I've Got Your Number

I've Got Your Number Page 84

“I’m sorry we never got to go through those confrontation techniques I promised.”

“Oh! That.” I brush it off with a hand. “This is more important.”

“Don’t say, ‘Oh! That.’ ” Sam shakes his head, looking exasperated. “That’s what I’m talking about. You automatically put yourself second.”

“I don’t! I mean … you know.” I shrug awkwardly. “Whatever.”

The train pulls up at Clapham Junction, and a group of people files into the carriage. For a while Sam is engrossed in texting. His phone has been constantly flashing, and I can only imagine how many messages are flying around. Eventually though, he puts the phone back in his pocket and leans forward, resting his elbow on the little table between us.

“Everything OK?” I ask timidly, immediately realizing what an inane question this is. To his credit, Sam ignores it.

“I have a question for you,” he says calmly. “What is it about these Tavishes that makes you feel as though they’re superior? Is it the titles? The doctorates? The brains?”

Not this again.

“Everything! It’s obvious! They’re just … I mean, you respect Sir Nicholas, don’t you?” I throw back at him defensively. “Look at all this effort you’re making for him. It’s because you respect him.”

“Yes, I respect him. Of course I do. But I don’t feel as though I’m inherently inferior to him. He doesn’t make me feel like a second-class citizen.”

“I don’t feel like a second-class citizen! You don’t know anything about it. So … stop!”

“OK.” Sam lifts his hands up high. “If I’m wrong, I apologize. It’s only an impression I’ve got. I only wanted to help, as a … ” I can sense him reaching for the word friend, then rejecting it, like I did. “I just wanted to help,” he ends finally. “But it’s your life. I’ll butt out.”

There’s silence for a while. He’s stopped. He’s given up. I’ve won.

Why don’t I feel like I’ve won?

“Excuse me.” Sam puts his phone to his ear. “Vicks. What’s up?”

He heads out of the carriage and, without meaning to, I exhale in a massive sigh. The gnawing pain is back, nestling beneath my ribs. But right now I can’t tell if it’s because the Tavishes don’t want me to marry Magnus, or because I’m trying to deny it, or because I’m nervous about this whole escapade, or because my tea’s too strong.

For a while I sit there, gazing down at my steaming tea, wishing that I’d never heard the Tavishes arguing in the church. That I knew nothing. That I could blot that gray cloud out of my life and go back to lucky, lucky me, isn’t everything perfect?

Sam takes his seat again, and there’s silence for a few moments. The train has come to a halt in the middle of nowhere, and it’s oddly quiet without the sound of the engine.

“OK.” I stare down at the little Formica table. “OK.”

“OK what?”

“OK, you’re not wrong.”

Sam says nothing, just waits. The train jolts and lurches, like a horse deciding whether to behave, then slowly begins moving off again down the tracks.

“But I’m not making this up in my head or whatever you think.” I hunch my shoulders miserably. “I overheard the Tavishes, OK? They don’t want Magnus to marry me. I’ve done everything I can. I’ve played Scrabble and I’ve tried making conversation and I’ve even read Antony’s book.78 But I’ll never be like them. Never.”

“Why should you?” Sam looks perplexed. “Why would you want to?”

“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Why would anyone want to be a really brainy celebrity who goes on TV?”

“Antony Tavish has a big brain,” says Sam steadily. “Having a big brain is like having a big liver or a big nose. Why do you feel insecure? What if he had a huge lower intestine? Would you feel insecure then?”

I can’t help giggling.

“He’s a freak, strictly speaking.” Sam presses on. “You’re marrying into a family of freaks. To be in the outermost centile of anything is freakish. Next time you’re intimidated by them, imagine a big neon sign over their heads, reading, FREAKS!”

“That’s not what you really think.” I’m smiling but shaking my head.

“It is absolutely what I think.” He looks deadly serious now. “These academic guys have to feel important. They give papers and present TV shows to show they’re useful and valuable. But you do useful, valuable work every day. You don’t need to prove anything. How many people have you treated? Hundreds. You’ve reduced their pain. You’ve made hundreds of people happier. Has Antony Tavish made anyone happier?”