St. Urbain's Horseman by Mordecai Richler

their questions. They also ridiculed her to girls less happily endowed, wreaking vengeance for a rejection they anticipated, but were too cowardly to risk, and bandied suggestions about her secret sexual life sufficiently coarse to make her cry. No matter that she took immense pains not to be provocative, swimming in sloppy joe sweaters, sensible skirts, and flat shoes. Going out of her way to discourage boys the other girls coveted. For this only proved that Nancy Croft was remote; splendidly made, yes, but glacier-like.
    Drink in hand, Jake trailed after her everywhere, always on the rim of her group. If she so much as ventured an observation on London, or remarked on a play she had seen, he didn’t comment, but smirked condescendingly, as if to say, idiot. If she was trapped into conversation with a bore, he condemned her with his eyes for tolerating him, raising his eyebrows, as if to say, only a dolt would have time for him. Loping after her from room to room, he twice made forays into her group. On the first occasion, as a man, whispering in her ear, made her laugh, he barged in, gratuitously rude, and when that failed to demolish him, inquired pointedly after the man’s wife and children. On the other occasion, adjudging her too responsive to the flirtationsof a man more handsome, taller, he actually plucked him by the sleeve and called him aside on one pretext or another. Jacob Hersh would not let her out of sight, even to refill his glass, until she was safely in conversation with a homosexual, when he would lurch off grinning widely.
    Finally, Nancy thrust her empty glass at him. “Would you mind getting me a drink?”
    â€œWho? Me?”
    â€œYes. You.”
    â€œWehaventmetmynamesJacobHersh.”
    It was then she asked him, Are you a writer, swallowing the too, and he replied, no, I’m the director, which allowed her a chance to smile.
    Vengefully, he countered, “Don’t tell me you’re an actress?”
    â€œNo.”
    Redeeming her glass, she turned her back on him to chat with somebody else, responding with exaggerated warmth. Then, as she could sense his eyes raking her back, lingering on her bottom, she resisted her first impulse, which was to wiggle it at him, and slid away, her back against the wall, a man between them, so that Jake could not see and judge any of her. And as the man proved a bore, yet another competitor among so many jousting egos, she excused herself abruptly and went to fetch her coat.
    â€œWould you call me a taxi, please, Luke.”
    Fumbling hands helped her into her coat. “I’ve got a car,” Jake insisted.
    â€œI think I’ll walk. I could do with some fresh air.”
    â€œMe too,” Jake chipped in cheerily and, without waiting for an invitation, he followed after.
    Not a word was said until they started down Haverstock Hill together, Nancy’s black hair flowing, her pale oval face bemused.
    â€œWhat a beautiful girl you are,” Jake allowed angrily.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œWell, it’s not the first time you’ve heard it,” he muttered, shrugging.
    â€œNo. It isn’t.”
    â€œBut it’s the first time you heard it from me,” he hollered, waving a finger in her face, “and I don’t say it to everybody. Like Shapiro. That glib prick.”
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œThe one who was licking the wax out of your ears.”
    â€œOh, him,” she exclaimed with simulated warmth.
    â€œAre you living in London or just visiting?”
    â€œIt depends on whether or not I’ll like it.”
    â€œYou’ll like it,” he assured her.
    â€œIt’s settled, then?”
    â€œAre you being sarcastic now?”
    â€œI’d have to find a job.”
    â€œMaybe I can help. What do you do?”
    â€œStrip at parties.”
    â€œSeriously, what do you do?”
    â€œWhat’s the difference?”
    â€œYou’re not, for Chrissake, a