Oliver's Story by Erich Segal Read Free Book Online

insisted. Yet I nonetheless explained what seemed to make morose, depressive Barrett doff his tragic mask.
    “It’s not the girl herself,” I told him in summation, “it’s the principle. I love to put aggressive women down.”
    “And there’s nothing else?” inquired the doctor.
    “Nothing,” I replied. “She’s even got a mediocre backhand.”

Chapter Eleven

    S he was dressed in money.
    I don’t mean the slightest bit flamboyant. Quite the opposite. She radiated the supreme in ostentation—absolute simplicity. Her hairdo seemed free-flowing and yet flawless. As if a chic photographer had caught it with a high-speed lens.
    This was disconcerting. The utter neatness of Miss Marcie Nash, her perfect posture, her composure, made me feel like last week’s spinach scrunched haphazardly into a Baggie. Clearly she must be a model. Or at least do something in the fashion game.
    I reached her table. It was in a quiet corner.
    “Hi,” she said.
    “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
    “Actually, you’re early,” she replied.
    “That must mean that you came even earlier,” I said.
    “I’d say that was a logical conclusion, Mr. Barrett.” She smiled. “Are you going to sit down or are you waiting for permission?”
    I sat down.
    “What are you drinking?” I inquired, pointing at the orange-colored liquid in her glass.
    “Orange juice,” she said.
    “And what?”
    “And ice.”
    “That’s all?”
    She nodded yes. Before I could ask why she was abstemious, a waiter was at hand, and welcomed us as if we ate there every day.
    “And how are we tonight?”
    “We’re fine. What’s good?” I said, unable to sustain this kind of phony badinage.
    “The scallops are superb. . . .”
    “A Boston specialty,” I said, a sudden gastronomic chauvinist.
    “Ours are from Long Island,” he replied.
    “Okay, we’ll see how they stand up.” I turned to Marcie. “Shall we try the local imitation?”
    Marcie smiled assent.
    “And to begin?” The waiter looked at her.
    “Hearts of lettuce with a drop of lemon juice.”
    Now I knew for sure she was a model. Otherwise the self-starvation made no sense. Meanwhile I requested fettucini (“Don’t be stingy with the butter”). Our host then bowed and scraped away.
    We were alone.
    “Well, here we are,” I said. (And I confess I had rehearsed this opening all afternoon.)
    Before she could concur that we indeed were there, a new arrival greeted us.
    “The wine, m’sieu?”
    I queried Marcie.
    “Get something just for you,” she said.
    “Not even wine?”
    “I’m very chaste in that respect,” she said, “but I would recommend a nice Meursault for you. Your victory would otherwise be incomplete.”
    “Meursault,” I told the sommelier.
    “A ’sixty-six, if possible,” said Marcie just to help. He evaporated and we were alone again.
    “Why don’t you drink at all?” I asked.
    “No principles involved. I simply like to keep control of all my senses.”
    What the hell was that supposed to mean? What senses did she have in mind?
    “So you’re from Boston?” Marcie said (our dialogue was not exactly loose).
    “I am,” I said. “And you?”
    “I’m not from Boston,” she replied.
    Was that a subtle put-down?
    “Are you in the fashion business?” I inquired.
    “Partially. And you?”
    “I’m into liberties,” I answered.
    “Taking them or giving them?” Her smile distracted me from telling if she’d been sarcastic.
    “I try to make the government behave,” I said.
    “That isn’t easy,” Marcie said.
    “Well, I haven’t quite succeeded yet.”
    The sommelier arrived and ceremoniously filled my glass. Then I myself began a vintage flow. What you might call a magnum of description. On what progressive lawyers were involved in at this point in time.
    I do confess I didn’t know quite how to talk to . . . girls.
    I mean it had been many years since I’d been on what you might call a date. I sensed that tales of self would not