Nick Hornby - High Fidelity

High Fidelity
http://www.fictionbook.ru/author/hornby_nick/high_fidelity/hornby_high_fidelity.html
Page 71 of 112
6/20/2006
think, stop right there! This is as good as it gets!
Over the last couple of years, the photos of me when I was a kid, the ones that I never wanted old
girlfriends to see … well, they’ve started to give me a little pang of something, not unhappiness, exactly,
but some kind of quiet, deep regret. There’s one of me in a cowboy hat, pointing a gun at the camera,
trying to look like a cowboy but failing, and I can hardly bring myself to look at it now. Laura thought it
was sweet (she used that word! Sweet, the opposite of sour!) and pinned it up in the kitchen, but I’ve put
it back in a drawer. I keep wanting to apologize to the little guy: “I’m sorry, I’ve let you down. I was the
person who was supposed to look after you, but I blew it: I made wrong decisions at bad times, and I
turned you into me.”
See, he would have wanted to see Barry’s band; he wouldn’t have worried too much about Ian’s
dungarees or Penny’s flashlight-pen (he would have loved Penny’s flashlight-pen) or Charlie’s trips to
the States. He wouldn’t have understood, in fact, why I was so down on all of them. If he could be here
now, if he could jump out of that photo and into this shop, he’d run straight out of the door and back to
1967 as fast as his little legs would carry him.
Twenty-Three
Finally, a month or so after she’s left, Laura comes to move her stuff out. There’s no real argument
about what belongs to whom; the good records are mine, the good furniture, most of the cooking stuff,
and the hardback books are hers. The only thing I’ve done is to sort out a whole pile of records and a
few CDs I gave her as presents, stuff that I wanted but thought she’d like, and which have somehow
ended up being filed away in my collection. I’ve been really scrupulous about it: she wouldn’t have
remembered half of these, and I could have got away with it, but I’ve pulled out every single one.
I was scared she was going to bring Ian round, but she doesn’t. In fact, she’s obviously uncomfortable
about the fact that he rang.
“Forget it.”
“He had no right to do that, and I told him so.”
“Are you still together”
She looks at me to see if I’m joking, and then gives a little hard-luck grimace that actually isn’t too
attractive, if you think about it.
“Going all right”
“I don’t really want to talk about it, to be honest.”
“That bad, eh”
“You know what I mean.”
She’s borrowed her dad’s Volvo Estate for the weekend, and we fill every inch of it; she comes back
inside for a cup of tea when we’re done.
“It’s a dump, isn’t it” I say. I can see her looking round the flat, staring at the dusty, discolored spaces
her things have left on the wall, so I feel I have to preempt criticism.
“Please do it up, Rob. It wouldn’t cost you much, and it would make you feel better.”
“I’ll bet you can’t remember what you were doing here now, can you”
“Yes, I can. I was here because I wanted to be with you.”
“No, I meant, you know … how much are you on now Forty-five Fifty And you lived in this poky
little hole in Crouch End.”
“You know I didn’t mind. And it’s not as if Ray’s place is any better.”
“I’m sorry, but can we get this straight What is his name, Ian or Ray What do you call him”
“Ray. I hate Ian.”
“Right. Just so’s I know. Anyway, what’s Ian’s place like” Childish, but it makes me happy. Laura
puts on her pained, stoical face. I’ve seen that one a few times, I can tell you.
“Small. Smaller than here. But neater, and less cluttered.”
“That’s ’cause he’s only got about ten records. CDs.”