'Oh. Oh well. Never mind.' d.i.c.k would never go so far as to tell Barry that he's messed up, but the implication is clear.

'What?' says Barry, bristling.

'Nothing.'

'No, come on. What's wrong with the Righteous Brothers?'

'Nothing. I just prefer the other one,' says d.i.c.k mildly.

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'How can it be b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to state a preference?' I ask.

'If it's the wrong preference, it's b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

d.i.c.k shrugs and smiles.

'What? What? What's that smug smile for?'

'Leave him alone, Barry. It doesn't matter. We're not listening to f.u.c.king 'Little Latin Lupe Lu' anyway, so give it a rest.'

'Since when did this shop become a fascist regime?'

'Since you brought that terrible tape in.'

'All I'm trying to do is cheer us up. That's all. Very sorry. Go and put some old sad b.a.s.t.a.r.d music on, see if I care.'

'I don't want old sad b.a.s.t.a.r.d music on either. I just want something I can ignore.'

'Great. That's the fun thing about working in a record shop, isn't it? Playing things that you don't want to listen to. I thought this tape was going to be, you know, a talking point. I was going to ask you for your top five records to play on a wet Monday morning and all that, and you've gone and ruined it.'

'We'll do it next Monday.'

'What's the point of that?'

And so on, and on, probably for the rest of my working life.

I'd like to do a top five records that make you feel nothing at all; that way, d.i.c.k and Barry would be doing me a favor. Me, I'll be playing the Beatles when I get home. Abbey Road, Abbey Road, probably, although I'll program the CD to skip over 'Something.' The Beatles were bubblegum cards and probably, although I'll program the CD to skip over 'Something.' The Beatles were bubblegum cards and Help Help at the Sat.u.r.day morning cinema and toy plastic guitars and singing 'Yellow Submarine' at the top of my voice in the back row of the coach on school trips. They belong to me, not to me and Laura, or me and Charlie, or me and Alison Ashworth, and though they'll make me feel something, they won't make me feel anything bad. at the Sat.u.r.day morning cinema and toy plastic guitars and singing 'Yellow Submarine' at the top of my voice in the back row of the coach on school trips. They belong to me, not to me and Laura, or me and Charlie, or me and Alison Ashworth, and though they'll make me feel something, they won't make me feel anything bad.

Two

I worried about what it would be like, coming back to the flat tonight, but it's fine: the unreliable sense of well-being I've had since this morning is still with me. And, anyway, it won't always be like this, with all her things around. She'll clear it out soon, and the Marie Celestial air about the place - the half-read Julian Barnes paperback on the bedside table and the knickers in the dirty clothes basket - will vanish. (Women's knickers were a terrible disappointment to me when I embarked on my cohabiting career. I never really recovered from the shock of discovering that women do what we do: they save their best pairs for the nights when they know they are going to sleep with somebody. When you live with a woman, these faded, shrunken tatty M&S sc.r.a.ps suddenly appear on radiators all over the house; your lascivious schoolboy dreams of adulthood as a time when you are surrounded by exotic lingerie for ever and ever amen . . . those dreams crumble to dust.) I clear away the evidence of last night's traumas - the spare duvet on the sofa, the balled-up paper hankies, the coffee mugs with dog-ends floating in the cold, oily-looking dregs, and then I put the Beatles on, and then when I've listened to Abbey Road Abbey Road and the first few tracks of and the first few tracks of Revolver, Revolver, I open the bottle of white wine that Laura brought home last week, sit down and watch the I open the bottle of white wine that Laura brought home last week, sit down and watch the Brookside Brookside omnibus that I taped. omnibus that I taped.

In the same way that nuns end up having their periods at the same time, Laura's mum and my mum have mysteriously ended up synchronizing their weekly phone calls. Mine rings first.

'h.e.l.lo, love, it's me.'

'Hi.'

'Everything all right?'

'Not bad.'

'What sort of week have you had?'

'Oh, you know.'

'How's the shop doing?'

'So-so. Up and down.' Up and down would be great. Up and down would imply that some days are better than others, that customers came and went. This has not been the case, frankly.

'Your dad and I are very worried about this recession.'

'Yeah. You said.'

'You're lucky Laura's doing so well. If it wasn't for her, I don't think either of us would ever get off to sleep.'

She's gone, Mum. She's thrown me to the wolves. The b.i.t.c.h has f.u.c.ked off and left me . . . She's gone, Mum. She's thrown me to the wolves. The b.i.t.c.h has f.u.c.ked off and left me . . . Nope. Can't do it. This does not seem to be the right time for bad news. Nope. Can't do it. This does not seem to be the right time for bad news.

'Heaven knows she's got enough on her plate without having to worry about a shop full of bloomin' old pop records . . . '

How can one describe the way people born before 1940 say the word 'pop'? I have been listening to my parents' sneering one-syllable explosion - heads forward, idiotic look on their faces (because pop fans are idiots) for the time it takes them to spit the word out - for well over two decades.

' . . . I'm surprised she doesn't make you sell up and get a proper job. It's a wonder she's hung on as long as she has. I would have left you to get on with it years ago.'

Hold on, Rob. Don't let her get to you. Don't rise to the bait. Hold on, Rob. Don't let her get to you. Don't rise to the bait. Don't . . . ah, f.u.c.k it. Don't . . . ah, f.u.c.k it.

'Well, she has left me to get on with it now, so that should cheer you up.'

'Where's she gone?'

'I don't b.l.o.o.d.y know. Just . . . gone. Moved out. Disappeared.'

