Oliver's Story by Erich Segal Read Free Book Online Page B

unsuccessful.
    “I lost a husband,” Marcie said.
    Oh, Barrett, with what grace you put your foot into your mouth!
    “Jesus, Marcie,” was the most I could say.
    “Don’t misconstrue,” she quickly added. “It was only by divorce. But when we split our lives and our possessions, Michael got the confidence and I got all the hangups.”
    “Who was Mr. Nash?” I asked, immensely curious to know what kind of guy could snare this kind of girl.
    “Can we change the subject, please?” she said. And sounded—so I thought—a trifle sad.
    Curiously, I felt relieved that somewhere underneath her cool exterior Miss Marcie Nash had something that she couldn’t talk about. Maybe even memories of hurt. That made her seem more human and her pedestal less lofty. Still, I didn’t know what next to say.
    Marcie did. “Oh, my, it’s getting late.”
    My watch informed me that it was indeed ten forty-five. But still I thought that saying it right then meant I had turned her off.
    “Check, please,” she requested of the passing maître d’.
    “Hey—no,” I said. “I want to buy you dinner.”
    “Absolutely not. A deal’s a deal.”
    True, at first I’d wanted her to pay. But now I felt so guilty for my gaucheries I had to expiate by treating her.
    “I’ll take the check, please,” said yours truly, overruling her.
    “Hey,” objected Marcie. “We could wrestle, but we’d have to keep our clothes on and it wouldn’t be much fun. So cool it, huh?” And then she said, “Dmitri?”
    She knew the maître d’ by name.
    “Yes, ma’am?” Dmitri said.
    “Please add a tip and sign for me.”
    “Of course, madam,” he said, and greased off noiselessly.
    I felt ill at ease. First she had upset me with the candid dinner talk. Then the mention of the naked wrestling (though by indirection) made me think: if she was sexually aggressive, how would I respond? And finally, she had her own account at “21”! Who was this girl?
    “Oliver,” she said, displaying all those perfect teeth, “I’ll take you home.”
    “You will?”
    “It’s on my way,” she said.
    I couldn’t hide it from myself. I was uptight about . . . the obvious.
    “But, Oliver,” she added with demureness and perhaps a tinge of irony, “because I bought you dinner doesn’t mean you have to sleep with me.”
    “Oh, I’m much relieved,” I said, pretending that I was pretending. “I wouldn’t want to give you the impression I was loose.”
    “Oh, no,” she said. “You’re anything but loose.”
    In the taxicab as we were rocketing to my abode, a sudden thought occurred to me.
    “Hey, Marcie,” I said, as casually as possible.
    “Yes, Oliver?”
    “When you said my house was on your way—I hadn’t told you where I lived.”
    “Oh, I just assumed you were an East Sixties type.”
    “And where do you live?”
    “Not far from you,” she said.
    “That’s nicely vague. And I suppose your phone’s not listed either.”
    “No,” she said. But offered neither explanation nor the number.
    “Marcie?”
    “Oliver?” Her tone was still unruffled and ingenuous.
    “Why all the mystery?”
    She reached across the cab and put her leather-gloved hand upon my nervous fist. She said, “Hang on there for a little bit, okay?”
    Damn! Because there was no traffic at that hour, the taxi reached my place with speed uncommon—and right now much unappreciated.
    “Wait a second,” Marcie told the driver. I paused to hear if she might mention her next stop. But she was much too shrewd. She smiled at me, and with a tinsel brio murmured, “Thanks a lot.”
    “Oh, no,” said I, aggressively genteel. “It’s I who should thank you .”
    There was a pause. I would be damned if I would beg for further scraps of information. So I left the cab.
    “Hey, Oliver,” she called, “more tennis Tuesday next?”
    I was happy she suggested it. In fact, I showed too much by answering, “But that’s a week from now. Why can’t we play