Nick Hornby - A Long Way Down

As we were leaving, Cindy was like, I’d have more respect for him if he asked me himself. And I went, Ask you what? And she said, If I can help him, I will. But I don’t know what he wants help with.

And when she said that, I could see we’d done the afternoon all wrong, and there was a much better way.

The only trouble was, the American self-help guy didn’t have the first fucking idea of how to help himself. And to be honest with you, the more I thought about the ninety-day theory, the less I could see how it applied to me. As far as I could tell, I was fucked for a lot longer than ninety days. I was giving up being a musician for ever, man, and giving up music wasn’t going to be like giving up cigarettes. It was going to get worse and worse, harder and harder, every day I went without. My first day working at Burger King wouldn’t be so bad, because I’d tell myself, you know… Actually, I don’t know what the fuck I’d tell myself, but I’d think of something. But by the fifth day I’d be miserable, and by the thirtieth year … Man. Don’t try talking to me on my thirtieth anniversary of burger-flipping. I’ll be real grouchy that day. And I’ll be sixty-one years old.

And then, when this stuff had gone around and around in my head for a while, I’d kind of stand up, mentally speaking, and say, OK, fuck it, I’m going to kill myself. And then I’d remember the guy we saw do exactly that, and I’d sit down again feeling truly terrible, worse than when I’d stood up in the first place. Self-help was a crock of shit. I couldn’t help myself to a free drink.

The next time we met up, Jess told us all that she and Maureen had gone to see Cindy out in the countryside.

“My ex-wife was called Cindy,” said Martin. He was sipping a latte and reading the Telegraph , and not really listening to anything Jess had to say.

“Yeah, that’s a coincidence,” said Jess.

Martin continued to sip his coffee.

“Der,” said Jess.

Martin put the Telegraph down and looked at her.

“What?”

“It was your Cindy, you doughnut.”

Martin looked at her.

“You’ve never met my Cindy. Ex-my Cindy. My ex.”

“That’s what we’re saying to you. Maureen and I went down wherever it was to talk to her.”

“Torley Heath,” said Maureen.

“That’s where she lives!” said Martin, scandalized.

Jess sighed.

“You went to see Cindy?”

Jess picked up his Telegraph , and started leafing through it, kind of a spoof on his previous lack of interest. Martin snatched the paper away from her.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“We thought it might help.”

“How?”

“We went down to ask her whether she’d take you back. But she wouldn’t. She’s shacked up with this blind geezer. She’s well sorted. Isn’t she, Maureen?”

Maureen had the good sense to stare at her own shoes.

Martin stared at Jess.

“Are you insane?” he said. “On whose authority did you do that?”

“On whose authority? On my authority. Free country.”

“And what would you have done if she’d burst into tears and said, you know, «I’d love him to come back»?”

“I would have helped you pack. And you’d have fucking well done what we’d told you.”

“But…” He made some spluttering noises, and then stopped. “Jesus Christ.”

“Anyway, there’s no chance of that. She thinks you’re a right bastard.”

“If you’d ever listened to anything I’d ever said about my ex-wife, you could have saved yourself a trip. You thought she’d take me back? You thought I’d go back?”

Jess shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

“You,” said Martin. “Maureen. There’s nothing on the floor. Look at me. You went with her?”

“It was her idea,” said Jess.

“So you’re an even bigger fool than she is.”

“We all need help,” said Maureen. “We don’t all knowwhat we want. You’ve all helped me. I wanted to help you. And I thought that was the best way.”

“How would it work now when it didn’t work before?”

Maureen didn’t say anything, so I did.

“So which of us wouldn’t try to make something work now that didn’t work before? Now that we’ve seen what the alternative is. A big fat fucking nothing.”

“So what would you want back, JJ?” Jess asked.

“Everything, man. The band. Lizzie.”

“That’s stupid. The band was rubbish. Well,” she said quickly when she saw my face. “Not rubbish. But not… you know.”

I nodded. I knew.

“And Lizzie packed you in.”

I knew that, too. What I didn’t say, because it sounded too fucking lame, was that if it were possible to rewind, I’d rewind back to the last few weeks of the band, and the last few weeks of Lizzie, even though everything was fucked up. I was still playing music, I was still seeing her—there wasn’t anything to complain about, right? OK, everything was dying. But it wasn’t dead.

I don’t know why, but it was kind of liberating, saying what you really wanted, even if you couldn’t have it. When I’d invented that Cosmic Tony guy for Maureen, I’d put limits on his superpowers because I thought we might see what kind of practical assistance Maureen needed. And as it turned out, she needed a vacation, and we could help, so Cosmic Tony turned out to be a guy worth knowing. But if there’s no superpower limit, then you get to find out all kinds of other shit, like, I don’t know, the thing that’s wrong with you in the first place. We all spend so much time not saying what we want, because we know we can’t have it. And because it sounds ungracious, or ungrateful, or disloyal, or childish, or banal. Or because we’re so desperate to pretend that things are OK, really, that confessing to ourselves they’re not looks like a bad move. Go on, say what you want. Maybe not out loud, if it’s going to get you into trouble. “I wish I’d never married him.” “I wish she was still alive.” “I wish I’d never had kids with her.” “I wish I had a whole shitload of money.” “I wish all the Albanians would go back to fucking Albania.” Whatever it is, say it to yourself. The truth will set you free. Either that or it’ll get you a punch in the nose. Surviving in whatever life you’re living means lying, and lying corrodes the soul, so take a break from the lies just for one minute.

“I want my band back,” I said. “And my girl. I want my band back and my girl back.”

Jess looked at me. “You just said that.”

“I haven’t said it often enough. I want my band back and my girl back. I WANT MY BAND BACK AND MY GIRL BACK. What do you want, Martin?”

He stood up. “I want another cappuccino,” he said. “Anyone else?”

“Don’t be such a pussy. What do you want?”

“And what good will it do me if I tell you?”

“I don’t know. Say it, and well see what we see.”

He shrugged and sat down.

“You got three wishes,” I said.

“OK. I wish I’d been able to make my marriage work.”

“Yeah, well that was never going to happen,” said Jess. “Because you couldn’t keep your prick in your trousers. Sorry, Maureen.”

Martin ignored her.

“And of course I wish I’d never slept with that girl.”

“Yeah, well…” said Jess.

“Shut up,” I said.

“I don’t know,” said Martin. “Maybe I just wish that I wasn’t suchan arsehole.”

“There, now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I was joking, kind of, but no one laughed.

“Why don’t you just wish that you’d slept with the girl and got away with it?” said Jess. “That’s what I’d wish, if I were you. I think you’re still lying. You’re wishing for stuff that makes you look good.”