh when they want to set the police on you”<br />
“But why do you keep calling her all the time Why do you want her back so badly”<br />
“Why do you think”<br />
“I don’t know. Laura doesn’t know either.”<br />
“Well, if she doesn’t know, what’s the point<br />
“There’s always a point. Even if the point is to avoid this sort of mess next time, that’s still a point.”<br />
“Next time. You think there’ll be a next time”<br />
“Come on, Rob. Don’t be so pathetic. And you’ve just asked three questions to avoid answering my<br />
one.”<br />
“Which was the one”<br />
“Ha, ha. I’ve seen men like you in Doris Day films, but I never thought they existed in real life.” She<br />
puts on a dumb, deep, American voice. “The men who can’t commit, who can’t say ‘I love you’ even<br />
when they want to, who start to cough and splutter and change the subject. But here you are. A living,<br />
breathing specimen. Incredible.”<br />
I know the films she’s talking about, and they’re stupid. Those men don’t exist. Saying “I love you” is<br />
easy, a piece of piss, and more or less every man I know does it all the time. I’ve acted as though I<br />
haven’t been able to say it a couple of times, although I’m not sure why. Maybe because I wanted to<br />
lend the moment that sort of corny Doris Day romance, make it more memorable than it otherwise<br />
would have been. You know, you’re with someone, and you start to say something, and then you stop,<br />
and she goes “What” and you go “Nothing,” and she goes, “Please say it,” and you go, “No, it’ll sound<br />
stupid,” and then she makes you spit it out, even though you’d been intending to say it all along, and she<br />
thinks it’s all the more valuable for being hard-won. Maybe she knew all the time that you were messing<br />
about, but she doesn’t mind, anyway. It’s like a quote: it’s the nearest any of us gets to being in the<br />
movies, those few days when you decide that you like somebody enough to tell her that you love her,<br />
and you don’t want to muck it up with a glob of dour, straightforward, no-nonsense sincerity.<br />
But I’m not going to put Liz straight. I’m not going to tell her that all this is a way of regaining<br />
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<br />
someone else; I’d rather Liz thought I was one of those anal, tongue-tied, and devoted cliches who<br />
eventually sees the light. I guess it won’t do me any harm, in the long run.<br />
Sixteen<br />
I start at the beginning, with Alison. I ask my mum to look up her parents in the local phone book, and