Nick Hornby - High Fidelity

High Fidelity
http://www.fictionbook.ru/author/hornby_nick/high_fidelity/hornby_high_fidelity.html
Page 68 of 112
6/20/2006
Broadcast News; the Meg Ryan of Sleepless in Seattle; a woman doctor I saw on the telly once, who
had lots of long frizzy hair and carved up a Tory MP in a debate about embryos, although I don’t know
her name and I’ve never been able to find a pinup of her; Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story;
Valerie Harper in the TV series Roda. These are women who talk back, women with a mind of their
own, women with snap and crackle and pop … but they are also women who seem to need the love of a
good man. I could rescue them. I could redeem them. They could make me laugh, and I could make
them laugh, maybe, on a good day, and we could stay in and watch one of their films or TV programs or
embryo debates on video and adopt disadvantaged children together and the whole family could play
soccer in Central Park.)
When I walk into the sitting room, I can see immediately that I’m doomed to die a long, slow,
suffocating death. There’s a man wearing a sort of brick red jacket and another man in a carefully
rumpled linen suit and Charlie in her cocktail dress and another woman wearing fluorescent leggings
and a dazzling white silk blouse and another woman wearing those trousers that look like a dress but
which aren’t. Isn’t. Whatever. And the moment I see them I want to cry, not only through terror, but
through sheer envy: Why isn’t my life like this
Both of the women who are not Charlie are beautiful, not pretty, not attractive, not appealing,
beautiful—and to my panicking, blinking, twitching eye virtually indistinguishable: miles of dark hair,
thousands of huge earrings, yards of red lips, hundreds of white teeth. The one wearing the white silk
blouse shuffles along Charlie’s enormous sofa, which is made of glass, or lead, or gold—some
intimidating, un-sofa like material, anyway—and smiles at me; Charlie interrupts the others (‘Guys,
guys … ’) and introduces me to the rest of the party. Clara’s on the sofa with me, as it were, ha ha,
Nick’s in the brick red jacket, Barney’s in the linen suit, Emma’s in the trousers that look like a dress. If
these people were ever up my street, I’d have to barricade myself inside the flat.
“We were just talking about what we’d call a dog if we had one,” says Charlie. “Emma’s got a
Labrador called Dizzy, after Dizzy Gillespie.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “I’m not very keen on dogs.”
None of them says anything for a while; there’s not much they can say, really, about my lack of
enthusiasm for dogs.
“Is that size of flat, or childhood fear, or the smell, or … ” asks Clara, very sweetly.
“I dunno. I’m just … ” I shrug hopelessly, “you know, not very keen.”
They smile politely.
As it turns out, this is my major contribution to the evening’s conversation, and later on I find myself
recalling the line wistfully as belonging to a Golden Age of Wit. I’d even use it again if I could, but the
rest of the topics for discussion don’t give me the chance—I haven’t seen the films or the plays they’ve
seen, and I haven’t been to the places they’ve visited. I find out that Clara works in publishing, and
Nick’s in PR; I find out too that Emma lives in Clapham. Anna finds out that I live in Crouch End, and
Clara finds out that I own a record shop. Emma has read Wild Swans; Charlie hasn’t, but would very
much like to, and may even borrow Emma’s copy. Barney has been skiing recently. I could probably
remember a couple of other things if I had to. For most of the evening, however, I sit there like a
pudding, feeling like a child who’s been allowed to stay up late for a special treat. We eat stuff I don’t
know about, and either Nick or Barney comments on each bottle of wine we drink apart from the one I
brought.
The difference between these people and me is that they finished college and I didn’t (they didn’t split
up with Charlie and I did); as a consequence, they have smart jobs and I have a scruffy job, they are rich
and I am poor, they are self-confident and I am incontinent, they do not smoke and I do, they have
opinions and I have lists. Could I tell them anything about which journey is the worst for jet lag No.
Could they tell me the original lineup of the Wailers No.
They probably couldn’t even tell me the lead singer’s name.
But they’re not bad people. I’m not a class warrior, and anyway, they’re not particularly posh—they
probably have mothers and fathers just outside Watford or its equivalent, too. Do I want some of what