Douglas McCallister

Rich man, poor man

CHAPTER ONE

"Well, my lovely wife, here we are in one of the finest French restaurants in the city," John Whitmore commented to his lovely wife. "Do you know what you'd like yet?"

Penny's pert face peered out from behind the huge menu. "I dunno," she said.

"Well, can I suggest something?"

"What?"

"Perhaps some pate de foie gras to begin with…"

Penny shook her lovely head and her glistening red lips formed themselves into a grimace of displeasure. "Oh, not liver," she protested. "I just can't stand liver, it makes me want to throw up."

John shuddered. Jesus Christ, did she have to express it in just that way? He knew how she felt about liver, lots of people did, but they were more polite about their feelings at least! But John said nothing to his wife. They had gone through too many unpleasant scenes after he had made some attempt to smooth her rough edges. It never did any good, the edges remained as ragged as before, and only lead to more of the mutual dissatisfaction they felt towards one another. He thought for a moment of suggesting caviar, but remembered only too well her reaction to that. "Fish eggs, yuk!" Which was true in a sense, although he considered them one of the great delicacies of the world.

John had to say something to his wife, that was obvious. They couldn't just sit there across the table, staring at one another in silence. He called the waiter and ordered onion soup, then handed him back the menu. With a false bright smile, he took a sip of the fine red wine and asked: "Well, my dear, did you like the play tonight?"

Penny let forth a raucous laugh that grated on John's nerves and made others near them in the restaurant turn and stare. "Trash," she said. "That's what it was."