Nick Hornby - High Fidelity

High Fidelity
http://www.fictionbook.ru/author/hornby_nick/high_fidelity/hornby_high_fidelity.html
Page 88 of 112
6/20/2006
ambition to do it in a car (my fantasies have always, always involved beds) and the funeral may have
had a funny effect on the daughter of the deceased, but for me it’s been a bit of a downer, quite frankly,
and I’m not too sure how I feel about sex with Laura when she’s living with someone else (is he better is
he better is he better), and anyway …
She stops the car, and I realize we’ve been bumping along for the last minute or two of the journey.
“Dad used to bring us here when we were kids.”
We’re by the side of a long, rutted dirt road that leads up to a large house. There’s a jungle of long
grass and bushes on one side of the road, and a row of trees on the other; we’re on the tree side, pointing
toward the house, tilting into the road.
“It used to be a little private prep school, but they went bust years ago, and it’s sat empty ever since.”
“What did he bring you here for”
“Just a walk. In the summer there were blackberries, and in the autumn there were chestnuts. This is a
private road, so it made it more exciting.”
Jesus. I’m glad I know nothing about psychotherapy, about Jung and Freud and that lot. If I did, I’d
probably be extremely frightened by now: the woman who wants to have sex in the place where she
used to go for walks with her dead dad is probably very dangerous indeed.
It’s stopped raining, but the drips from the trees are bouncing off the roof, and the wind is knocking
hell out of the branches, so every now and again large chunks of foliage fall on us as well.
“Do you want to get in the back” Laura asks, in a flat, distracted voice, as if we’re about to pick
someone else up.
“I guess so. I guess that would be easier.”
She’s parked too close to the trees, so she has to clamber out my side.
“Just shift all that stuff on to the back shelf.”
There’s an A-Z, a couple of empty cassette cases, an opened bag of Opal Fruits, and a handful of
candy wrappers. I take my time getting them out of the way.
“I knew there was a good reason for putting on a skirt this morning,” she says as she gets in. She leans
over and kisses me on the mouth, tongues and everything, and I can feel some interest despite myself.
“Just stay there.” She makes some adjustments to her dress and sits on top of me. “Hello. It doesn’t
seem so long ago that I looked at you from here.” She smiles at me, kisses me again, reaches underneath
her for my fly. And then there’s foreplay and stuff, and then—I don’t know why—I remember
something you’re supposed to remember but only rarely do.
“You know with Ray … ”
“Oh, Rob, we’re not going to go through that again.”
“No, no. It’s not … are you still on the pill”
“Yes, of course. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean … was that all you used”
She doesn’t say anything, and then she starts to cry.
“Look, we can do other things,” I say. “Or we can go into town and get something.”
“I’m not crying because we can’t do it,” she says. “It’s not that. It’s just that … I lived with you. You
were my partner just a few weeks ago. And now you’re worried I might kill you, and you’re entitled to
worry. Isn’t that a terrible thing Isn’t that sad” She shakes her head and sobs, and climbs off me, and
we sit there side by side in the backseat saying nothing, just watching the drips crawl down the
windows.
Later, I wonder whether I was really worried about where Ray has been. Is he bisexual, or an
intravenous drug user I doubt it. (He wouldn’t have the guts for either.) Has he ever slept with an
intravenous drug user, or has he ever slept with someone who’s slept with a bisexual male I have no
idea, and that ignorance gives me every right to insist on protection. But in truth it was the symbolism
that interested me more than the fear. I wanted to hurt her, on this day of all days, just because it’s the
first time since she left that I’ve been able to.
We drive to a pub, a twee little mock-country place that serves nice beer and expensive sandwiches