Nick Hornby - High Fidelity

High Fidelity
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Page 66 of 112
6/20/2006
Charlie phones, in the end; she’s apologetic about not having called sooner, but she’s been away, in
the States, on business. I try to make out like I know how it is, but I don’t, of course—I’ve been to
Brighton on business, and to Redditch, and to Norwich, even, but I’ve never been to the States.
“So, how are you” she asks, and for a moment, just a moment but even so, I feel like doing a misery
number on her: “Not very good, thanks, Charlie, but don’t let that worry you. You just fly out to the
States, on business, never mind me.” To my eternal credit, however, I restrain myself and pretend that in
the twelve years since we last spoke I have managed to live life as a fully functioning human being.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Good. I’m glad. You are fine, and you deserve to be fine.”
Something’s wrong, somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“How are you”
“Good. Great. Work’s good, nice friends, nice flat, you know. College all seems a long time ago, now.
You remember when we used to sit in the bar, wondering how life would turn out for us”
Nope.
“Well … I’m really happy with mine, and I’m glad you’re happy with yours.”
I didn’t say I was happy with my life. I said that I was fine, as in no colds, no recent traffic accidents,
no suspended prison sentences, but never mind.
“Have you got, you know, kids and stuff, like everybody else”
“No. I could have had them if I’d wanted them, of course, but I didn’t want them. I’m too young, and
they’re too … ”
“Young”
“Well, yes, young, obviously,” she laughs nervously, as if I’m an idiot, which maybe I am, but not in
the way she thinks—“but too … I don’t know, time-consuming, I guess is the expression I’m looking
for.”
I’m not making any of this up. This is how she talks, as if nobody has ever had a conversation about
this in the entire history of the world.
“Oh, right. I see what you mean.”
I justtook the piss out of Charlie. Charlie! Charlie Nicholson! This is weird. Most days, for the last
dozen or so years, I have thought about Charlie and attributed to her, or at least to our breakup, most
things that have gone wrong for me. Like: I wouldn’t have packed in college; I wouldn’t have gone to
work in Record and Tape; I wouldn’t be saddled with this shop; I wouldn’t have had an unsatisfactory
personal life. This is the woman who broke my heart, ruined my life, this woman is single-handedly
responsible for my poverty and directionlessness and failure, the woman I dreamed about regularly for a
good five years, and I’m sending her up. I’ve got to admire myself, really. I’ve got to take my own hat
off and say to myself, “Rob, you’re one cool character.”
“Anyway, are you in or out, Rob”
“I’m sorry” It is comforting to hear that she still says things that only she can understand. I used to
like it, and to envy it; I could never think of anything to say that sounded remotely strange.
“No, I’m sorry. It’s just … I find these long-lost boyfriend calls rather unnerving. There’s been a spate
of them, recently. Do you remember that guy Marco I went out with after you”
“Um … Yeah, I think so.” I know what’s coming, and I don’t believe it. All that painful fantasy, the
marriage and the kids, years and years of it, and she probably ended up packing him in six months after I
last saw her.
“Well, he called a few months back, and I didn’t really know what to say to him. I think he was going
through, you know, some kind of what-does-it-all-mean thing, and he wanted to see me, and talk about
stuff, and what have you, and I wasn’t really up for it. Do all men go through this”
“I haven’t heard of it before.”
“It’s just the ones I pick, then. I didn’t mean … ”
“No, no, that’s OK. It must seem a bit funny, me ringing up out of the blue. I just thought, you know
… ” I don’t know, so I don’t see why she should. “But what does ‘Are you in or out’ mean”