“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I know how I’m sounding—whiny, whingey, bitter—but I don’t seem to be able to stop myself.
“Just … live your life. You can’t hang around waiting for me to tell you why I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“So what happened to us maybe getting back together?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because the other night you said that might happen.” I’m getting nowhere fast here, and I know she’s not in the right frame of mind to grant any concessions, but I push it anyway.
“I said nothing of the kind.”
“You did! You did! You said there was a chance! That’s the same as ’might’!” Jesus. This is truly pitiful.
“Rob, I’m at work. We’ll talk when … ”
“If you don’t want me to call you at work, maybe you should give me your home number. I’m sorry, Laura, but I’m not going to put the phone down until you’ve agreed to meet up for a drink. I don’t see why things should be on your terms all the time.”
She gives a short, bitter laugh. “OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK. Tomorrow night? Come down and get me at the office.” She sounds utterly defeated.
“Tomorrow night? Friday? You’re not busy? Fine. Great. It’ll be nice to see you.” But I’m not sure she hears the positive, conciliatory, sincere bit at the end. She’s hung up by then.
Thirteen
We’re messing around at work, the three of us, getting ready to go home and rubbishing each other’s five best side one track ones of all time (mine: ‘Janie Jones,’ the Clash, from The Clash; ‘Thunder Road,’ Bruce Springsteen, from Born to Run; ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ Nirvana, from Nevermind; ‘Let’s Get It On,’ Marvin Gay, from Let’s Get It On; ‘Return of the Grievous Angel,’ Gram Parsons, from Grievous Angel. Barry: “Couldn’t you make it any more obvious than that? What about the Beatles? What about the Rolling Stones? What about the fucking … fucking … Beethoven? Track one side one of the Fifth Symphony? You shouldn’t be allowed to run a record shop.” And then we have the argument about whether he’s a snob obscurantist, are the Fire Engines, who appear on Barry’s list, really better than Marvin Gaye, who does not?, or whether I’m a boring old middle-of-the-road fart.) And then Dick says, for the first time ever in his Championship Vinyl career, apart from maybe when he’s gone somewhere miles away to see some ludicrous band, “I can’t make the pub tonight, guys.”
There’s a mock-stunned silence.
“Don’t mess about, Dick,” says Barry eventually.
Dick sort of smiles, embarrassed. “No, really. I’m not coming.”
“I’m warning you,” says Barry. “Unless there’s an adequate explanation I shall have to give you the Weedy Wet of the Week award.”
Dick doesn’t say anything.
“Come on. Who are you going to see?”
He still doesn’t say anything.
“Dick, have you pulled?”
Silence.
“I don’t believe it,” says Barry. “Where is the justice in this world? Where is it? Justice! Where are you? Dick’s out on a hot date, Rob’s shagging Marie LaSalle, and the best-looking and most intelligent of the lot of them isn’t getting anything at all.”
He’s not just trying it on. There’s no little sideways glance to see if he’s hit the mark, no hesitation to see if I want to interject; he knows, and I feel both crushed and smug at the same time.
“How did you know about that?”
“Oh, come on, Rob. What do you take us for? I’m more bothered about Dick’s date. How did this happen, Dick? What rational explanation can there possibly be? OK, OK. Sunday night you were in, because you made me that Creation B-sides tape. I was with you Monday night and last night, which leaves … Tuesday!”
Dick doesn’t say anything.
“Where were you Tuesday?”
“Just at a gig with some friends.”
Was it that obvious? I guess a bit, on Saturday night, but Barry had no way of knowing that anything had actually happened.
“Well, what sort of gig is it where you just walk in and meet someone?”
“I didn’t just walk in and meet her. She came with the friends I met there.”
“And you’re going to meet her again tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Anna.”
“Has she only got half a name? Eh? Anna who? Anna Neagle? Anna Green Gables? Anna Conda? Come on.”
“Anna Moss.”
“Anna Moss. Mossy. The Moss Woman.”
I’ve heard him do this to women before, and I’m not sure why I don’t like it. I talked about it to Laura once, because he tried it with her; some stupid pun on her surname, I can’t remember what it was now. Lie-down, lied-on, something. And I hated him doing it. I wanted her to be Laura, to have a nice, pretty, girl’s name that I could dream about when I felt like being dreamy. I didn’t want him turning her into a bloke. Laura, of course, thought I was being a bit dodgy, thought I was trying to keep girls fluffy and silly and girly; she said I didn’t want to think of them in the same way that I thought about my mates. She was right, of course—I don’t. But that’s not the point. Barry doesn’t do this to strike a blow for equality: he does it because he’s being spiteful, because he wants to puncture any sense of romantic well-being that Laura or Anna or whoever might have created in us. He’s sharp, Barry. Sharp and nasty. He understands the power that girls’ names have, and he doesn’t like it.
“Is she all green and furry?”
This started out joky—Barry as demon counsel for the prosecution, Dick as defendant—but now those roles have started to harden. Dick looks guilty as all hell, and all he’s done is meet someone.
“Leave it, Barry,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah, you would say that, wouldn’t you? You two have got to stick together now. Shaggers United, eh?”
I try to be patient with him. “Are you coming to the pub or what?”
“No. Bollocks.”
“Fair enough.”
Barry leaves; Dick is now feeling guilty, not because he’s met someone, but because I have nobody to drink with.
“I suppose I’ve got time for a quick one.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dick. It’s not your fault that Barry’s a jerk. You have a nice evening.”
He flashes me a look of real gratitude, and it breaks your heart.
I feel as though I have been having conversations like this all my life. None of us is young anymore, but what has just taken place could have happened when I was sixteen, or twenty, or twenty-five. We got to adolescence and just stopped dead; we drew up the map then and left the boundaries exactly as they were. And why does it bother Barry so much that Dick is seeing someone? Because he doesn’t want a smile from a man with buckteeth and an anorak in the cinema queue, that’s why; he’s worried about how his life is turning out, and he’s lonely, and lonely people are the bitterest of them all.
Fourteen
Ever since I’ve had the shop, we’ve been trying to flog a record by a group called the Sid James Experience. Usually we get rid of stuff we can’t shift—reduce it to 10p, or throw it away—but Barry loves this album (he’s got two copies of his own, just in case somebody borrows one and fails to return it), and he says it’s rare, and that someday we’ll make somebody very happy. It’s become a bit of a joke, really. Regular customers ask after its health, and give it a friendly pat when they’re browsing, and sometimes they bring the sleeve up to the counter as if they’re going to buy it, and then say “Just kidding!” and put it back where they found it.
Anyway, on Friday morning, this guy I’ve never seen before starts flicking through the ‘British Pop S-Z section,’ lets out a gasp of amazement and rushes up to the counter, clutching the sleeve to his chest as if he’s afraid someone will snatch it from him. And then he gets out his wallet and pays for it, seven quid, just like that, no attempt to haggle, no recognition of the significance of what he is doing. I let Barry serve him—it’s his moment—and Dick and I watch every move, holding our breath; it’s like someone has walked in, tipped petrol over himself, and produced a box of matches from his pocket. We don’t exhale until he’s struck the match and set himself alight, and when he’s gone we laugh and laugh and laugh. It gives us all strength: if someone can just walk in and buy the Sid James Experience album, then surely anything good can happen at any time.