The other people I like are the ones who are being driven to find a tune that has been troubling them, distracting them, a tune that they can hear in their breath when they run for a bus, or in the rhythm of their windshield wipers when they’re driving home from work. Sometimes something banal and obvious is responsible for the distraction: they have heard it on the radio, or at a club. But sometimes it has come to them as if by magic. Sometimes it has come to them because the sun was out, and they saw someone who looked nice, and they suddenly found themselves humming a snatch of a song they haven’t heard for fifteen or twenty years; once, a guy came in because he had dreamed a record, the whole thing, melody, title, and artist. And when I found it for him (it was an old reggae thing, ‘Happy Go Lucky Girl’ by the Paragons), and it was more or less exactly as it had appeared to him in his sleep, the look on his face made me feel as though I was not a man who ran a record shop, but a midwife, or a painter, someone whose life is routinely transcendental.
You can really see what Dick and Barry are for on Saturdays. Dick is as patient and as enthusiastic and as gentle as a primary-school teacher: he sells people records they didn’t know they wanted because he knows intuitively what they should buy. He chats, then puts something on the record deck, and soon they’re handing over fivers almost distractedly as if that’s what they’d come in for in the first place. Barry, meanwhile, simply bulldozes customers into submission. He rubbishes them because they don’t own the first Jesus and Mary Chain album, and they buy it, and he laughs at them because they don’t own Blonde on Blonde, so they buy that, and he explodes in disbelief when they tell him that they have never heard of Ann Peebles, and then they buy something of hers, too. At around four o’clock most Saturday afternoons, just when I make us all a cup of tea, I have a little glow on, maybe because this is after all my work, and it’s going OK, maybe because I’m proud of us, of the way that, though our talents are small and peculiar, we use them to their best advantage.
So when I come to close the shop, and we’re getting ready to go out for a drink as we do every Saturday, we are all happy together again; we have a fund of goodwill which we will spend over the next few empty days, and which will have completely run out by Friday lunchtime. We are so happy, in fact, that between throwing the customers out and leaving for the day, we list our top five Elvis Costello songs (I go for ‘Alison,’ ‘Little Triggers,’ ‘Man Out of Time,’ ‘King Horse,’ and a bootleg Merseybeat-style version of ‘Everyday I Write the Book’ I’ve got on a bootleg tape somewhere, the obscurity of the last cleverly counteracting the obviousness of the first, I thought, and thus preempting scorn from Barry) and, after the sulks and rows of the last week, it feels good to think about things like this again.
But when we walk out of the shop, Laura’s waiting there for me, leaning against the strip of wall that separates us from the shoe shop next door, and I remember that it’s not supposed to be a feel-good period of my life.
Nine
The money is easy to explain: she had it, I didn’t, and she wanted to give it to me. This was when she’d been in the new job a few months and her salary was starting to pile up in the bank a bit. She lent me five grand; if she hadn’t, I would have gone under. I have never paid her back because I’ve never been able to, and the fact that she’s moved out and is seeing somebody else doesn’t make me five grand richer. The other day on the phone, when I gave her a hard time and told her she’d fucked my life up, she said something about the money, something about whether I’d start paying her back in installments, and I said I’d pay her back at a pound a week for the next hundred years. That’s when she hung up.
So that’s the money. The stuff I told her about being unhappy in the relationship, about half looking around for someone else: she pushed me into saying it. She tricked me into saying it. That sounds feeble, but she did. We were having a state-of-the-nation conversation and she said, quite matter-of-factly, that we were in a pretty unhappy phase at the moment, and I agreed; she asked whether I ever thought about meeting somebody else, and I denied it, and she laughed, and said that people in our position were always thinking about meeting somebody else. So I asked if she was always thinking about meeting somebody else, and she said of course, so I admitted that I did daydream about it sometimes. At the time I thought it was a let’s-be-grown-up-about-life’s-imperfectability sort of conversation, an abstract, adult analysis; now I see that we were really talking about her and Ian, and that she suckered me into absolving her. It was a sneaky lawyer’s trick, and I fell for it, because she’s much smarter than me.
I didn’t know she was pregnant, of course I didn’t. She hadn’t told me because she knew I was seeing somebody else. (She knew I was seeing somebody else because I’d told her. We thought we were being grown-up, but we were being preposterously naive, childish even, to think that one or the other of us could get up to no good, and own up to the misdemeanor, while we were living together.) I didn’t find out until ages afterward: we were going through a good period and I made some joke about having kids and she burst into tears. So I made her tell me what it was all about, and she did, after which I had a brief and ill-advised bout of noisy self-righteousness (the usual stuff—my child, too, what right did she have, blah blah) before her disbelief and contempt shut me up.
“You didn’t look a very good long-term bet at the time,” she said. “I didn’t like you very much, either. I didn’t want to have a baby by you. I didn’t want to think about some awful visiting-rights relationship that stretched way on into the future. And I didn’t want to be a single mother. It wasn’t a very hard decision to make. There wasn’t any point in consulting you about it.”
These were all fair points. In fact, if I’d got pregnant by me at the time, I would have had an abortion for exactly the same reasons. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Later on the same evening, after I’d rethought the whole pregnancy thing using the new information I had at my disposal, I asked her why she had stuck with it.
She thought for a long time.
“Because I’d never stuck at anything before, and I’d made a promise to myself when we started seeing each other that I’d make it through at least one bad patch, just to see what happened. So I did. And you were so pathetically sorry about that idiotic Rosie woman … ,”—Rosie, the four-bonk, simultaneous orgasm, pain-in-the-arse girl, the girl I was seeing when Laura was pregnant—” … that you were very nice to me for quite a long time, and that was just what I needed. We go quite deep, Rob, if only because we’ve been together a reasonable length of time. And I didn’t want to knock it all over and start again unless I really had to. So.”
And why had I stuck with it? Not for reasons as noble and as adult as that. (Is there anything more adult than sticking with a relationship that’s falling apart in the hope that you can put it right? I’ve never done that in my life.) I stuck with it because, suddenly, right at the end of the Rosie thing, I found myself really attracted to Laura again; it was like I needed Rosie to spice Laura up a bit. And I thought I’d blown it (I didn’t know then that she was experimenting with stoicism). I could see her losing interest in me, so I worked like mad to get that interest back, and when I got it back, I lost interest in her all over again. That sort of thing happens to me a lot, I find. I don’t know how to sort it out. And that more or less brings us up to date. When the whole sorry tale comes out in a great big lump like that, even the most shortsighted jerk, even the most self-deluding and self-pitying of jilted, wounded lovers can see that there is some cause and effect going on here, that abortions and Rosie and Ian and money all belong to, deserve each other.