There is a long, long silence. The silence is so long, in fact, that I can watch the whole of a row between Jimmy and Jackie Corkhill without hearing so much as a long-suffering sigh down the receiver.

'Hullo? Anybody there?'

And now I can can hear something - the sound of my mother crying softly. What is it with mothers? What's happening here? As an adult, you know that as life goes on, you're going to spend more and more time looking after the person who started out looking after you, that's par for the course; but my mum and I swapped roles when I was about nine. Anything bad that has happened to me in the last couple of decades - detentions, bad exam marks, getting thumped, getting bunged from college, splitting up with girlfriends - hear something - the sound of my mother crying softly. What is it with mothers? What's happening here? As an adult, you know that as life goes on, you're going to spend more and more time looking after the person who started out looking after you, that's par for the course; but my mum and I swapped roles when I was about nine. Anything bad that has happened to me in the last couple of decades - detentions, bad exam marks, getting thumped, getting bunged from college, splitting up with girlfriends - has ended up like this, with Mum visibly or audibly upset. It would have been better for both of us if I had moved to Australia when I was fifteen, phoned home once a week and reported a sequence of fict.i.tious major triumphs. Most fifteen-year-olds would find it tough, living on their own, on the other side of the world, with no money and no friends and no family and no job and no qualifications, but not me. It would have been a piece of p.i.s.s compared to listening to this stuff week after week. has ended up like this, with Mum visibly or audibly upset. It would have been better for both of us if I had moved to Australia when I was fifteen, phoned home once a week and reported a sequence of fict.i.tious major triumphs. Most fifteen-year-olds would find it tough, living on their own, on the other side of the world, with no money and no friends and no family and no job and no qualifications, but not me. It would have been a piece of p.i.s.s compared to listening to this stuff week after week.

It's . . . well, it's not fair. not fair. 'Snot fair. It's never been fair. Since I left home, all she's done is moan, worry, and send cuttings from the local newspaper describing the minor successes of old school friends. Is that good parenting? Not in my book. I want sympathy, understanding, advice, and money, and not necessarily in that order, but these are alien concepts in Canning Close. 'Snot fair. It's never been fair. Since I left home, all she's done is moan, worry, and send cuttings from the local newspaper describing the minor successes of old school friends. Is that good parenting? Not in my book. I want sympathy, understanding, advice, and money, and not necessarily in that order, but these are alien concepts in Canning Close.

'I'm all right, if that's what's upsetting you.'

I know that's not what's upsetting her.

'You know that's not what's upsetting me.'

'Well, it b.l.o.o.d.y well should be, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it? Mum, I've just been dumped. I'm not feeling so good.' And not so bad, either - the Beatles, half a bottle of Chardonnay, and Brookside Brookside have all done their stuff - but I'm not telling her that. 'I can't deal with me, let alone you.' have all done their stuff - but I'm not telling her that. 'I can't deal with me, let alone you.'

'I knew this would happen.'

'Well, if you knew it would happen, what are you so cut up about?'

'What are you going to do, do, Rob?' Rob?'

'I'm going to drink the rest of a bottle of wine in front of the box. Then I'm going to bed. Then I'll get up and go to work.'

'And after that?'

'Meet a nice girl, and have children.'

This is the right answer.

'If only it was that easy.'

'It is, I promise. Next time I speak to you, I'll have it sorted.'

She's almost smiling. I can hear it. I'm beginning to see some light at the end of the long, dark telephonic tunnel.

'But what did Laura say? Do you know why she's gone?'

'Not really.'

'Well, I do.'

This is momentarily alarming until I understand what she's on about.

'It's nothing to do with marriage, Mum, if that's what you mean.'

'So you you say. I'd like to hear her side of it.' say. I'd like to hear her side of it.'

Cool it. Don't let her . . . Don't rise . . . Cool it. Don't let her . . . Don't rise . . . ah, f.u.c.k it. ah, f.u.c.k it.

'Mum, how many more times, for Christ's sake? Laura didn't want want to get married. She's not that sort of girl. To coin a phrase. That's not what happens now.' to get married. She's not that sort of girl. To coin a phrase. That's not what happens now.'

'I don't know what does happen now. Apart from you meet someone, you move in together, she goes. You meet someone, you move in together, she goes.'

Fair point, I guess.

'Shut up, Mum.'

Mrs. Lydon rings a few minutes later.

'h.e.l.lo, Rob. It's Janet.'

'h.e.l.lo, Mrs. L.'

'How are you?'

'Fine. You?'

'Fine, thanks.'

'And Ken?'

Laura's dad isn't too clever - he has angina, and had to retire from work early.

'Not too bad. Up and down. You know. Is Laura there?'

Interesting. She hasn't phoned home. Some indication of guilt, maybe?

'She's not, I'm afraid. She's round at Liz's. Shall I get her to give you a ring?'

'If she's not too late back.'

'No problem.'

And that's the last time we will ever speak, probably. 'No problem': the last words I ever say to somebody I have been reasonably close to before our lives take different directions. Weird, eh? You spend Christmas at somebody's house, you worry about their operations, you give them hugs and kisses and flowers, you see them in their dressing gown . . . and then, bang, that's it. Gone forever. And sooner or later there will be another mum, another Christmas, more varicose veins. They're all the same. Only the addresses, and the colors of the dressing gown, change.

Three

I'm in the back of the shop, trying to tidy it up a bit, when I overhear a conversation between Barry and a customer, male, middle-aged, from the sound of him, and certainly not hip in any way whatsoever.

'I'm looking for a record for my daughter. For her birthday. 'I Just Called to Say I Love You.' Have you got it?'