Read Online High Fidelity by Nick Hornby - Free Book Online Page B

yourselves?”
    We nod.
    â€œGood, ’cause I’m enjoying myself.”
    â€œGood,” I say, and that seems to be the best I can do for the moment.
    I’ve only got a tenner, so I stand there twiddling my thumbs while the guy fishes around for four-pound coins.
    â€œYou live in London now, is that right?” I ask her.
    â€œYup. Not far from here, actually.”
    â€œYou like it?” Barry asks. Good one. I wouldn’t have thought of that.
    â€œIt’s OK. Hey, you guys might be the sort to know. Are there any good record shops up around here, or do I have to go into the West End?”
    What’s the use of taking offense? We are the sort of guys who would know about record shops. That’s what we look like, and that’s what we are.
    Barry and Dick almost fall over in their haste to explain.
    â€œHe’s got one!”
    â€œHe’s got one!”
    â€œIn Holloway!”
    â€œJust up the Seven Sisters’ Road!”
    â€œChampionship Vinyl!”
    â€œWe work there!”
    â€œYou’d love it!”
    â€œCome in!”
    She laughs at the onslaught of enthusiasm.
    â€œWhat d’you sell?”
    â€œBit of everything good. Blues, country, vintage soul, new wave…”
    â€œSounds great.”
    Somebody else wants to talk to her, so she smiles nicely at us and turns round. We go back to where we were standing.
    â€œWhat did you tell her about the shop for?” I ask the others.
    â€œI didn’t know it was classified information,” says Barry. “I mean, I know we don’t have any customers, but I thought that was a bad thing, not, like, a business strategy.”
    â€œShe won’t spend any money.”
    â€œNo, course not. That’s why she was asking if we knew any good record shops. She just wants to come in and waste our time.”
    I know I’m being stupid, but I don’t want her coming to my shop. If she came into my shop, I might really get to like her, and then I’d be waiting for her to come in all the time, and then when she did come in I’d be nervous and stupid, and probably end up asking her out for a drink in some cack-handed roundabout way, and either she wouldn’t catch my drift, and I’d feel like an idiot, or she’d turn me down flat, and I’d feel like an idiot. And on the way home after the gig, I’m already wondering whether she’ll come tomorrow, and whether it will mean anything if she does, and if it does mean something, then which one of us it will mean something to, although Barry is probably a nonstarter.
    Fuck. I hate all this stuff. How old do you have to get before it stops?
    Â 
    When I get home there are two answering machine messages, one from Laura’s friend Liz and one from Laura. They go like this:
Rob, it’s Liz. Just phoning up to see, well, to see if you’re OK. Give us a ring sometime. Um…I’m not taking sides. Yet. Lots of love, bye.
Hi, it’s me. There are a couple of things I need. Can you call me at work in the morning? Thanks.
    Mad people could read all sorts of things into either of these calls; sane people would come to the conclusion that the first caller is warm and affectionate, and that the second doesn’t give a shit. I’m not mad.

FIVE
    I CALL Laura first thing. I feel sick, dialing the number, and even sicker when the receptionist puts me through. She used to know who I am, but now there’s nothing in her voice at all. Laura wants to come around on Saturday afternoon, when I’m at work, to pick up some more underwear, and that’s fine by me; we should have stopped there, but I try to have a different sort of conversation, and she doesn’t like it because she’s at work, but I persist, and she hangs up on me in tears. And I feel like a jerk, but I couldn’t stop myself. I never can.
    I wonder what she’d say, if she knew that I was simultaneously uptight about Marie