How to Be Bad Read Online Free Page A

the impression of being frighteningly self-possessed.
    â€œWow,” I said. “Are you always this cynical?”
    â€œI’m no cynic,” she said. “A cynic doesn’t believe in the basic goodness of people.”
    â€œAnd how many good people do you know?”
    â€œDonny Osmond.”
    â€œIs that it? Donny Osmond?”
    â€œIsn’t that enough? I have faith in Donny. If Donny was found to be a junkie, a wife beater, or a pedophile, I wouldn’t believe in anything anymore.”
    We’d ordered a bottle of chardonnay. The waiter who opened the bottle, a puny French guy in his thirties, fawned over Caro as if she were royalty. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it, letting her sample the wine instead of me, despite the fact that I was paying. When Caro said the wine was lovely, the waiter said, “A beautiful wine for a beautiful lady.”
    â€œWell, thank you,” I said, fluttering my eyelids at him.
    Even when he was serving other people, the waiter couldn’t help staring at her. Humbert Humbert at the next table was also mesmerized by her. I don’t know why I’m acting so superior about it. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, either.
    I drank the first glass too quickly because I was so nervous. When I was on the second, she patted my hand. “Take it easy, I’m not going anywhere.”
    â€œSo what do you do?” I said.
    She smirked. “Are we making polite conversation?”
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    â€œI do fuck-all,” she said. “And what do you do? Oh yeah, I remember. You sell rare books. Like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill. ”
    â€œNo. He didn’t sell novels. He sold travel books.”
    â€œHow on earth would you remember that?”
    â€œI’ve got a very retentive memory.”
    â€œRetentive anus, you mean.”
    I decided to let this go. “If you’ve got any Nick Hornby first editions you want to sell, I’d definitely be interested. That’s my specialist area. Books by and about men.”
    â€œUgh, no.” She shook her head vehemently. “All that men-with-feelings shit makes me throw up.”
    I smiled tolerantly to demonstrate that her contempt for my vocation would not affect my desire to sleep with her.
    â€œWhat’s the point?” she said. “Are Nick Hornby books worth anything?”
    â€œ Fever Pitch would go for about twenty pounds. A signed one could fetch as much as forty.”
    â€œAs much as that?”
    Now I was starting to feel uncomfortable. “Yeah, but you wait. In a few years, the value of those books will skyrocket.”
    â€œWhat if it doesn’t?” said Caro. “What if dear old Nick becomes one of those writers nobody bothers with anymore? Like Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
    â€œWell, I’ll have been wasting my time.”
    She nodded in satisfaction. I felt we weren’t getting on well at all.
    â€œYou used to like Sylvia Plath, didn’t you?” I said. “I’ve got a copy of The Colossus you might be interested in.”
    â€œI’ve already got it.”
    â€œYeah, you’ve got an old paperback. I’m offering you a hardback first edition. The first UK edition, published by Heinemann in 1960. You can have it for nothing.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œTo say thank you. For coming here tonight.”
    She frowned. “But has it got the same poems in it as the paperback?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThanks. But no thanks.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI’m not interested in first editions. I’m not a collector. I think that collecting things is sick. It’s like hamsters filling their pouches with nuts. It’s just another way of trying to ward off death. Plus you could offer me as many books as you liked, it wouldn’t turn back the clock. I’m not going to suddenly fall back in love with you. I’m not going to want to sleep with