Very Nice by Marcy Dermansky

Very Nice

Very Nice: A novel by Marcy Dermansky
English | 2019 | General Fiction | ePUB | 1.1 Mb

Very Nice : A brilliantly funny novel of money, sex, race, and bad behavior in the post-Obama era, featuring a wealthy Connecticut divorcée, her college-age daughter, and the famous American novelist who is seduced by them both.

Rachel Klein never meant to kiss her creative writing professor, but with his long eyelashes, his silky hair, and the sad, beautiful life he laid bare on Twitter, she does, and the kiss is very nice. Zahid Azzam never planned to become a houseguest in his student’s sprawling Connecticut home, but with the sparkling swimming pool, the endless supply of Whole Foods strawberries, and Rachel’s beautiful mother, he does, and the home is very nice. Becca Klein never thought she’d have a love affair so soon after her divorce, but when her daughter’s professor walks into her home, bringing with him an apricot standard poodle named Princess, she does, and the affair is…a very bad idea. In a darkly hilarious novel that zigzags between the rarified circles of Manhattan investment banking, the achingly self-serious MFA programs of the Midwest, and the private bedrooms of Connecticut, Marcy Dermansky has written an audacious, addictive, and wickedly smart take on the way we live now.

“Because of my skin color, of course,” he said, bitterly.

I stared at him.

“Because people think I am a terrorist,” he said.

“You are a writer,” I said. “A famous novelist.”

My professor shook his head. “I had to ask the conductor to ask a woman to remove her bags. The trip takes over an hour. I was not going to stand. I had asked her, twice. I knew I should just move on, but I was tired. I am tired today. I am angry, too. This is not the first time. Normally I am used to it, but today, it was too much. I am just a person trying to go to work. I am dressed well, am I not?”

My professor was wearing faded blue jeans, a worn blue button-down shirt that looked incredibly soft. Loafers. His hair was growing long, wisps covering his ears, bangs over his eyes.

My professor had told me once that I could be a good writer if I would just let myself write. Most assignments came and went and I did not turn anything in. I wanted my work to be brilliant, which meant it was impossible for me to write anything at all. I would be getting an incomplete for the semester, in a class where everyone got 4.0s.

“That sounds horrible,” I said. “She sounds like a horrible woman.”

“I am sure she doesn’t think of herself that way. I am sure she gives money to Planned Parenthood and votes Democrat. She doesn’t even know she is racist. She is the kind of woman who says that she likes Indian food but won’t eat cilantro.”


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