Friends and Strangers - J. Courtney Sullivan Page 0,32
don’t,” she said. “Were you a history major in college?”
“College is for people who need to be told how to think,” he said. “I’ve just been around awhile.”
Sam felt a flicker of disappointment, and then told herself she was being ridiculous. She was not going to marry the walking-tour guide whose first words to her were Jack the Ripper. She needed just to enjoy the hour.
“I did half a year at uni,” he said then. “But I had this professor who wouldn’t accept what I was saying one day in class. Didn’t like being challenged by me. He told me to stop talking. So I walked out and never went back.”
The proud way in which he said it made clear that Clive felt he had gotten one over on the guy, when, really, hadn’t he only succeeded at robbing himself of an education?
He led her into a tiny, quaint pub, where he knew the bartender.
Clive ordered himself a pint, and a half-pint for her. Sam wasn’t sure what to make of that. They sat down at a table in the corner. Underneath his jacket, he wore a fitted red T-shirt over jeans. His upper arms were more muscular than she’d imagined.
He told her he’d grown up in a small town three hours north and lived in Spain for several years. When he lost his job there, an office job, he returned to England.
They compared their favorite novels. When Sam admitted she had never read Ian McEwan, he pulled a book from his backpack and handed it to her.
“His newest,” Clive said.
“Are you still reading this?” she said.
“Doesn’t matter. You need it more.”
He pronounced matter without the t’s.
The book was wrapped in cellophane.
“A library book?” she said. “But what if you never see me again? You’ll get a fine.”
“I like to live on the edge,” he said.
He leaned in and kissed her. Sam felt an electric charge shoot through her body. After he pulled away, it was like she had completed a yoga class, then chugged half a bottle of white wine on a beach. She felt calm, subdued. She had never in her life been kissed like that.
“Whoa,” she said.
He laughed.
When it was time for them to part ways, Sam felt genuine disappointment. She considered tagging along on his next tour, but as if to rid her of this terrible idea, Isabella texted: Where did you goooooo?
“It was lovely to share a drink with you,” Clive said. “Shame you’re only here a week.”
“Ten days,” Sam replied.
She asked if he had a pen, and wrote her phone number on the back of one of his pamphlets.
Sam tucked it into his jacket pocket.
* * *
—
Isabella was ecstatic when Sam told her the story. She wanted all the details.
“I love that this happened on my birthday,” she said. “So was he hot?”
“Oh yes.”
“Good accent? Plummy?”
“I have no idea what that means,” Sam said.
“What does he do?”
“He gives walking tours.”
“I know, but what else? Where is he hoping to take that?”
“Nowhere, I don’t think.”
Sam recalled, then, Clive saying that he preferred giving night tours so he could sleep until noon.
“But like, maybe he’s a comedian or an actor and he does it to pay the bills,” Isabella said. “Or maybe he wants to write a memoir about it. Or maybe he runs the company. Does he run the company?”
“No, his friend does. Clive said the guy plans to make a walking-tour app for every major city in Europe.”
“That sounds cool,” Isabella said. “The friend’s job, I mean.”
* * *
—
Forty-eight hours passed without a call.
Every time Sam thought of how she’d given him her number, she wanted to die. She replayed their conversation in her head. It was lovely to share a drink with you, he’d said. Which meant, of course, Goodbye forever. He hadn’t asked for her number or offered her his.
But then, there was the Ian McEwan.
Maybe he could just tell she was the kind of person who was incapable of being in possession of a library book without returning it.
When Clive finally called, he said, “I was looking for change for the bus, and what did I find but your number.”
“Is that your way of saying you can’t stop thinking of me?” Sam said.
He laughed.
They chatted for a bit, but then abruptly, Clive said he had to go, without making any plans.
Sam didn’t tell Isabella, but after they hung up, feeling bereft that that was all, she texted him: I still have your book.